[Did you miss Part 1? Read it here.]

At Watson’s Monument, wind whips the American flag. There is snow on the ground, gray with age, unbothered by the morning sun.

A shiver rolls up my arms, more nerves than chill. Ahead lies the Granite Chief Wilderness, which last year was the most stressful part of the entire ride. For months, I’ve suppressed my dread of the wild train of horses, racing and lurching through the boulders and bogs, with scarcely time to glimpse the technical terrain before plunging through.

It was all I could do to keep Atlas off the horse ahead of us, while another pressed behind, swept along like foam on an ocean wave. Reckless! A scramble of hooves on slick rock, the occasional bog that grew deeper with every passing horse. Reckless! He’d fallen once, slipped and gone down and dumped me over his shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise that lasted until Christmas. I’d scrambled back aboard, used every ounce of heels-down, core-tight, pressure-and-release, keep-it-together, stay-with-me-buddy negotiation I could muster to get us safely down the other side.

Reckless!

And today? Today, a significant percentage of my attention is locked on Atlas’ left hind foot. His glue-on Glove – the armor I’d counted on to protect his precious hoof for all 100 miles – lay abandoned somewhere in the first five. In its place is a strap-on boot, whose velcro gaiter around his fetlock feels woefully inadequate to secure it on this slick and rugged trail. One soaking step in a muddy stream, one bound between rocks, and he’ll step right out of that boot. Maybe tear the gaiter, rendering it useless. If I can even find it. If I can even get him to stand still, in some tiny notch with horses racing by, to put it back on.

I do not have another spare.

And this is no trail for an unprotected hoof, even if we could take it at a walk – which we cannot. Not in that flood of charging horseflesh. Not if we want to reach Auburn on time.

All those months of preparation – of conditioning in ice and snow and wind and mud and sun and dust and sweat, of experimenting with feed and bodywork and tack, of dollars spent and bets hedged and fingers crossed – now it all now hangs on whether I can keep Atlas calm enough to move smoothly enough to keep that boot in place. That, and a whole lot of luck.

But… What is this? I hear only the crunch of Atlas’ and Jericho’s hooves. Only the snap of the flag and wind in my ears.

A ribbon glimmers to our right, just where I expect it to be. “This way,” I say. Tani and I guide our horses from the broad, sloping road onto single track that will draw us down the throat of the Granite Chief.

We are on trail. Definitely on trail. I remember it from last year. But where has everybody gone?

Somehow, miraculously, we have managed to float here in a giant bubble – just Tani and Jericho and Atlas and me. Is it possible? Is it real?

I thank every lucky star, invisible in the brightening sky, as we descend from the naked ski slopes. Granite Chief is not a menace today! The warrior sleeps. His rocky breast flows with spring water, blossoms with wildflowers and green. Dark shadows paint cracks between stones awash with sunlight. We’ve been up for hours, riding hard, but suddenly it feels like dawn again.

I begin to hope.

Every few minutes, Tani calls reassurance. “It’s still on!”

Still on! The boot…and the game!

Atlas splashes through shallow water, shakes his head at a swarm of gnats in the reedy grass. I’m saying something over my shoulder to Tani when the reins go slack. Then drop.

What the…! Where did the bridle go?

I leap off, landing in mud that spatters my breeches. Grab Atlas’ headstall and pull it back over his ears before he realizes it was gone. Exchange an incredulous look with Tani. “That could have been bad!”

But, it wasn’t. Isn’t.

The Granite Chief is spectacular, now that I have time to see it. We pick our way over great slabs of stone, moving as quickly as we can, guiding our horses through the technical bits and soaking in the storied wilderness. This will be our last chance to see it. In two years, the trail will be rerouted. This section – this terrible, glorious, historic section – will be replaced by higher and faster terrain. My feelings are mixed, but right now I am grateful. Grateful to paint it in memory before it is gone.

And then it’s over. We’ve descended the wildflower-studded switchbacks. Just a few horses, a few discussions with Atlas about keeping his head. No endless wrestling match in an endless conga line. No lost boot.

At Lyon Ridge, Atlas drinks. I feed him a carrot from my saddle bag as more horses gather. We’ve caught up with some, and others have caught up with us. But it’s okay now. Atlas has cleared the emotional hurdle of the start, released his need to fret and charge and pass. Surely he remembers the 79 miles still ahead.

Back on trail, I’m surprised to find that we are accompanied by last year’s winner. This year, Jay Mero is riding a younger horse, taking it slower. We chat a bit as Tani and Jericho move ahead, Jay behind, Atlas between.

And the, Jay says it. The unbelievable.

“Is he supposed to have a boot on that foot?”

