The Thin Blue Line: SkyRun 100

18 November 2023

SkyRun has a history as wild and untamed as the terrain that it traverses. The event was founded in 1991 when John Michael Tawse, a local farmer and adventurer, decided on the 31st of December to run from Lady Grey, across the Witteberg mountains to Wartrail Country Club. His goal was to attend the Wartrail Sports Day ‘New Years Party’. He completed the journey in 15 hours and 50 minutes, and thus, the SkyRun was born. Since then, the event has grown in popularity and prestige, attracting approximately 250 participants each year over the three distances: 38km, 65km, and 100km. SkyRun still harbours the same spirit today as when it was founded: a spirit of adventure, exploration, and camaraderie.

SkyRun is a solo event, however I entered the 100km race alongside my brother with the intent of traversing the Witteberg mountains together.

In my ode to Skyrun, I will share with you my experience of the as the Median Man from the middle of the pack. A median man with a loving wife, two adventurous boys (Max and Jackson) and a full-time professional career. I will tell you how I prepared for the run, what I encountered along the way, and what I learned from the run. I hope that by reading this article, you will get a glimpse of what it’s like to run an ultra-trail mountain run in South Africa.

SkyRun is self-supported, meaning that you have to carry all the nutrition and gear that you need for the first 57km, until you reach the Balloch checkpoint, where you can have a drop bag and refuel for the second half. To mitigate risks, the organizers have a list of compulsory gear that you must carry throughout the race. This includes items like thermal pants, top, waterproof jacket, waterproof pants, space blanket, gloves, and the all-important whistle. These are checked at various checkpoints during the race, but once you’re up in those mountains, you can appreciate why they are necessary. This is quite a bit to carry, considering that these are only the items you hope not to use in the race.

Training for an ultra-trail run is not easy, especially when you have a busy and demanding life. I don’t think anyone truly feels like they’ve trained adequately for these events, one will always wish you had done more. I trained as much as I could reasonably fit into my schedule: 3-4 shorter runs each week and a long run over the weekend (occasionally two). I often tried to find creative ways to simulate mountain training by running the same hill or a long set of stairs connecting two streets (usually to achieve a vertical kilometre of elevation gain).

Regarding nutrition, you essentially need to carry enough food and electrolytes to sustain you for 10-15 hours before you will be able to restock your pack. You also must carry plenty of water, as you have to refill at mountain streams, which are not the most reliable source. I prepared for this by packaging nutrition for each of the ten sections of the race between checkpoints, which consisted of 2 energy bars, 2 gels, finely sliced biltong, and electrolyte capsules. I also carried a 2L bladder and 4 soft flasks and would fill them whenever I could.

The day before the run, I travelled up from the coastal (Zero meters elevation city of East London with John Williamson. Upon arrival at the Lady Grey Country Club we met up with my brother (also John) and a few friends who were either participating or supporting in the event. We registered for the race and went through the medical screening, where the race medical team measured our vital signs. This data was captured to be used later when we entered Check Point 6. The excitement and anticipation was palpable, and the relief of finally making it to the race after all the planning and preparation was cathartic. We spent some time absorbing the atmosphere in Lady Grey. Enroute to our evening accommodation we made a last-minute stop at local convenience store where I bought some instant soup, after hearing from John Williamson on our drive about how they mixed it with lukewarm water while running multi-day races in the desert. John is a multiday ultra running force, and even though I had never tried this, I was convinced I absolutely needed the soup.

We then headed to our planned accommodation for the night, a picturesque cottage about 20km outside Lady Grey in a valley next to a stream. We did the last-minute packing of running packs, meticulously fitting the compulsory gear, water and nutrition into the packs while Nelius (a 65km entrant) was grilling supper on the braai. In the blink of an eye, gusts of wind and rain struck and blew our kit around as well as the embers off the fire. We gathered our things, had supper and I set my alarm for 2am and got into bed.

The alarm sounded and I turned on the lights, the entire cottage was filled with smoke as a couch outside had set alight and smouldered throughout the night, and the smoke was entering the cottage through the patio roof.

Lady Grey: 18 November 2023 - 4am

Race day finally arrived. After a restless night and a smoky incident, we made our way to the Lady Grey Country Club, where the race would start.

The final words from the race director were said, a minute’s silence was observed in memory of marshals and crew of the race who did not make it to November 2023, and final glances were shared among athletes. Moments before 4am, the street lit up with flares, and we were counted down to start: 3, 2, 1... The world paused as I took those first few steps.

