I remember listening to an interview with Francis Ford Coppola once as I was sweating away in the dishroom of a Maine summer camp kitchen in the summer of 2005. At the age of 19 hearing Coppola talk about his early marriage at 22 and the urgency that this provided to his life resonated and stuck in my mind for some reason.
Maybe it’s recently becoming a father that rang that particular memory bell. Having a kid does make one reckon with reality in a whole new way, especially when it comes to finances. The costs pile up fast and child care looms like an incoming financial tsunami on the horizon ready to devastate any margin that a teaching salary provides.
Teacher pay is a conversation for another time, but a side hustle has become increasingly more appealing. Don’t get me wrong, I love the teaching profession and the ability to interact and share my love of literature with students. But, I’ve been considering a way to leverage creativity with income. Although I have lots of experience dishwashing and can Hobart with the best of them, I’m wanting to find a project that can fill my tiny margin of free time with imagination.
Revisiting my catalog of film photography reminded me of two things: 1. Hey, I’m pretty proud of this work and 2. I miss it. As I started to sort through a decade of work, I revisited past trips, friends, and passing faces that I wanted to keep adding to.
And so, Timothy Cushing Photography was born. It might not be on the level of Patton or Apocalypse Now!, but I’m hoping to find a small steady stream of work to keep the photography going and the family better supported. Have a look. I’m eager to hear your thoughts!
Digging through old drafts, I found a half-finished recap of my previous Vermont 100 from 2022. With a little over a week until my next attempt, I thought this was a good time to revisit and expand it:
It was a phrase that was becoming predictable during my periodic visits to the Jeju physical therapist: “You should stop running.”
She had my latest X-ray projected behind her and was showing me how a few of my lower back vertebrae were compressed pushing out a disc that was shooting excruciating pain into my back and down my right leg. I could barely move. Just going from sitting to standing was a process. Putting on socks took a good two minutes. According to her, the vertebrae had been pounded indiscernibly closer with each of my thousands of steps. But a large swath of rest wasn’t an option unless I bailed on my summer goal that I had begun to build to. I hadn’t taken a large break from running in many years. After a considerable pause, I replied, “So, 5 days rest? I have a 100 miler in July.” She shook her head and said, “Give it at least a week.”
A few weeks later I was shuffling along the coast of Jeju on a self-supported 80km run. The organizers of the Vermont 100 had graciously allowed me to run the qualifier as a self-supported solo trot. I set a course that connected some of my most beloved Jeju running routes. It was a farewell tour of sorts. So with some minor nerve pain in my right hamstring and a sore left ankle, I jogged a giant loop from my doorstep. My body wasn’t hurting too bad by the end aside from an inferno of a sunburn. I had started to incorporate more yoga and core into my routine to support that pesky back. A follow-up with the PT revealed that the vertebrae were actually looking better. The Vermont 100 was a go.
From there I eased back into the daily grind of training. Wake up, work, nap, run, eat, sleep, repeat. The last two months on Jeju melted away and the race started to feel real. I got away with some pals for a few mountain runs on the mainland and up Halla. Things were clicking into place.
Midori came to Jeju for my last two weeks there and we started to plan a little bit for a race that we didn’t have much context for. She was going to crew me and it would be a first for both of us–her first crewing experience and my first 100 miler. The organizers don’t publish a map because much of the race is on private land. All that we had was a mean looking course profile and vague descriptions of lots of hills. We tried our best to calm each others nerves, both being planners. I tried to explain that ultras are often a lot of planning that gets discarded when the race starts.
Add to the picture that Midori and I hadn’t spent much time together. This was going to be a pressure test for our relationship.
Midori and I arrived in Vermont two days before to get some rest in before the race to catch up with friends and for packet pick-up. Driving into White River Junction, one gets a sense for what’s in store. Hills in all directions like green ripples. In a few days, starting at 6am, I’d be carving out a path through them.
The run began in a large Vermont field at 4:00am. Compared to the start of my last ultra in Korea where heroic music boomed and cameras flashed, the Vermont start was a humble one. After a countdown, we all trotted through a gate and made our way out into the dark. The course felt easy, a smooth dirt road not unlike the one I had grown up on in Maine. “Maybe this will be a breeze?” I thought to myself and picked up the pace a bit. We wound through a forest trail and then back to a wide dirt road. Slowly up and slowly down, the hills melted away and the sun edged into the day.
Before running ultras, I often envision two things: the finish line of course, but also that middle section of the race. The middle is often the biggest push. The initial surge of the start is done. Adrenaline fades into the realization of the task ahead. After 30 miles the magnitude of the task begins to feel concrete, and that mental realization can also translate into concrete feet. It’s during this part of the race that I have to remember to remind myself of what it took to get here. It isn’t just those first 30 miles that are behind you, it’s all of the preparation and training and experience.
The 30 mile point in the Vermont 100 is called Stage Road. It was one of the livelier aid stations, with crews and supporters camped out in lawn chairs. I cruised in and spotted Midori, plopped down in a lawn chair and was given advice by a guy in an inflatable T-Rex costume. He explained what was in store. The next push was a big one, with one of the most punishing hills of the entire course. The sun beat down. My Garmin wouldn’t charge. The small frustrations began to creep in. At the previous aid station, Pretty House, I had bounded in and enjoyed a hummus wrap. At Stage Road, the enormity of the run began to materialize. As I left I tried to return to my mental reminder of everything it took to get to this point. The back rehab, the training run, the people who supported me.
At the half way point, I almost dropped. The chair was too comfortable, the food too tasty. This would happen a few times. I had had a good run, why not just call it a day? Midori sensed it, got food in me, didn’t entertain the negativity. The role was coming together for her. Behind the scenes she was driving long distances between stations, lugging chairs and food, all for a quick 10-15 minutes with a grumpy sweaty mess who she had to get back out onto the trail. Seeing her at the next crew station started to become the reason for moving forward, and that made it harder to leave when I did get to one.
