Minnesota Voyageur Trail Ultramarathon Race Report

Saturday, July 26, 2025 – 6am

In the muggy, hazy early morning hours of Carlton, Minnesota it was all coming together for a great race. Ate breakfast, had some caffeine, found a bathroom near the finish line, found some sunscreen that I forgot (this had happened before)(thanks Lynette), my sister and brother were all set to crew me for the race and I was rearing to go. I had specifically hoped for good air quality, and hot, humid temperatures. The air quality certainly didn’t appear to be great with wildfire smoke clearly in the air, and a heat advisory was in effect for the day. Challenging conditions were upon us. The stage was set.

Training for Voyageur was interesting. I felt like I was in good shape for an 8 hour finish. I had racked a 3:09 at Grandma’s Marathon and although I hadn’t done much 50-mile specific work, I happily transitioned quickly from road marathon to heavy trail work by late June. The trail running I had been doing in July was very focused on Superior 100, and my plan for that was to lock in at 4 mph/15 minutes per mile on technical trail, which is substantially slower than an 8 hour Voyageur finish pace. A week before Voyageur I did a 5-hour, 20 mile run out in Jay Cooke State Park on the Superior Hiking Trail. It was a terrible route course because of the relatively buffed out, wide and flat ski and horse trails. It was sooo easy to maintain a 4 miles per hour and felt like I was walking the majority of the time. My heart rate was so low, it was just too easy. Boring, almost. I knew I had a bit of speed in my legs from marathon training, though, and felt like I was sturdy enough to be a little aggressive at Voyageur and go for a speedy finish time.

I was trying a new liquid-only fueling strategy with my longer runs and was really curious to test it in a race environment. I had been experimenting with two scoops of this Formula 369 mix – 240 calories and 60 grams of carbs – per hour with great success. My sister and brother were all set up to hot swap bottles at the aid stations, although there were two sections with crew gaps around 15 miles. I planned to simply carry various bottles in my hands, which was a questionable choice given I’d never really tried that on a long run. I didn’t know how else to do it, though! I didn’t want to wear my bouncing vest trying to run 9 minutes per mile pace, I didn’t want to deal with bladders. With topped off bottles in my hands at the starting line, the race director Sam started the classic “don’t be an ass” speech, instructing us racers on generally what to do and what not to do. Then, in NMTC style, a rapid ” ok 3-2-1 GO” and we were off.

I had two big bottles awkwardly cradled in each hand and the front runners took off sprinting. I was in the mix, maybe about 10 people back. It was a beautiful morning with a purple and orange aura ahead as we ran due east, the low sun blending with a mix of wildfire smoke and thick, moist and misty air. The first three miles of the race were on a paved path, and I knew I could rack some early quick miles for a nice time buffer, then my race plan was to lock in at just under 10 minutes per mile. That’d get me to 8 hours. I really like pacing ultras with the miles per hour strategy and today I wanted to hit 6 miles per hour. After the first hour of steady jogging, I was up to 7 miles. So, I was about 9 or 10 minutes ahead of pace after an hour. After the pavement, we entered flat horse trail – easy running on the north side of Jay Cooke State Park. I was around quite a few people, and we were jockeying for position – some people zooming ahead, some people falling behind a bit. I didn’t feel like striking up a conversation and was kind of hoping nobody would talk to me for whatever reason. It felt like it was a lot of work to chat. Nobody around me was blabbing… I heard few voices off in the distance but I was able to just get in my zone and click off miles.

