Teton Endurance Adventures

• Fight or Flight Traverse (FA 2016)

• Perception Traverse (FA 2015)

• Around the Clock Triathlon (FA 2015)

• Picnic (Grand Teton Triathlon-PR 11:25)

• Hole Enchilanda (FA 2018)

• Grand Teton Bullseye (FA 2018)

• Wydaho Connection (FA 2018)

• Teton Crest Trail- Winter Day Ascent (FA 2019)

• Grand Teton Round Trip (PR 3:35)

• Jackson Hole Ironman (FA 2012)

Fight or Flight Traverse:

Traverse Background: After completing the Perception Traverse, which runs from Mount Moran to Albright Peak, the next logical step was to extend it on both ends—creating a complete traverse of the entire Teton Range. At first, it felt like an overly ambitious goal, but after a few reconnaissance missions into corners of the park I had never explored, the dots began to connect. The traverse isn’t overly technical; I would only need a rope and partner for the Cathedral Traverse of Teewinot, Mount Owen, and the North Ridge of the Grand Teton. Still, I knew the endless scree-filled gullies and massive vertical gain and loss would make for a serious challenge.

The motivation to finally give it a try didn’t come until a full year after the death of my good friend and mountaineering mentor, Jarad Spackman, who had been killed in an avalanche the previous spring. I wanted to accomplish something that would have made him proud. Honoring him through this traverse felt like the best way to stay connected and to process the loss. I carried some of his ashes with me and spread them on every major peak. The Tetons were his playground, and he had inspired me endlessly to push my limits in the mountains.

Jarad was an accomplished snowboard mountaineer, logging multiple first descents in the Tetons, while climbing prolifically throughout the range and beyond. The name of the traverse is, in many ways, a tribute to his spirit—he was always the first to tie in and give something a try. He remained calm and composed in precarious situations, and in many ways, he was the man I always aspired to become. I loved him for everything he ignited in me. He was a great friend and a priceless mentor.

For me, this traverse will always stand as the pinnacle of my mountaineering career. It represents years of patience and the slow assembly of countless puzzle pieces. When it was finally complete, it felt as though I had explored so many hidden corners of my home range. Now, when I look up at the Teton skyline, I feel a deep sense of pride knowing I’ve experienced the entire horizon in one continuous effort.

This traverse is my tribute—to the Tetons themselves, and to Jarad. They are forever intertwined in my mind, and I hope this journey reflects the profound respect and gratitude I hold for them both.

Traverse Itinerary

Day One: East Face of Peak 10,333, Marmot Point, Ranger Peak, Peak 11,300, Peak 11,200, Doane Peak, Anniversary Peak, Eagles Rest
Day Two: Bivouac Peak, South Summit Mt. Moran, North Summit Mt. Moran, Drizzlepuss
Day Three: Mt. Woodring, Rockchuck Peak, Mt. St. John, Symmetry Spire, Ice Point, Storm Point.
Day Four: Teewinot, Peak 11,660, East Prong, Mt. Owen, Grand Teton (north ridge), Enclosure,
Day Five: Middle Teton, South Teton, Ice cream Cone, Gilkeys Tower, Spaulding Peak, Unnamed Blob, Cloudveil, Nez Perce
Day Six: Mt. Wister, Peak 10,696, Buck Mtn, Static Peak, Albright Peak
Day Seven: Prospectors Peak, Peak 10,989, Peak, 10,200, Mt. Hunt, Peak 10,425, Cody Peak, No Name Peak, Rendezvous Peak, Peak 10,400, Peak 9815, Peak 9734, Great White Hump, Mt. Glory.

Route notes: The hardest part of this route isn’t the technical climbing—it’s having the grit to keep going day after day. Most competent mountaineers could complete any single section of the route within a day, but the cumulative grind of covering so many miles over slow, uneven terrain is what makes this traverse truly difficult.

A solid seven-day weather window is essential, though often hard to coordinate. I completed the traverse during the third week of August, which typically offers the best chance for the Cathedral Traverse to be ice-free. In preparation, I found it helpful to put in several big days in the Tetons beforehand to get my ankles used to the constant impact and uneven footing.

While there are countless beautiful moments along the way, you should also be ready for long stretches of scree and loose terrain. Knowing each section of the route helps tremendously, though it isn’t strictly necessary. Before my attempt, I scouted every area rated 5.4 and above, and I’d recommend others do the same—it increases both speed and confidence. When fatigue sets in, it’s easy to drift off route.

I truly hope someone feels inspired to make a second ascent of this traverse. Experiencing the full sweep of the Teton Range in such an intimate way is one of the greatest gifts a mountaineer could hope for.

The Fight or Flight Traverse was featured in Men’s Journal Magazine and the Wyofile publication.

Many thanks to Crista Valentino for partnering on the Grand Traverse section, wouldn’t have succeeded without you!

Windwalker Traverse

Traverse Background: After finishing the Fight or Flight Traverse in 2017, I started looking to other ranges that might offer a similar experience. I had heard through the grapevive that Szu-ting Yi and Dave Anderson were going to attempt a North-South traverse of the Wind River Range along its central spine and it spiked my interest. I contacted the pair about joining their attempt, but understandably, they declined, having never met me before and with the start date rapidly approaching. Later that Fall I read about their attempt in Alpinist Magazine, although they stopped short of their ultimate goal due to weather, it was an inspiring journey. I then contacted the pair to see if the were likely to go for another attempt, they replied they were not. I then asked if it was acceptable to them if I gave it a go. They were receptive to the idea and wished me luck.