The race was one of diminishing returns for my body. My plan had been to start quick and get a cushion so that I didn’t have to worry about cutoffs. The inflatable T-Rex man told me at mile 30 that my pace was good, and just to stay focused and get through the miles. I started to notice that the miles were ticking off slower and slower, my efforts diluted by exhaustion and lactic acid. Gels were giving me a boost, but I found myself walking any sort of incline. Time was on my side, but I couldn’t get stagnant. Occasionally runners would emerge from behind and hobble past me. I just tried to keep my mind on my race.
At Spirit of ’76 with under 30 miles to go, it really began to feel insurmountable. Somebody had destroyed the porta potty which I desperately needed at that point and this almost felt like the final straw. I won’t describe in detail what I saw in there. As always, Midori was there with encouragement. She got me patched up and sent me off down the dark path with my bouncing headlamp lighting the way.
With 10 miles left, I picked up my childhood friend Roo as a pacer. She was one of the first real runners that I knew and was the natural choice to help me creep to the finish line. She kept me going with small doable plans like, “OK, Tim–let’s just jog to that tree over there then we can walk for a while.” I was loopy as hell but she kept me on course.
With a mile to go, I tasted the finish line and my pace quickened just a little bit. The cheers from the crowd started to become audible. The banner appeared and I took the last few steps to completion. Midori and I had a giant exhausted hug before creeping to the car.
And now it’s time to do it again! This time Midori will be meeting me at select aid stations with our 5 month old. I’ll have double encouragement there. It’s wild three years later to be revisiting the same course that helped plant the seed that grew into what we have today. And as for the crewing, she’s going to leave that to another crew of childhood friends. The rolling hills of Vermont beckon. Onward!
“I don’t have very many regrets, not because I lived a perfect life but because life is a bunch of rolling hills, not mountains, or speed bumps instead of stop signs, and so you come to a situation and it’s neither good or bad, it just is, and what it means to you is what’s your take on it. But the second part of the equation is what are you going to do about it. A lot of times I’m completely wrong, but all you do is back up and start over.”– Bill Russell
I never grew up a fan. I was more of a Dylan guy. I remember bouncing around on the backroads of my small Maine hometown with the drunken horns of “Leopard Skin Pillbox Hat” as a soundtrack, dirt swirling behind my Dad’s Ford Ranger as we ran errands. In fact, Dylan was my first live show in middle school. My dad called me in sick to school for the next day so that we could see Dylan pound away at a piano in an arena in central Maine.
I found you in my college days on Staten Island when a clear-eyed truth seeking maniac from New Jersey named Kevin crossed my path. We shared a love for Dylan, but he also started to tell me tales of Asbury Park and its patron saint who would wander there talking to low-lifes, hoodlums, fortune tellers and the disenfranchised. The Bruce that I knew as a belter of anthems on my local classic rock station began to take on a different light. My friend and I would venture across the Goethals bridge for late night disco fry raids to our favorite 24 hour diner, The Peterpank. The bright neon lights shooting light out of the windows like a beacon to us searchers and the other sketchy midnight clientele who would wander over from the strip club next door. The life-eroded waitress would take our order with a scratchy but maternal directness and glide back to the kitchen. We’d listen to Little Stevie’s Underground on the way home and chip away at the big mysteries of life: girls and the swirling ink of the future.
There’s another bind that kept my pal Kev and I together: our enigmatic relationships with our fathers. We spent time combing the recesses of memory and story trying to find clues for our own existence in our shadowy paternal figures. Our relationships with our dads, like many, were rocky and fraught–a mix of formative warm importance and scar tissue. We plunged our Freudian depths with the recklessness of youth. Familial relationships were just as murky and mysterious as what lay ahead.
After college Kevin and I kept close and even moved to Asheville, NC for a short stint. I’ll never forget one epic late-night porch hang with our roommates and some visiting friends where a mysterious bootleg of your early solo demos found their way into the CD player. We sat on the rocking chair porch in the humid Asheville night while a clear-eyed Bruce belted out acoustic-backed songs with a rumbling purpose. It was rocket fuel for the hopeful songwriter that I was at the time. The night hummed with conversation, crickets and your early tunes.
My relationship to your music continued to evolve. I moved abroad and drifted closer and farther and closer and farther from various friends. My relationship with my Dad through that time had similar highs and lows but remained mostly icy. A few conversations on my yearly visit home were all that I could show for the man partly responsible for my very existence. It stagnated into quarterly check-ins when I moved abroad, as did many relationships. I’d come back for holidays hopeful that things could mend, that we could finally connect as men and spill our full stories to each other. I’d always be greeted by that same enigmatic shadow. We’d talk but it just didn’t seem to get anywhere. I’d drive the old familiar roads to see childhood friends who had stuck around feeling the familiar comfort and suffocation that only a hometown could bring.
Time marched forward. I kept making music but also a career as an educator. The mix of progress and realization that many things stay the same. I was abroad for over a decade before I met the woman who would bring me back stateside. And a remarkable woman she is. She made the drive up to Maine for a weekend to see my parents without me. This of course won my mom over instantly, but it also ignited a glow in my dad. He told me about how special she was. Ice began to soften.
I moved back to New England and moved in with that special lady. We continued teaching for a year, learning each other’s ropes. The magic persisted through the challenge of building a life together. We took some trips to Maine and I introduced her to my favorite hometown spots, my local yearly fair, my close friends. We spent Christmas in my childhood home with my parents, arriving just in time for a windy storm to knock the power out. The holiday was spent navigating the old dirt road farmhouse with oil lamps. We talked and played games, faces illuminated by candles. It was one of the best Christmases of recent memory.