My first bottles had caffeine in them and I was sipping away nicely, right on track as I planned it out. After the first turn off onto singletrack trail, the Gill Creek Trail, I was in a nice group with a guy with long hair, local runner Matt and local Moose Lake area runner Nick. I had been following Nick on Strava for years probably, but never met him in real life. The caffeine was hitting, I suddenly felt talkative and we struck up some good conversation, mainly about a canoe paddle that he was carrying named Pierre. I was yapping away and missed two turns in rapid succession as Nick corrected me, then dropped his paddle Pierre off at Grand Portage to pick up on the way back. Matt had to pull over to poop and eventually I found myself alone. I ran directly through the first aid station, with all the carbs and liquid I needed in my hands. I was right on track taking down half of my two bottles each in the first hour. Sipping mix out in no man’s land. I was drinking the second half of my bottles pretty quickly and started thinking of the next aid station which was water only. I figured I ought to take my gel and fill my bottles back up halfway. When I arrived, they had a huge cooler of ice. I took a scoop of ice in my hat, ate a gel and filled my bottles up a bit. The Mission Creek area was super fun and I was right on track, about 10 minutes up on my time and doing pretty good with 10 minute miles. I truly had a hard time believing that I’d be able to keep up the pace all day. The negative thoughts started creeping in as I got close to my first crew stop at Beck’s. The gap between the Beck’s Road aid station would be the crux of the race, I told myself. Brace yourself! I reminded myself that I had to keep good pace through the middle section of the race, and if I was feeling decent at Beck’s on the way back I’d be sitting pretty for an 8 hour finish. I saw my brother and sister right away and swapped my bottles. I didn’t take anything from the aid station, just zoomed off. In and out, just like the plan. I was efficient, and probably passed a few people right then and there.

On the flat DWP trail headed towards Ely’s Peak, I was trying to run well and was able to do so, clocking a sub-9 minute mile for mile 17. A guy in full sleeve tattoos, a big beard and pickle shorts passed me with incredible cadence like I was standing still. We turned onto a Superior Hiking Trail loop trail spur at Ely’s Peak and went up some rocky, rooty, technical terrain that made running hard. It was steep, and I was huffing and puffing. I passed the pickle shorts guy. I told him I’d see him on the flats, he’d pass me back.

Up to this point, I wasn’t really feeling too bad with the questionable air quality, and the heavy humidity had burned off. The sun was overhead and was definitely hot. On an exposed ridgeline in the Ely’s Peak area, I told myself out loud that the sunshine felt gooood. My handheld water bottle that I had swapped for had a nice sleeve and that was great to hold compared to just gripping the bigger plastic bottles that I had clutched for hours. I felt like I was managing the heat, humidity and my effort really well. It was pretty easy running through the Magney horse trails, and I loved that section. Just lush forests, gentle rolling hills and easy running. I wondered when I’d see the race leaders. I was passed up by the pickle shorts guy. I thought it was hilarious, I said “just like we planned”. I think he said the same thing three times that we passed each other before the turn around: “right on dude” or something like that. I hadn’t seen Nick ahead of me, hadn’t seen Matt or anyone from behind. Just me and the pickle shorts guy trading places. Out of the horse trail, down to the base of Spirit Mountain, and I saw the bottom chalet and thought for some reason that that could be a good place to stop to use the bathroom or get water, or get lunch and a beer. Naw. What am I thinking? On the gravel road at the base of Spirit Mountain headed east, I saw Michael Borst running hard in first place. Some of the small hills on that gravel were a little hard to charge up, but I was still stringing together some good miles, with several around the 9 minute range headed into the zoo turnaround at mile 24 or so.

I saw the front of the pack one-by-one, Jakob and Ben were shoulder to shoulder in second and third place, chasing Michael hard. The women’s leader Lauren was wayyy up front and running strong.  I had lost a little bit of time on the technical trails in Ely’s area, but came though the turnaround just under 4 hours. Right on track for my 8-hour goal. However, I wondered how I’d be able to keep that same effort through the back half. I’d done enough ultramarathon races to know that it’s pretty tough to negative split in a big way. The second half of the race after the the turnaround aid station is longer than the first half, and it was getting hot. The heat wasn’t bothering me but I noticed that feeling of overheating in one’s forehead… almost like a pressure or throbbing in the temples. It was getting hot for sure. How would I be able to maintain this pace and go under 8? I’m losing it, I told myself. I tried counting my place, lost it a little bit and noticed congestion with a few racers at the aid station as I got near, but figured I was around 13th place.

