Å·²©»áÔ±Èë¿Ú

I raised the gel packet to my mouth, and the moment it touched my lips, I puked. This late June day was the hottest of the year so far, and heat seemed to come from everywhere: It beamed down from the sky, reflected off the dirt and rocks, radiated from the vegetation. A slight breeze shook the sagebrush as I knelt on the edge of the trail, riding waves of convulsions from deep in my core, sweating and shivering all at once. My running companion, Steven, kindly patted my back. As the heaves subsided, I looked up at him through tear-filled eyes and smiled. “ŷ²©»áÔ±Èë¿Úll, wasn’t that nice?â€� Then I returned to shuffling up the trail. I was 34 miles into a 60-mile run nearly two decades in the making.

Pocatello, Idaho, sits in a basin surrounded by mountains—not big rock spires, but old mountains rounded by geologic time. For years, I’d been dreaming of a run that links my hometown’s skyline, an estimated 72 miles with 18,000 feet of elevation gain.

I can see portions of the route from pretty much anywhere in town: when I go to work, when I take the kids to school, when I get groceries, when I go home. I remember looking out classroom windows as a student at Idaho State University toward the long grass-covered ridgelines where the mountains meet the clouds. When I got my PA license and started working at local medical clinics and hospitals, my mind would drift out to that liminal space where earth becomes sky.

Finally, in 2013, I decided to make a go of it. Failed. Tried again in 2015. Failed. In total, I tried four times over 12 years, linking pieces of ridge in progressively larger chunks. Twice I ran out of water and ended up staggering deliriously out of the mountains. Once, I was on track to close the loop when I got called in to assist in an emergency surgery—a blessing, since I was out of calories. The last time, my mind simply failed, and I called for a ride after only a few hours of running.

Somewhere amid these many attempts, I learned about the British tradition of running “rounds,� which is a style of peak linkup rooted heavily in community. In the mid 1800s, shepherds in the Lakes District began organizing races up and down their backyard hills. Eventually, these races gave way to unorganized peak linkups. Runners began one-upping each other, trying to link as many of their backyard peaks as possible in 24 hours. In 1932, a Keswick innkeeper named Bob Graham set a new bar: 42 peaks over 66 miles and roughly 27,000 feet of elevation gain, starting and ending from the clock tower in town. It was the beginning of an enduring tradition. Today, runners flock to attempt the Bob Graham Round, as well as other similar rounds in Wales, Ireland and Scotland.

I was immediately fascinated by the aesthetics and difficulty of Bob Graham Round, but what really caught my attention was the culture surrounding it. In order to become a member of the Bob Graham 24-Hour Club, runners must complete the route in 24 hours and have at least one companion with them to witness each summit (companions often switch out between sections). In an era before Strava, this “witness� rule was a way to validate completion of the route. But over time, it’s had another impact: By their very nature, all rounds are a group effort. I loved the idea of creating a community test piece and celebrating a hard effort with other people. What if I could do something similar with my Pocatello route?

In the spring of 2024, I saw an opening on my calendar. On relatively short notice, I sent a few text messages and posted on Instagram with a request for help. Within 10 days, over 20 people volunteered to run various sections, or crew me along the way, of what I’d officially dubbed the Pocatello Round. Somewhere in those frantic few days, a spreadsheet was created, assignments and logistics discussed, texts and emails exchanged.

Suddenly, it was just after 7:00 a.m. on Friday, June 21 and I was driving to the Brady Chapel at the town cemetery: a central landmark that seemed like a good stand-in for Keswick’s clock tower. A crew of about 10 folks had gathered to send me off: old friends, new friends, former college professors, fellow ski patrollers and one former participant from . I shared hugs, high fives and laughs with people who had been in my life for years and for days.

At 8:00 a.m., to the sounds of cheers and applause, I started off down South 5th street with Ethan, a local high-school runner. Å·²©»áÔ±Èë¿Ú hung right on Humbolt, then along the bike lane that leads out of town. After about an hour, Ethan passed me to Taylor, a local physical therapist. Miles slipped by easily as we traced the edges of fields recently planted with potatoes and grain. Before I knew it, 16 miles had passed and we were at the Simplot Trailhead, where we’d head into the mountains. Here, I picked up Bri, who I’d met the previous summer while crewing for a mutual friend at a race. She would have the honor of witnessing my first implosion of the day.

For the next 11 miles, Bri and I would link lesser-known trails to the western edge of the skyline, then on to the summits of Facer Mountain, Howard Mountain, Trail Creek Peak and Kinport Peak. It was 10:30 a.m. and already in the 90s. Running became power hiking, then walking. It was unusual for my legs to go flat so early in a run. But go flat they did. For two and a half hours, we inched our way along the scorched, shadeless ridge.

Meanwhile Scott, Todd, Kevin and Mali traveled 45 minutes up a remote four-wheel-drive road to intercept us just below the summit of Kinport with a smorgasbord of icy drinks, Coke, pickles, chips, gummy bears, cold gels and melted snickers. This four-person support crew—plus others joining later in the day—had come from every corner of my life. Scott and I have been friends since childhood. Kevin is a stalwart of the local running club. Mali is a fellow professional outdoor athlete. Todd was a participant at the 2023 and 2024 Scout Mountain Ultras. Two years in a row, he and I shared tears when he crossed the finish line past the time cutoff, and we did so again here on the ridge.