The following summer I finally convinced my parents to brave the Massachusetts turnpike and make the three-hour drive to see us. My dad was having nasty hip pain diagnosed as bursitis, but still they packed up their arthritic black lab Moxie and made the voyage for a two-night stay.
On night two, we sat in the morning debating what to do. The Sox had a game but tickets were exorbitant. My wife and I had been to see you play Gillette a few days earlier and had spent much of the show remarking about how much fun my parents would have. They aren’t really ones to go out of the ruts of their routines and an arena show was a special occasion. We floated the idea of a Bruce Springsteen show to my parents. To my surprise, my Dad handed me his credit card and said, “Get some good seats.”
The show was electric. I had never known my Dad to be a fan, but he was locked in. He spent much of the show facing forward, his phone in front of him taking video. Who knows what he did with the footage, but he needed the memory. When the band took a break and the spotlight came onto you for “Last Man Standing,” my special lady nudged me and motioned to my Dad. Emotion was plastered on his face. I think there was even a tear. My Mom was equally locked in and even broke out some dance moves.
In the crowd onslaught of the aftershow, the four of us got separated. I found myself alone with my Dad, navigating the rivers of people streaming to the parking lot. Maybe it was the show that had opened up a tender portal in the moment, maybe it was a little liquid courage, but we actually talked for some minutes while we searched the crowd for our two ladies. Thinking about my own future with my now wife, I asked a simple question that touched on so much mysterious history for me: “Why did you choose mom?” His answer was just as simple: “Because she’s the best.”
My parents drove home the next morning on a stunning August day after snapping a photo of my Dad and I Born In The USA style with our new Bruce shirts on.
Weeks after the show the terrible news came through: the hip pain that my Dad had been battling wasn’t bursitis, it was late stage pancreatic cancer. It seemed like the diagnosis was a catalyst to a decline in health. Within weeks my Dad had to abruptly retire from teaching. I texted him, “Thinking of you.” He replied, “Thanks. Listening to Bruce in patio room. Somehow it’s comforting.”
My siblings and I convened in Maine and set up camp in our family home. Overgrown for our childhood bedrooms, we filled the house. My newborn nephew was a bright soundtrack to the reality that was sinking in. We took turns heading up to my parents’ bedroom to keep my father company. I had a talk with him through tears and we forgave each other.
On the last night my Dad managed to make it downstairs which was rare in the final days. He had a few bites of a burger and then asked for some ice cream. He took slow bites while we watched your Broadway show, his attention locked in as you told the story behind “My Father’s House.” The beginnings of fall were whispering cold licks into the window. After a few more songs he made his way back up to bed.
Shortly after my Dad passed I got married. We put his picture on the mantle so he could watch as we did our first dance to “Thunder Road.” We recently welcomed our first child into the world.. The next generation is starting to take form and my Mom couldn’t be more excited.
Funnily enough I’ve ended up a high school teacher just like my dad. My family is growing and the responsibilities of a full life are expanding. I’m still developing empathy for his story–the grind of responsibilities that a career, marriage, family entail.
I called my friend Kev the other day and we talked for a long time. We reminisced about our time in the tri-state area and Asheville. He gave me advice on fatherhood. We kept exploring that central question of what it means to be a man. I think we’re starting to figure it out.
So, thanks Bruce. Thanks for being a through-line. Thanks for your omnipresent and personal presence. There’s something that resonates in your music that softens and bends people together. You’ve made your search a universal one. We’ll all keep looking.
The pull-up to New Paltz was instant nostalgia. Spring greenery in upstate New York has a distinct vibrance. The downtown of the college town was opening up after a long winter. Restaurants had flung open their doors. I was reminded of college trips with The Red Rogue to Troy and Albany to play small gigs. Sipping free gallery wine and hitting the guitar as hard as I could do project out into those awakened streets. We even had rented a cabin in nearby Phoenicia to record our (for now) last album.
But I was only passing through the small town to the gate at Mohonk Preserve. There I would get my race packet and check into a nearby campground for a quick sleep before a 4am wake-up for the 6am start. It was going to be warm. There was going to be some mean elevation. It was going to be an interesting 50 miles.
I needed 12 hours to qualify for the Vermont 100 and everything was going swimmingly. A sunrise departure from the gate led us straight toward the preserve in an elongating snake. I stuck to the plan. Didn’t push it. Kept a steady pace with built in walking breaks and took time at the aid stations to consider nutrition. The first half of the race was told to be the most scenic and I couldn’t disagree. The panoramic ridges gave view to verdant hills. A mountain lake house appeared in the distance that felt like a fairytale mirage. The heat was getting to me a little, but 12 hours was well within reach. I chatted with a Brooklyn runner for a bit to kill a few miles before peeling off.
Lake Shore Rd (Photo by: Marianne Mizel)
Then the stick in the bicycle spokes: around the 34 mile mark a storm cut through the sunny day. We had to shelter in place. Shivering under a tent during a wild and windy thunderstorm didn’t do my legs any good. Alarm bells started to go off as rangers distributed emergency blankets and the clock kept ticking. The storm died down but I had lost over thirty minutes and they were still holding us. Some runners had chosen to go anyway, but the occasional peal of thunder was still echoing through.
Out of the rain, a surly older man with Gene Hackman energy appeared with his t-shirt tucked behind his head to make a belly-shirt. They told him about the strongly suggested shelter in place order. He stared in prickly disbelief and walked to grab a snack from the aid station table before promptly loping off down the trail. I took this as my cue and followed him. He turned back, gave me a grin and said, “fuck that shit!” I felt an instant boost.