My heart drops into my stomach. No. No no no no no.

I lean to look at Atlas’ left hind. The boot is still there, the gaiter still secure! But then…

“No,” Jay says. “The other one.”

And I realize. The other glue-on has come unglued. It’s all I can manage not to do the same.

My entire body winces. I know where we are. Not even to Cougar Rock. To Elephant’s Trunk. To the first vet check at Red Star. (Will he be sound by then?) And even if he is, we’ll have over six miles more before we reach our crew – and spare boots – at Robinson Flat.

Will we complete?

“I don’t have another spare,” I say.

“I do,” Tani says.

“You DO?”

She does. It is the right size. Hope surges…but that is not my boot. It is Tani’s spare. What if Jericho needs it?

“You can borrow it.”

“Are you SURE?”

She insists.

Weak with gratitude, I accept the gift.

This is easier said than done, as it means pulling aside at a wide spot and asking Atlas to stand still enough for me to get the thing on. The second glue-on has left behind a chunk of adhesive on the hoof. I can’t remove it, so the strap-on’s fit is imperfect. Still, it’s the best I can do.

Drenched in sweat from effort and nerves, I mount back up. Jay has ridden on, and Tani and I have become part of a loose string of horses trotting along the ridge. Atlas leads, and Tani watches his booted hinds.

It is time, now, to resolve the question we’ve batted around for the past two days in camp: Do we go over Cougar Rock, or around it?

So many have framed the question as “photo vs. buckle.” I’ve countered that these are not mutually exclusive. Clearly, they are not. And yet… Is the risk of going over the treacherous, iconic rock for the glorious, iconic photo worth possible injury and a pull?

I went over last year. I trust Atlas to do it again, and had planned to.

But now, with both hind feet in strap-on boots, it’s out of the question. One good leap – exactly the kind that is mandatory at Cougar Rock – could launch him right out of those boots. They would tumble down the mountainside, irrecoverable. And that would end our ride.

The bypass comes into view. “I’m going around,” Tani calls.

“Me too.”

And so we do, on a narrow single track with a view over our left shoulders of other horses cresting Cougar Rock. I feel a pang as I glimpse the photographer on the far side of the trail. That is the shot – the one with yawning emptiness in the background – I wanted!

But it will have to wait. This year, I want the buckle.

At Red Star, I electrolyte Atlas. Check his boots while he snatches a bite of hay. Trot him for the vet. Sound!

We collect our card, locate Tani and Jericho, and resume progress up the gravel road. Here, with the thrill of the start worn off and the day’s heat rising, the earth hard beneath hooves and stretching endless over climbs and canyons, the unknowns echoing in my mind, here I am sobered. Dubious. Resolute.

Will we complete?

But I can do nothing more about the future now. We simply ride, until from the woods emerge voice and colors. People line the road, hundreds of people in clusters of matching shirts. They cheer as though we were someone important, even as they scan through us looking for their rider.

We do the same. Familiar faces, red shirts… There!

Bobbi greets me with a bottle of water to pour over Atlas’ neck. “Stay on,” she says. “We’ll pull your tack up there.”

Ahead, more red shirts wait with a cart.

I am happy to obey. Happy to have arrived where knowledgable friends wait, their whole weekend laser-focused on getting us to the finish line. Happy to dismount and stay with crew-chief Darlene and Atlas while others haul his tack to our crewing area.

Oh, but… “My ride card!” I call after them. “It’s in a ziplock, center pommel.”

They don’t hear.

Someone runs after, relays the message. They return with baggie in hand as Atlas and I reach the pulser. I smile gratitude, open the bag.

The wrong bag. This is my trail map. “Shoot, sorry! There’s another ziplock in there with the ride card.”

They run again. I pull Atlas aside, feeling every beat of the clock in my chest.

Interesting, I think. Interesting how such long races can be won or lost on little mistakes like these. I should have thought to warn my crew that there were two ziplocks in my saddle bag, so they could make sure they had the right one.

But I didn’t, and so we wait.

Of course, we aren’t racing to win today. The pressure I feel is attached to Atlas’ hind feet. So much of this hold will be taken up by dealing with that problem!

But first, here is my ride card, in the hand of a panting crew member.

We pulse. Trot. Get smiles and a hug and permission to proceed.

In the back of my mind, though, I have registered that Atlas didn’t trot as enthusiastically as I’d like. He normally keeps right up with me, bounding along, about to pass. This trot-out was perfectly acceptable. Sound and willing. Just not quite 100% Atlas.

But then, he’s just come off 36 tough miles of trail with no more than a few minutes’ break. He trotted like that here last year.

Of course, last year, we pulled at the finish.

Will we complete?

