July 30, 2026

Teton Ogre 26 Hour Adventure Race, 25 July 2026

Teton Ogre Adventure Race: 20 Hours of Heat, Strategy, and Stubbornness

When people hear "adventure race," they usually imagine epic scenery, paddling across beautiful lakes, mountain biking through forests, and trekking across ridgelines.

They're not wrong.

They just forget to mention the suffering.

Last weekend our team finished 3rd overall at the Teton Ogre Adventure Race, covering a course that included packrafting, trekking, mountain biking, bushwhacking, navigation, and more climbing than I care to think about.

It was one of the hardest races I've ever finished. Definitely not the longest, but possibly the worst terrain, most unrideable mountain biking, and steepest ascents, both on and off the bike.

The Race Begins

The night before the race we received our maps, attended the race meeting, dropped our bikes at the one and only transition area, and somehow still found time to celebrate with ice cream. Priorities.

The whole 3 x 3 foot map, before we marked it up with checkpoint descriptions, route selection, altitude, and places to find reliable water sources.

We camped just a couple miles from the start, so race morning was simple. We drove over around 5:00 a.m., inflated our packrafts, and carried them to the start line.

We started in the second wave, five minutes behind the leaders. When the gun sounded, it was a mad quarter mile dash to the Snake River. We literally fell into the boats and started trying to pass everyone.

With the heat, we had been able to leave the sprayskirts at home, resulting in some savings in both weight and bulk when everything was packed on our backs. Even at 6:15, the splashes felt good.

A Gamble That Paid Off

The paddle section was about 16 miles on fast-moving water, and we covered it in roughly two hours—much faster than we'd predicted.

One checkpoint sat beside a beautiful waterfall at the end of a tiny side channel. Most teams paddled toward it.

Instead, we made a gamble.

We pulled our boats out early, dragged them onto a gravel road, ran to the checkpoint on foot, ran back to the boats, and launched again.

It wasn't elegant.

But it worked.

That decision gave us the lead. Even better, no other boats saw how we did it.

Into the Mountains

The paddle transition was unforgettable.

It wasn't a boat ramp or parking lot—it was a tiny riverside campsite that could only be reached by water. I'm pretty sure the campers in that site were enjoying a peaceful morning coffee until fifty-four adventure racing teams suddenly invaded with boats, gear everywhere, electrolyte packets, and controlled chaos.

Then the real work began.

We loaded our packs with our boats, PFDs, paddles, food, and many liters of water and headed into the mountains.

The climb started gently. I felt a little discombobulated...so much gear in our packs made them awkward, heavy, and my pack didn't have front space for a lot of food. We weren't stopping, so i twisted the pack around to carry it on the front, dug around in my food bag, and pushed a snickers bar into a front pocket. Eating little and often is the key to energy conservation. When I twisted the pack around to my back again, ran to catch up with the guys, and got my poles back, I felt for the snickers bar...it was gone. Fallen out in rush to catch up and 1/4 mile back in a bush somewhere. My food woes had begun. I ate something else instead but the meat sticks were hard to chew and my mouth was already dry in the heat.

Then the the trail stopped being a gentle uphill.

Clearing the Course

Adventure races usually include optional checkpoints worth bonus points. Skip them, and you save time. Collect them all, and you maximize your score.

We wanted to clear the course.

That meant leaving the trail and bushwhacking through steep hillsides to collect three optional checkpoints.

The descent to the last one was almost comical.

It felt like sliding down a 60-degree jungle using tree trunks, roots, and whatever vegetation we could grab to slow ourselves down.

It was only around noon, but the temperature already felt close to 80 degrees.

The heat became the real opponent.

There are no words to describe how thick the bushes were between points C and B.

Surviving the Heat

I've raced in plenty of hot conditions before, but this one was relentless.

There was almost no relief.

By the end of the race I estimate I drank nearly 18 liters of water.

Every hour I was stopping to refill bottles.

I'd chosen to race with two half-liter bottles on the front of my pack instead of a hydration bladder. Normally that's plenty and not too much of a hassle to refill.

Not this day.

Eating became difficult.

Drinking enough became difficult.

Everything took more effort than it should have.

Finally to the Bikes

By running the trail downhill, we reached the bike transition around 2:00 p.m.

Our transition was fast—probably only about fifteen minutes.

I dumped my entire transition bag onto the ground, swapped gear into my smaller bike pack, grabbed snacks, electrolytes, a can of Coke, and chugged an ice-cold Gatorade.

That Gatorade may have been the best drink of the entire race.

It was also the only cold drink we'd see for a very long time.

Mountain Biking...Sort Of

The bike course wasn't really a bike course.

It was more of a "push your bike up mountains and carefully survive the descents" course.

