Because the Highlands Ranch Backcountry Half Marathon is only a week away, Randall and I wanted to taper at an easy trail 15 minutes from our home. I never ran this specific trail before, but I heard countless stories describing its epic beauty for weeks before the run. "There are amazing views of Denver, the Rocky Mountains, and rolling plains," Randall boasted. After leaving our kids with Randall's parents, we drove to the top of Wildcat Mountain, right above Highlands Ranch.
The run started simple enough. We ran at an easy incline to the top of a ridge with a spectacular view. It was everything Randall described and more. We had a 180 degree view of the front range, Denver Tech Center, and Denver itself. Eager to keep our blood pumping, we stopped only briefly and circled back around to the main trail.
About half way down, Randall pointed to a trail at the bottom of a valley. "That's where we're headed!" he said. "Um, the trail that is covered in cows?" I replied unenthusiastically. My husband reassured me the cows would move and he's run this trail before - lumbering beasts never posed any real threat.
A mile later, we ducked through some scrub oak around a tight bend in the trail. On the other side of the corner stood a 2,000 pound beast, starring us down without manner. At that point, I half joked it was time to turn around and find another route. But the cow moved away as we ran closer, proving Randall's theory temporarily correct. However, I learned cows travel in packs and after passing that one simple creature, we found ourselves locked into a herd so tight there was no where to lurch but forward.
Stupidly, we ran instead of walking, hoping our rapid pace would scare them out of our way, but as we clumsily passed each massive obstacle, now numbering more than 30 cattle, they became less passive and showed fewer signs of backing down.
Finally, we approached a creek at the bottom of the valley. The creek was only a few inches deep, but getting down to the water was tricky. There was a muddy and poop ridden ledge on either side of the water about 3 feet high and the creek itself was over 7 feet wide. Randall wanted to jump the entire thing, ledge to ledge, but unlike my long jumping husband, I am not 6 feet tall. I am 5'4". I found a dry enough patch, jumped to the water, waded through urine and fecal matter, and climbed back up the other side. I proceeded running around some bushes and immediately found myself face-to-face with 50 cows.
They were everywhere. I have never seen so many cows up close. They were literally inches from our faces and while most didn't seem impacted by our existence, I was plagued with fear caused by, "When Animals Attack." There were just too many to feel safe. One in particular was hiding behind a large bush of scrub oak; she looked at me with menacing eyes so eery I wanted to pee myself. I begged Randall to turn around, I was done. I didn't want to navigate a trail containing an unknown number of creatures larger than my Subaru sedan. Cows occupied the trail and every inch around the trail for a good half mile. I begged Randall to turn around, laughing and crying in my terror.
Randall reassured me I was being dramatic. "Cows don't hurt people, Jen! They are perfectly safe animals who are too slow to hurt a fly." However, just as his words flew offensively from his lips, the nearest cow got up quicker than a jack rabbit on steroids. She leaped from her position and charged forward towards Randall. "Now we RUN!" Randall screamed passionately. Randall took off sprinting, but I couldn't move. I was paralyzed like a deer in the headlights. I couldn't escape the horrific image of a cow raming my butt repeatedly with her head while I helplessly bucked forward. I contemplated my options: if I followed Randall, I would be turning my back to her, thus giving her a real attack opportunity. If I turned back the way we came, it meant wading back through a fecal swamp and the 50 cows I already passed. Seeing Randall run 75 paces ahead of me left me feeling alone and made my mind up for me. I quickly caught up to him and by the time we freed ourselves from the bovine gontlet, I knew I was going to have a heart attack.
My heart rate was over 200 beats per minute. I could feel the pounding of my heart through every pressure point in my body. I was horrified and shaking uncontrollably. Worse, Randall was laughing so hard he was collapsing under his own weight. We stood there taking in the view, laughing and calming my nerves for about five minutes and then we moved forward.