During that same summer, I had also started dating my future wife Elise Sterck, who is always up for an adventure. Amazingly, with only two months of compatibility data to pull from, she agreed to attempt the 15 day traverse with no signs of hesitancy. Truth be told, neither of us truly knew what we were in for, but both of us looked forward to the time together. With the car shuttle complete, we started our adventure at Union pass and made our way towards Downs Mountain. The first two days went splendidly, but the second night turned brutal. Setting up camp at 13,000 feet with turbulent winds, turned into a sleepless night with Elise vomiting, due to dehydration, on repeat for hours. Due to the strong winds, our tent poles were rendered ineffective, so we just wrapped the tent lining around our shivering bodies as we awaited daybreak. Once sunlight arrived, we checked the forecast only to find heavy snow was predicted for the upcoming day. Our luck running out fast, we descended below tree line within striking distance of our next objective, Gannett Peak. That night we curled up in our sleeping bags and settled in for 48 hours of swapping skeptical eye glances as we wondered what we had gotten ourselves into. On outward appearances, this easily could have turned into the lowlight of the trip, but in all actuality it created a strong foundation for our future lives together, as we learned about our mutual tolerance of discomfort and our penchant for staying optimistic in trying times.

Surprisingly, we woke up the following day to bluebird skies and an easy ascent of Gannett Peak, the highest mountain in Wyoming. Of course, the foot of fresh snow made for some wet sneakers, but it also provided us with some spectacular views and the most memorable day of our traverse. Having wasted almost two days waiting out the storm, we were worried our food supplies wouldn’t last us to our next resupply. However, with some rationing and quick steps we made it to our cache in Indian Basin without too much turmoil.

Continuing onward, we trudged through the central part of our traverse making easy non-technical ascents of many summits along the continental divide, seeing the core of the Wind River Range that most people miss out on. Upon reflection, it was during this time wandering on the high plateaus where our relationship fell into place. Discussing the twist and turns of our prior lives and imagining what might come next, felt safe and satisfying, like putting down a heavy backpack after a long day. During this stretch of the traverse, we decided to move in together and to take the following year off to travel the world climbing. I remember feeling such immense gratitude that we had found each other in such a big world. This time together confirming the simple truth, that all we needed to be happy in the future was just the presence of the other.

When we finally reached the Cirque of the Towers, we were feeling tired but confident as the end was in sight. Little did we know, the roped climbing portion of our trip would be harder than expected. Weighed down with overnight gear and our bodies starting to deteriorate after eleven days of arduous travel, the Cirque Traverse zapped our last reservoirs of resilience. I had done this 15 peak traverse in one long day before, so I believed splitting it into two days would be a breeze. However, a fall at the crux late on the first day, severely effected my confidence, as I was left dangling on a few small gear placements, contemplating my mistake, one thousand feet above the valley floor. After this blunder, we changed tactics and hauled our heavy bags, over the problematic roof, but it slowed our pace down dramatically. After finishing a few sketchy rappels, where the anchor nuts wiggled out of their placements with ease, we found ourselves ascending the last steep ice and dirt gully at nightfall, barely holding on to our sanity as we navigated the last three hundred feet of disintegrating chaos.

Reaching the lip of the gully was a sublime experience and we were greeted with calm skies and a perfect two person bivy spot that served as our resting place for the night. I have never felt so grateful to be done a day of climbing, realizing that I was not only happy for my own survival, but more pleased that Elise, who has quickly becoming my life partner, had made it through the day as well.

The rest of traverse felt like a blur as we kept slowly summiting peaks and making our way to the end of the traverse. After two weeks of repetitive motion, Elises calf had developed an over-use injury and the threat of cutting our traverse short, just shy of the finish line, was a real possibility. I remember thinking that stopping would be unfortunate, but I was still leaving this trip with the best possible outcome, a committed partner who would sign up for this type of debauchery. However, Elise persevered as she always does and we summited the 50th peak under blue skies. Thinking our adventure was complete we descended below tree line with thoughts of fast food filing our minds, only to come face to face with a mama grizzly bear and her three cubs, most likely the most dangerous moment of the entire traverse. With both parties caught off guard, it could have turned ugly, but the female bruin backed away slowly and we went our separate ways, all limbs in tact.

Overall, we finished the traverse 15 days after we started, hobbling the last few miles to the trails end and celebrating that night with a hearty serving of burger and fries at the Lander Bar. By the end, our bodies were tired. the relationship had strengthened, and we couldn’t stop smiling.

