SUNDAY PROFILE : Against the Sun : John Rosmus of Fullerton knows how to make the 146-mile climb from the deadly hot Death Valley floor to the snowy summit of Mt. Whitney. One stride at a time.
The tumbleweeds, they don’t ask questions. The sand dunes are not impressed. A man jogs alone down a molten-hot highway. The desert doesn’t ask why. The desert couldn’t care less.
Back home, the questions come rat-a-tat-tat. Run from Death Valley to the top of Mt. Whitney? Are you serious? Are you some kind of nut? But as John Rosmus starts his long trek across the Death Valley floor, the only questions are his own.
Will he make it to the 14,495-foot summit of Mt. Whitney?
Will heatstroke, hypothermia or altitude sickness take hold?
What sort of hallucinations will visit him on the 146-mile course, during those long stretches without sleep?
When Rosmus takes his place on the starting line at Badwater, the lowest point in the Western Hemisphere at 282 feet below sea level, the Fullerton resident does so alone, at 6 a.m. That start time will put him in the middle of Death Valley in the heat of the July day.
The “official” race, the Hi-Tec Badwater Ultramarathon, featuring two dozen entrants from around the country, a corporate sponsor and $2,000 in prizes, won’t start for another 12 hours. The evening start allows contestants a cooler, nighttime trek across the desert floor.
Rosmus ran the Hi-Tec event the past two years--dropping out with stomach problems in ‘93, finishing in ’94 despite blisters the size of fried eggs. This time, the 46-year-old hockey shop owner wants the extra challenge of the daytime heat.
Rosmus versus the sun.
He is an ultrarunner, one of a small group of athletes who contend that a race is barely worth running unless it pushes you to extremes. Ultrarunners bypass standard 26.2-mile marathons, embracing instead events like the Western States Endurance Run, which stretches 100 miles over the High Sierra. Or the Trans-American Footrace, where runners hoof it from Huntington Beach to New York City, averaging 45 miles a day, for 65 days.
It was that quest for a grueling challenge that, back in 1973, brought ultra-adventurers Kenneth Crutchlow and Paxton Beale to Badwater. In surveying a map of the area, the two realized that the highest and lowest points in the contiguous U.S. were separated by a mere 146 miles. Badwater-to-Whitney was born.
The Badwater race, Rosmus says, “is the most difficult thing I can do on my budget.”
Difficult? Try diabolical.
When’s the last time you made a 15,000-foot elevation gain--without your seat belt fastened? Or ran for hours through what feels like the inside of a Thanksgiving Day oven? By the way: If you’re squeamish about all your toenails falling off, you’d better pass on Badwater to Whitney.
Over the years, the course has attracted its share of characters. Ben Jones, a general practitioner in Lone Pine and the self-appointed “mayor” of Badwater, cooled off during his run by submerging himself in an ice-filled casket. Richard Benyo, the course historian, trained for the first round-trip assault on the course (Badwater to Whitney to Badwater) by sitting in a 150-degree sauna where he alternated doing calisthenics with guzzling water and reading Dostoevsky.
Another year, an innovative athlete striving for the shortest distance between two points crossed the salt bed flats on cross-country skis before scaling snowcapped Whitney. While creative, his trek isn’t counted alongside those that follow the established course--the highways that connect Badwater and Whitney.
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It is not just the difficulty of the run that draws Rosmus to Death Valley. He loves the desert, feels at peace in its solitude and has an affinity for its inhabitants who eke out a living any way they can. He finds the harsh terrain inspiring. Fourteen-karat cliffs, endless skies, whitecapped salt flats. Sand, gravel, rock.
Even in the brutal summer heat, Rosmus, a Boston native and former ice hockey player, manages to feel right at home. “To go out there and run, even though I’ve been beaten to death by the heat . . . I don’t know, it’s normal for me.”
Many outside the ultrarunning realm dub him crazy. Including his mother.