The next 3 miles were relatively uneventful. We were jumpy because our nerves were already on high alert. I saw a large spider in the middle of the trail. I called, "Spider!" and dodged him, but for some reason, Randall heard, "SNAKE!" and pounced off the trail before the imaginary rattler could pierce his achilles.
Finally, we looped back around and approached the herd from the opposite end. We passed an introverted bovine in the bushes, but somehow after we passed her, we were instantly surrounded by 50 cows. A large speciman decided to humiliate us further by challenging us directly. We paused, took a step forward, paused, and watched her reaction. She grunted, stepped towards us, stopped, cocked her head in mockery, and moved forward again. Randall grabbed a large switch off of a bush, but when she saw that direct act of aggression, her eyes widened. "PUT THE STICK DOWN, RANDALL!" I pleaded.
Within 2-3 minutes of this confrontation, there were cows all around us, pooping in every direction, and sharing the same breathing space. We took our time approaching our challenger and after a while she balked. She turned and followed the trail where we wanted to go, but at least we felt less intimidated by her backside. When she found her exit point, we moved into a field of 75 more cows, tiptoed our way through and returned to the dismal water hole.
Because of the angle of the stream, we couldn't cross it the same way we did initially. It was a bit lower now and jumping straight across wasn't as simple. I went downstream about 20 feet and lowered myself to the bank. Carefully placing my feet on some emerged stones, I navigated my way to the other side, placed my foot on the muddy bank and put my weight into the hill. Slipping deep into the mud, I clawed at the slippery slope, trying to keep my hold. I scratched for dear life like a panicked cat, literally using my finger nails to grip the mud so that I would avoid going completely into a stream of unknown excrament. Reaching the top of the hill, I found my final grip - a giant pile of cow poop.
I sat on the edge of the bank screaming, laughing, and crying. "Cow poop! AHHHH! Cow poop!" Randall crossed the river, after planting his shoe in a giant stool. He collapsed by my side, laughing hysterically. We sat on the river bank for a good 10 minutes laughing. We were covered in mud and poop, we were another couple miles from the car and 15 minutes from home. Randall promised this run would be epic, mind blowing perhaps. Sadly, it was not the views that blew my mind.
The run started simple enough. We ran at an easy incline to the top of a ridge with a spectacular view. It was everything Randall described and more. We had a 180 degree view of the front range, Denver Tech Center, and Denver itself. Eager to keep our blood pumping, we stopped only briefly and circled back around to the main trail.
About half way down, Randall pointed to a trail at the bottom of a valley. "That's where we're headed!" he said. "Um, the trail that is covered in cows?" I replied unenthusiastically. My husband reassured me the cows would move and he's run this trail before - lumbering beasts never posed any real threat.
A mile later, we ducked through some scrub oak around a tight bend in the trail. On the other side of the corner stood a 2,000 pound beast, starring us down without manner. At that point, I half joked it was time to turn around and find another route. But the cow moved away as we ran closer, proving Randall's theory temporarily correct. However, I learned cows travel in packs and after passing that one simple creature, we found ourselves locked into a herd so tight there was no where to lurch but forward.
Stupidly, we ran instead of walking, hoping our rapid pace would scare them out of our way, but as we clumsily passed each massive obstacle, now numbering more than 30 cattle, they became less passive and showed fewer signs of backing down.
Finally, we approached a creek at the bottom of the valley. The creek was only a few inches deep, but getting down to the water was tricky. There was a muddy and poop ridden ledge on either side of the water about 3 feet high and the creek itself was over 7 feet wide. Randall wanted to jump the entire thing, ledge to ledge, but unlike my long jumping husband, I am not 6 feet tall. I am 5'4". I found a dry enough patch, jumped to the water, waded through urine and fecal matter, and climbed back up the other side. I proceeded running around some bushes and immediately found myself face-to-face with 50 cows.