I knew it was going to be close at the 40 mile mark and the pressure only increased as I ticked off the miles and did the math. With 3 miles to go I wasn’t sure if I was going to make it but pushed through jogging a few more miles. Legs slowed and I found myself walking with 8 minutes left and my will crumbling a bit. The body wasn’t responding to my pleas to keep running. I had to remind myself of all the training, preparation, money, highway driving and support that it took to get me to that point. The finish line came into view with 3 minutes to go. I kicked and crossed that beautiful stone arch at 11:59:07.
I found a platform to sit on. The Brooklyn runner yelled across from the massage tent a congratulations on getting my time. They had cheese burgers and chocolate milk at the finish line which took an hour to become appetizing, but boy did they hit when the time was right. I bought a race trucker hat for Midori and made my way to the bus to be shuttled back to the parking lot. With the bus in view, I felt a strong hand on my arm and turned to see runner Gene Hackman proudly displaying a 3rd-in-his-age-group medal. Hell yah brother.
Vermont here I come! The race had incredible organization and supportive volunteers. You won’t find many races with ample aid stations and such runnable trail. The donation takes some doing, but it’s all for a good cause. Will be back some day, Mohonk.
The goal was two in one day. I had done some tough hikes but hadn’t yet attempted two trails in a 24 hour span. Early on in the 48 endeavor I had flagged on my map that the Osceolas and Moosilauke trail heads were a short drive apart. I decided to tackle them back to back.
Both trails sprouted from Tripoli road, a seasonal mostly dirt obstacle course of punishing potholes that could wreck a lesser car. Luckily, I drive a Subaru.
I made my usual late start and arrived to a packed Osceola parking lot. Finding a spot on the side of the road, I began my ascent. The pre-hike details were beginning to feel more automatic, and the mental checklist wasn’t such a chore. A routine was developing and bringing with it confidence. Food, check, poles, check, coat, check, etc.
The climb up Osceola was a pleasant one. The usual roots and rocks, but my body was beginning to respond. My legs had no trouble winding their way around the traps that came up in the trail. There was a new bendiness to them as they contorted and chopped their way up the trail.
At the summit I was greeted with the reason for the full parking lot. A crowd of people was milling at the top, a mix of larger and smaller groups. A crowd of teenage boys postured and joked, flexing for photos. Some more reflective hikers chewed granola bars with pensive looks into the distance. The reason for the popularity was apparent–some of the more panoramic and stunning views enveloped the summit. But the crowd wasn’t my scene so I quickly moved onto the east peak.
A hundred feet down the trail I regained solitude and took in more amazing views. Breathing a sigh of relief, I embarked onto a mile-long torture-fest to the east peak.
After some of the more gnarly scrambles that I had encountered, I arrived at an underwhelming pile of rocks that marked the peak. I sucked down a gel and turned around, making my way back to the main summit.
The Osceola descent was a nice one. By the time I got back to the main peak, the crowds had dispersed and I paused to take it in. But I had another mountain to climb so pried myself away and hurried down the trail. I regained an old speed on the descent that I hadn’t felt for a few years. With a mile to go, I caught up with the teenagers. Their pubescent competition kicked in as I caught them and one tried to race. I turned on the jets and coasted back to my trusty Subaru steed, climbed in, and made the quick drive to the Tecumseh trailhead.
I began the second ascent around 3:00. A few hikers debriefed in the empty lot about the trail. They exchanged stories about a man that they had encountered dressed in green on the trail. I pocketed the soundbites away and quickly hit the trail before my muscles had time to cool.
The ascent was a buttery one. Beautiful soft trails with only a minor challenge towards the top. Arriving at a ridge, I began to trot. Cooler late-day temperatures. The idyllic scent of pines. This was what it was all about. I coasted around curves and soaked it in. And then I almost tripped on him.
Sitting on a random patch of moss by the trail was a man in head-to-toe green with camouflage accents. He was just sitting there, looking at the trees. It wasn’t a spot with a view. It was a dark patch of trail. He didn’t look up or acknowledge me. This was the Green Man’s domain. I ran faster than I had all day.
I made it to the quiet summit and took a long rest.
The descent was just as buttery. Of course, there was the gnawing idea of the Green Man in the back of my mind. He wasn’t in the same spot as I came down. There was just a nondescript indent in the moss where he had been sitting. Had he taken to the woods? Was he watching me from some carefully selected perch? I checked behind me more than once as I came down the mountain.
I caught up with the Green Man about a mile from the parking lot. He was sauntering in the early evening light, his outfit miraging with the woods. He gave me a brief glance and a hint of a nod as I went by this time. Nothing threatening.
The parking lot was a welcome sight. Only one car was left, another Subaru with veteran plates. I set up my camping chair and peeled off my shoes. The Green Man emerged shortly thereafter and meticulously began to de-hike. There was a military efficiency as he hit his boots together, changed into shoes, placed his gear in the back. We all find something different on the trails.
Distance: 21.5km
Time: 4 hours 30 minutes
Music: LCD Soundsystem, The Long Goodbye (Live at Madison Square Garden)
It’s become an almost yearly tradition: my brother Jonathan flies over from the east coast for his yearly Maine visit and we devise a punishing day hike through the Whites. This peaked (pun intended) a few years with a 12 hour torture fest around the Pemi Loop that left us comatose and craving our home town’s notoriously mediocre Chinese food to heights previously thought impossible.
Since moving to Oregon, my brother has taken on the mantle of full blown “mountain man.” Every conversation for the past near-decade has centered around a newly completed or upcoming adventure: fishing, backcountry skiing, ice climbing. If there was a sport called extreme puppeteering I bet he’d try it.
Needless to say, he arrived to the Pine Tree State eager for a challenge. I found myself firmly on the other side of the spectrum, opting for a more leisurely approach. With the passive-aggressive negotiation skills that only brothers can have, we started to haggle. He wanted 20 miles, I wanted 10. We arrived at a compromise of a 15.5 mile traverse of the Carters and Wildcats. Easy peasy? Nope.