Our crew has set up in a flattish-spot, with an array of feeds awaiting Atlas. They drop me into a chair with snacks and sunscreen, and I attempt to take care of myself while they deal with preparations for the next, long leg to Foresthill. They stow extra water bottles on my saddle, fill my hydration pack to the brim. The canyons lie ahead.

And now…those boots. We pull them off and discuss our options:

Sticking with the strap-ons runs the risk of gaiter rubs. That alone could get us pulled. Then again, Atlas isn’t particularly prone to such rubs. Then again, again, this is a very long trail full of water and sand and debris.

And of course, strap-ons can come off. Even if I manage to cram two spares, plus one of a different size for a front hoof, into my saddlebag, it’s possible that won’t be enough. Not to mention the time and hassle involved.

What about re-gluing? We do have the supplies!

But I, personally, have only glued on a Glove once before. It’s different than the Versa’s, trickier, with a greater risk of getting a bead of glue under the sole where it hardens like a tiny pebble. That’s what happens if you use too much glue. But I certainly don’t want to use too little.

“And there’s no guarantee that glued boots will stay on,” I say, pointing to Atlas’ hinds. “See Exhibit A.”

Darlene nods. “Maybe we shouldn’t mess with what’s working. Let’s keep doing what we’re doing.”

I’m the most comfortable with a rasp, so I knock the leftover adhesive off Atlas’ hooves. Then, Darlene works her magic with vetwrap and Gloves and a mallet. Those boots are as stuck on as it’s possible to be!

And now, it’s time to go.

We rejoin Tani and Jericho, wait for the timer’s go-ahead. And then we are off, with a comfortable spread from other teams. Atlas leads the way along the Pucker Point trail, where Tani and I finally have the time and brain space to chat. We’ve seen each other at rides for years, but never properly talked. She has been doing this much longer than I, and riding with her is a gift.

We pass the vet check at Last Chance, thank the volunteers for slices of watermelon, descend into the first canyon. I get off to lead Atlas; Tani chooses to ride.

The decent is just as long as I remember. Maybe longer. But eventually, we reach the creek at the bottom.

Fortunately, Atlas isn’t particularly interested in walking into the glorious water. We’re about to start climbing, and there’s no better way to lose a boot than to get it wet, then trot uphill. I sponge him on the bank, taking care to keep his hind feet dry. When I’m not looking, one of my favorite photos is snapped.

And then we climb. At the top, Deadwood. We vet through. Descend again into the sweltering blur of charred trees in El Dorado Canyon. There is no water at the bottom here, except in warm tanks manned by kind volunteers. We are weary now, weak from the sun, and still we have to climb.

But this is Atlas’ forte! He powers up the trail, and switchback by switchback the burned trunks fall away.

“Nearly there,” I say to Tani at least twice before it’s actually true. And then, the sign comes into view. Michigan Bluff!

I’ll always be fond of this little town, this oasis where strangers cheer and crew offers welcome relief.

And Layne is here! I’m glad to have her eye on Atlas. She feeds him a small mash while I drink iced tea. It’s only a short break, and we are off again. Just a couple miles to Chicken Hawk.

A little down, a little up. We’re nearing Mile 64, it’s late afternoon, and the spank is really out of Atlas’ step by now. Mine, too, but I try not to let him know it. I want to give him energy, not drain it further.

At Chicken Hawk, there is shade. A vet check. Atlas pulses down easily, gets good scores on metabolic parameters, but I feel him dragging on the trot. Really dragging, needing to be towed a little.

Yes, we pass. Yes, he’s sound. And yes, I’m keenly aware that he was like this here last year, too.

I administer electrolytes and BCAAs. Ride on. Four miles through the last canyon, eyes peeled for the manzanita trees that mean we’re nearly to the top.

And then: Foresthill!

On the theory that Atlas has grown tired of me, and would benefit from a different handler whose language he speaks, I hand him over to Layne for his trot-out. Indeed, he looks better! His get excellent scores, and there’s no question we’ll be moving on.

Something about the energy of Foresthill allows a deep reset. The sun is dropping, leaving behind a promise of cooler hours to come. We have friends here. A massage for Atlas. Fresh clothes for me.

A friend touches my leg as I mount up to depart. “How does this feel compared to last year?”

It is meant to be encouraging, because Atlas looks so good.

But he looked this good last year, too. And I answer with the truth: It feels about the same.

Thirty-two miles remain. Thirty-two miles, now depleted and cloaked in falling darkness. Thirty-two miles of crumbling single track, beneath trees whose shadows layer black on black. Thirty-two miles, still with strap-on boots and a river crossing ahead.

Thirty-two miles with the question pulsing in my blood:

Will we complete?