They were everywhere. I have never seen so many cows up close. They were literally inches from our faces and while most didn't seem impacted by our existence, I was plagued with fear caused by, "When Animals Attack." There were just too many to feel safe. One in particular was hiding behind a large bush of scrub oak; she looked at me with menacing eyes so eery I wanted to pee myself. I begged Randall to turn around, I was done. I didn't want to navigate a trail containing an unknown number of creatures larger than my Subaru sedan. Cows occupied the trail and every inch around the trail for a good half mile. I begged Randall to turn around, laughing and crying in my terror.
Randall reassured me I was being dramatic. "Cows don't hurt people, Jen! They are perfectly safe animals who are too slow to hurt a fly." However, just as his words flew offensively from his lips, the nearest cow got up quicker than a jack rabbit on steroids. She leaped from her position and charged forward towards Randall. "Now we RUN!" Randall screamed passionately. Randall took off sprinting, but I couldn't move. I was paralyzed like a deer in the headlights. I couldn't escape the horrific image of a cow raming my butt repeatedly with her head while I helplessly bucked forward. I contemplated my options: if I followed Randall, I would be turning my back to her, thus giving her a real attack opportunity. If I turned back the way we came, it meant wading back through a fecal swamp and the 50 cows I already passed. Seeing Randall run 75 paces ahead of me left me feeling alone and made my mind up for me. I quickly caught up to him and by the time we freed ourselves from the bovine gontlet, I knew I was going to have a heart attack.
My heart rate was over 200 beats per minute. I could feel the pounding of my heart through every pressure point in my body. I was horrified and shaking uncontrollably. Worse, Randall was laughing so hard he was collapsing under his own weight. We stood there taking in the view, laughing and calming my nerves for about five minutes and then we moved forward.
The next 3 miles were relatively uneventful. We were jumpy because our nerves were already on high alert. I saw a large spider in the middle of the trail. I called, "Spider!" and dodged him, but for some reason, Randall heard, "SNAKE!" and pounced off the trail before the imaginary rattler could pierce his achilles.
Finally, we looped back around and approached the herd from the opposite end. We passed an introverted bovine in the bushes, but somehow after we passed her, we were instantly surrounded by 50 cows. A large speciman decided to humiliate us further by challenging us directly. We paused, took a step forward, paused, and watched her reaction. She grunted, stepped towards us, stopped, cocked her head in mockery, and moved forward again. Randall grabbed a large switch off of a bush, but when she saw that direct act of aggression, her eyes widened. "PUT THE STICK DOWN, RANDALL!" I pleaded.
Within 2-3 minutes of this confrontation, there were cows all around us, pooping in every direction, and sharing the same breathing space. We took our time approaching our challenger and after a while she balked. She turned and followed the trail where we wanted to go, but at least we felt less intimidated by her backside. When she found her exit point, we moved into a field of 75 more cows, tiptoed our way through and returned to the dismal water hole.
Because of the angle of the stream, we couldn't cross it the same way we did initially. It was a bit lower now and jumping straight across wasn't as simple. I went downstream about 20 feet and lowered myself to the bank. Carefully placing my feet on some emerged stones, I navigated my way to the other side, placed my foot on the muddy bank and put my weight into the hill. Slipping deep into the mud, I clawed at the slippery slope, trying to keep my hold. I scratched for dear life like a panicked cat, literally using my finger nails to grip the mud so that I would avoid going completely into a stream of unknown excrament. Reaching the top of the hill, I found my final grip - a giant pile of cow poop.
I sat on the edge of the bank screaming, laughing, and crying. "Cow poop! AHHHH! Cow poop!" Randall crossed the river, after planting his shoe in a giant stool. He collapsed by my side, laughing hysterically. We sat on the river bank for a good 10 minutes laughing. We were covered in mud and poop, we were another couple miles from the car and 15 minutes from home. Randall promised this run would be epic, mind blowing perhaps. Sadly, it was not the views that blew my mind.
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