Long Journeys Begin with a Single Step

Every long journey begins with a single step—and for me, that step led to the starting line of the Robie Creek Half Marathon. Ever since moving to Boise, I’d heard whispers about the Race. Colleagues at work, neighbors—anyone who learned I enjoyed trail running—would ask, “Have you run Robie?”

Because of the race’s popularity, bibs are notoriously hard to come by. Registration opens on Presidents' Day in February, and they’re usually gone by the end of the day. Eager to test my limits, I woke up early on February 20 and secured my spot in this iconic event. At the time, I knew I was taking a risk: I was still recovering from a broken ankle I’d injured over Thanksgiving weekend. Little did I know, this race would not only push my physical boundaries but also teach me lasting lessons about resilience and determination.

The Race to Robie Creek

The Race to Robie Creek Half Marathon is renowned for its breathtaking views, challenging hills, and vibrant atmosphere. It is not for the faint-hearted and has earned the nickname "The Toughest Race in the Northwest." As a first-time racer attempting a distance over 10K (6.2 miles) and nursing a hurt ankle, I knew the journey ahead would be anything but easy.

The race begins at Fort Boise Park, situated at an elevation of approximately 2,725 feet. From there, runners embark on a grueling 8.5-mile ascent up Rocky Canyon Road, culminating at Aldape Summit, which stands at 4,797 feet. This climb involves an elevation gain of about 2,100 feet, testing even the most seasoned runners. After reaching the summit, the course descends approximately 1,700 feet over the remaining 4.6 miles to the finish line at Robie Creek Campground. 

The terrain transitions from paved roads in the initial miles to dirt roads as runners approach the summit, offering a mix of urban and rugged landscapes. The race is known for its unpredictable weather conditions, with possibilities ranging from sun and heat to rain and snow, adding another layer of challenge.

Organized by the Rocky Canyon Sail Toads, the event has a rich history dating back to its inaugural run in 1975. Over the years, it has grown in popularity, often selling out within minutes of registration opening. The race not only tests physical endurance but also fosters a strong sense of community, with volunteers and spectators providing unwavering support throughout the course. 

Preparation and Pre-Race Optimism

Looking back, I wish I could say I trained smart: balanced rest and recovery, consulted with a physical therapist, and followed a structured program. But I didn’t do any of that.

Instead, I began walking in March to strengthen my ankle and added short, relatively flat runs in early April. I thought I was ready. With the benefit of hindsight, I realize attempting such a demanding course without proper preparation was a mistake.

Race Day Arrives

Climbing Rocky Canyon
to Aldape Summit

On race morning, I stood among thousands of enthusiastic runners at the starting line, an eager energy pulsing through the crowd—and through me. The atmosphere was electric—charged with camaraderie, purpose, and nerves. Music blared from speakers, volunteers offered last-minute encouragement, and colorful costumes—some serious, some silly—added to the festive chaos. It felt less like a race and more like a community celebration, though the looming mountain reminded me of the task ahead.

From the start, I reminded myself of my only goal: to finish. I settled into a steady, conservative pace, resisting the temptation to chase the faster runners surging ahead. The rhythm of my footsteps became a kind of meditation—each stride a quiet promise to listen to my body, especially my recovering ankle. I paid close attention to the terrain, adjusting with each incline and curve, grateful for each mile that passed without too much pain. Around me, conversations sparked between strangers, cheers erupted from roadside supporters, and the scent of sunscreen and determination hung in the air. I wasn’t racing anyone but doubt...

Pushing Through the Pain

The initial miles were manageable, but as the course climbed into the foothills, the elevation began to test me. My ankle throbbed more each step, and staying focused became a mental challenge.

Though I never seriously considered quitting, I did wonder whether the pain would eventually force me to stop. The cheers from spectators and fellow runners helped tremendously. The natural beauty surrounding the course also served as motivation to keep moving forward.

The Power of Community

One of the most uplifting parts of the Robie experience was the community support. Strangers offered high-fives, encouragement, and even refreshments. As we passed through a foothill neighborhood, parents brought their kids out to cheer, blow horns, hand out orange slices, and offer hose showers. One family was barbecuing hamburgers and even offered me one.

Around mile 8, where the course steepens before Aldape Summit, a runner noticed I was struggling. They offered a few kind words and handed me a Honey Stinger chew. I hadn’t planned to stop, but the gesture—and the sugar—lifted my spirits and fueled my climb.

