» Neither barefoot nor fast, the author finishes his marathon in the shadow of the Coliseum, in the footsteps of his long-ago hero, Abebe Bikila.

lived in addiction, lost somewhere under a jagged rainbow, a personal metaphor for the promise and the failure inside the journey to the marathon. All that is long gone; the boy inside the man has lived to run his far-off dream.

The Rome Marathon was for me the culmination of a lifetime of dreaming of a way out and, ultimately, a way in. I knew again that day that in the running, there is something that lives on levels well beyond my ability to articulate. It feels like connection. In the pain and beauty of the miles, both on race day and in the preparation, the continuity/community/solitude of the journey dissolves the barriers between us as people.

We look at the other runners and see everyone we ever knew, and beyond our

Jeremy Fratkin et. al

imagining, on levels we rarely touch, we love them, we forgive them their sins, as we begin to forgive our own. We, all of us, know something of value about the other, something of what we have been through, possibly even what we dream of being. The run is solitary, the victory entirely personal, but the community exists in the effort put out, in the inhalation of the moment, in the exhalation of a million breaths, woven together in the light of the day. Our day. We have shared life itself in some intangible form as we endure. We overcome our worst fears as we embrace our greatest aspirations, the best parts of who we are. We are reassured of our place in the world at that moment and of our connection to the forces

of the spirit that make us holy, that make us altogether human. hh

Part 2: The Second Leg of an Historic Tour.

Part 1 (Day 1) of this occasional series was carried in the Nov/Dec 2005 issue.

his is the story of an attempt to combine two of my passions, American history and ultrarunning. My history passion centers on 19th-century American history. My running passion drives me to cover long distances in remote areas and to participate in ultramarathons. Bringing these two obsessions together seemed possible by running the historic Pony Express Trail that travels within three miles of my home in Saratoga Springs, Utah. I was determined to run (in sections) a 145-mile stretch of the trail starting near my home and ending at the Utah/Nevada state border. To make the trip more interesting, I first researched the history behind this portion of the trail.

The goal of the Pony Express was faster mail delivery. In our day, we send mail around the world in seconds using the energy it takes to click a key with our finger. In the 19th century, the time and effort to take mail across the continent were extraordinary. In 1860, the Pony Express was established to speed cross-country mail delivery. Mail sent by coaches took at least one month. The

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Pony Express promised cross-country delivery in only 10 days. The system was essentially a relay in which riders changed about every 100 miles and the riders changed horses every 10 to 15 miles. Skinny, athletic riders were hired who were “accustomed to outdoor life, able to endure severe hardship and fatigue, and fearless.””’ Ultrarunners can certainly relate to these characteristics.

Much of the trail between Missouri and California has been forgotten and has been overtaken by ranches, roads, and towns. The trail across western Utah and through Nevada is still rugged, untamed, and mostly untouched by development. Ruins from Pony Express stations or stagecoach stations can still be found along the way. I discovered that in some ways, the trail in western Utah is more remote today than in Pony Express days, because there are no longer relay stations or shelters to give aid along the way.

DAY 2: RUSH VALLEY TO SIMPSON SPRINGS—29 MILES

I restart my run back into history where I had left off a week earlier, four miles west of the East Rush Valley Pony Express station site. The seasonably warm winter weather is ideal for a run. For this leg of the journey, my son helped me shuttle a car to the finishing point for the day and then drove me back to my starting point. I stashed my lunch at the halfway point so I could run with only a lightweight, 2-liter CamelBak.

The next Pony Express destination along my run would be in five miles—Faust Station, also known as the Rush Valley Station. Through my research, I determined that the historic trail along this section veered away from the modern road.

I say good-bye to my son, leave the paved road, and begin a very enjoyable jaunt along faint wagon roads and trails. At some point, the trail disappears, and I bushwhack through sage covered with morning frost. It is easy for me to visualize Pony Express riders galloping along this untouched stretch. I can hear an occasional car pass by on the road to the north, and I wonder whether they see me, a lone runner frolicking among the brush in the middle of nowhere.

I soon reach a 20th-century obstacle, the Union Pacific Railroad. Amazingly, just as I reach it, a swift-moving train approaches before I pass. I wave to the engineer and hear the horn blow loudly. As I climb up and over the tracks, I think about how the railroad dramatically changed this area of the country in the 1860s, providing a fast alternative to long wagon treks across the open desert.

One of the most famous Pony Express rides across this section of trail, and

along this stretch of the trail carrying the news that Abraham Lincoln had been elected president of the United States. He made the trip from Salt Lake City to Faust Station in only 4 hours, 20 minutes. He charged down the trail averaging 3.4 minutes per mile, just a tad faster than my 12-minute-mile pace. Billy Fisher rode this stretch many times for the Pony Express.”

A DUSTY GRAVEYARD NEAR A FORGOTTEN STATION

I soon reach State Highway 36 (running north/south), and the site of the Faust Station comes into view. Most travelers along the trail do not know where the site is because a marker was misplaced on the main highway, 1.5 miles to the north. I see a “Pony Express crossing” sign on the highway, not far from the point where I leave a field. I am pleased that a historian correctly marked the location. I detect, with the help of my GPS, where Faust Station was located. On its site today is a large cattle ranch. I am not bold enough to run all the way to this private ranch, but I want to locate an old cemetery described by visitors years ago, so I run along the road partway into the ranch.

James P. Sharp recalled visiting this cemetery more than 100 years ago. “There was a sort of fence around the plot and a few old headboards with faint names on some, marking the graves; but as years went by, the fence disappeared and the headboards were no more.”?

lam delighted to discover that my research was correct. The waypoint I entered into my GPS takes me to the cemetery. Today this small plot is surrounded with a chain-link fence. I open a gate and enter this sacred resting place. There are a few scattered markers, including two old and weathered wooden headboards that likely once included words that are now long worn off. The lonely plot makes me think of dusty graveyards depicted in western movies. One large, modern monument helps visitors know that they are at the Faust Ranch Cemetery. The monument mentions that unknown settlers from the 1860s are buried there along with later

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A The author at the Pony Express trail crossing near Faust Station.

settlers from the 1880s. I carefully close the gate and gaze several hundred yards west to the actual site of Faust Station.

Faust Station was the first Pony Express home station west of Salt Lake City. A home station (as opposed to a relay station) was where riders switched places with fresh riders. These stations also usually doubled as stagecoach stations. The rider then stayed at the home station until another rider came from the other direction. In this way, riders like Billy Fisher were able to cover the same stretch over and over. At each station resided a station keeper, a stock tender, and at least two fresh horses.

Faust Station, now long gone, was a very small two-story stone structure. It was built in 1858 and sold to Henry J. Faust, who was later known as Doc Faust. During his trip along the trail, famed New York Tribune editor Horace Greeley visited Faust Station in 1859. “Knowing that Mr. Greeley would very likely bury himself in books and not wish to carry on a conversation, Mr. Faust took great care to see that all the tallow candles were hidden, leaving the house in darkness. Mr. Greeley, unable to read, then made a delightful companion for the remainder of the evening with interesting accounts of his travels.’*

These Pony Express stations make me think of aid stations in ultramarathon trail races, which are staffed by volunteers and located five to 10 miles apart. When the Pony Express began, stations were placed about every 25 miles, but later the average distance was 10 to 12 miles. Pony Express riders changed onto fresh horses at relay stations. Ultrarunners change into fresh socks and refill their water bottles at the aid stations.

For the Pony Express rider, “a mere two minutes was allowed for changing horses at stations along the route, but most changes took 30 seconds or less. The relief horse was ready to go and saddled, and all that was necessary was to swing the mochila (mail pouch) from the back of one horse to another.”> Ultrarunners also try to minimize their time in aid stations.

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» The Faust Station monument.

After thinking about this station and events that occurred there, I return to my run. I avoid running toward the ranch structures but hop over a fence and scamper across a wide range. I pass by a herd of cattle that starts into a short stampede as I approach. I reach the paved Pony Express Road and continue along a very straight five-mile climb toward Lookout Pass. The warm sun continues to rise, and I enjoy seeing the shimmering reflection of the sun on the moist desert floor. Snowbanks increase in size as the road climbs into the hills. I run backward for a while to look back on the view to the east. I am amazed at how straight the trail is and how it points directly back to my starting point, now obscured by mountains. During my two-day run, I have run past Lake Mountain and the Oquirrh Mountains and now will pass over the Onaqui Mountain Range. This is my last view along the trail of majestic, 11,749-foot Mount Timpanogos, clearly visible 51 miles to the east. I gaze down at the sizable, remote Rush Valley and reflect on my long run across its expanse.

The road becomes steeper, climbing into cedar-covered foothills. I am elated by the change and push the run, welcoming the feeling of strength coming from my quads. The paved road ends, and now I will run on dirt roads for the remainder of my journey. Nearby, loud explosions from high-powered rifles startle me. Irun by a father and son enjoying their guns, and I try to make noise so they know that lam there. I pick up my pace to get away and hope they don’t take aim toward the road. As I climb higher, the dirt road turns into a mud road from the runoff of the melting snow.

ENTERING PAIUTE HELL

I soon reach 6,191-foot Lookout Pass and see a partial view of Skull Valley on the other side. Legends explain that an Indian once took a shot at one of the Pony Express riders or a stagecoach driver near this place, so whenever a new rider or driver was put to work, he was told to “look out” here. Thus the name Lookout Pass.

In pioneer days, the next wasteland section over the pass was referred to as “Paiute Hell.” Historian Frank C. Robertson described this country: “From Lookout Pass you look out over forbidding deserts of mountains and flats. . . . It is hot as the hinges of hell in summer, cold as the polar regions in winter. In winter, blizzards block the roads; in summer, cloudbursts wash them out.’

At the pass, I find a large rock with a memorial plaque attached for E. Ray Staley, 1920-1993. It recognized that a million sheep had passed along this point of “The Pony Express Sheep Trail” to desert winter ranges. A visitors’ log stands next to it. I sign my name and mention my run on the trail.

I smile as I enjoy pounding the fast downhill on the other side of the pass. I cruise by small, frozen ponds and soon reach the next Pony Express relay station site at Lookout Pass Station. This site is in a small, beautiful mountain valley covered with cedars. The plaque on the monument explains that this was also the

site of an important watering station for the Butterfield and Wells Fargo overland stages (1851-1859).

A 19TH-CENTURY PET CEMETERY

The original Pony Express station consisted of a small log cabin, a stable, and a small spring just a few feet away. The station manager was a Mr. Jackson. From 1866 to 1900, Horace Rockwell and his wife, Libby Rockwell, ran an Overland Stage station at this site. Since “Aunt” Libby had no children, she filled the void with pet dogs and cats. As her pets died over the years, she buried them in a cemetery.

In 1885, James P. Sharp visited the Rockwells when he was a boy and wrote: “They had no children but did have a whole colony of black-and-tan dogs; I believe they said they were of the Fiste breed. You know the kind, with short hair, and always trying to stand on three legs, shivering, to keep from freezing to death in July. But I’d better not get started on stories about those two strange characters, their dogs, and dog cemetery.”

A “Pet Cemetery” sign points the way. I chuckle as I run toward the cemetery, thinking of the Stephen King novel of the same name. I hope not to find a zombie dog coming out of the ground! The small, walled cemetery contains only weeds. I salute the memory of Aunt Libby’s dogs, laugh some more, and continue my run. At mile 15, after three hours of an easy sightseeing run, I reach beautiful Little

A The author at Aunt Libby’s Pet Cemetery.

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Valley, where I have stashed my lunch. I find a dry spot underneath a cedar tree and feast upon hot soup, Ensure, chips, and cookies. After a 15-minute break, I shed my long-sleeve shirt and continue my warm winter run along the historic trail in running shorts and short sleeves.

RUNNING THROUGH SKULL VALLEY

Following a nice downhill stretch, I reach the desert floor of Skull Valley. An occasional recreation vehicle passes me with ATVs in tow, driving for a fun outing in the west desert of Utah. One vehicle slows and pulls alongside me. I see that it is a park ranger truck pulling a trailer with two motorcycles. One of the two rangers asks me, “Are you lost? Or are you doing this for fun?” I laugh and explain that I am on my second day of a run originating from Utah Lake. They are flabbergasted. I tell them that I am doing fine and that I would finish my run for the day at Simpson Springs. They wish me well, tell me to be careful, and drive down the road to the west.

Off in the distance, I can see the 8,150-foot, rugged, snowcapped Indian Peak. I know that my destination for the day is on the other side of that mountain. I gaze at the vast, treeless valley, covered with sage. The brown, colorful shades are striking. To many people, the landscape would seem like a barren wasteland. Tam struck by its untouched beauty and its quiet peace. I soon arrive at Government Creek.

Some claim that Government Creek had been a Pony Express relay station site, but it is more likely that it was a relay station for the Overland Telegraph Line. In the early days of the telegraph, a message could be sent only so far and then would have to be relayed by an operator at the station.’ In 1861, the telegraph line to California was established along this route, which eventually resulted in the shutdown of the Pony Express. James Gamble was in charge of the crews stringing telegraph line across the deserts of Nevada and Utah. The crews were spread out along the entire route, stringing line simultaneously in several places. The entire line across the West was constructed in an amazing four and a half months.’

Seventy years ago, visitors along this route mentioned seeing stumps of telegraph poles and occasional pieces of wire. I keep an eye out, but those historic treasures are long gone.

As I run over the next low divide, into my view comes yet another series of mountain ranges to the west: first Dugway Range, then Fish Springs Range, and finally, Deep Creek Range, 60 miles away. I am determined to pass all three on future days. I pick up my pace, and again the park rangers visit me. They ask me how I feel. I assure them that I am doing great, heading into the home stretch.

My final two miles for the day take me on a nice uphill climb toward Simpson Springs. I am resolute to finish strong and avoid walking spells. I trot up and over the final rise and am relieved to see that my car is still standing in one piece, free