The guys were struggling too.

Bruce couldn't get his heart rate to come down.

We stopped beside small streams to soak our shirts and cool ourselves enough to keep moving.

My teammate Colby spent spent some time towing me uphill, both walking and riding. He and Ian never seemed winded, while I was breathing so hard I felt like I would never catch my breath again.

The bikes were tied together so i'd get a little pull from the front, while I pushed my saddle from behind. Sometimes the trail was so steep we were both sliding back down while trying to "walk" up.

Sometimes the climb was so steep we'd stop every twenty steps just to catch our breath.

Whenever we reached the top we'd leave the bikes behind again to hike into additional optional checkpoints through beautiful forest.

Those sections actually felt relaxing.

Then we'd look at the map and realize another brutal descent—or another brutal climb—was waiting. Ian and then Colby did a great job with the navigation, using compass and altitude to keep track of our location on the map. They made only pretty minor nav mistakes and it was really nice to feel confident in their choices.

Bruce was the runner...when we found a point he would run up and punch it with our "Passport" a sheet of paper which was the all-important record of our checkpoint visits...we couldn't lose it or we would be out of the race.

That nice looking downhill between I and H was anything but nice.

Live Tracking

It was about right here that our live tracker went on the fritz, probably because it wasn't mounted on our pack strap because we didn't want to lose it! So our families at home who were glued to our progress (we were in the virtual lead until it stopped working!) suddenly thought that we may or may not be dead, injured, or otherwise not racing. Unfortunately we didn't know this until the end of the race so we couldn't fix it enroute. But rest assured, we continued on even if our tracker seemed stuck on a mountaintop all day.

Here we are coming off the water in the lead, and then approaching the first optional checkpoints.

The last anyone saw of us, we were lost in the thick section at the highest point in the biking leg.

We Need Water

Our map estimates were pretty accurate, but the heat on the bike section took its toll. After some significant time bushwacking through more forest, we were finally ready to descend for a long mountain biking section which would take us most of the night.

We were all down to our last half liter of water when we finally found a stream with flowing water. I kept thinking of a bear grylls taking off his sock, soaking it in mud, and squeezing water into his mouth. I'm glad we weren't that desperate.

Although I did think about drinking my pee if needed.

Darkness Changes Everything

In the twilight hours we were mostly riding a gentle uphill along a stagnant creek. The 2nd place team passed us going the wrong way...they had missed a trail junction and had a massive extra section to ride to still stay on course.

Eventually we found some gravel roads.

For a few glorious miles we actually got to ride.

It felt amazing. Until the next hill popped up and we were walking again.

Around 9:30 p.m. darkness settled in.

Then lightning arrived.

Massive flashes lit up the mountains around us.

Thunder echoed through the valleys.

Oddly enough, nobody minded.

After suffering in the heat all day, we welcomed the idea of a storm.

The rain never came, only the lightning, and it stayed hot.

My Lowest Point

Sometime around 1:00 a.m. I lost my sense of humor.

We were descending beside a creek on a trail barely six inches wide.

Tall weeds and wildflowers reached above my handlebars.

The trail disappeared between the weeds and beneath rocks, roots, creek crossings, and darkness. Sometimes the narrow trail would be on a cliff along the river, and in the dark it could have been 2 feet or 50, I couldn't tell. The trail turned into a river for a short section, and our feet were soaked, which felt nice but in the long run was a recipe for extra foot issues.

I was constantly getting on and off my bike.

Looking back, I honestly think I mounted and dismounted that bike around 500 times during the race.

Every few minutes a pedal would slam into my calf, or a rock would hit my tire and bring me to a dead stop.

I have bruises everywhere to prove it.

The guys would ride a little faster, stop every quarter mile, wait for me to fight through another rocky section, then we'd repeat the whole process again.

There may have been some really loud yelling and cursing on my part. Downhill is SUPPOSED to be FUN. This was torture.

The Biggest Decision

Around 2:30 in the morning we reached the base of Atkinson Peak.

Ahead of us waited over 3,000 feet of climbing in the middle of the night to collect four more checkpoints—including a group appropriately labeled STUK on the map.

M to K was the nicest section of the course. S, T, and U were not so nice, and also weren't in the cards this time around.

We'd joked about those checkpoints all day.

Standing there exhausted, they weren't funny anymore.

The race cutoff was 8:20 a.m.

We still had roughly twenty miles remaining to reach the finish.

I was struggling to form complete sentences.

Looking back, I know I hadn't eaten enough, and I hadn't been adding electrolytes to my water nearly often enough because I was always rushing to refill bottles and keep moving.

We sat down for a minute.

Talked through our options.

We knew we were sitting in third place.