A late-season storm had blanketed the summit and descent in several inches of snow. By the time I reached the top, the trail was a slick mess of slush and mud. I slipped and fell more than once. Finally, I sat on the trail’s edge to put on my Yaktrax. Another runner stopped to check that I was okay. Despite my weak ankle and growing exhaustion, these moments of kindness reminded me that I wasn’t alone.

A Milestone Achievement

I had assumed the downhill stretch would be easier—that I’d make up some time. What no one tells you is that the post-summit descent is even steeper than the climb. My ankle still hurt, but now my knee was screaming, too.

For the first time, I genuinely questioned whether I’d finish. The issue wasn’t mental resolve—it was the physical pain. Was I doing long-term damage? I didn’t want to quit, but I knew I couldn’t keep running. I chose to walk the steepest sections.

Because I had missed training from Thanksgiving to March and had skipped physical therapy, walking seemed like the safest call. As others passed me, I felt a tug of competitiveness and occasionally jogged—but the downhill grade punished every stride.

Eventually, the slope eased, and I was able to pick up my pace again. As I neared the final stretch, I passed a spectator dressed like a biblical prophet holding a sign: “The End is Near!” I laughed through the pain, carried forward by a mix of fatigue and pride.

Crossing the finish line, I was overwhelmed with emotion. The Robie Creek Half Marathon had pushed me to my physical and mental edge—and I had made it.

Lessons Learned

Running Robie on an injured ankle taught me more than I ever anticipated:

• Perseverance: Progress doesn’t require speed—only forward motion. One step at a time can get you to the finish line.
• Mind Over Matter: A positive attitude is powerful, but it isn’t a substitute for preparation. I deceived myself into thinking I could tough it out—and I paid for that. Still, mental strength helped me endure.
• Community Support: The kindness of strangers—runners and spectators alike—carried me when my own strength faltered. Being part of something bigger than myself made all the difference.

Conclusion

My first Robie Creek Half Marathon was far more than a race—it was a test of resilience, grit, and spirit. Completing it on an injured ankle, with limited training, reinforced a lesson I’ll carry for life: with the right mindset and support, we can endure more than we think—even when our plans fall apart.

Whether you're a seasoned runner or considering your first race, I encourage you to embrace the challenge. The path may be steep, but the view—and the victory—are worth every step.

I’ll be back next year, hopefully better trained and less injured. This time, I’ll bring the lessons I learned with me—about preparation, patience, and the importance of listening to my body. But I’ll also return with the same spirit of determination, ready to take on the mountain again. Because while the finish line marked the end of one journey, it also sparked the beginning of another.

Great Basin Adventure: Roadtripping in a U-Haul with the Dogs!

Welcome to a tale of goofiness, adventure, and new beginnings! Picture this: two canine companions, Ace, the Schnauzer/Terrier mix, and Bella, the regal Golden Retriever, packed into an overloaded U-Haul, towing our trusty Toyota Prius. The mission? To embark on an epic road trip through the Great Basin, mainly via the I.O.N Highway, from the sunny streets of La Crescenta, California, to the enchanting city of Boise, Idaho! 

On Friday night, with the help of friends, we finished packing up the U-Haul (and even used the extra space in the Prius to cram in the last of the paraphernalia from our time in California), finishing around 11pm. By the time I vacuumed the house, took a shower, and put on my traveling clothes, it was early Saturday morning, and I was behind schedule... 

So this adventure starts under the cloak of darkness at the ungodly hour of 1 am. As we bid farewell to La Crescenta, Ace & Bella gave me skeptical looks as if to say, "Who planned this crazy midnight adventure, hooman?" But we were ready for anything, or so we thought!

Ace, with his Terrier determination, immediately claimed the shotgun seat. Bella, my dignified Golden Retriever, grudgingly hopped onto the cab's floorboard. And so, our journey from California to Idaho began!

La Crescenta - Boise TripTik

As we headed North, we left behind the familiar, following nearly 18 years in the same house. I was excited and more than a little apprehensive. But let's be honest, my attention was primarily focused on the drama unfolding inside the U-Haul cab. Turns out, the cab was more suitable for hobbits than dogs. Bella tried to nap but looked like a contortionist in a doggy yoga class. Ace bounced from the passenger seat to the driver's lap, trying desperately to stick his nose out one of the rolled-up windows. After a quick stop to top off the gas tank and buy some caffeinated beverages, we climbed up the Newhall Pass toward California's high desert and the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Ace's antics were nothing compared to Bella's attempts at graceful snoozing, which turned into a hilarious game of "How many dog positions can you fit in a U-Haul?"

