The 2025 Lost Sierra 100km Endurance Race
The Lost Sierra 100km took place on July 26, 2025. Its motto, Per Ardua ad Alta — “through adversity, to the heights” — felt fitting.
The out-and-back course started and ended in Downieville, California, winding through the scenic Third Divide Trail, Pacific Crest Trail, and Lakes Basin Trails. I moved across beautiful, rugged terrain: remote forests, high ridgelines with sweeping views of the Sierra Buttes, creek crossings, wildflower-studded meadows, boulder scrambles, and miles of flowing singletrack.
Going into this race, I knew I wanted to stay stress-free. I followed the mantra: don’t find the time — make the time — and took two days off work before Saturday’s start.
I used Thursday to pack all my gear, and entertained minutes-long internal debates over whether I’d prefer apple or orange-flavored gels for one of my drop bags. It also happened to be my 15th wedding anniversary, so it was nice to be able to reflect on such things instead of the typical Thursday grind with a dozen meetings back-to-back.
On Friday, I picked up my friend Will for the road trip to Downieville. He was also signed up for the 100K, and we had logged plenty of training miles together leading up to this.
We checked into the Downieville River Inn by early afternoon, then jogged around town for a shakeout run — and an excuse to jump in the pool. Our host gave us solid intel on the town’s limited dining options, and we scored a hearty burger-and-fries meal just 20 minutes before the “open” sign was turned off.
Packet pickup that evening was mellow — the Bad Luck Runners crew was still getting everything set up. We strolled back to the hotel and went to bed early.
Saturday’s alarms were set for 4:00 a.m. As usual before a big day, I woke up on my own — but only about 30 minutes early — and had managed a solid six-ish hours of sleep. That was encouraging, since I’d been fully expecting (and low-key planning for) the usual sleepless zombie mode.
I quietly laid around until 4 anyway, using the stillness to bring order to all of the thoughts that were storming up regarding the upcoming day’s many logistics. I did a little bit of visualization of the course map and elevation profile, with special focus on the aid stations where I would refuel, and give myself a few minutes of rest (but no more than 5!). I also reviewed my plans for the two drop bags I had stuffed with snacks and spare clothes.
Around 4:30am, Will and I used the walk from the hotel to the start line as our warm-up. Downtown Downieville was silent and dimly lit, the stars stood out sharp against the deep, dark sky.
At the start line, we met up with Abe — another friend I’d logged plenty of trail miles with. He had just finished the Cool Moon 100 in June and was ready to put that fitness to use again.
As the race started, I settled near the back of the pack to discourage myself from pushing too hard early on. The strategy worked well — I hiked uphill through the forests above Downieville, keeping my effort in check. The line of headlamps ahead meant I didn’t have to think about staying on course; I just had to follow the flow and let the fun unfold. Patience — and a bit of humility, recently polished by my SS 5050 DNF — helped me stay at ease with the plan.
As dawn broke, the terrain revealed itself in every direction — a feast for my eyes and soul. The views teased what the return path might hold: fast, technical descents on trails often dominated by mountain bikes. I passed creeks, crossed bridges, skirted waterfalls, and moved beneath towering pines. The leaves lit up in thousands of shades of green, with the occasional burst of wildflowers still hanging on to summer. Every now and then, a birdcall or rustling critter grabbed my attention — and more than once, I added my own “ye-heee!” or “woo-hoooo!” just to hear it echo back through the woods.
As I approached Golden Valley Aid Station, I caught up with Will and Abe for a bit. We traded hype, awe, and appreciation for the terrain and experience so far. We ran together briefly before splitting off to follow our own race plans.
This aid station sits right where the dense forest gives way to open alpine — a transition point between worlds. The views were stunning: the Sierra Buttes in the distance, lakes tucked into bowls below, and the ridgeline leading north toward the Pacific Crest Trail.
I put my drop bag to use as planned: changed into a dry shirt, grabbed the drone for a few video captures, and restocked my vest with more than 200 grams of carbs in gels and chews. I also refilled my bottles and grazed at the aid table — potatoes with salt, orange slices, a cookie, and a few Nerds Gummy Clusters (yum!).
Running on the PCT was a dream — the kind of section trail running fantasies are made of. I felt like I was flowing through spacetime while the landscape unfolded around me. In the distance, lakes mirrored the sky, mountains, and forest. Some other lakes sat right alongside the trail, and while I resisted the urge to take a dip, I did splash my head and upper body for a very refreshing jolt.
