Tevis.
It was everything I expected. It was nothing like I expected. It was more and different than I expected.
Experiencing Tevis firsthand replaced the coloring book rendering in my head with a high-resolution photograph. It changed campfire tales into a Hollywood movie. Transformed shadowy images into living beings. Reimagined me.
Here is my story.
Ride Camp at Robie
It wasn’t yet noon when we reached Bockway Summit. The sign came up fast.
“There it is!”
Mr. Sweaty just managed to brake (gently-ish) in time to make the hard right turn onto Mt. Watson Road with our big LQ trailer in tow.
“Welcome Tevis Riders,” said the sign, and my stomach flipped. Tevis riders. That meant me. We were here.
Well, sort of.
Actually getting to the Robie Equestrian Park meant trundling six miles along a single, paved lane that wound through a series of climbs and descents. Lake Tahoe glimmered through the trees, far below on our left.
The road went on so long that I began to worry that we’d somehow missed our turn onto U.S. Forest Service Road 6. Surely we hadn’t…but what if we had? Turning our rig around on this road would be impossible. I imagined winding our way all the way down to the lake, only to turn around and heave back up again.
Suddenly, there it was! The sign.
TEVIS.
We turned onto the gravel road. Only a few more miles… but now, even slower. We crept over water bars and down, down, down, around hairpin turns and past views of the rugged Sierra Nevadas. The mountain range, studded with granite slopes and bristling evergreens, reached for a distant horizon.
My stomach somersaulted. “Wow,” I breathed. “We’re going to ride over that.”
At one point, we passed a Start sign. A trail disappeared into the trees. Looking over my shoulder, I realized that this was the actual start of the ride! That meant we were only a mile from camp, and this road was the part we would walk during the controlled start.
It wasn’t at all what I’d imagined, but I let the reality click into place. One puzzle piece of the high-res image.
Camp, too, was much different from the mental image I’d formed based on maps and conversations. It was more wooded, more spread out, with variously-sized parking spots scattered among the trees.
We tried backing into a spot relatively close to the vetting area, but couldn’t quite make it. Down farther, we located a large spot that would not only accommodate our trailer, but also a large pen for Atlas. And, Mr. Sweaty would have a pretty easy pull-out on Saturday morning.
We settled in – Mr. Sweaty, Atlas’ owner Layne (broken leg and all!), crew member Jen, Atlas, and me. Shade and elevation eased the day’s heat as we ate lunch.
This puzzle piece felt strangely quiet. We could see only one other trailer from our spot, and hear little more. We could have been at any equestrian campground for a casual weekend of riding, rather than waiting to start the world’s premiere equestrian endurance ride.
I felt like I should be doing something. So much doing had gone into getting to this point! Weeks of preparation, sorting, packing, thinking and re-thinking had boiled down to this…and here we sat, placidly admiring the forest and sipping water with no sense of haste. But this is good, I thought. This quiet energy is where we want to be.
Friday was less placid. It passed in a whirl of activity. We checked in, shopped for souvenirs, vetted toward the front of the crowd, chatted with friends. We walked and walked and walked, back and forth from our trailer to the hub of activity, while Layne and her broken leg minded Atlas in camp.
We reviewed crewing plans and supplies. Attended meetings for all riders, new riders, and non-riders. Listened to old hands. Absorbed the advice that felt right and let the rest pool for reference later.
Night came. And then, morning.
The Start
For over a decade, ever since the spark of ambition to ride Tevis flickered in my chest, I have worried about the start. Two hundred fit equines, restrained in tight quarters for days, saddled in the cool of morning, then asked to walk a mile in the dark in a crush of other horses. How is this not the stuff of nightmares?
And yet, as my actual Tevis start drew closer, I felt calmer about the idea than I had when it was a mere figment of my imagination. Why, though? Part of it was having ridden a couple, solid starts on Atlas. Part was speaking to others who swore it wasn’t that bad. (Never mind the ones who swore it was exactly that bad!) Part of it was that Atlas earned a spot in Pen 1, which meant we were more likely to be surrounded by pros on more experienced horses.
