Bear Trap 10K

There are many big races during the Thanksgiving holiday season, from the Seattle Marathon to the numerous Turkey Trots nationwide. However, the most obscure and perilous event in America is the Bear Trap 10K. Touted as the shortest adventure race, it’s far from the easiest. Entry is by secret invitation only and limited to 5 racers due to strict wilderness regulations. I can’t believe tree huggers are trying to save Sasquatch after what it did to the small community of Norris, but that’s a different story. This post is about the greatest little adventure race around.

It was snowing in Missoula when I began my trip to Bozeman. Normally, I would’ve never gone due to bad weather, but something inside urged me to take a chance. So, I did. Fifty miles outside of town, the roads cleared, and it was smooth sailing. It felt good to be out on the open road again, reminiscent of my trip to Utah.

Arriving in Bozeman with time to spare before the annual pre-race meal, I took a nap while watching the Dallas Cowboys get trounced. Soon it was mealtime, a standout feature of this event. A homemade turkey dinner with a fantastic dessert awaited. I indulged heartily, even taking a break on the couch before returning for a second heaping plate. Afterward, wine and beer flowed as we, friends and fellow endurance enthusiasts, gathered, exchanging ideas and camaraderie.

The event’s secrecy stems from the necessity of trust among participants. In ’78, the race took a grim turn when a runner vanished in Bear Trap. The wilderness demands respect, and only with true friends can one dare its canyons and fierce winds.

The next day, after prepping gear and plotting the course, we boarded a shuttle driven by Mr. Hertsens, whose extensive experience promised safety. In ’87, an inexperienced driver had caused a tragic accident, but this year, we were in capable hands.

We battled 60 mph winds and massive snowdrifts, discussing strategies until nearing the trailhead, where silence took over. The reality of our challenge settled in; this was Bear Trap.

The race began an hour before sunset, with no headlamps allowed, heightening the sense of peril. Initially, the group was silent, unnerved by bloodstains on the trail. Soon, I lagged due to mishandling my glasses—goggles weren’t permitted. After retrieving them from a slope, I was alone, my companions unwilling to risk their safety for me.

Visibility was crucial in the brutal conditions. Catching up to the group at a precarious water crossing, I pondered the risks. Leading the race meant potentially encountering the wind’s haunting whispers, capable of breaking one’s spirit. In ’02, a racer succumbed to these taunts.

Despite the odds, I pushed forward, leading the race. The wind’s seductive whispers tried to lure me onward, but the appearance of a friend brought me back to reality. We agreed to turn around at a specific point for safety. One by one, my companions made their decisions, with some turning back early.

As I approached the turnaround point, the wind’s voice grew more persuasive. However, a moment of clarity led me to reconsider. There, at the farthest point anyone had ever reached in the Bear Trap, my friends and I regrouped. Together, we headed back, the wind now jeering at our retreat.

Post-race, we celebrated our bond and survival at Norris Hot Springs. The journey home was a blur of exhaustion, but the experience stayed with me, urging me to confront nature’s challenges again.

Now back in Missoula, I sit in a coffee shop on a snowy day, contemplating my next adventure. Perhaps I’ll return to the wilderness, face the wind again, or choose a more tranquil activity. Regardless, the call of nature remains strong.