As I made my way toward the turnaround near mile 30, the good feeling held. My fueling strategy was working — and eight hours in, I hadn’t experienced a single issue: no cramps, no nausea, no pain. Incredible. I made a mental note not to get lazy with nutrition once fatigue eventually set in.
Somewhere on that stretch, I saw Will already on his return, a mile or two ahead of me and moving smoothly. He was doing his thing — and doing it well.
I had actually been to the halfway point before, The Plumas-Eureka State Park. My little family once spent a few nights tent camping in Jamison Creek Campground, and as I crossed the wooden bridge, I flashed back to a moment when toddler Lola splashed around in the creek with her friend Carter, both of them joyfully naked and completely free.
I reached the aid station at 1pm, eight hours after the start. I was ready for a break, some real food, and another dry shirt to change into.
As I strolled in, I passed a familiar face that clicked into place after half a second — Dr. Swanger, a radiologist I’d worked with back around 2015 or 2016. But out here, he wasn’t a doctor. He was Ron — just another guy vibing in the woods, and technically ahead of me if we’re pretending this was a race. We shared a few encouraging words and smiles, then I moved on to raid the aid station.
Turns out, Joni Taylor was volunteering here — another jolt of human connection. Joni is something of a staple in the local ultra scene: a literal ray of sunshine who’s handed me snacks, soda, and encouragement at more races than I can count. Her presence gave me a boost.
I took full advantage of the stop: a real chair, hot quesadillas, a little candy, a cold Coca-Cola, and a request to clean off my sunglasses — which Joni somehow had the perfect wipes for. I restocked from my drop bag with more gels and chews, and swapped my Hoka Speedgoats for Topo Ultraventures to give my feet more room. I debated a sock change, but left them alone
I lollygagged a bit, and Joni gave me some friendly nudges to get moving again. In the end, I spent over 15 minutes at the aid station. The fatigue was setting in, and so was the awareness of what lay ahead: everything I’d just done, in reverse. The upside? Seeing those stunning views again. The downside? Earning them.
The views were just as spectacular in reverse. I passed a few dozen runners still making their way toward the turnaround, offering them fist-bumps and greetings like “Yeah buddy!” and “You got this!” as we crossed paths.
The skies had started filling with towering clouds, flirting with thunderstorm potential. The temperature stayed cool, and the landscape looked like it had been turned up to eleven — a NatGeo-worthy spread of rocks and foliage glowing under soft, diffused light. The sky was an endless slideshow of cloud-porn.
But despite the beauty, I was feeling quite shitty. My watch showed I was around mile 40 — meaning 20+ still to go — and I was slipping into a mental low. I began doing math I didn’t want to do: How slow could I go and still finish before the cutoff? The creeping dread wasn’t physical pain exactly — more like a fog of fatigue and doubt seeping in.
I took a pause and reached for the one gel I had been saving for this kind of scenario: lots of caffeine, 200mg in one slurpy serving. The shitty feeling hung around, and I took a few sitting breaks in the shade to breathe deeply, close my eyes, and absorb my self-inflicted misery. But I kept slowly moving.
I stopped in a shady spot, sat for a bit on a rock, breathed deep, closed my eyes. I reached for the gel I’d been saving for this exact scenario — the emergency reserve. One slurp, 200mg of caffeine. It didn’t fix everything immediately, but I kept moving, slowly, stubbornly.
Eventually, the caffeine kicked in, and the fog began to lift. My legs turned over a little easier. My thoughts stopped spiraling. I promised myself I wouldn’t let myself get another low like this if I could help it.
And then — the storm. Thick gray clouds darkened above. The air turned heavy, charged. A sudden flash lit up the sky. I counted: one… two…(3,4,5)… six… seven… KA-BOOM. The sound cracked across the Lost Sierra and gave me goosebumps. Based on my very scientific method, the lightning had struck just a mile or two away. It seemed like it had happened behind me, which was somehow comforting — and motivating to move forward. I picked up the pace.
Eventually, a gentle drizzle broke out. It felt amazing — like Mother Nature herself was rooting for me. I entered into another wave of flow, running with full intent, present in the moment, my arms sometimes outstretched like wings. These flashes of presence feel almost spiritual. They’re fleeting moments, but unforgettable…
I made it to the Golden Valley Aid Station — mile 48 — at around 6:30pm, 13 and a half hours into the race. The sun was still up, but it was time to start prepping for nightfall. I grabbed my headlamp from my drop bag and finally changed socks. That’s when I found the culprit of the discomfort I’d been feeling: a two-inch blister. It wasn’t too angry-looking, so I let it be — no intervention required.