“I don’t know where he got it from,” Mary Rosmus says with a laugh. Growing up, her only son was quiet yet independent, finding his way around Boston by bus at age 10. Rosmus wasn’t yet a teen when his father died in a household fall. Later, Rosmus enlisted in the Army and served two tours of duty as a field radio operator in Vietnam.
Rosmus dismisses the notion that his obsession to run, as he acknowledges it, might be born from his past. He runs because he runs.
“Some people like to work on their cars all weekend. Some like to play tennis,” he says. “I like to do this.”
Martha, his wife of 21 years, knows that all too well. Though she can’t remember the last time a vacation didn’t revolve around John’s running, she says she supports her husband and his No. 1 pursuit.
“I think he wants to achieve something that’s so very difficult for the majority,” Martha says. “It’s just a real quest.”
At certain stages last week, that quest seemed downright quixotic.
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Before starting the run, Rosmus jogs out onto the salt pan and kneels beside the mineral pool that gives Badwater its name. He scoops a bit of the crusty salt into a plastic sandwich bag, promising himself he’ll sprinkle it on the summit of Whitney. His hope: to reach the summit in less than 55 hours 8 minutes the record for a morning start.
He is anxious as he steps toward the pedestrian crosswalk that doubles as the Badwater-to-Whitney starting line. The desert is cooking and it isn’t yet 6 a.m.: The forecast calls for highs in the 120s. With no fanfare, Rosmus begins.
For the next two days, he’ll follow a seemingly endless black ribbon highway, battling wind and sand and sun. At night, he’ll run carrying a small flashlight to guide him through the darkness.
He is aided along the way by his four-person support crew, including ultrarunners Fred Shufflebarger of Laguna Beach and Dan Harshburger of Huntington Beach. At least one person is with Rosmus at all times. The crew keeps pace with a U-Haul truck stocked with 25 gallons of water, 12 gallons of sports drinks, bottles of lemonade, fruit punch, ginger ale and cola as well as peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches, cans of chicken noodle soup and Beanee Weenee, energy bars and Tootsie Rolls.
While some runners try to cover the course nonstop, most make provisions for resting along the way. Inside Rosmus’ rented U-Haul, a cot is set up, ready when needed.
To combat the intense sunlight, Rosmus dresses in white lightweight cotton pants and long-sleeve cotton dress shirt. A cotton cap with long flaps to shade ears and neck. “John Rosmus: The Sheik of the Burning Sands,” Shufflebarger jokes.
His crew watches Rosmus closely for signs of dehydration, a precursor to heat illness. To help keep him cool, ice cubes are continually stuffed in his hat and pockets.
Rosmus wears nylons. His wife’s knee-highs, to be exact. Rolled to his ankles and tucked under his running socks, they reduce friction between his feet and shoes. In the battle against blisters, this is Rosmus’ secret weapon.
He also has with him six pairs of running shoes, most customized to help fight blisters. Some have parts of the tops cut out; some the sides. Some even have ovals cut out of the soles. The idea is to remove the pressure points on his feet as soon as they develop. As soon as Rosmus senses a hot spot, he stops, and Shufflebarger uses a utility knife to cut a new opening in the leather. At times, he is changing shoes nearly every mile.
Rosmus reaches Stovepipe Wells, the 43-mile mark, less than 10 hours after leaving Badwater. He is running faster than he had expected and is feeling almost decent as he begins his climb out of Death Valley toward 4,956-foot Towne Pass.
By mile 77, just past the race’s halfway point, though, Rosmus is very discouraged. Nausea is hitting him hard. His stomach is so queasy that he asks Shufflebarger to punch him in the gut. Shufflebarger declines. Rosmus tells himself a few more miles and he’ll call it quits. But sips of ice water revive him, and he heads out again.
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“To be really good, you have to be very driven. A little nutsy. Probably should have some therapy,” Shufflebarger says.