The start followed the tar road for a few hundred meters and then turned off into a single track, which got us onto the business of the day: climbing. I had to concentrate on each step, as a twisted ankle or knee early on in the race would end in disappointment. In the official advertising, the race organizers describe the terrain as “unfavourable to running,” and I was yet to learn that the hiking trail we were ascending was not what they referred to.  After about an hour, I looked a little further and noticed that we had reached the initial ridge of the mountain range, behind us, the clouds were covering Lady Grey as she slept.

By the time we reached the Tower checkpoint, we had settled into a rhythm, and the terrain was a little more runnable on the ridge with mostly exposed rock under foot. In awe of it all, instead of concentrating, I video-called my wife and kids to share this; the call was cut short as I kicked a rock, disassociating my right big toe’s nail from the nail bed.

We were at an altitude of approximately 2300m (7500ft), and as the initial nerves and excitement had settled, the scale of Skyrun became clear; we were up high, and we would be climbing continually until we reach Avoca. We were exposed, and the terrain was unforgiving; it was magnificent.

A ridgeline run with stunning views of layered mountain ridges lay endlessly ahead of us. Spirits were high, and we caught up to some familiar faces.

At the Olympus checkpoint, we were tasked to unpack our meticulously packed running packs for a compulsory kit check. By this point, the magnitude of the mountains and unforgiving exposure was evident, and we laid out the kit as asked and then less meticulously stuffed it all back into the packs.

Photo: John Williamson making use of the available water sources.

The run-up to Avoca became increasingly challenging for my brother, who had started battling with stomach issues. Over and above the discomfort, the predominant risks related to this would be dehydration and insufficient nutrition. In a race where you are already carrying all your food and treating every stream as a godsend, this is less than ideal. But he is tough as nails and pressed forth, as always.

Similarly to many everyday challenges, on the Skyrun route, the only way out is through. Unlike most other ultra races, there are no comfortable checkpoints with hot soups where you can easily be extracted. If you need to stop, you will be helped by a paramedic (who had to hike up the same unforgiving mountains to the checkpoint), and then once recovered, you will need to trek on along the same route until you get to the Balloch caves which are at 57km.

Some way after the Snowden checkpoint, we came down a valley to Old Faithful, the only reliable source of water on this section of the course situated at approximately 2500m elevation. We had been running for over six hours by this point, and this was the first significant water source to replenish our supply. Like a savanna watering hole, flasks and bladders quickly came out of our packs, and we all refilled. At this point, I proudly unveiled my sachet of Beef and Vegetable soup and mixed it into one of my soft flasks. I offered, unsurprisingly none of the other weary souls were interested. After six hours of sugary carb mixes, the obscure icy half-mixed beef and veg soup was strangely refreshing.

We pressed on steadily toward Avoca, and as the air became thinner, John’s woes worsened. To clarify, John never complains; he goes silent. He is significantly more experienced than me in these events with an impressive list of ultra marathons and adventure races under his belt. At this point, I remembered a quote by Gary Cantrell and recited, “It never always gets worse.” The logic was sound; it had been getting progressively worse for ten hours; at some point, things will just have to turn. John silently accepted my unsolicited motivation.

The air got thinner, the views got bigger, the terrain became harder. The final push up to Avoca is basically long grass peppered with boulders. Occasionally, you find a narrow goat track wide enough to place your feet heel to toe while you run (hobble) over the boulders. At this point, I could feel the effects of the elevation with a mild headache and nausea, running here was tough, but we were tougher. Single file we pressed on in our high-tech running shoes and equipment; I mean, we are ultrarunners after all... The next moment we pass a shepherd with his two dogs, effortless and routine on his Saturday morning route at 2757m. We plan, we train, we do hard things, for someone else, this is normal things.

We approached the Avoca peak, and three kids were chanting their own creation “If you do the hundred, good luck with the wall, if you do the sixty-five, the worst part is over!”. These kids had to have hiked up to this inaccessible and unforgiving place, and they were working hard at motivating the oxygen-depleted souls they encountered. The spirit of Skyrun is truly remarkable.