The hike began after a quick car drop at Pinkham Notch. We had driven the short distance from our childhood town in Western Maine, stopping to sleepily munch breakfast at a coffee shop on the way. Finally the trail was ours. We gave a little whoop and took first steps. Immediately I saw my brother gallop off into the distance, disappearing around a bend. Our paces reflected our initial planning approaches: I moseyed, he bounded. I decided to fire up Neil Young on my headphones and continue my leisurely pace, spotting glimpses of Jonathan (trail name Mad Dog) around bends in the trail.
We reconnoitered at Imp Shelter and made some jokes before continuing up to Carter Ridge. The trail was a pleasant one with only a few spots of tricky rocks, root or mud. The day was shaping up. Peaks were hit or miss, some just a pile of rocks in a clearing. It was a foggy day anyway that wasn’t going to offer stunning views. Carter Ridge ticked away with an easy pace.
I haven’t mentioned until now that there was another factor at play besides decades of entrenched brotherly competition: my brother’s son had turned one year old that day and we were due back for his birthday party. As we descended Carter Ridge we realized that the day was ticking on. We were tired. We wanted to bail and find a quicker way home. There wasn’t one. Our eyes drifted from the picturesque pond up to the daunting peaks of Wildcat Ridge.
The ridge seemed to be never-ending. An hour ticked by, we hit another peak to climb. Another hour, another peak. The needle on the misery meter slowly started to move into red. I almost bonked halfway through the trudge up Wildcat D and was saved by some electrolye gummies. At least the descent was near–that would be a welcome friend after all of the incline (at least that’s what we told ourselves.) Oh sweet naivety, how I long for your honeyed optimism!
The final Wildcat peak gave us Sound of Music level lush fields and views. The sun had come out but I was too tired to snap a photo. We rushed through and started to make the descent. Only a mile or so of down to go and then we would have an easy flat trail to the car. Our immediate greeting was a massive boulder that we had to slide down with the focus of a tight rope walker.
The next mile was one of the roughest of the 48 project so far. A steep descent through biting granite crags. We could hear the highway the entire time but didn’t appear to get any closer to it. A few lookout spots along the way showed us how little progress we had made. We occasionally peppered the silence with curses.
By the time we reached the bottom the water was gone and so was our spirit. We trudged to a pond where we had to stop to filter some H2O and collect ourselves. We moved with synchronized practice, handing snacks to each other. The parking lot appeared and we climbed into the car.
Before turning the key, Jonathan paused with a faraway look in his eye. “What the hell?” was all that he could muster in the way of conversation.
“We got Wildcatted bro,” I said.
We drove in brotherly silence to pick up the drop car before making our way back to civilization and my nephew’s birthday party.
Reading about Moosilauke, it was clear that it would be one of the more popular hikes on this endeavor. The main route is composed of carriage trails and relatively easy trail which pay off with one of the most stunning views of any mountain in the state. I envisioned a day of parking lot jostling and crowded trails and craved a more solitary experience. And so I decided to try a different route.
Not to go all Robert Frost, but there was a road less traveled–the Benton Trail via Tunnel Brook. This offered a back door to Moosilauke that would be a bit more rustic and remote. I mapped my route and started doing a little research. There was a brook crossing involved which might be a challenge after a few days of heavy rain, but overall it seemed like the trail for me.
Arriving at the trailhead, I knew that I had picked well. There were only two cars in the small lot and I could instantly hear the rush of flowing water nearby. This was going to do just fine.
It was instantly clear that the heavy rain was going to have an effect on this hike. The water was straight up running through the woods at points. I soon came upon a part of the road/trail that had been eaten in one big bite by a raging flood at some point in the last few years.
The next challenge was the brook that I had read about. It was indeed flowing mighty. After a few minutes exploring for an easy crossing, I resigned myself to wet shoes and waded through the crystal cold water.
After the brook, the trail took the familiar mix of rock and roots that the Whites have to offer. Some sections of trail were pure stream. I didn’t see another person on the ascent or descent.
The summit lived up to the hype. I heard a guide who was stationed at the top explaining that Moosilauke translates in Abenaki to “bald place.” The top was indeed as bald as Vin Diesel, offering panoramic views that I hadn’t been treated to on any of my peaks so far. Five or six other groups of hikers relaxed and chatted, some with dogs. It wasn’t the insane gold rush for views that I had read about in my research, but still relatively busy compared to other hikes I’d done thus far.
Making my way to the South Peak for some additional views, a hiker passed by. There was a thunderclap moment where I thought it was my close friend who had passed away years ago. He was a dead ringer. We gave each other a grin–the same one that he used to give and then continued our separate paths. It was nice to know that he was still out there enjoying it all.
Coming down I anticipated the brook crossing the entire time, but this time with relish. I couldn’t wait to soothe my sore feet and calves in a cold bath. I tromped through the crossing without a second thought, made it back to my car and bathed completely in the fast-flowing water before making the long drive home.
Distance: 18.96km
Time: 4 hours 44 minutes
Music: Bob Dylan The Rolling Thunder Review: The 1975 Live Recordings
The summer started with a stumble. Midori fell sick and our plans for leading a student trip to South Africa along with taking in the sights and sounds of the Paris Olympics with her family were put on hold. She is fine, but travel was impossible.
And so a packed summer evaporated and left behind a formless mist of time so large that it was simultaneously daunting and fleeting. I began to fill the days with a routine of reading and running that in the midst of the school year would have been the ideal, but this soon formed the grooves of the mundane. The days took on the low-key saccharine buzz of a sugar high. All of the promises we make ourselves when busy, the “When I have the time I will…’s” had become anxiety clouds that hung in the air. Structure was needed, a goal was ached for.