Although the ride officially started at 5:15 a.m., the walk from Pen 1 to the official starting line (the “controlled start” part of the event) actually began at 4:50 a.m. I didn’t want to give Atlas long to stand around getting nervous, so I handwalked him down to Pen 1 at 4:40.
I mounted up at the back edge of the pen, where a couple other horses waited calmly. We could have moved up a bit, but the other riders could see a fractious horse ahead. We all agreed that we had no problem waiting right where we were.
Just minutes before we were to start walking, calls of “loose horse” rang out. Uh-oh. I gently bent Atlas’ head slightly to one side and squinted into the dusk. Through the scrum of horses burst a galloping horse. It charged past, just feet from Atlas’ nose, racing full-tilt toward its buddy back in camp.
Atlas didn’t move a muscle.
I scratched his withers and made sure my own breaths were deep and even. All good. I flashed a thumbs up to crew member Bev, who had accompanied us to the start.
And then, it was time! We were walking up the gravel road in the woods, under skies just beginning to brighten. Atlas felt energetic but under control – unlike the horse a few lengths ahead of us, which cantered sideways and threw its head. The rider fought for control, but the horse plunged off the road and several yards down a scree slope.
I was uncomfortable to find that they managed to get back up on the road – rider now dismounted – right next to me and Atlas. This was not the vibe we were looking for!
Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do but telegraph confidence to Atlas, as passing is disallowed during this section and there wasn’t much room to push ahead, in any case. Atlas, bless him, kept his head.
At 5:10, the crowd shuffled to a halt. Although I couldn’t see it, I knew the official start – where the horses file off the road onto a trail – must be just ahead. I glanced at my watch. Was this about to become the longest five minutes of my life?
Slow heartbeat, gentle breath. Tiny lateral gives. Scraps of nervous conversation. Repeated glances at my watch. Any time now…
Yes! We were moving! We walked, then jogged, then trotted fast onto the trail. The line of horses flew along, nose-to-tail. I worked hard to keep Atlas off the horse ahead of us – and the horse helped out with some enthusiastic kicks. Fortunately, it wasn’t actually kicking at us – the behavior was more playful than aggressive – and Atlas took the hint to back off a bit.
Those early miles flashed past on a wave of adrenaline. The snake of horses whipped up and down hills and around corners, occasionally stretching or crushing, accordion-like, calling for fast reactions by riders and mounts. Dust rose from pounding hooves, often obscuring my view of the trail, but not nearly as choking as I’d expected. I didn’t even pull up my bandana.
I remember winding down the hill to the highway. Crossing at the spot I’d seen in videos from years past. Leaping up the hill on the other side, where Atlas cut the switchback slightly and made an onlooker gasp.
The climb to High Camp played to Atlas’ strengths. He powered along, strong but willing to accept my request that he walk the steepest parts. A few minutes’ cell signal let me get a quick voice text off to Mr. Sweaty: All well!
Granite Chief Wilderness
Oh, the Granite Chief Wilderness! Here’s what I remember about it:
Though we’d had some wide roads and steep climbs around High Camp and Watson’s Monument, and the horses had spread out a bit, Atlas and I once again found ourselves in a conga line on the rocky, boggy singletrack section of Granite Chief.
Those few miles of clambering uphill over clusters of car-tire-sized boulders, crammed between excitable horses and fighting to stay off the one ahead of us so, felt risky indeed. I was very grateful we’d decided to put splint and interference boots on Atlas, whose wet and muddy hooves slipped and slid on sheets of rock.
At one point, he lost his footing and nearly fell. I think his belly touched the ground, but he was able to clamber up as I tumbled over his shoulder. My right arm and leg absorbed most of the impact, but I also felt a hearty whack on my helmet.