Next up was Will and Greg, who I know from our work together on the Pebble Creek Ski Patrol. They accompanied me from Kinport across Rock Knoll and down into the Å·²©»áÔ±Èë¿Úst Fork of Mink Creek. There was no shade and not a whisper of a breeze as the now 98-degree heat reflected off the dark rock. A months-old patch of snow was too tempting to pass up: Å·²©»áÔ±Èë¿Ú laid down in it, gathered it and stuffed it in our hats and shirts. I ate snow until it gave me an ice-cream headache.

At the Å·²©»áÔ±Èë¿Úst Fork of Mink Creek, Will and Greg handed me off to Steven, a photographer and long-time running partner. Together, he and I have crossed many large distances on foot, which is a good thing since we were heading out for the 3,500-foot climb up Scout Mountain. It was 4:45 p.m., but the heat was just peaking at nearly 100 degrees. It felt at least 10 degrees hotter. Sagebrush, scrub oak and aspens shimmered as we tried hard and only managed a brisk walk. This was when my body opted for rebellion instead of eating.

A heave emerged from the center of my being and emptied my stomach so violently that I dropped to my knees. “Sorry dude � that sucks,� Steven offered, as he tentatively rubbed my shoulder. These blunt words of recognition are what got me off the ground. I stood and began shuffling back up the trail.

This moment, which I knew would come, was exactly why I’d felt compelled to turn my Pocatello route into a round. I didn’t need friends to validate the run (that’s what Strava is for); I needed them to validate me. Steven’s presence had lightened my load and cleared the way for me to accomplish more than I could alone.

A couple miles ahead, there were two more friends, Cody and Kelly, waiting to join us for the climb up Scout Mountain. I’ve been running with Cody since before he was old enough to drink. Kelly, likewise, has been a friend and running partner for years. By now I was several hours off my anticipated pace, which meant they had been waiting for us in the heat, amid clouds of mosquitos. By the time we made it to them, dusk was imminent. I was wallowing in nausea, pain and an utter lack of calories, and looked even worse than I felt. I could see in their eyes they knew it was going to be a rough evening. Four miles stood between us and the summit of Scout Mountain. Those 4 miles took us two hours.

Shadows were growing long when we met Scott, who had driven another long four-wheel-drive road to bring the kind of stoke that only a dear friend can. Just a few feet from him, I collapsed into a small, dirty patch of snow and knelt, burrowing my forehead into the icy crystals. Scott waited a few moments, then reached down, grabbed my hand and helped me up. He lovingly forced me to eat some ramen and drink some Coke: the first bit of fuel I’d been able to stomach for hours. A few minutes went by.

From the summit, the Round follows a ridge to the north. I call it the Endless Ridge. It is exposed and rocky, with only a scant trail. For the next five-plus hours, we picked our way up and down as dusk turned to dark.

Just before midnight we reached a high point called Indian Mountain, which sits directly behind my house. It’s a place I—and few others—frequent. I pulled out a set of prayer flags I’d brought in my pack, in honor of a friend who’d recently passed away. A light breeze picked up. An owl hooted in the distance. For a moment we just stood there in the darkness. Then I turned to my friends, shared a hug and got back to the task at hand. Å·²©»áÔ±Èë¿Ú still had a lot of miles to run.

It was around 1:00 a.m. when we crested a small rise and spotted a cluster of lights 1,000 feet below: the crew, waiting for my last resupply. Loud cheers erupted when they saw our headlamps descending. Tears flowed down my cheeks. I paused, refueled, said goodbye to Kelly and welcomed Waylon, another ski patrol friend with whom I have shared many pre-dawn chairlift rides. Together with Cody and Steven, we ran back into the dark. The climb up Chinese Peak is abrupt and unforgiving. Moonlit dust poofed into the air as we ran. The rest of the world ceased to exist beyond the cones of our headlamps. Exhaustion seemed to dissipate in the lightness of conversation and mutual movement.

There’s something about being deep in a physical effort that feels like interdimensional time travel. The 8-mile climb toward Chinese Peak seemed to take so long and yet passed in the blink of eye. Å·²©»áÔ±Èë¿Ú crested the summit and found the crew waiting for us one last time. It was 3:30 a.m. No one had expected to be out this late—least of all me. But no one seemed to care. Someone hugged me. Someone else handed me an orange creamsicle. Then we bounded off again, for the final descent from the mountains back to town.

Footsteps echoed off university buildings as our crew ran through the empty campus. Waves of emotions poured out of me: a huge smile, tears, a warm heart. Every part of my body was deeply fatigued, but running side by side with friends, buoyed by the energy of countless others, I felt weightless.

Then suddenly, it was over. I grabbed the cemetery fence and lowered myself to the pavement. My watch read 20 hours and 13 minutes, but I didn’t really care. My goal hadn’t been to set the fastest time that this route would ever see, but simply to complete it: to experience these familiar trails and mountains on a deeper level and to bring community together. I sat on the sidewalk surrounded by humans who cared enough about me to give up their time, their sleep and their physical and emotional energy, and I wept. It may sound cliche, but I could not have done it without these people. I knew, because I had tried before.

went from a thought to a dream to a reality. It exists today as a beacon of community and love, and as a call to those wanting to expand their personal limits. Those who are intrigued will find many who are eager to help them. After all, the magic of trail running isn’t really magic at all: it’s the people.

Four months later, on an October evening, I was once again standing at the cemetery as my friend Thaddeus ran down the street. That day, I had met him on Scout Mountain before accompanying him along the Endless Ridge and onto the second completion of the Pocatello Round. I once again wept on that sidewalk, this time out of joy for my friend and his extraordinary effort. It felt like the beginning of something special.