At some point in those formless days I began to dwell on my time in Jeju. How I had managed day-long hikes up Mt. Halla and daily morning runs. How I had felt a sincere connection to the hard pumice earth there that Massachusetts hasn’t offered. I had the cliche moment of running my hand over the excess flab that had accumulated in my midsection–the remnants of a challenging year that had resulted in self-leniency. The hurdles of life that had served as excuses for escaping into nature. It dawned on me: I needed to pound my feet into some trails.
Two hours to the north of me is a veritable playground of peaks, streams and forests. It’s some of the most gnarly land you’ll find in the country, notorious to the initiated for its poking, tripping, plodding trails that strong-arm you into slow-motion. From the back of my mind the idea of the New Hampshire 4000 footers began to drift into the forefront, a 48 peak challenge that scatters the state. I soon found myself paying for overnight shipping of the White Mountains Guide and digging out gear. I moved aside the bulk paper towels and bags of dog food and reached back to grab my trusty red running pack, my hiking poles and a water filter. A wave of equal parts nostalgia and anticipation glowed in my chest. I had a goal: I was going to do the 48 4000 footers of New Hampshire before I turned 40.
This was one of the closest hikes to me and is on the eastern edge of the Sandwich Range wilderness. The parking lot is on the edge of a gorgeous farm field and I was initiated into a familiar trend in the Whites: enjoyable gradual trail early on that leads to dramatic scrambling and bouldering near the summit. Getting to the top of Whiteface was a quick reminder of how out of shape I was. Halfway through the final push the strong impulse to turn around and call the whole thing off slipped into my brain then magnified into an incredibly tempting fixation. I slurped down an energy gel and pushed on.
Atop Passaconway, the second peak, I met another enthusiast named Keenan. We chatted from the stunning lookout. When I complained about the two hour drive he put things into perspective. “Tell me about it. It was three and a half hours from Connecticut. But how nice was that scramble up Whiteface? You need to check out the Tripyramids, I did them last week!” Keenan had been racking up mountains with an enthusiastic ferocity that I took with me down the mountain.
Two peaks done.
Distance: 19.07km
Time: 5 hours 20 minutes
Music: Phish Clifford Ball ‘96
Post-run Food: Trader Joe’s Orange Chicken and white rice
Emboldened by my successful first hike, I mapped out a route that would check off three more peaks. Starting with a quick ascent up Mount Cannon, I could then work my way over to the Kinsmans. Cannon proved to be a maw of granite teeth that took bites of me going up and down. Below was a stunning view of Lonesome Lake. As I staggered to the wooden lookout, I began to realize that something was off. The top was flooded with refreshed-looking tourists and summer camp kids. Three elementary-aged boys ran up to me and bragged about how they could easily have done the same hike. Confused, I looked to my left to see a gondola lift cruising care-free tourists to the top. I chatted with a couple from Montreal, refilled water, then moved on.
The rest of the day took me to the Kinsmans which was my first contact with the Appalachian Trail. I spent some time with a thru hiker named “Offgrid” and daydreamed about the simplicity of his existence. We parted ways at South Kinsman as he floated south on the trail, Georgia-bound. The descent was more than I bargained for, partly because I decided to take the “scenic route” to Cascade Brook Trail. This proved to be more brook than trail and had me meandering around intricate root systems while finding footing on slippery rocks. I stopped and greedily drank the clear filtered water from the brook. By the time I hit Lonesome Lake and made my way through Lafayette Campground, I had a hollow look in my eye. I knew because as I walked by a campsite with a family of four, a little girl stared in curious horror.
I was cruising now. My body was responding to the trails and I could feel strength returning. I decided to give the Tripyramids a…try. It was the usual gradual trail to begin with through some well-maintained biking trails. The trickle of water accompanied my early steps. Birds sang. It was great, until it wasn’t.
An hour later I found myself clinging to the side of a boulder, exhausted, trusting the grip on my bulky trail-running shoes. The sun searched for open skin to inflict its rays upon. I didn’t want to look up because every time I did it was another demoralizing slant of steep granite.
The Tripyramids are notorious for the chute of rocks that lead to its peak. The reality met reputation as I slogged to the top step by step, every few minutes leaning on my poles for a break and sucking water. I had a mantra to just keep going up. This mantra eventually took me to a final large boulder where I slumped down and took in the stunning views. I was so intent on going up at that point that I missed the official trail to the left and bushwhacked through profanity-inducing brush for the last bit to the top.
Coming down was some of the best trail to date. A pristine brook to the left offered constant temptation to stop for a swim. A trailrunner zoomed by in the final miles and we talked about the difficult trail while making plans to get a run in together at a future date. I took a dip in the Mad River then began the long drive home.
Distance: 20.51km
Time: 5 hours 35 minutes
Music: Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros Essentials
This was the simplest of my ascents so far. A loop that would hit the two Hancock Peaks. The first section of the trail was deliciously runnable and the mile leading to the summit offered a challenge that I was starting to relish by now. Something had turned after the Tripyramids and I found that I was actually starting to enjoy the scrambles. I chatted with a couple at the summit who were on high bird alert after seeing a family of Ruffed grouse. The parking lot has a quintessential White Mountain view which attracts tourists like ants to peanut butter. After a relatively quick hike, I spread out my sweaty gear on a picnic table. “Nice hike, eh?” Said a biker who had stopped with his wife to take in the view. I nodded and grinned. “I love this area. Take it easy brother,” he said before getting onto his hog and cruising on down the road.
Distance: 14.87km
Time: 2 hours 48 minutes
Music: The Grateful Dead 8/7/71 Golden Hall, San Diego, CA
Time compresses and leaps in starts and fits. A six month lease in my early twenties felt like a lifetime of commitment. That was six months of high-stakes productivity. Songs to be written, places to see, experiences to have. Who knew what city I’d be headed off to next? (high mileage Mercury Sable permitting.) Now a three year contract felt like a blink. In my thirties, I’ve settled into a rhythm of teaching and running that melts the days away. It all adds up to something, but the rewards aren’t as immediate or palpable as they were. Breakthroughs are more infrequent, but there’s something about a routine. Feelings fluctuate between boredom and comfort as the days tick off.