Peaks Traversed
1) Union Peak. 11) Peak 12705 22) Peak 11584 33)Peak 12468 44)Warbonnet
2) Peak 11507 12) Pedastal Peak 23) Europe Peak 34) Mount Washaki. 45) Mitchell
3)Three Waters Peak 13) Flagstone Peak 24)Peak 11778 35) Peak 11925 46) Big Sandy
4) Shale Mountain 14) Gannett Peak 25) Peak 12230 36) Wolfs Head 47) Peak 11593
5) Peak 12399 15) Miriam Peak. 26) Halls Peak 37) Overhanging 48) Peak 12105
6) Peak 12302 16) Dinwoody Peak. 27) Odyssey Peak 38) Sharks Nose 49) Nystrom Peak
7) Peak 12254 17) Fremont Peak 28)Kagevah Peak 39) Block Tower. 50) Peak 12103
8) Downs Mountain 18) Angel Peak 29) Walt Bailey Peak. 40) Watch Tower
9) Peak 12702 19) Peak 11286 30) Tower Peak 41) Pylon Peak
10) Yukon Peak 20) Peak 11615 31) Mt. Hooker 42)Warrior 1
11) Peak 12705 21) Peak 11580 32) Peak 11886 43) Warrior 2

Traverse Notes:

Start: Union Pass (Seven Lakes Rd. with six days worth of food: ice axe/crampons)  End: Sweetwater Gap Trailhead
Food/Gear Caches: Indian Basin (Five days worth of food) and Cirque to The Towers (trad rack, harness, shoes-4 days worth of food)
Protection: Small trad rack for cirque of the towers: Ice axe crampons for Gannett Peak

The Windwalker Traverse was featured in the Buckrail Publication.

Around the Clock Triathlon

Triathlon Background: The previous summer, I’d finished the Picnic Triathlon and felt like I still had energy left in the tank. I wanted something that would push me to my absolute limit — a challenge that left no doubt about what I was capable of. Since I was only going to be young once, I figured I should exhaust myself fully at least once in life. This triathlon was my quest to go all in — and it didn’t disappoint.

I remembered a documentary about the first Ironman Triathlon, where the founders simply combined the three hardest endurance events on the Big Island of Hawaii into one race. I loved that concept. So, I decided to take the hardest swimming, running, and biking objectives I could think of near Jackson Hole and merge them into a single, massive day. Maybe not the absolute hardest — the routes had to be close enough together — but still a serious undertaking:

• Swim: around Jenny Lake

• Run: the Teton Crest Trail

• Bike: “around the block” from Teton Pass to Alpine

At the time, I was working as a substance abuse counselor and only had weekends off. I taught a DUI class until noon on Saturday and entered the water by 1:30 that afternoon — beginning what would become a 30-hour journey that ended at Teton Pass on Sunday night. I hadn’t slept the entire time and still logged into work bright and early Monday morning.

The Swim

Before starting the swim, I was intimidated by the distance. I had only ever swam about 1.5 miles in one go, but I remembered reading about an older gentleman who had swam over 65 miles across the English Channel — freezing water, strong currents, and all. Compared to that, my challenge seemed tame.

My rationalization was simple: if it got too hard, I’d just get out. At least I’d tried.

Surprisingly, the swim wasn’t half as bad as I imagined — it turned into a stunning journey through the underwater world of Jenny Lake. I had no idea there was so much to see down there. Algae-covered logs, ancient-looking rocks, and eerie depths made it feel like traveling back to the Jurassic Era.

For six hours, I alternated my gaze between the towering peaks above and the mysterious landscape below — a strange meditation on two contrasting worlds, both magnificent in their own ways. I did get cold at times, especially when the clouds rolled in and my thin wetsuit lost its warmth. The second half of the swim was mostly me cursing myself for being too cheap to buy thicker neoprene. But I was a skid at the time and couldn’t justify the expense.

When I finally reached shore, I had to crawl out of the water — my legs were useless from the cold and repetitive motion. Somehow, I peeled off the wetsuit and shivered my way back to life after ten minutes or so.

At that point, it would have been great to have a support crew, but I always feel guilty asking anyone to give up a weekend for one of my ridiculous athletic indulgences. I was back at my car, and the thought of driving into town for a hot meal definitely crossed my mind. But I knew I’d never want to swim that far again, so it was now or never.

The Run

Starting up Paintbrush Canyon, I was just happy to be on dry land. My confidence was high — until the sun went down and the animals came out.

I had headphones and a Taylor Swift playlist to keep me company, so I sang “Blank Space” for most of the night to alert the bears of my presence. Normally, bears in the Tetons don’t scare me, but running through the dark at a decent clip unlocked some new fears.

The 42-mile run was otherwise uneventful — no great views at night — but it was oddly satisfying to pass sleeping hikers under the stars. I only got lost once in Alaska Basin, where the trail fades among the rock slabs. The sun rose somewhere around Phillips Pass, giving me a much-needed boost for the bike ride ahead.

The Bike

I’d left my road bike at Phillips Bench the day before, chained to a tree with a food resupply next to it. Thankfully, it was still there, patiently waiting.

In my head, the 108-mile bike ride would be tedious but doable. My mantra: “Just let the bike do the work.” That worked for the descent down Teton Pass, but the climb over Pine Creek Pass was brutal.

I kept myself moving with thoughts of Pop-Tarts and Coca-Cola from the Swan Valley store twenty miles ahead — a sugar combo I’d never craved before, but apparently that’s what my body wanted. Somehow, I made it to Alpine and began the long push back toward Jackson.

Things got blurry here, but I remember the first flat tire in Hoback, and the second just outside of Jackson. I had one patch kit but no spare tube, so I swapped bikes at my house on East Kelly Street and finished the last twenty miles on my mountain bike.