Shortly after the Avoca peak, we reached the Dragon’s Back, a narrow exposed ridge line. On just about every adventure we do with our boys, we find some feature which we call The Dragon’s Back, whether it be a few meters of a rock or a low wall they can run across. As this is a Skyrun reference to us, traversing the actual Dragons Back was a pretty special dad-moment.

The first big climb (40km) was behind us, and as we descended, the air became thicker again, and we were well on our way to CP5-Skidaw, where we would be able to replenish our water supply again. We got to the stream and met more runners on their knees refilling all vessels. I noticed an animal carcass just upstream, so we made the effort to trek about ten meters upstream before refilling our water. This may seem like an obvious decision, but if you’ve been running for 13 hours and it’s been 6 hours since you last drank water without rationing it, any additional effort moving up the contour is a hard decision. With great excitement, I presented the second option of my soup selection, chicken-noodle, and mixed it in a flask. The noodles weren’t the wisest call, they didn’t soften, but the soup again overall was a win.

We descended into the Balloch Valley, it was steep, slow, and technical. The swollen toe was jammed into the front of my shoe, it hurt,  but I acknowledged the pain, accepted it and moved on. We reached the bottom of the valley, and along the river, it was runnable all the way to the Balloch caves.

CP5-Balloch is the only point on the route where supporters can gather. There was music, people, food, and an incredibly gentle and caring medical team. As we entered the checkpoint, we were corralled into the medical tent where we get weighed, and all your vitals are checked and measured against the records taken at registration. If a runner is within margins, they are cleared to continue with the race. I was examined by the Doctor who I met the previous year when I spent the day at this checkpoint supporting my brother, we reminisced about the previous year and she signed me off to continue. Our friend Eben got each of us a plate of stew, and like a consolidated F1 pit crew, refilled our water, restocked our nutrition, and ensured that we didn’t get too comfortable as Balloch is essentially the eye of the storm, serenity in the centre of madness. Balloch has been the end of many Skyrun attempts, either by not passing the medical, but often, getting too comfortable and then allowing the daemons of comfort and doubt to creep in.

John tried to eat, tried to keep food down, both unsuccessful, but he knows well enough that at some point things will look up. Out of Balloch and onward toward the Wall, we went. The Wall towers ahead of you as somewhat of a practical joke. If you were not absolutely convinced that people had successfully crossed this, you would not believe that it’s part of the route. It is essentially the intersection between two mountains which forms what looks like to be a near-vertical valley. The sun set as we were approaching the base of the wall and we were following the thin blue line on my watch. We passed through a gate and started ascending only to find we were on the wrong side of the fence. Trekking back down to the gate to cross was not an option as this abortive effort was not even considerable, crossing the fence was not an option either as it was electrified. As the terrain became steeper, we finally found a slightly raised section of the fence and crawled beneath it. We were met by a few other headlamps, and navigated to the base of the wall.

We started to climb, I checked in with John, he was silent, he was not in a good place. Considering the past 15 hours and his progressive discomfort, I thought it best to give him a little space from my incessant conversation and allow him to process. I made peace with the idea that when we get over the wall, the well-known temptation to go straight on to the finish instead of turning left to Edgehill may be the point at which John decides to call it quits. I accepted that he had an extremely challenging race to this point and that under the circumstances it would not be frowned upon. I would, however, never tell him this, as in this fragile state, the seed of doubt is all it could take to break somebody’s unwavering drive. As I put one foot above the other up the wall, I felt increasingly strong and enjoyed the ridiculousness of the race. A vertical ascent of over 500m in less than 3km and I had made it to the top. A few meters of ridge where you step over another barbed wire fence, synonymous with this route, however this one with steel steps. I stuck two stickers on the post. One for the Trail Hounds, the trail running group I started with Max and Jackson, and the other, one which I have been tagging trig beacons with for the past few years for the people traversing a different type of mountain.

This was a thin place, in more ways than one.

John made it to the top, and we started the descent in a group. We were joined by familiar faces, Chris and Nelius who were racing the 65km. Everyone speaks of the Wall and obviously, as with most sports, you fear going up, but going down this thing was even more absurd. As we descended, John started talking, by the time we made it to the bottom, we were running, and John was clearly back in the game. It had only taken him 18 hours to recover. As we approached the Wartrail Country Club, we congratulated our fellow 65km runners on their imminent finish, and we turned left to Edgehill.