Just then, Abe rolled into the aid station while I was sipping a tiny cup of ramen noodles (mmm, sodium!). His blisters were far less polite — bloody, painful toe gremlins that were wrecking his stride. He flagged down help, and a volunteer used one of the pins from a race bib to pop the little devils. It was equal parts grim and hilarious — just another moment in ultrarunning, hanging out at a mountaintop rest stop, casually dealing with bodily chaos.
The final 12-mile descent back to Downieville felt like its own mini event. After so many hours on my feet, running downhill was neither easy nor entirely safe. My legs were toast, and the blister on the right foot was becoming noticeable. Gravity made speed tempting, but my control was fading — and with a few rocks and roots on the trail, a bad step could’ve sent me flying off the mountainside. I wasn’t about to let that be the ending.
As golden hour lit the pines and danced through the dust, I tried to run fast but controlled — dipping into the last of my “high output” energy reserves. Every muscle was working, but none were quitting. I silently thanked all those hours of strength and mobility work in training. It was paying off.
Then darkness dropped like a curtain. The forest swallowed the trail, and my world shrunk to the narrow beam of my headlamp. I spotted spiders, tiny millipedes… and who knew what else might creep out at night? I wasn’t scared, exactly — but it was definitely eerie. Every few minutes, I yelled or barked into the dark, just in case.
By now, I was so tired I just wanted to walk — and I had enough time to do so and still finish. Just a mile or two to go. But walking didn’t keep me warm. The night air was cold, I started to shiver anytime I slowed down. So I defaulted to a final strategy: walk a little, run a little. Again and again. I inched closer to the end.
I emerged from the darkness and onto the streets of Downieville around 10 p.m. A few folks were still out, clapping from the sidewalks as runners trickled in. I was done walking. I picked up into a run — slow, stiff, but a run — and made my way toward the finish line.
I crossed in 17 hours and 3 minutes. Met my goal time of a 17h finish.
A wave of relief, pride, and exhaustion washed over me as the race organizers congratulated me. I quickly found a seat, and let it all soak in for a bit — the effort, the miles, the moments.
Then I stood up, walked a few steps away from the crowd, and quietly threw up what little was left in my stomach. Exhaustion barf: a humble punctuation mark on a long, marvelous day. Luckily, it was a small mess.
I cleaned up and looked up just in time to see Abe charging through the finish line. I hooted in excitement and awe—he had clearly rallied hard, putting down a strong final stretch after I’d last seen him mid-blister surgery. We exchanged a few words and mutual congratulations, but both of us were running low on energy (and smelling like creatures from the woods), so we parted ways with a hug and a smile.
Will had wrapped up his race about an hour earlier and was already on the road home with his wife, who’d been cheering him on at the finish.
I made the quiet walk back to the hotel alone, passing through the darkened streets of Downieville, now silent like they had been at dawn. I was no longer a runner in motion—just another guy in town, gently coming down from something big. After a hot shower and a dinner of sandwich and beer, I took one last slow walk through the still night to retrieve my drop bags and allow the day’s intensity to slowly dissolve.
I usually sleep poorly after big endurance efforts—too much adrenaline still humming through my system, too much caffeine still circulating. The body is drained, but the mind won’t settle. Sure enough, I managed only about four hours of sleep.
But when I woke, it was with a huge, unshakable smile and a deep sense of satisfaction. The kind that doesn’t need words. My legs were sore, the foot blister throbbed, but my heart was full.
I packed up my things slowly, without urgency—giving myself space to linger in the quiet afterglow of something challenging and beautiful. Eventually, I hit the road, heading home with the weariness of effort well spent, and the kind of fatigue that feels like a gift.
I ate every single snack within arm’s reach on the quiet, winding two-hour drive home. My body was sore, but in that good, deep way that only comes after doing something significant. Outside the window, the mountains rolled by, the trees swayed in the breeze, and the sky held layers of soft clouds that mirrored the feelings inside me - content, floaty.
I thought about the miles I had covered, the highs and lows, the people I’d shared them with, and the tiny moments I wanted to hold onto: cold creek water on my face, flashes of lightning and goosebump-inducing thunder, the echoes of joyful shouts on a cliff side, Abe finishing strong despite bloody blisters. I felt grateful to have lived so much, so fully, in just one day.
Somewhere in between bites of jerky and sips of leftover electrolyte drink, I started daydreaming.... About the next one. Another trail, another sunrise, another chance to meet myself out there. Another moment of being so fully present that time bends and stretches — and for a few sacred miles, disappears altogether.
It really was a great day. The kind that stays with me. The kind that becomes part of me.