I saw my friend Barb managing traffic at the zoo, turned a corner and there were my sister and brother, ready to swap my bottles. I had a soft flask for the section back from the zoo to Beck’s, about 7 miles, made the swap and saw my friend Justin beckoning me with a large pitcher of cool fluid. I didn’t plan to stop, didn’t know if I needed to, I kind of looked both ways trying to deciding what to do. I just turned around and ran away. I heard my friend John’s distinct laugh as he maybe saw my hesitation then decision to just jet out from the aid station. I passed the pickle shorts guy once again headed up the hill. I was hoping my new water bottle was cold. It was maybe room temperature, and I slugged half of it in one gulp on accident. I realized that I made a mistake not stopping at the zoo. I was getting tired and finally started noticing fatigue – a tight plantar fascia band on my right foot, tired hips and hamstrings, quads getting bashed up. Also, perhaps from carrying liquids in my hands, my shoulders leading up to my neck were getting really sore and I found myself hunching over weirdly to try and stretch those out. I relished the uphills so I could walk. I tried to consciously smile instead of grimace, and elicit some energy from my fellow racers as I passed them one-by-one on my way back to Beck’s Road. I was moving good enough on the DWP trail and couldn’t catch my breath on the big uphill grind to Skyline. I walked up the whole thing, passing the pickle shorts guy in the process. He asked me to take it easy on him, he was from Fargo. I said no dice, but he’d catch me on the uhh, umm, err… THE FLATS! I laughed, I don’t think he thought I was funny, but kept chipping away towards the horse trails.

On the Magney section and I first felt like I was actually falling apart. I couldn’t find any spring in my step, my running had seemed suddenly to reduce to a sad shuffle, and I was feeling dehydrated. I could have drunk three soft flasks and was rationing what I had left in my stupid floppy little bottle. I was getting frustrated trying to carry that one in my hand… the rigid bottles were way better. I thought I put watermelon flavored electrolyte booster in both of my handhelds for between the Beck’s Road stops, but I certainly didn’t taste it. Bummer. I had made a grave, grave mistake by not stopping to drink and get ice at the zoo. Shoot. I should know better! I kept the relentless forward motion, and was just having a tough time on the horse trails. I tried really hard to smile when other racers behind me were passing, but it probably looked fake to them. I made sure to cheer on all the runners – my favorite was “smooth form” – in hopes that I would obtain some energy by giving a little out. I was excited to get to the nice downhill singletrack at Ely’s, and was able to make pretty good time through the rocks and roots. The exposed sun was blazing, but it didn’t seem as suffocatingly humid as the morning. I didn’t mind. I hoped for this. Headed into Beck’s on the smooth, flat, easy running DWP trail, I noticed an 11:30 mile compared to maybe 8:30 or 9 minutes on the way out. No… I was so overheated, shuffling, struggling. I told myself a couple things before hitting the aid station. One of which was that my race plan was solidly out the window. I had gone from 7 minutes up on my time, to 4 minutes down in just a handful of miles. That’d be really hard to make up. Not to mention, I was pacing off 6 miles per hour which wouldn’t even get me to a sub-8. I was way off, and it wasn’t looking good. My race plan to just grab the bottles and go was out the window as well. I told myself I could take all the time I needed at Beck’s, drinking lots of water, drinking pop, maybe take a calculated poop at the portable toilet.

My guy with the pickle shorts passed me up on the flat stretch back to Beck’s. I kept up the joke: “see you on the uphills”. He chuckled a bit and said “right on bro” or something like that. His same response as last time. I don’t think he thought my jokes were funny. I didn’t think this race was funny. I had thoughts that I was getting too old for this ultramarathon racing stuff. I wondered if I was able to push myself harder in my younger years. Well, I thought, the race isn’t over! I reflected on having second and third winds during 50-milers in the past, and how I was able to dig deep. I have used the mantra “I like the pain” in the past, but it just was too untrue this day. I didn’t want the pain, I couldn’t take it. I didn’t like it at all. It felt so hard to try and run fast. I was dead. I settled in to a nice slow-ass shuffle, figuring I’d start getting passed any second. I was locked in at essentially 4 minutes per mile slower than I needed to run on the DWP. My friend Dave was volunteering at the Beck’s Road crossing and I heard his booming voice from a ways away. I saw my brother and sister holding out my bottles and waved them off, going straight to the pop-up tent where there was water.