The reins pulled out of my hand, but fortunately Atlas didn’t have anywhere to go. The horses ahead were already stopped for something, and I was able to retrieve him immediately from the rider ahead, who had kindly grabbed his bridle. I led him a dozen yards or so, found a safe spot to mount, and swung up from the off side because it was uphill.
Instantly, we were trotting again. I assessed my condition: Definitely a head knock, but no blackening or wavy vision. Sore right arm and leg, but no range of motion issues. Probably just some banged up muscle and a new dent in my knee. No worries; I can ride like this!
The trail leveled out a bit. I was just musing that the so-called “bogs” weren’t bogs at all – just short crossings of shallow water and mud – when the riders ahead began calling “hole!”
“Hole” was an understatement. This was a muddy pit the size of a wine barrel, wide as the trail and at least two feet deep, its edges obscured by reedy grass. Atlas caught the far edge of it and stumbled badly, but kept his feet.
The rider behind us swore as both his horse’s forelegs went down. “I hate this section,” he raged.
I could see why. It was beautiful, but perilous, barreling along like that in a tight, fast crowd. I was still fighting to keep Atlas off the horse in front of us, half halt after half halt, strain building in my quads and back.
The trail wound on, downhill now, and eventually the conga line broke apart. At last, I was able to relax and enjoy the scenery as Atlas trotted along a ridge. Vast patchworks of evergreen and granite swept by on either side. I recognized this landscape from online videos and knew what it meant…
Cougar Rock
The ridge trail turned slightly downward. Up ahead, a few horses had stopped. Their riders’ eyes were fixed on the obstacle ahead – a steep, stony climb where the trail seemed to run straight into the rock.
Halfway up that climb, right where I knew the critical right-hand turn led to the ledge that must be leapt up, two horses were stalled out. They stood side by side, anxious but holding, neither willing to go ahead.
Ohhhhh, this could be bad!
I slowed Atlas to a walk. We watched the uphill rider slide off her mount and lead him up and over. The second rider dismounted and followed. Whew!
Atlas and I had only to wait for a couple more riders, then it was our turn! I had no doubt he’d do exactly as I asked, without refusing or losing his nerve. The only trick was to identify the correct route, which I couldn’t fully see from below.
We started up the rock with purpose, following a narrow channel right up to the rock face. Ah-ha! Now, I could see exactly where to turn.
Atlas curved neatly around my leg, soft and powerful, and then we were leaping up the ledge where thousands of hooves had worn a faint track into the stone. A few more steep steps, and we were over!
“We’re doing it!” I told Atlas, rubbing his neck in joyful disbelief. “We’re actually here, and we’re doing it!”
Robinson Flat
Atlas vetted with all A’s at Red Star, the 28.5-mile gate-and-go. We trotted on to Robinson Flat, where our amazing crew, led by crew member Siri, treated us to one of the most relaxing holds I’ve ever experienced.
Under orders to “sit there and take care of yourself,” I even had time to scrub the dirt off my face and re-braid my hair while my friends tended to Atlas. They tacked him back up at exactly the right time and we were at the out timer one minute ahead of schedule. I mounted up feeling fresh and curious about the trail ahead.
Although we’d gone 36 miles already, there’s something about riding a 100 that makes the first 50 miles feel like you’re only beginning.
Indeed, we were just now headed into the teeth of Tevis: The Canyons.
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Great part 1! My heart is beating fast just reading it. Can’t wait for part 2.
Having had the privilege to tag along on this event, I can feel the emotion that you so eloquently put to words – the anticipation, the in-the-moment’s, the unknown, the smile moments…any and all that I personally was able to experience and witness. You worked SO hard to prepare and you RODE that beast (the trail!, well the horse too). It seems a little cheesy maybe but I am very proud of you for all of it. Great team and horse and well prepared, but the physical and emotional battle you as the rider were faced with is something else! Awesome. Great job and thanks for sharing the story!