That would’ve been fine — except for the small detail of ending a 30-hour triathlon with a bike up Teton Pass. I made it most of the way, but the last half mile broke me. I dismounted and pushed that hunk of metal to the finish line.

When I finally reached the top, I could’ve ridden my bike down to Wilson — but choose instead to hitch a ride back into town. My body refused to exercise for for even one more second.

Triathlon Notes

• Swim: Started at Jenny Lake Overlook, swam clockwise around the lake.

• Transition: Kept food resupply and running gear in my car.

• Run: Went light, but brought a down jacket for warmth (highly recommended).

• Bike: Left road bike and food stash in a bear canister at Phillips Bench.

  • Pro tip: bring panniers so you’re not carrying weight on your back.

  • Bring multiple patch kits — learn from my mistake.

This was an amazing tour of the Teton Range — part suffering, part serenity, and all adventure.

Just do it!

The Around the Clock Triathlon was featured in the JH News and Guide and JH Style Magazine

Perception Traverse

Traverse Notes: This was my first legitimate foray into Teton epics. I’d done long runs before and summited plenty of peaks, but I had never completed an objective that added anything to the larger community conversation. Looking back, it was an audacious goal. I’d climbed each of the individual mountains involved, but I’d never linked them together—beyond the Cathedral Traverse.

I was at that precarious age where I had something to prove but no real accomplishments to back up my ego. I remember seeing Jimmy Chin at the climbing gym that year and thinking, “He looks human. If he can do epic shit, why can’t I?” Not the wisest motivation, in hindsight, but it got me dreaming about possibilities.

Before living in Jackson, I had only read about standout athletes in Outside magazine. But seeing them in real life ignites something inside you. When your neighbor—who happens to be a professional skier—runs your same pace, or you see the athlete you idolized growing up drunk at the bar, you start realizing the distance between “them” and “you” isn’t as vast as you were led to believe.

I knew I couldn’t compete with them in their specializations, but I wondered: if I focused on my strength—moving fast on moderate technical terrain—where might that take me?

Dreaming Bigger

The Perception Traverse was my first attempt to test a theory: accomplished athletes are just like us—they just try harder. As long as I was willing to fail, and the safety margins seemed big enough, why not give it a shot?

The Grand Traverse was already the crown jewel of Teton objectives. But what about the peaks on either end—Moran to the north, Wister to the south? Why not extend the Grand Traverse, doubling the summits and vertical gain, while still tracing the same aesthetic skyline? That’s how the idea was born: link the front spine of the range, from Moran to Albright, touching most of the big pointy ones in between.

Day 1 — Water, Rock, and Doubt

The first day was huge: four peaks over 11,000 feet, three of which weren’t connected by a ridge, plus three subpeaks and a kayak across Leigh Lake.

I launched from String Lake at 2 a.m. in the only boat I owned—a beat-up $50 whitewater kayak I’d bought from a friend. Halfway across the lake, my legs started getting wet. I’d forgotten to replace the drain plug. Realizing I wasn’t going to sink was a relief, but it didn’t inspire confidence that the day would go smoothly.

Then I promptly climbed the wrong rock weakness above the CMC camp. Another fixable problem, but by then I was questioning my competence. Morning light brought renewed clarity, and I managed to summit Moran and descend to Mt. Woodring without incident. I even took a shaky selfie mid-run, thinking I was big shit. Truth was, I hadn’t done much yet—just fallen victim to early Instagram ego inflation.

By the time I hit Ice Point after Symmetry Spire, fatigue had set in. The tiny subpeak’s five feet of knife-edge exposure almost broke me. Soloing is a pure art form of self-expression, but without a partner, your only safety system is your mind—and mine was getting sloppy. I remember the internal debate: “No one will know if I turn around here.” But I would know. When you say you did something, you need to actually believe it.

That mindset got me to the top. I tagged the summit and made it down safely, ending day one utterly spent but oddly content.

Day 2 — The Cathedral

I met my partner, Taylor Luneau, at Lupine Meadows in the early morning, and we started up Teewinot. The light was perfect; the route finding, less so. Teewinot has claimed many lives for good reason—every step upward lures you into more dangerous terrain. Even though we’d both climbed it before, we found ourselves too far right and wisely turned around before over committing. Three women had died that same summer on nearly the same line. It hit home how fast things can unravel, no matter your experience.

Once back on track, the Cathedral Traverse unfolded like a dream. The only real adversity was our overconfidence—thinking we could complete the Grand Traverse in a single day. We reached the top of the Middle Teton before calling it and spent a long, grumpy descent into Garnet Canyon trying to locate the bivy gear I had stashed. Taylor probably wanted to strangle me. Still, he rallied the next morning, and we pushed on retracing our steps back up to the col between Middle and South Teton.

Reaching the summit of Nez Perce and completing the Grand Traverse section of the objective together was pure joy. Our smiles in those photos still capture something irreplaceable—the wild, unrepeatable euphoria of a first big success.

Day 3 — Storms and Perspective

After finishing the Grand Traverse, Taylor headed home. I continued solo toward Wister, planning to sleep near Lake Taminah. I found a decent bivy spot just in time for one of the fiercest thunderstorms I’ve ever seen. Lightning ripped the sky apart, rain poured sideways, and I was safe—miraculously—under a rock overhang.