“WATER.” I got ice, drank several cups of water, some grape squincher, and a volunteer with a pitcher told me I’d like it if I bent over and he poured water on my head. YES. It was freezing cold and soaked me completely, socks and all. I drank some coke, a few more cups of water, then finally grabbed my two rigid 19oz bottles with fresh mix. My friends Justus and Caroline were there watching, Justus joked that I was running way faster than 15 minutes per mile (because I had told him many times about my rigid training schedule of running Superior 100 pace for hours on end). I fake chuckled and hobbled off, knowing that I’d have to dig really deep to run a 15 minute mile. It was carnage, but I didn’t drop out. I thought about it, but just grabbed my bottles and ran off. I passed the portable toilet, stopped, then ran back because I had thought about taking a little stop. I figured sitting down for a second wouldn’t be the worst, and it’d be a good insurance to stop and prevent a more unpleasant emergency stop in the woods down the road. When I finished up and ran out, the smorgasboard of fluids were shloshing so bad. I had to walk. No. Run. Slow run. Keep moving. I told myself how bad it was.

Once I ran away from the Beck’s aid station, down the paved Munger Trail a little bit and into the woods onto singletrack, I got into a nice groove. It was slow, it was hard, but I was at least running. I had a burst of positivity – I was going to finish this thing. I passed the crux. I was running, just chugging along. If the tiniest hill came, however, I could justify walking. If I felt hot, I justified walking. I got into a bad habit of walking, clocked a 15 minute mile, thought that I was dealing with the worst despair possible. The mountain bike trails were killing me. At Mission Creek I got fully down on a rock and splashed water all over my face. I slowly got back up and got back to running. It took a bit to get the legs churning. The smallest deviation in the trail would cause me to slow down immensely. Log over the trail, staircase, slight uphill, or just the feeling of being completely sapped of energy. I was already conserving my handheld bottles. If I had been drinking to thirst they would have been gone. I tried to remember how many miles it was to the water-only aid station. 7? Ugh, I figured that left maybe 5 miles? At this pace, that is… an hour or more? I wondered if it’d be stupid to drink all my mix in half the time I was expecting to. I had no desire to the eat the gel I had planned on taking. I figured I could gorge on water, then fill up my half-gone bottles with water and slug that down before the Peterson’s aid station. The miles went slow. I was passed near the seven bridges road section. The trail seemed muckier than the morning. The dude ran out of sight quickly. The sun was so hot. I was not feeling good. I stopped to splash water on my face at both water crossings. Miles were so far out of the galaxy of what I planned, or was running on the way out. But, I was able to keep moving consistently besides splashing water on my head at creeks. I just wanted to get to the aid station for some actual relief. I thought about dropping out at Jay Cooke with my crew there. That’d be stupid, I thought, wouldn’t it? Drop out with three miles left? I kept chugging along and eventually got to the water-only aid station at Hwy 210. It was glorious. I got water in my bottles and drank several cups. I got ice in my hat and made my way back onto the trail. The ice hurt my head, and I’d try to carry my now full bottles in one hand while my hat was in the other hand. Then I’d take ice with my fingers, shuffle everything around, slap my hat back on and rub ice all over my arms and neck and forehead with the one hand. I tried to do this while running so slowly. I had no ability to push. The ice got shuffled around my hat and eventually melted or fell to the ground. The relief was fleeting. I could feel that throbbing sensation in the forehead signaling overheating. A creek was a godsend, but the hike back out of it would negate any mitigation of my fatigue. I was in no man’s land, wondering when Storkamp and the rest of them would pass me up one by one, just like Curnow 2023. Eventually, I found someone walking slower than I was. I didn’t feel the hunger of competition, I didn’t really feel anything. Empathy, maybe? I asked if they were OK. He responded like he wasn’t OK… he said “ahh, well, yeah” or something. I went on my way and he was out of sight in no time. I wondered when the next aid station was. Was it, 7 miles between them? If the last aid station is at mile 47, it was like, 4 miles between that one and Peterson’s? I couldn’t remember. If it was 3 miles from the finish to Jay Cooke, then 4 from there to Peterson’s, that’d be mile 43. If it’s a 50 mile course. I tried to run math, and figured I had at least an hour. It was devastating. I knew I had to go over the mini-powerlines, so I looked forward to that. I thought about how brutal the old powerlines were on the way back. That was fun, I thought. This was fun, I said to myself. I told myself that we should do this every year.