He knows of what he speaks. One of Southern California’s top ultrarunners--he twice won the Angeles Crest trail run, a 100-miler from Wrightwood to Pasadena--Shufflebarger understands the mentality of those who push beyond normal limits. What he doesn’t understand is why anyone would run Badwater.
“I’ve never been attracted to anything you can’t finish in 24 hours,” he says.
The longer courses have their own demons. Like hallucinations.
During last year’s race, Rosmus saw a nonexistent row of apartment buildings suddenly loom above the desert floor.
This year, the image of a primitive man wearing only a loincloth and black headband leaps at Rosmus from the darkness. Hours later, Rosmus sees a man in a shiny, silver jacket standing next to Shufflebarger. Shufflebarger can’t see the figure. That makes Rosmus downright cranky. The crew convinces him it’s time to take a break.
He does but 20 minutes later is on the road again.
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Two days after leaving Badwater, Rosmus reaches the Mt. Whitney trail head. That marks the finish line for the Hi-Tec-sponsored event, but it’s just another weary beginning for the runners who, bound by tradition, choose to push on to the summit. Eleven steep, rugged miles to go.
Badwater ’95 turns out to be the most treacherous in years. Of the 24 Hi-Tec race entrants, 15 make it to the Mt. Whitney trail head. Only four of those reach the summit. Conditions are bad high and low. Death Valley tops out at over 125 degrees. Several dehydrated runners receive IVs. Those attempting the summit encounter high winds, hail and deep snow.
Not knowing the extent of the conditions above, Rosmus, armed with a flashlight and accompanied by Harshburger, starts climbing the summit trail late Friday night. After two and a half hours, cold, wet and getting nowhere fast, Rosmus decides it isn’t meant to be. They turn around. Rosmus sends Harshburger home.
Saturday afternoon, after a few hours of contemplation in Lone Pine, Rosmus is at it again.
He secures a permit from the Mt. Whitney ranger station, which will allow him to camp along the trail. He hikes to 10,000 feet, wrapping himself in a nylon tent and huddling in a small cave to fight off the cold.
The wind is so strong it almost knocks him off his feet as he walks.
After a nearly sleepless night, he’s up before dawn, stuffs the tent in his knapsack and starts up the snow-covered trail. At one point, he is forced to climb a 500-foot wall of snow.
Ninety-nine and a half hours after leaving Badwater, Rosmus stands on the summit of Mt. Whitney.
He is freezing, hungry, exhausted beyond words. He signs a registration form inside the tiny survival hut to prove he made it, then walks outside. Alone above the clouds. A very big high.
He takes from his knapsack the desert salt he has carried.
Says Rosmus:
“I just sprinkled it like the ashes of the dead.”
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On the Run
Wednesday, July 26
Leaves Badwater (elevation minus 282) at 5:50 a.m. Following California 190 through Death Valley, reaches Furnace Creek at 9:15 a.m. and Stovepipe Wells at 3:45 p.m. Begins 17-mile climb to 4,956-foot Towne Pass. At 10 p.m. has 61 miles behind him.
Thursday, July 27
Descends into tiny Panamint Springs, elevation 2,000, by 5 a.m. Begins steep climb to Father Crowley Viewpoint (elevation 4,000 feet), and descends into Owens Valley. Turns north on 395, reaching Lone Pine (elevation 3,740) at 11:30 p.m.
Friday, July 28
After climbing steep Whitney Portal Road, reaches Mt. Whitney trail head (8,360 feet) at 6:37 a.m. Rests and begins first attempt to summit at 10:40 p.m. After two and a half harrowing hours, calls it quits, goes back down mountain and sends crew home.
Saturday, July 29
After resting in Lone Pine, decides to give the summit a second try. Hikes three hours and camps at 10,000 feet. Barely sleeps due to the wind and cold.
Sunday, July 30
Breaks camp at 5:30 a.m. Reaches summit (elevation 14,495) at 9:22 a.m. Signs registration form at summit. Sprinkles Badwater salt. Heads home.
* Times staffer Gail Fisher contributed to this story.