Moments like that reveal the paradox of the mountains: they make you feel both immense and insignificant at the same time. Big, because you’re connected to everything around you. Small, because you realize just how little control you actually have.

Day 4 — The Long Slog

The next morning dawned clear. I scrambled up Wister, then endured some of the worst choss of my life descending to Peak 10,696 and on to Buck Mountain. That section is less “technical climb” and more “suffer-fest with views.”

By the time I topped out on Mt. Albright, I was deliriously happy. Not happy like “Instagram highlight reel” happy—more like “soul finally exhaling” happy. Four days of effort had stripped away my insecurities. For the first time, I felt like I’d earned my place out there.

Reflections

After two decades in Jackson, I’ve seen enough grief to avoid chasing pure danger. These days, I prefer horizontal risk to vertical risk—going farther, not harder. I still solo sometimes, but only when there’s enough margin to self-correct.

I have no illusion about being an alpinist. I don’t want to flirt with death; I just want to wave at it from a respectful distance and say, “Thanks for the reminder.”

For me, endurance in the mountains is a meditation—a way to test limits without courting oblivion. The Perception Traverse wasn’t just an experiment in physical endurance; it was my first real lesson in perspective.

Traverse Itinerary:

• Day One: Mt. Moran (CMC route), Woodring Peak (SouthEast Ridge), Rockchuck Peak (East Face), Mt. St. John (North Ridge), Symmetry Spire (North Couloir), Ice Point (NW ridge), Storm Point (NW Ridge)

• Day Two: Teewinot (East Face), Peak 11.840 (East Ridge), East Prong (East Ridge), Mt. Owen (Koven Route), Grand Teton (North Ridge), Enclosure, Middle Teton (North Ridge)

• Day Three: South Teton (NW ridge), Ice Cream Cone (West Ridge), Gilkey Tower West Ridge), Spalding Peak (West Ridge), Cloudveil Peak (West Ridge), Nez Perce (NW couloirs)

• Day Four: Wister Peak (NE face), Peak 10,696 , Buck Mountain (East Face), Static Peak, Albright Peak.\

  Traverse Notes: It’s mostly fifth class scrambling, but unless your into soloing 5.8 terrain on the North Ridge of the Grand with alot exposure, you’ll need at least a 60 meter rope and a single rack. There are some great blogs about completing the Grand Traverse, including this one by Rolando Garibotti It’s the beta I followed and is spot on, Rolando is a legend and once held the speed traverse of the Grand Traverse in around 6.5 hours, holy mind bending stuff.

Jackson Hole Ironman

JH Ironman Background: During my senior year of college, I completed my first triathlon. I still vividly remember standing in the staging area, feeling an unexpected surge of envy toward an older gentleman wearing an Ironman finisher race kit. I had no idea how long it took him to complete the race or where he placed. None of that mattered. He had finished. That alone felt like the ultimate flex, and it was working. I wanted to be him. At that point in my athletic journey, a 10K was my comfort zone. The idea of stringing together a marathon, 112 miles on a bike, and a 2.4-mile swim felt borderline torturous. His accomplishment seemed impossibly distant, yet deeply admirable. He wore that shirt like it carried a story, and it did. Who could blame him? Finishing an Ironman is a tremendous achievement. I remember quietly thinking that if I ever earned the right to wear that shirt, I might never take it off.

That moment planted a seed, though it took another eight years of incremental progress before the idea of standing on an Ironman start line felt remotely reasonable. I credit much of that shift to the Jackson Hole lifestyle. Living here has a way of breeding confidence. You begin in awe of the Tetons from the valley floor, and over time, you inch closer. First, a hike to Amphitheater Lake. Then a non-technical climb up the Middle Teton. Eventually, with equal parts fear and resolve, you find yourself standing on the summit of the Grand Teton. Each step carries its own anxiety and reward, yet there is always another challenge waiting. That’s the quiet magic of this place. It teaches you to believe in yourself. You see a challenge, you meet it, and then you look ahead to the next one. Over and over again, the cycle continues.

Living in Jackson does come with its downsides. One of the more obvious ones is that the cost of living tends to leave the wallet a little thin. The entry fee for the Ironman in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho — the closest race to me at the time — was around $450. For a ski bum in Jackson, that felt like a steep price to pay for voluntarily suffering all day. I tried not to let the number deter me, but I couldn’t quite justify traveling a fair distance, spending a lot of money, and enduring a massive physical ordeal just to earn a T-shirt and, maybe, a modest bump in status.

That’s when it clicked. The Ironman logo splashed across my chest wasn’t actually what I cared about. What I was after was the feeling that comes from covering that distance — the quiet satisfaction of seeing something hard through to the end. Once I let go of the symbol, the solution became obvious. Instead of paying for an Ironman, I would create one of my own, starting right out the back door.

At that point in my life, I hadn’t designed an adventure of this scale on my own, so my choice of venues was admittedly a bit uninspired. In hindsight, I wish I’d selected three locations with a little more pizzazz, but I was new to the game and only just beginning what would become a decades-long habit of creating slightly wacky personal adventures. My limited imagination was also paired with a very practical concern: I had no interest in spending a few hundred dollars on a wetsuit just to swim in one of the frigid alpine lakes around Jackson. That narrowed my options considerably. In the end, I completed the 2.4-mile swim in the local rec center pool. Not exactly an open-water epic, but it felt like a comfortable way to dip my toes into the shallow end of a much bigger endeavor.