Eventually I hit a clearing in the mid-day sun and knew I was at Purgatory, the mini-powerlines. I made my way through. I wasn’t doing too bad. It was nice to have such steep hills that I could walk up. It was stifling hot. Once I got onto Hwy 210, I realized I couldn’t run. It was so hard. I had no zest, no zip, no zang. Nothing with a z. It was the saddest excuse for running I could imagine, like a forced death march. The hills were welcomed because I could walk. But, with hills came really slow miles. The running miles were clicking by, albeit at 12-13 minutes per mile. I had to make myself run, and constantly remind myself to transition from walking to running. Once I got running, I could chug right along. I chugged along on some singletrack and knew I’d have to get to ski trails before the aid station. I figured I was getting close, but looking forward to the ski trails. Once I hit the ski trail section, I figured, I’d be home free. I started planning my time at the aid station. I was out of watered down mix. I would drink squincher, fill my bottles with squincher, drink some water, get ice, and be good to go. I told myself I could take as much time as I needed at the aid station. I made it to the ski trail. The running was impossible. It felt so hard to get up to speed on the ski trails, where I should have been able to get well under 10 minutes per mile. I hadn’t seen anyone for a long time. The trees were amazingly beautiful. The wind was such a welcome relief, and it was a nice breezy day. A hot breeze, nonetheless. I got to the aid station. It was like an oasis out of the damn heat dome. I got to the table, they asked me what I wanted, and I didn’t know. I couldn’t think of what would be the best course of action. NO! I thought of this! I started rapidly unscrewing my bottles and asked for squincher. One got filled up, I drank out of the open bottle and took down half of it with ease. “MORE”. With those filled, I drank water, took ice in my hat, splashed water on my face, and slowly ran back off. I couldn’t run. I walked. I can’t be walking, to told myself, and had to do some type of shuffle. The legs got moving ever slowly and I was back off.

I knew there were a lot of easy running trails to bring it into the last aid station Jay Cooke right before the swinging bridge. I tried pushing a little bit on the flat horse trails through the State Park. This is all mental, right? I can control my situation right here, I told myself. However, when I tried to push a little bit and get my legs moving and some speed going, I felt like my heart was beating out of my chest and I couldn’t catch my breath. Oh jeez. Not good. I guess a 12 minutes per mile shuffle will have to do. It was the heart of the afternoon while running through the lightly shaded and breezy ski trails of Jay Cooke State Park, and felt like the true heat of the day with a forecasted heat index over 100 degrees. It was so stinking hot. The ice in my hat melted away eventually, and the grape squincher drink in my bottles that I was still just grasping in my hand had turned warm. It was nice to have plenty of fluids, however. It was also nice to feel like I was getting close to a familiar landmark, and I eventually ran over the Forbay dam and saw another runner off in the distance. Blood in the water. I tried to visualize catching up to the person and it was hard. I was so fried. I had made a horrible mistake not getting water at the zoo turnaround and I was still paying for it. I was moving, however, and hadn’t been passed except one time pretty much from Ely’s Peak. I figured I was 12th or 15th place, somewhere in there. Getting closer to the swinging bridge, I could feel it, and I made the pass on a guy walking. He almost caught up to me as he started back running, and that was all the motivation I needed to not feel utterly compelled to walk. I kept up the running stride, no matter how slow and clunky. I knew the aid station was close, and I needed it. I felt that I had almost nothing left to give. As much as I should have nearly run straight through the last aid station, which was absolutely my plan from the start, I told myself I could take as much time as I needed. Around a corner, someone standing. Yes. A little further, the HAM radio operator collecting bib numbers to report to the headquarters. Yes. I saw my brother Andrew ready with the bottle. My sister Emily wasn’t around, and when I got to him I dropped to my knees. A volunteer exclaimed “oh” in a concerned tone. I’M FINE. I wasn’t fine. The last three miles seemed unachievable. But, I just had to keep going. I splashed water in my face, got completely wet with cool aid station water, grabbed my handheld and gave Andrew my two bottles, and shuffled off. I looked like hell, and all these state park patrons were just trying to have a nice afternoon without this raggedy dude trying to slip past them. I made good time across the swinging bridge, onto the most rugged, technical trail of the course. Perfect. Let’s go. I wondered if I’d come back to pickle shorts guy…

