2021 Hengill 100k Ultra in Iceland by MPF Athlete Jill Lizotte
Most people have probably never heard of the Hengill Ultra. There is a good reason for that, it's in Iceland to start, and there are no big Pro-Ultra racing names at this race. About 90% of the field is made up of people who live in Iceland. But this race is a little gem out on an island whose weather is as fierce as its beauty. The Hengill Ultra 106k consists of two lollipop loops. Each loop with roughly 7,000ft of climbing, most of that in the first 15 miles of the loop. Starting in the town of Hveragerði, the race leads you through the Reykjadalur Valley, where you could stay awhile and soak in the hot spring river when not racing. But, on race day, you run through Reykjadalur and travel out to the Hengill volcano range and the peak of Skeggi Mountain.
The race starts with temps in the low 40; it is not raining for the moment. I am running with my husband Kevan and our friend Adam. We had decided earlier in the week to run together, due to the horrible weather conditions. Our first loop is challenging, there are three freezing cold river crossings on the out and back, and since it has been raining on and off, everything is muddy. The trails are a mix of sheep trails and volcanic rock that juts out of the ground making every step treacherous. The climbs are not super technical, and the climbing keeps me warm. At the 25k aid station, the route brings you about a mile down a long, steep descent. The temps begin dropping, the wind picks up, and the fog encompasses us. It was freezing cold; our hands were painful from the temps and wind. My husband, who has Raynaud's, was not doing well. I helped him put his poles away to ball his hands up in his gloves and attempt to warm them.
We make our way over the mountain through a field of mud to find ourselves standing at the edge of a glacier. The first glacier we crossed was scary; there was a narrow path on the side of the mountain. As you looked down, it seemed to go on forever into a foggy abyss. I tried not to imagine myself slipping and sliding down the mountain. The rest of the loop consisted of several more glacier crossings. Due to the thick fog, you felt as though you were hiking off the edge of the earth. Towards the end of the first loop, my husband tells me what I had known for a while; he would not be running another loop. His hands had been so bad that he was afraid he would get frostbite if he went back out. And then it was down to two. We emerged off the mountain to where we find ourselves on the out-and-back. Again, we run through the soppy fields of ankle-deep mud-water. And back across the freezing rivers down to the hot springs. As we closed in on the end of our first loop, Adam starts falling further and further behind. We make it back to the start, where he decides that he is just so miserable out there that he is done as well. I knew this was coming. I had been preparing myself mentally. And then there was one.
I head back onto the course in a little over 9hrs. The wind and cold have taken their toll on me. But I keep moving, telling myself that I'm fine and to focus on the moment. About 15 miles or so in, I run up behind an Icelandic woman; later, I will learn her name is Jetta. As she picks her way through the volcanic rock, she asks if I want to pass. I think for a moment and decide that for now, I will stay just where I am and inaudibly mumble something about being okay, and we're the same pace. We approach the 25k aid station, and the inevitable happens; it begins to rain and rain and rain! I descend the trail stairs to the aid station, where my Jetta ominously tells me to "get comfortable, in Iceland once it starts raining; it is here to stay." This was not just some rain though, as we would soon find out, it was a hurricane. I resigned myself to this fact and prepared to head back out. I put on my waterproof pants, downed some food, and start the trek back up to the peak. The rain became more brutal, the winds became more robust, and the fog thicker as if that were even possible. I thought to myself, I cannot stop; to stop would be dangerous. I no longer could run as the wind was so intense, I felt my body being pushed sideways with every step forward. It started to hail, and the icey snow pierced my eyes. I couldn't look up, so I just kept my head down and willed my body forward. As the weather seemed to get even worse, which was hard to imagine, I realized I could no longer see my Icelandic friend. I decided to pull to the side and wait for her to bridge the gap. Finally, she emerged from the pea soup.
We made our way together over the final glacier, but after we stepped off the ice on the other side, I couldn't see any course flags or the Icelandic trail markers, which are just simple 3 ft tall sticks. We moved forward slowly, looking for any sign of a flag or another runner, and soon realized that they had all blown away with the hurricane winds. I had only been able to download the course onto Strava, so it was on my phone. I fumbled to get my phone out and my soaked gloves off. At this point, I had been out there for about 14 hours and had not slept well over 24. I struggled to figure out where we were in conjunction with the trail. We were close, so close, but there were no landmarks.
Soon we saw a runner (the next day, I would learn her name was Kristun) close by; we decided to track her down as she must be on the trail. We approached, and she said the track is over here. She said something about the map on her watch, but her accent was so thick all I understood was that she had a map. I followed her as she ran hard off in one direction. She then stops and looks at her watch. That's when I finally understand what she had said, her GPS was frozen. We were not on course. Kristun was freaking out and said, we need to go back to where we were. Unsure what to do and not thinking clearly, I followed. When we got back to where we had initially met, I pulled out my phone to look at the map. I fumble, getting my gloves off; my hands were painful, red, and mottled. I thought to myself that I was probably getting frostbite. I needed to keep moving. I struggled again, looking at the map and figuring out which direction the trail was. Kristun and Jetta took one look and said, we are above the track, and we need to head down the side of the mountain. I find myself running after Kristin again; she is running frantically and is hard to keep up with.
As we continue down the side of the mountain, we find what we think is our trail; we all let out a sigh of relief. But which way do we go, and where are the flags? Kristun is still in a frenzy; she yells, it's this way as she runs off. Jetta and I are chasing her, but no flags appear, and I became leary that we were going in the right direction. I run to catch up with Kristun and tell her we need to stop and make sure we were heading in the right direction. We attempted to duck next to a large rock, which offered no protection from the wind. As I shivered uncontrollably, trying to make heads or tails of the trail map, Kristun called the safety director to let him know we were all lost. She reported back that he had no way of knowing where we were. Of course, not; we are just somewhere on the side of Mt Skeggi, somewhere between two aid stations. I thought about the 21 ultra-runners that died in China just a couple of weeks ago. I thought to myself, "you need to wake up and figure this out. If you don't get off this mountain, you could all die as well". That's when it hit me; instead of just looking at the map and trying to figure it out ourselves, I needed to try turning on the GPS tracking to see if I could get a signal. I don't know why I hadn't thought of it sooner, but I can only imagine it had something to do with no sleep. And thankfully, it was working; we began running slowly and zoomed in to see which direction our blue line was going. We were moving further away. I called out to the ladies that we needed to turn around. Finally, we knew which way to go. If we just kept straight, we should be able to intersect our trail. After what felt like forever, I hear Kristun yell that she sees a flag.
At last, we are back in course! But there is still a long way to go. Kristun took off, flying down the trail. I stayed back with Jetta; there was no way I was leaving her at this point. The way back to the finish was long and hard. The once muddy trails have now turned into muddy slip n’ slides. We used our poles to stay upright as we negotiated the descents. Jetta could not run anymore, so we power hiked most of the way to the finish line. The wind, which I had hoped would die down once we got off the volcano, barely gave us any relief. We just kept moving, taking turns pacing. At long last, we reached the hot springs for one last time. This was the point when we knew we were close. We were out of the fog and the rain, and the wind was finally at a low roar. We looked out at the valley to see the beautiful landscape that surrounded us. Iceland is so gorgeous, and we knew we would finish.