I’m not someone who typically trains for objectives, but I had never swam that distance before, so I logged a few long pool sessions simply to make sure I didn’t accidentally drown. Once I got going, things flowed surprisingly well. Swimming has a meditative quality, and the distance passed more quickly than I expected. A big part of the appeal of a traditional Ironman is the camaraderie — being surrounded by others chasing the same goal. But there’s also something uniquely powerful about tackling an objective alone. The main benefit is simple: you’re never slower than anyone else, because there is no one else. I also appreciated how it forced me to keep going even though no one knew what I was doing. I’ve grown to enjoy race environments, but for these kinds of self-designed adventures, my real aim is mental expansion. And that tends to happen faster when I’m by myself.

Next up was the bike ride, which I completed on an ancient mountain bike I had previously ridden across the country right after graduating college. My logic was simple: if it could survive 20 states, it could survive 112 miles. I was broke at the time, and my budget didn’t allow for upgrades. I might have swapped out the studded tires for something more road-friendly, but given that my total race budget hovered around twenty dollars, that seems optimistic. Undeterred by the bike’s limitations, I rolled out of downtown Jackson and headed 65 miles south toward Thayne, Wyoming, my turnaround point. That stretch of the day is largely unmemorable, aside from my sit bones loudly protesting the lack of preparation. Fueled by Pop-Tarts and Coca-Cola, I reached Thayne, turned around, and began the long ride back toward the final leg. The route through Hoback Canyon was beautiful, though I was far too preoccupied with the fear of mechanical failure to fully appreciate it.

Waiting for me at the end of the ride was my girlfriend, Lindsay Goldring, and my bright blue Ford Explorer Sport. I was genuinely happy to see both, though the temptation to call it a day and go grab a drink was strong. Instead, I laced up for the run: a planned out-and-back to Teton Village, entirely on pavement. Living in Jackson, I almost exclusively run trails, and my knees have long thanked me for that decision. Looking back, it’s baffling that I willingly chose to spend 26.1 miles pounding pavement. I think I wanted something flat and predictable, but I paid dearly for every step. Lindsay biked alongside me for part of the run, which helped keep me moving, but once she peeled off to pick up her dog, the remaining miles felt significantly heavier.

I remember feeling a vague sense of euphoria in the final miles, though it wasn’t joy so much as the relief you feel when a crying baby finally settles down. It’s strange to think that this day marked the beginning of my endurance athlete phase. I’m still not entirely sure what I liked about it, but I knew that I did. Objectives like this are odd in that way. No one can fully explain why they’re drawn to them. You can dress it up with language that sounds plausible or even poetic, but the reality is that this kind of effort doesn’t make much sense. You’re subjecting your body to something brutally demanding with no clear evolutionary benefit. No one is handing out food, shelter, or security at the finish line. If someone had asked why I did it, I might have joked about earning the right to wear a finisher’s shirt around town. But there was no shirt waiting for me. What was left, instead, was quieter and harder to name: the satisfaction of discovering that I could endure more than I thought, even when no one was watching and nothing tangible was promised in return.

Three Laps of the Grand Teton in a Day

Background: In 2012, I had the privilege of assisting Nancy Stevens, a blind athlete from Oregon, on a two-day ascent of the Grand Teton. Nancy and I first met the previous summer through Teton Adaptive Sports, when she called looking for a running partner. Even then, I was struck by her philosophy toward life’s obstacles. She didn’t seem interested in acknowledging limitations, only in finding ways around them. Being blind never appeared to slow her down.

That summer, we connected a handful of times to run and climb together, and one day I casually mentioned that I thought she could summit the Grand Teton if she ever felt motivated to try. In my mind, that was a five-year goal at best, something that would require significant training and preparation. The next day, she called Exum Mountain Guides and scheduled an ascent for the following summer.

Serving as an assistant on that climb remains one of the highlights of my life. Watching and helping Nancy move steadily through boulder fields, across exposed technical terrain, and higher than she had ever been before all while having no visual reference of what lay ahead fundamentally changed how I approached challenges. From that point on, the excuses I used to make for not trying something difficult felt thin and unconvincing. Her quiet confidence was contagious. Whenever a challenge felt overwhelming, I would think back to her smile on the summit, and my fear would dissolve.

As Nancy became the first blind female athlete to summit the Grand Teton, another record was being set on the mountain that same day. Andy Anderson, a climbing ranger from Colorado, was completing a round-trip speed ascent in 2 hours and 53 minutes. We crossed paths with him high on the route at one of the bottleneck sections. Even moving at full speed and deep into physical fatigue, he took the time to politely ask to pass and offered a smile as he went by. Sharing the mountain that day felt special in a way that’s hard to articulate. Two athletes operating at the edge of their abilities, each in completely different ways, both moving with humility and joy. It was a powerful reminder of what’s possible when people pursue excellence with generosity of spirit.