Weaving through tourists, walking up hills, tip-toeing through extreme rooty sections, and I felt cool when a guy hiking with his family asked how long the race was. I told him 50 miles, and yelled back that I was 47 miles in. I wasn’t sure that he even heard me. Nobody had passed me, and I didn’t sense the guy I had passed a few miles back. Just keep moving, I told myself. I was getting really close. I gave myself permission to walk each hill, but it took a focused effort to run when I could, and it was a constant thought it mind. Could I run this section? Oh yeah, lurch forward, churn the legs. Power hike the hill. Up and down, up and down. I figured it was 50 miles on the dot to the finish, but the last few miles seemed so far off. I had to run at least another half hour. I was so far off my time goal – 90 minutes or so, I figured. Ouch. My handheld had sweet mix with electrolyte booster inside. That was tasty. I had been visualizing getting to Friends Fest, an annual gathering of my oldest and best friends, a tradition started in college at UMD and continued on over 15 years later. I knew the hosts, my dear friends Brent and Angela, had their pool set up. I fantasized about getting done with this race, getting to their house as soon as possible, and hanging in the pool with a beer in hand until my skin became shriveled and pruny. I was making OK time as I could smell the finish line. Any minute now. A quick check of the watch… any hour now, I’ll be done.

Up and over a rock face, a steep and technical up ahead, and the pickle shorts guy was right ahead of me. OH BABY. After going back and forth maybe 10 times, I felt like this was my time to put the nail in the coffin, and use this guy as fuel to finish the race strong. I wasn’t going to let him pass me on the last flat, I was going to push hard on the final technical trail sections. I quickly made the pass and didn’t really chit chat or joke as much as the other times we’d passed each other up. Just a “let’s finish this out” and a couple grunts and I was off, pushing hard into the singletrack. I made it smooth and fast through the woods as my pain faded to the background. I got that desired adrenaline high. This is why I race. After 4 hours of feeling in control, 4 hours of progressive explosion and pain. After 4 hours of thinking I’m going to get passed up like crazy on the Carlton Trail section, I was able to not only hold everyone off but pass two people in the final five miles of the race. And I was going to finish off the race strong. I didn’t walk another step – I made it through the final trail mile powerfully and was extremely relieved to get to the Munger Trail to run it in on the bike path. Ouch. It was full sun, no shade, brutal heat. I didn’t have much longer to go, but also didn’t want to have a major issue in the final stretch. So, I jogged it in, pushing as hard as I could and it wasn’t that fast… Maybe 8 or 9 minutes per mile pace. I looked back, no pickle shorts guy charging. Ok phew. One last right turn and I could see the sweet finish line. Oh man. What a sweet view. I pushed it right in, no pain, no heat, just sweet relief from running RIGHT THERE. I couldn’t help but smile when I came through the finish and was so excited to sit down. I was gassed, having given it everything I had to give to make it to the end.

Garmin Data

Results

Time: 9:32:51
Pace: 11:28
Place: 11/148

Shoes: Nike Pegasus Trail size 12