We were now comfortably running at a decent pace up to CP7-Edgehill where we entered a shed. The calm volunteers helped by filling our bottles while we were served soup (actual hot soup). A second compulsory kit check was done and a medic asked how we and our feet were managing. I reluctantly agreed to her taping my blisters as we agreed to not discuss the pounding toe, but the taping helped the blisters, and I was most grateful. Out we stepped and started the approach to Bridal Pass, the actual big climb of the race. I led our navigation, and we silently pressed forth up this +-900m climb up into the thin air. Occasionally John stopped me to turn off our headlamps and take it all in. This is his favourite part of the course and the part he had spoken of since his first time there. There was no light pollution, the sky was clear, we were amongst the stars; this was a thin place, a place where the border between here and there is so thin and the veil between this world and the eternal is permeable.

The relentless climb turned into a hypnotic rhythm and before we knew it, we approached what appeared to be a runway, two parallel strings of lights just below the ridge. At the end of the short runway, there was a marshal sleeping in a corpse pose in the grass. Logic prevailed, and we realized he was alive, he woke and checked us off at WP1, the top of Bridal Pass.

From here to CP8-The Turn was the most challenging part of the race for me. We were at high altitude, not far from the Lesotho border, in what seemed like a dystopian landscape where the thin blue line on my watch was the only guide to navigating the crisscrossing of deep eroded paths. In an oxygen-deprived daze, I followed in silence as John took lead on navigation along what felt like an endless ridge toward CP8-The Turn. The light at the checkpoint seemingly moving from one ridge to the next as we were not getting any closer to it. The sun began to rise over Lesotho as we approached The Turn. These checkpoints are set up in some of the most hostile environments, and the organizers and volunteers need to trek and camp there to support the race. In a dreamlike state we briefly chatted with the race director, Adrian Saffy, and went on our way toward The Hut. His stern yet supportive demeanour instilling confidence in our worn out bodies.

We trotted along, and as we descended a little the oxygen increased, and we were back in strong form. Ever since John’s recovery descending the wall, we had continually been passing other runners, we were running strong, and as the sun rose, spirits were high. We entered The Hut, and the gentleman told me how he has been manning this aid station for twenty odd years. The volunteers at these races take a lot of pride in their selfless participation, and I like to believe they gain satisfaction from knowing that they play an invaluable role in every successful finish across the line. He gave us some soup, and we went on our merry way.

The journey to CP9-Hallstone proved to be more runnable than expected, allowing us to connect with other runners along the way. Hallstone peak, with its distinctive flat rock silhouette became visible in the distance as we approached. Leading a small group, we relied once again on the guidance of the thin blue line, navigating our ascent straight up the face of this outcrop.

Upon reaching the summit, we were greeted by cheerful checkpoint volunteers who provided us with clear instructions for the descent. One volunteer had made the effort to climb down and stack a cairn to mark the optimal point of entry. Despite its initial simplicity, what followed was perhaps the most preposterous descent I've ever encountered, surpassing the trails of the preceding 24 hours.

For the next kilometre, we descended a grassy, rocky gulley, employing an exorcist-like spider crawl to prevent slipping and tumbling down, while grasping onto stinging nettles for support. The gradient persisted for another two kilometres, leading us across uneven terrain scattered with long grass bulbs, offering no stable footing.

Upon reaching solid rock, we resumed running, traversing the ridge, which at this juncture felt unending. As we crossed the crest, the sight of the final river crossing and the finish line greeted us, with the announcer's cheers echoing over the PA system. Overwhelmed with emotion, the juxtaposition of eagerness to finish and reluctance for the journey to end was irreconcilable.

Crossing the line, we were met with cheers and the race director placed a medal around my neck and another official handed me a beer. Even though the winner had finished fifteen hours prior, our finish was celebrated with as much enthusiasm and passion as theirs. As we settled down on bean bags at the finish line, we lay there absorbing the atmosphere and cheered each finisher until the last one crossed the line with the sweepers. I got the undeniable impression that at this race, every finish is revered as a collective success.

After 30 hours of adventure alongside my brother, I was filled with gratitude. Grateful for the respite from running, for the ability to walk and move freely, for the privilege of sharing this experience with my brother, and for the profound moments spent in a thin place over the past 30 hours. Gratitude for my wife and my kids and my very normal life, gratitude for being so damn alive.

To Skyrun, the thin blue line between Lady Grey and Wartrail, I offer my heartfelt thanks.

Paul Carter: 105,62km – 4771m - 30:16:43