The first part of this trip was familiar. Through the Antelope Valley, Lancaster, and past Edwards Air Force Base, all places we had visited before. As we passed through Red Rock Canyon State Park and CA-14 turned into US-395, it was still too dark to make out the colorful rock formations of the canyon (side note: many Golden Era movies and television shows were filmed in Red Rock Canyon, given its relatively close location to Hollywood). But driving through California's high desert on US-395N in the middle of the night was like venturing into an otherworldly realm.

The stars above twinkled like a thousand little diamonds scattered across the night sky, guiding us through the vast expanse. The silence of the desert was both haunting and enchanting, broken only by the mechanical hum of the truck's engine and the occasional thump, thump, thump of our tires driving over Bott's Dots.

As we neared Lone Pine, California, on our journey through the desert darkness, the headlights of our U-Haul cast eerie shadows on the desert floor. While the faint distant glow on the Eastern horizon was simply the first pangs of False Dawn. The dark desert landscape revealed its secrets in the night – the silhouettes of sagebrush and Russian Thistle (tumbleweed) standing like sentinels, the silvery light of the half-moon glinting off the rocky terrain. The serenity of the night journey allowed us to appreciate the desert's stark beauty in a new light.

Ace and Bella, usually alert during daylight hours, seemed to sense the surreal magic of the desert night. Their eyes sparkled with curiosity as they gazed at the shadows dancing in the moonlight. The desert's mysterious beauty seemed to cast a spell on all of us.

As the sun rose, we drove through Bishop, California, the gateway to Yosemite and the Sierra Nevada ski resorts. We made a right turn, picked up US Route 6 (the Grand Army of the Republic Highway - famed as the road that Jack Kerouac's protagonist, Sal Paradise, did not take in On the Road), and headed across the Hammil Valley and the White Mountains into Nevada and the heart of the Great Basin. Always a sucker for scenery, the morning light illuminated the basin's valleys and ridge lines making for interesting driving companions. But by this time, Ace and Bella seemed more intrigued by the treat crumbs scattered around the cab than the natural wonders outside. I am pretty sure they staged a secret mutiny against the compact space, plotting their revenge in doggy code.  I could tell they were hungry and needed to stretch their legs, so I obliged...

Veterans Memorial Park, Hawthorne, NV

Our stop ended up being in Hawthorne, Nevada, for gas, breakfast, and their doggie potty break. After fueling and grabbing some quick food, I located Veterans Memorial Park - which conveniently has an off-leash dog park co-located within its boundaries. Even at this early morning hour, the Nevada desert was hot, so after the dogs ran around for a bit, they were happy to sit in the shade, eat some kibble, and lap water from their bowls while I ate my breakfast sandwich and downed another Coca-Cola (breakfast of champions).

Hawthorne's claim to fame is that it is the location of the United States Army's largest Depot (aptly named Hawthorne Army Depot). The town and the Depot were tranquil this mid-August morning, and although I didn't really have the time, I decided to check out the Hawthorne Ordnance Museum next to the park. Sadly the museum wasn't open at this early hour, so our travel resumed (and we've added another museum to our "to visit" list)...

The dogs attempt a get-a-way

In my rush to get back on the road, I failed to think about a bio-break for myself...  No sooner had we started driving again than I realized that fact. Fortunately, despite the lack of significant population centers in Central Nevada, I could see a small lake in the distance and assumed we'd find some form of civilization there. Walker Lake ended up being our pitstop. Typical of many small lakes on the western borders of the Great Basin, this "oasis" is fed through snowmelt on the Eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevada mountains (most of the Sierra's snowmelt actually flows westward into the Pacific Ocean - but sandwiched between high mountain ranges, the Great Basin is named as such because water can only escape through evaporation and/or absorption and can not flow to the ocean). At any rate, when I returned to the U-Haul, I found my canine companions were trying to drive away without me...Fortunately, I took the keys with me to the restroom...

The next stretch of our trip was long, hot, and outside of a few cars on the road devoid of humanity. Save for a stretch of driving on I-80, this section consisted of two-lane state highways that required lots of attention, limited use of cruise control, and miles and miles of desert and ranchland. The hours passed like dog years, and the clock seemed to tick backward as the sun crawled across the sky. North of Winnemucca, Nevada, we crossed into Southeastern Oregon and gradually climbed up the Jordan Valley escarpment to the Snake River Plain and our new place. However, just as the scenery changed from the desert of the Great Basin to the semi-arid plateau, the drowsiness of the lack of sleep for the past 48 hours started to rear its ugly head. 

To combat the drowsiness, I started by turning up the volume on my playlist and singing along at the top of my lungs. Then I rolled down the windows and let the wind slap my face in the vain hope that the fresh air would snap me back to alertness. But alas, my eyelids felt heavier with each passing mile, and on several occasions, the only thing that saved me from a horrible accident was the thump, thump, thump of the U-Haul's wheel driving over Bott's Dots.

I was desperate to stay awake and tried everything I could think of; I pinched myself, slapped my cheeks, and even splashed ice water from the cooler on my face. But it seemed that sleep was determined to claim its prize...

Just as I was about to give in to the sweet temptation of slumber, I noticed a peculiar sight on the side of the road. There, perched on a fence post, was a hilariously out-of-place rubber chicken, wearing sunglasses and a wide grin. The absurdity of the sight jolted me awake, and I burst out laughing.

Continuing down the road, my newfound mission was to spot more of these delightful road-trip mascots. And so, in my drowsy state, I kept score of each chicken sighting and narrated a play-by-play for Ace and Bella with each one...

The rubber chicken game was my lifeline during the trip. It kept my brain engaged, alert, and, most importantly, awake. Whenever fatigue threatened to overwhelm me, the thought of spotting another quirky chicken cheered me up and chased away the sleepiness, reinforcing our determination to reach Boise and start fresh in a new city with a new house and a new job.

Speaking of new beginnings, let's talk about starting over in a place where you know absolutely no one. It's like being the new kid at the world's biggest dog park – intimidating yet exhilarating. My strategy is simple: let Ace and Bella work their magic on the locals, and soon, we will make friends faster than they can wag their tails! At our last pitstop for gas and bio-breaks, Ace and Bella were zooming around the dog run when I noticed a friendly-looking couple standing nearby, smiling at my playful pups. They had an energetic Labrador named Bailey, who seemed just as thrilled to be there as Ace and Bella. To my surprise, they decided to initiate a conversation.

Ace and Bella at the dog run

With warm smiles, the couple introduced themselves as Cindy and Dan. They immediately admired Ace and Bella's boundless energy and playfulness. Soon, we were exchanging stories about our beloved four-legged companions, laughing at their quirky antics.

Cindy and Dan's welcoming demeanor made it easy for me to open up about my relocation. They relayed that they were from Boise and returning from a trip to Idaho's wine country. They showed genuine interest in us and eagerly shared their experiences and favorite spots in the city. They recommended nearby pet-friendly cafes and beautiful parks to explore with Ace and Bella and even suggested dog-friendly social events where we could meet more fellow dog lovers.

Our conversation flowed effortlessly as if we were old friends catching up. They shared heartwarming stories about their journey to Boise and their love for the community's warm and welcoming atmosphere. They even offered to introduce me to some of their other friends in the area, knowing that making connections in a new city can sometimes be challenging.

Throughout our encounter, Cindy and Dan exemplified the idea of "Boise nice" to the fullest. Their genuine friendliness and willingness to reach out to a stranger at the dog run showcased the city's welcoming and inclusive spirit. The way they embraced me, a newcomer, with open arms left a lasting impression on my heart.

But let me tell you, folks, the joys of making new friends and exploring a vibrant city can be both thrilling and exhausting. We finally rolled into Boise around 5 pm, and we must have resembled a circus act gone wrong. Ace's whiskers were drooping, Bella's elegance had turned into a furball mess, and I'm sure my hair looked like I had survived a hurricane.

Bella finally gets to sleep in the new house...

As we parked the U-Haul and took our first steps into our new home, we collapsed onto the floor in collective exhaustion. But as we caught our breath, we knew this adventure was just the beginning of a heartwarming and laughter-filled chapter in our lives.

So, dear readers, let this remind you that life's greatest moments often leave you exhausted and exhilarated. Our Great Basin adventure led us to Boise, where we discovered that sometimes, the best way to embrace a new beginning is with a dose of humor and a duo of adorable canine co-pilots.

As Ace, Bella, and I continue to navigate this delightful new chapter, we'll cherish the memories of our road trip. So, to all the adventurers out there, may you embrace the laughter, welcome the unknown, and let the journey take you to places you never imagined!

Until next time road-trippers, I wish you smooth roads and happy wagging tails!