In high school, I could never fathom the sense of time in Homer’s Odyssey. Seven years stuck on an island? A windstorm that causes a year-long setback? It felt flippant with time in a way to which I couldn’t relate.
I’m definitely not comparing myself to Odysseus–I’m just a teacher with a guitar, a pair of running shoes, and a dog that makes uncomfortably long eye contact; not a bow, a sick boat and a loyal crew– but there is something relatable to his journey. The pull of home that caused him to brush paths with heroes, gods, demigods, monsters and new lands. That same pull has led me all over the world during my eleven years abroad.
As an international school teacher, it feels like I’ve spent a lot of time on detours. Late nights grading, planning activities schedules, talking to insomniac students in the dorms. These are the small detours. And then there are the big ones like taking on teaching social studies full time despite background and training in English. The tasks and pathways have shape-shifted depending on my many roles, but they’ve been constant. We tell ourselves that these are extra lines on our resumes, that they’ll serve us in the future in some regard. These detours are never exactly what we are looking for but eventually add up to a career. Every decision has compromise embedded in it, but some can feel like a big step in the wrong direction.
As my move back stateside approaches in June, my image of what it will be like grows blurrier. Recently it’s become clearer that running needs to be halted. Nerve pain and ankle issues are telling me to stop. The long distances have slowly pounded my lower vertebrae together to a point that my running form is painful and tottering. I can get through a workout, but the run spent holding my breath and hoping that this isn’t the run that pushes my body over the edge.
Running was supposed to be the backup plan next year if nothing turned up in the world of teaching, but that isn’t seeming to pan out either. Although I have enough experiences in education to fill over a decade, none of them seem to be the right experiences. I’m missing this or that. Applications and interviews have so far been dead ends.
I’m starting to have to pull the frame back a bit. Maybe teaching and running need to be shed for the time being. These giant parts of my identity need to be let go in order for the journey to continue. It’s nerve-wracking and sometimes terrifying to put both on hold. These two mainstays in my daily routine are melting away to leave behind who knows what?
Setbacks seem like detours until you’ve reached where you needed to be. Journeys sometimes only make sense once they’re done. A voyage is never a direct one, and sometimes you’re closest to progress when you feel the farthest away from it. Steps along the way can seem like detours in the moment, but end up comprising the core components of a necessary voyage to home.
There was a night in high school where it became too much. The dull hum of small town Bridgton, Maine had dipped its toes into our ears before deciding that the water was just fine and that it could make itself right at home in our heads. That hum had grown in volume over time creeping up to a buzz and then a loud rumble. Our eyes started to shake and our fingers started to tap. The asphalt of main street stretched out out out until, at 10pm on a random fall night, we started driving south. Three high school guys with nothing to do, we made our way to one of the only places that is reliably open in Maine 24/7: L.L.Bean.
I don’t remember much of that night except wandering the empty store, buying nothing, hitting a Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through and getting some light and sweet coffee, and, as the sun was rising, the classic rock station playing Here Comes the Sun. There’s an achievement in itself to staying up all night. We made a few dumb phone calls, left a few voice messages. In the early morning we pulled back into our town’s beach parking lot and jumped into the frigid fall lake. The glint of those weary but vivid rays mixed with the sugary coffee and tasted like the present. The town woke up unaware of our night spent on the backroads of Maine.
There’s a secrecy to breakthrough moments. Something that’s often not worth articulating because it would evaporate in the explanation. In the world of ultrarunning, these breakthrough moments seem to exist along side those of bottom-of-the-well desperation. I had a few of both in my most recent ultra: the High Trail Nine Peaks in Ulju, South Korea. The course was a soul-sapping 105km loop over, you guessed it, nine peaks that added up to an ascent about equal to the elevation of Mount Everest from sea level. And to make it more fun? A midnight start.
As the sun rose after seven plus hours of running dark trails over peaks and through small-town roads (some not unlike Bridgton) a moment hit. The loaded spring of months of training released and propelled me into the day’s first hour. A dog in the distance barked and I barked back. The trail had become a reality of existence. The only thing was to move forward on it and let it unveil the scenery and experience.
The race was a quiet one. I was one of three foreigners and it felt like a disconnect, like I was kind of running my own race. Maybe it was in my head, but it felt like when other runners saw me they either wanted to pass me or were surprised at seeing a foreigner. This wasn’t true for the kind folks at the aid stations though. They took reliably good care of me. Other than that the trail was mostly a lonely one. Usually I relish the lonesome trail, but at another point after over twenty hours of little to know interaction the silence had started to feel like a weight. I found two other runners on the dark trail at my pace and formed a bit of a pack. We hiked along in stride, silently lapping up the dark kilometers. I imagined I was in the army, marching through the night under orders.
I started out the race feeling strong. Despite the daunting 105km ahead of me, I plodded off into the dark with the intention to put distance between me and most of the pack. My legs started to work the first ascent as headlights danced behind me on the trail. “Alright, Tim, 10 minutes and and all systems are go. Breathing is good, poles are working it, legs are feeling great and….” fuck! I was suddenly skidding face first down the trail. My pole had caught my shoe and used my momentum to fling me forward. I popped back up with a skinned knee and no small amount of pain. Great start, Cushing. Now time to keep moving. Don’t think about it.
As the night wore on, I kept to the plan. Keep sipping water. Check in with the body. Keep eating gels. The aid stations were efficient and progress was steady. By that first sunrise breakthrough, some confidence was starting to find its way into my stomach. My knee hurt a bit from that fall, but other than that all systems were go.
The day dripped away in hourly increments. A small headache set in that I monitored closely. These had had a habit of turning into full-blown migraines in the past, and I was determined to stave off this one through sheer will and lots of electrolytes. To my amazement, this strategy worked. In the heat of the day, the trail meandered through some of the most stunning views of the course. I popped in my headphones and queued upmy playlist. My legs kicked when I asked them to. I zigzagged through groups of hikers. At a popular peak a race photographer snapped my picture and I refueled before resuming movement.
The trail itself is probably best summed up in one of the only few texts that I sent out during the run: “This race is satan.” The flats were few. You are either moving up or down. As for terrain, take your pick of adjective: jagged, sharp, stabby, snaggy, agro, thorny. There were a few times when I woke from a running trance to realize that I was lost in a bramble patch. I had to trace back and find a flag, pick a new direction and push on. Lazarus Lake, the creator of the infamous Barkley’s Marathon could take some notes. I thought about this as I bulldozed through a few small trees to get back to the trail.
Night descended for a second time and I flicked on my headlamp. The end was the slightest bit palpable. Coming into the next town and one of the final big aid stations my legs found some bounce. My body was responding and some focus clicked in. I picked off five runners and left them behind in the dark. I came up on another group and blew by them. I churned into the aid station, grabbed some snacks and sat cross-legged as I made preparations for the hardest section of the race.
Exiting that aid station I still felt good. Maybe it was dehydration or hunger or exhaustion or delusion, but a punchy humor seeped in. I began an ascent with a few other runners in the distance. Something glowed in the woods. It looked like a golden levitating cross-legged Buddha in the forest, emanating light. This turned out to just be a sign warning of falling rocks that was catching light from my headlamp. The hallucinations continued. The reflector vests of the runners ahead of me started to dance. They were neon football pads and then animated frogs moving to the rhythm of Demon Days by Gorillaz in my headphone. “Rad,” I thought and smiled. My eyes were playing tricks but my legs were strong. I caught up to the dancing frogs and left them behind in my wake. That climb eventually hit a peak and brought me down. The trail was flat and I started to cruise at my fastest pace of the race, putting healthy distance between the pack that I had passed.
On the race profile there’s a sheer climb that I had been dreading. It was about 700 meters of straight up that I knew would hurt a lot at that stage of the run. I hit the climb and tried not to think about it. Jack Kuenzle, a dynamite runner who took the White Mountains Hut Traverse FKT last summer reiterated a mountain mantra on a recent podcast that stuck with me: “Slow is fast and fast is smooth.” My brother said the same exact words in a phone call before the race. I tried to focus on that. Small smart movements that could add up to success. The climb melted away. I passed a few more people, reached a flat and raced off into the night.
The end felt near. I was low on water, but getting closer. That’s when a painfully long stretch of up and down began. Frustration set in. I was thirsty. I wanted the race to be over. “Focus Cushing, focus,” I muttered intermittently. The hallucinations had continued and all the rocks seemed to have tiny playful faces on them like something out of Princess Mononoke. Mountain spirits. The rolling hills played mind games. I couldn’t tell if a large looming silhouette was another mountain that I had to climb or just a trick of the night. And then my watch shut down. I cursed as I fished out my battery and cord. Without the race gpx file the organizers wouldn’t count my time. Did the file save? Was all the data gone? I couldn’t think about it now. As I waited for the watch to kick on I looked behind me down the trail at a few headlamps that were meandering in my direction. They weren’t going to catch me. The watch flicked back to life. I started a new file and hoped that the other 20 hours of data was still on there somewhere.
There was one final aid station before the finish. I knew I was close but my headlamp was dangerously dim. I had to stop again. It was then that a small bell sound started to shimmer from behind me down the trail. Oh great, are we starting auditory hallucinations now? Nope. Two ladies blew by me, one who was wearing a tiny bell on her pack that taunted me as they churned on. I managed to muster a small “fighting!” for them. Batteries clicked into my headlamp and the chase was on.
When I got to the final aid station Tinker Bell was there but her friend had pushed on. We gave some encouragement to each other. “You’re amazing,” she said and grinned. I lit up at the unexpected words. A paradox of competition and encouragement is rife in ultrarunning. The same runners that we leapfrog battle with over hours of terrain can be our biggest encouragement. She took off a few minutes before me as I greedily downed some water. “How many more kilometers?” I asked the volunteer. “Six,” he said. I had this. First I had to catch up to that nice lady with the bell.
I chased Tinker Bell’s tinkling noise through the dark. Passed her. Kept going. The descent was on road and my legs felt strong. I wanted to catch her friend. I hit the final trail section that would bring me to the finish and just kept churning. I passed the friend. She looked pretty cooked. I’m sure I looked the same. But the finish line was near and I had discovered a little something left in the tank. I erupted into the finish area, and a wave of triumph washed over my tired body. Finish lines are emotional places for me. I’ve cried at a few of them. This time I just felt proud. Proud of the effort, proud of the training, proud of the people that had helped me reach the finish line. “You finished in 12th! Amazing!” a text glowed from my phone. Some friends had been texting me all race, and their company was important beyond words. 12th place didn’t seem possible. I had been in the mid 20’s three aid stations back. I started out the race only wanting to finish. All details to mull over tomorrow. I hobbled down to my hotel room for a beer and a sleep. And yes, in case you were wondering, the data was all on the watch.
I don’t know why I keep signing up for these things. It definitely has something to do with that high school decision to just get in the car and drive. That small itch to explore has grown into a big one. I’ve been collecting these snapshots of breakthrough moments since those teenage years, and there’s something about ultra racing that lets me punch through more frequently. The trail, the travel, the people. Main street keeps stretching ever forward, and I’m happy to see where it leads.
When I Get Home 