We also knew that if we attempted Atkinson Peak, there was a very real chance we wouldn't finish before the cutoff.

Sometimes racing isn't about asking what you're capable of.

It's about asking what gives your team the best chance to finish.

We made the call to head to the finish.

Twelve Miles of Reward

From there, we enjoyed what felt like the only truly enjoyable bike section of the entire race.

About twelve miles of mostly downhill gravel roads.

The air finally cooled enough that I put on a light jacket.

It was hard to believe that even around midnight it had still been close to 80 degrees.

The storm had never cooled us off.

Eventually the mountains gave way to the finish line.

We crossed at 4:20 a.m, 20 hours and 5 minutes after we started.

Looking Back

Adventure racing has an interesting way of distorting your memory.

Every climb is the last climb.

Every bushwhack is the worst bushwhack.

Every rocky descent feels endless.

And then...

You look at the photos.

You remember leading the paddle.

The brilliant route choice by the waterfall.

The teamwork.

The lightning.

This race demanded patience, navigation, teamwork, and persistence more than speed.

I'm incredibly proud of our team for adapting, making smart decisions, and bringing home a 3rd-place finish in one of the toughest events I've ever attempted.

Now if you'll excuse me...

I'm going to let the bruises heal before I even think about getting back on a mountain bike.

Here's the results: https://tetonogre.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/07/2026-26hr-Results-FINAL.pdf

June 12, 2026

Pickles on the Grand Canyon Rim to Rim....to Rim, Jun 9-10, 2026

About six weeks ago, my friend Rebecca suggested we do a Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim (RTRTR) crossing of the Grand Canyon.

We had hiked Rim to Rim in the canyon a couple of years ago and she wanted to revisit the idea. Rebecca was in great shape, I was training regularly, and the challenge sounded just crazy enough to be interesting. So we put it on the calendar.

The plan was simple. Start at the North Rim at 4:00 AM, run down to the river, cross to the South Rim, climb, turn around, and run back. One day. Done. 48 miles and about 10,000 feet of vertical.

As Mike Tyson famously said, "Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the mouth."

The canyon punched us in the mouth.

The first part of the trip went exactly according to plan. We started at 4:00 AM under a sky full of stars and made good time running in the cool darkness. The miles clicked by easily. By 8 am we were at Phantom Ranch, and we had a nice soak in the river.

Then things got interesting. The Bright Angel Trail was closed, which I hadn't seen in any of the blogs or reports we had read. That meant taking South Kaibab instead. Unlike Bright Angel, South Kaibab has no water.

Suddenly we found ourselves facing roughly seven miles and nearly 5,000 feet of climbing with only about a liter of water.

That is not a sentence you want to write in a trip report.

We rationed carefully and pushed upward, but by the time we reached the rim, hydration had become a serious concern. We actually "borrowed" some water from a couple of day hikers and that saved us from a more serious issue than just failing to complete our goals. We got to the top seriously dehydrated, in exactly 8 hours, at noon.

To make matters more interesting, the South Kaibab trail exited in a different location, so we had to take a shuttle to the main village area to find anything more than water.

At that point we had choices.

Continue back into the canyon dehydrated during the hottest part of the day.

Quit.

Or come up with a better plan.

We sat, drank sprite, ice and water, and discussed our options. Rebecca's teeth were chattering. It was warm even in the shade.

The more we talked, the more obvious it became that charging back into the canyon in hot temperatures was a poor decision. We found a hotel room, ate a real meal, drank a lot of fluids, and recovered. We had plenty of snacks left but purchased a whole jar of pickles at the store. We tried to find a bottled soda for extra water carrying capacity but everything was in cans. Our brains must not have been working well enough to go look for a gatorade bottle or in the water aisle...jeez.

We took baths in the room with some copper because, well, it helped with the soreness. Carrying a vial of liquid copper was so worth it

The next morning we were back at it.

A taxi dropped us at the South Kaibab trailhead at 3:30 AM, and once again we started descending in darkness.

Unlike the North Kaibab Trail, the South Kaibab mule trail was too technical to run comfortably. In fact, our downhill pace was only about 2.5 miles per hour. We didn't feel like faceplanting in the dark in a pile of smelly mule poop/pee. Ok, and we may have been a little sore and tired.

But then sunrise arrived.

If you've never watched the sun rise inside the Grand Canyon, it's difficult to describe. Layer after layer of rock began glowing in shades of red, orange, and gold. The temperatures were pleasant, and the canyon was so quiet.

Eventually we reached the river and Phantom Ranch once again. By then it was getting warm enough to want to cool off. We soaked in the river and started the long journey back toward the North Rim.