Buoyed by that experience and hungry for a new challenge, I decided it was time to attempt my own speed ascent of the Grand Teton. At the time, FKTs, or fastest known times, weren’t nearly as mainstream as they are today. The idea of running up and down the Grand still felt fringe, which is partly why I was so surprised to see Andy fly past us on the mountain that day. Now, on a dry August weekend, it’s common to see five or ten runners charging uphill and back down at an impressive pace. But in 2012, speed attempts were largely the domain of elite athletes, and I certainly didn’t consider myself one of them. That discomfort was exactly the point. Stepping outside my comfort zone felt like the natural next chapter after spending time on the mountain with Nancy.

That summer, my schedule was packed. I was just beginning my career as a mental health counselor at a local substance abuse treatment center while still wrapping up my responsibilities as summer director for Teton Adaptive Sports. The night before my attempt, I had stayed at a backcountry yurt near Jackson Hole Mountain Resort with three autistic boys. It was meaningful work, but far from restful. I dropped them off mid-morning and arrived at the trailhead around 11 a.m., well aware that midday heat wasn’t ideal. Still, it was the only window I had. In a strangely perfect bit of timing, a friend of mine was finishing his own day on the mountain just as I was starting. He told me the Owen-Spalding route was ice-free and that he’d completed a round trip in about five and a half hours.

Since I’d never attempted the route at speed, I decided my goal would simply be to match his time and give it an honest effort. I put on some music and headed up the switchbacks, staying right on the edge of having to stop. The climb felt smooth, and I reached the summit in 2:10, exchanged a few high fives, then carefully began the technical descent. I was nowhere near Andy’s record pace, but that didn’t matter. I made it back to the trailhead in another 1:25, stunned to realize I’d completed my first, and ultimately only, speed attempt on the Grand Teton in 3:35. There were no trophies waiting for me, but the experience cracked something open. It showed me that I was capable of more than I had assumed.

I never returned for a second speed attempt. I didn’t think I could go much faster without dedicating serious time to training, and logging that kind of weekly mileage didn’t interest me. Climbing was still my primary passion. But the idea of blending endurance and technical movement began to take shape. That single day planted the seed that endurance mountaineering might be part of my future. A few years later, I began wondering about multiple laps of the Grand in a single day. Without Nancy, Andy, and that first one-day ascent, the idea never would have crossed my mind.

In 2016, I ran Mount Moran and the Grand in the same day, finishing in roughly ten hours. Doing the math afterward, it seemed plausible that three laps of the Grand might be achievable within twenty-four hours. I gave it my first attempt in early summer 2017, but thunderstorms shut me down on my second lap just before the Belly Roll. Even so, I felt strong at the end of the day and knew that if the right opportunity came along, it could happen.

Not long after, I heard about a group planning to attempt two laps of the Grand in a day: two professional runners and a local Search and Rescue member. Wanting to avoid turning the mountain into a competition, I reached out to one of the professional runners, to ask if they’d be open to a fourth person joining their effort. We had met before, though we didn’t know each other well.

They politely declined, which I fully understood. I would have done the same in her position, not wanting to alter group dynamics. My intention was less about joining them, although I would have, and more about signaling that we were all on the same team, just doing ridiculous things in the mountains for the joy of it. I was concerned that our overlapping objectives, their two laps and my three, might create unnecessary tension. With bluebird summer days in short supply, we ultimately both chose the same date to give it a go.

I learned through a mutual friend about what time they would be starting, so I waited at the trailhead to connect and hopefully set a collaborative tone. Unfortunately, the first member of their group I encountered was upset, accusing me of stepping on their toes. I explained that I’d been planning this objective for a long time and had even asked to join them but was turned down. We eventually shook hands with a basic level of understanding, but the tension lingered as I started up the trail.

Physically, I felt great moving through the meadows, but mentally it was heavy. The last thing I wanted was a race-like atmosphere that might push someone into making a dangerous decision high on the mountain. That concern outweighed my ambition. I turned around and ran back down, meeting their group as they were coming up the switchbacks. They had started later and seemed relieved to see that I wasn’t continuing. I jogged alongside them for about ten minutes, making small talk, still frustrated but trying to keep things light.

That afternoon, I drove to Elephant’s Perch in Idaho to climb with friends. I enjoyed the weekend, but if I’m being honest, I carried a quiet bitterness that my summer objective had been put on hold. The following week, I read about their successful two laps in the paper. They were understandably proud of the accomplishment and speculated that someone might attempt three laps someday. I took that as a gesture of goodwill, or at least an attempt at community spirit. I doubt they imagined someone would try it a few weeks later, but to me it felt like permission.

While waiting for a clear, bluebird day to present itself, I spent a lot of time thinking about the mountain soap opera that had unfolded. The social charades we all perform as humans. On the surface, both their group and myself were playing nice, but underneath it all, neither of us truly wanted to be navigating overlapping ambitions. Sure, either of us could have postponed our objectives, but that doesn’t quite align with the cooperative competition that seems baked into human nature. Social Facilitation Theory suggests that many species, monkeys, rats, vultures, ants, cockroaches, and humans included, perform faster or better in the presence of others. It’s a mechanism that pushes us further than we might go alone. I considered shelving my three-lap attempt that summer, but the human part of me wanted to see what I was capable of. Like the other scavenger species on that list, humans measure themselves against one another, and I wanted to find out what I was made of.

Maybe this wasn’t the noblest motivation, but for these kinds of adventures, you grab onto whatever gets you to the start line. Besting their benchmark wasn’t my only reason, but I did feel a sting reading that they had gone “further than anyone before,” when only lightning storms had stopped me from reaching two laps earlier that summer. I’m aware of how childish this sounds. I was younger and less self-aware then. I hadn’t found a long-term partner, and my testosterone was doing most of the decision-making. Back then, my motivations shifted with every switchback. On one turn, I pushed to impress my dad. On the next, I reminded myself that my body wouldn’t always be this capable and I shouldn’t waste it. Higher on the mountain, I kept moving because I’d just passed a cute girl and suddenly felt inspired to earn a phone number.

I’m always puzzled when I hear runners or mountaineers in interviews offer a single, polished reason for why they do what they do. Usually it’s framed as pure love of the sport or some tidy philosophy that sounds good in hindsight. For me, when I’m in the trenches, I need a thousand reasons. Any single reason can talk me out of continuing pretty quickly. I have to rotate motivations the same way I rotate songs on a playlist. If one motivation or song stays on too long, I lose interest and quit. Maybe that’s just me, but forward progress has always felt less like devotion to one grand purpose and more like a constant negotiation with the attention span of my own brain.

The day of my attempt was largely unremarkable, except that it had all the necessary ingredients: sunshine, cool temperatures, and just enough people on the mountain to keep my ego engaged. The first lap was pure fun. I slipped easily into a flow state, my legs felt strong, and everything clicked. I passed a few climbing parties who tried to give me directions, which I found amusing, but I smiled, said thanks, and continued on my chosen line. I summited for the first time around 7:00 a.m., with crowds still gathered on the Owen–Spalding. I waited patiently for my turn, reminding myself that I was in this for the long haul, not a sprint.

Running down the Grand Teton is less like running and more like a controlled fall. But once you hit the packed trail, it feels liberating to open up your stride and let gravity do its thing. I finished my first lap in about 4:20, which felt like the right pace if I was going to head back up two more times.

The second lap was disorienting in a way I expected but still resented. Without the novelty of new terrain, the brain starts to push back. It’s like realizing you forgot your wallet after already leaving the house. Annoying, draining, and oddly demoralizing until you pass the point where you turned around. I had to actively redirect my thoughts or risk a full-body mutiny. I focused instead on the expressions of surprise from climbers seeing me for the second or third time that day. Doing laps confuses people. It confuses the brain too. Why do it twice? To which I can only respond: why do it once? None of it has a tangible reward. We go up for the view. So why not go up again?

By the second lap, people looked at me like I was speaking in tongues. Déjà vu mixed with disbelief tends to short-circuit polite social responses. Mouths hung open. Eyes followed me longer than necessary. And oddly enough, that reaction was motivating. Seeing the same people for the fourth, fifth, or sixth time gasp as if I needed immediate psychiatric intervention gave me just enough fuel to keep going.

I’ll admit it, part of this was ego. I’ve always taken some pride in questioning the dominant paradigm. I sometimes wonder if, had I been born a few decades earlier, I would have had the nerve to pursue first ascents during climbing’s mythic era. I like to think so, but untouched terrain is genuinely terrifying, and I’m far more comfortable extending or connecting existing objectives than stepping onto completely unknown rock. Still, it felt good to stand out. To watch people take a full day, or multiple days, to cover the same terrain I would move through three times in one.

The second lap hurt more, no question. My round-trip time slowed to about 6:12, but in many ways it felt twice as hard. When I returned to the car, my total time sat at 10:32. I was roughly five hours faster than the group who had completed two laps earlier that summer. It would have been tempting to stop there. I had proven what I needed to prove to anyone who happened to notice, which admittedly wasn’t many people. But three laps had always been the goal. Stopping at two never truly entered my mind.

That said, the third lap was no gift. The upper mountain felt like two steps forward and almost two steps back, over and over again. Progress was happening, but it was brutal. Standing on the summit as the sun dipped below the horizon, however, was one of the highlights of my life. There’s something deeply satisfying about setting a goal and staying with it all the way through. All of this mountain tomfoolery is really just life training. It’s a laboratory for testing strength, fear, and internal resilience.

None of it truly matters. And yet, it’s the only thing that does. Can I endure? Can I push through doubt and fatigue? Can I keep going when it stops being fun? The confidence that comes from answering those questions is undeniable. Sure, part of me hoped it might bring status, or admiration, or maybe even a girlfriend. Part of me kept going simply because I had told people I would. But beneath all of that, it came down to keeping a promise to myself. Trying my hardest. On the mountain, and in life.

Somewhere on the descent I found a second, maybe fourth, wind. I ran the final five miles at a respectable clip, finishing my third lap in about 7:22. Not bad for round three. Making my elapsed time for all three laps around 17:54 for 21,000 vertical gain and around 45 miles. There was no crowd at the finish, no high fives, no fanfare. I texted one person to say I was done. Sometimes I feel a twinge of envy when I see athletes welcomed by cheering friends at the end of a big day. I’m sure it feels incredible. But I never wanted to take anyone’s time but my own.

I did this for me. I was supported by strangers on the trail who cheered me on, and that mattered. But at the end of the day, I wanted to know, quietly and without witnesses, that I could do it. And that was enough.