I like running. There’s a long list of reasons I find it appealing, but if I were to call out one attribute, it would likely be the freedom it grants for going anywhere, any time. My other favorite hobbies tend to have complicated requirements one must adhere to. Backcountry skiing is quite restrictive, as you typically need a trustworthy partner, suitable avy knowledge and proper conditions. Mountain biking is really very fun, but singletrack is limited and wilderness lands are off the table.

With running, you can really just run anywhere. You don’t need a trail, most public land designations allow for it, and you can build a big adventure very, very quickly.

There are certainly some running adventures I spend a long time planning and marinating on (see: Holy WURL), but my typical workflow includes identifying restless legs, recognizing a need for a good ass kicking, checking the weather, and putting something down for the following day.

November 20 was no different, as I made a plan to sneak in a big objective before a large Thanksgiving feast and the official start of snowboard season.

My first bout of research led me to the Wedge trail in the San Rafael Swell. It’s a popular spot with runners and bikers, but filled with beauty, dry dirt and in close proximity to the salty city. It became a respected backup plan as I began to research other potential runs in the area. It wasn’t long before I came across a blog post from one of Utah’s famed ultrarunners, Davy Crockett. Appropriately titled Remote run in San Rafael Swell, a short writeup described an idyllic 50k adventure in a rarely-visited Wilderness Study Area.

The article ended with high praise, tipping the hat and calling it a “tough, beautiful run.” Tough and beautiful? Those adjectives were taken seriously, as Davy knew a thing or two about a thing or two, having just completed his 100th 100-mile race.

With the truck already packed, I left work and drove south. Night began to settle as temperatures dropped into the teens and I tried desperately to remember if I’d packed my nice, new 0° bag, or my shitty, questionable 15° offer. I was also fairly confident I wouldn’t encounter snow, but that was an additional dice roll that my mind danced around as I headed towards the objective.

After a few hours of cruise control, I found a rough dirt road, Hux popped his head out the window, and desert bliss and completeness ensued. Soon after, pasta was consumed, wine glasses raised and slumber acquired. If you’re looking for simplicity and solitude, I’d highly recommend the desert in winter.

The next morning was slow. The cold prevented a quick transition into running gear and coffee hours were extended to match the leisurely pace. Huxley would also be holding down the fort for the day, so we tromped around, fetched all the things and rolled some big boulders until he found temporary exhaustion.

When the clock hit 9:00 am, I knew my departure was long overdue and I began to make moves. I bid farewell to my furry comrade and began venturing up the road. Soon, I found my first descent and dropped off into the canyon. Running along the North Salt Wash, I tried to follow a faint cattle track but failed at regular intervals. There were frequent river jumps, which quickly escalated to larger river crossings, then to questionable ice-river post-hole plunges.

I ran along the meandering stream for several miles. It was spectacular and desolate, containing sporadic signs of previous wanderers and towering canyon walls. Eventually, I found a trail that began to climb out of the canyon and onto an arid plateau. I was finally able to open it up and run faster here, and I celebrated the opportunity to make up some time. Around mile 14 I located Sid’s Cabin, one of the Swell’s oldest ranches and a Utah Historic Site.

I was thankful for the significance this cabin unknowingly held, as it meant I 1.) wasn’t lost and 2.) was almost halfway done. As if those mental belly rubs weren’t enough, I looked inside Sid’s dojo and found a six pack of shitty beer.

The desert provides.

Now, drinking a beer in the middle of a run isn’t usually part of my program, but you never look a gift horse in the mouth. After adequate stretching and refueling, I grabbed one from the sixer and slowly sipped as I walked across the plateau.

A few miles of cross country jogging brought me to the head of the massive Virgin Spring Canyon and the site of my next downclimb. Tricky navigation kept me on my toes as I descended into the dry creek bed below.

Running in canyon country is a unique and fulfilling experience. Ephemeral streams wash away footprints and trails are unnecessary as the traveler is forced down an obvious corridor. I followed this corridor for an hour or so, until dumping out at an intersection with the San Rafael River.

Steeper canyon walls meant deeper streams and soon my lower half was numb as shorts-clad legs plunged into waist-deep water. Half of the fords were what I described in the moment as “clean crossings”. This meant they were simple water crossings, from one unobstructed bank to the other. On the other hand, I had about half a dozen “shit crossings”. As one might venture to guess, these included either:

A.) steep muddy entrance or exit banks
B.) belly-button deep water
C.) a thick ice layer that demanded course clearing before an attempt was made

Fortunately, these exciting river encounters appeared near the end of the day’s objective, and soon I was through the worst of it and winding my way back towards the car. Using the Gaia app, I found what looked to be an easy scramble back up the west rim of the canyon. As I topped out, the full moon came on gushing, giving me everything I needed to take it home.

Running down the road in the dark, I located the car, complete with big dog sleeping in the backseat. After a celebratory libation, double handful of Juanitas and lots of stretching, I hopped in the driver’s seat and pointed it towards SLC.

The next three hours provided a perfect period for reflection, as I recounted my lovely desert outing. It really was a very hard run. But, in the nine hours I was out there I didn’t see or hear a single other person.

How often can you say that?