The miles between Phantom Ranch and Cottonwood went surprisingly well. We pushed hard on the gentle uphill grades and made good time to the final reliable water source. The water system on the North Kaibab Trail had been shut off this week. We knew that going in, but we hadn't originally planned on ascending during the middle of the day.

Murphy's Law was apparently serving as our trip coordinator.

We filled every bottle we had and started the final climb, about 5 miles and another 3000 vertical feet to the car.

The problem was simple: it was now the middle of the day. We had never intended to be climbing toward the North Rim in the heat. Yet there we were.

As temperatures climbed, we developed a highly sophisticated fueling strategy.

Every time we found a patch of shade, we stopped and ate a pickle.

One pickle.

Then another.

By the end of the climb, we had consumed an entire jar. We weren't actually carrying the glass jar, which i'm sure we would have filled with water, lol. Our ziploc bags of pickles leaked, but the emergency dog poop bag held in pickle juice all day, otherwise we would have smelled like vinegar. Which might have been an improvement!

Sports nutrition companies may not appreciate this, but this time pickles were every bit as valuable as expensive gels, powders, and recovery formulas. As much for the water as for the salt and vinegar.

The final miles felt endless. We monitored water carefully, watched the distance tick downward, and continued moving one shaded break at a time.

Eventually the North Rim appeared. After the trail closures, water shortages, hotel stay, shuttle ride, taxi ride, heat, and endless climbing, we made it back.

Our return trip took 9 hours and 41 minutes.

The original one-day RTRTR plan never happened. This may have been better....sleeping in a bed in the middle was glorious.

The Grand Canyon doesn't care about your plans. It doesn't care how fit you are or how carefully you prepared. Sometimes the best thing you can do is adapt, stay positive, make smart decisions, and keep moving forward.

And maybe carry more pickles than you think you'll need.

p.s. On a side note, we felt like we carried a lot of food with us. We didn't eat all of it. Here's what we had left over afterwards....darn that apple, I forgot it was in my pack or I surely would have eaten it. We did eat about 3000 calories each over the 18 hours, which probably would have been more if we hadn't stopped overnight and had dinner on a plate instead of out of our pack.

We ate varying amounts of:apple, ham and cheese sandwich, bacon, meatsticks/jerky, fruit snacks, skittles, kava, ketones, pickles, fritos, snickers, and nut rolls. Lots of electrolytes, and yet not quite as much water as a really needed.

Our leftover food from the trip.

The grand canyon fire in 2025 took down the iconic lodge, but we were happy to see other buildings has survived. Renovation work is underway and the campground is open.

I really wanted a swim in this waterfall, it was so hot

At the finish!

May 27, 2026

Spartan Big Bear Beast, May 16-17, 2026

I have officially confirmed a scientific theory:

It takes me approximately four years to forget how terrible the Big Bear Spartan Beast is.

Evidence:

2018 — “Never again.”
2022 — “Maybe it wasn’t THAT bad.”
2026 — “Oh right. This is basically mountain warfare.”

See you again in 2030 apparently.

For those unfamiliar, the Big Bear Beast is not really a race. It’s more like:
“Would you like to pay money to climb 5,000 vertical feet while questioning every life decision you’ve ever made?”

The answer, historically, has been yes.

This year started with optimism. That was my first mistake.

The weather actually wasn’t terrible. Warm enough to slowly drain your soul, but not hot enough to fully justify complaining. Just enough sun exposure to make every climb feel personal.

About halfway through the race, I remembered exactly why I only do this event once every Olympic cycle.

Big Bear is the kind of race where:

the climbs never end
the descents destroy your quads
your hydration strategy becomes a religious experience
and at some point you start bargaining with God, your electrolytes, and your life choices simultaneously.

And yet somehow…
I still finished 3rd in my age group at the US Nationals Series.

Which honestly says more about endurance athletes than fitness. We are not well.

One thing that was different this year though: I skipped obstacles. For the first time EVER. My shoulder has been cranky for about six weeks, and instead of pretending I was invincible, I did the penalty loops instead of aggravating it further.

Old Dawn would’ve forced the obstacles out of pride and then complained for six months afterward.

Current Dawn apparently has slightly more brain cells.

Growth.

I also skipped the Sprint afterward. There was a time I would’ve forced myself through sheer stubbornness, but after nearly talking myself into another several hours of suffering, I finally called someone who gave me permission to stop.

Honestly, that may have been healthier than the podium finish.

Somewhere over the last few years, something has shifted for me.

I still love adventure.
I still love mountains.
I still love testing myself.

But I’m less interested in proving I can destroy myself.

That realization is… weird.

For a long time, endurance sports were deeply tied to my identity. They represented strength, resilience, freedom, and reclaiming ownership of my body. Spartan racing gave me confidence and community and some truly ridiculous stories.

But somewhere between: