Ruth Stodghill, Peak to Peak.  My dad loves to tell stories.

“You have no idea how easy you kids have it these days. When I was growing up, we didn’t have school busses. I had to walk to school. In the heat, in the snow, five miles, and it was uphill both ways.”

I used to roll my eyes at my dad’s obvious exaggerations. I mean, come on - science. What goes up must come down - so an out-and-back path between school and home couldn’t run uphill in both directions.

Now that I’m older and wiser, however, I have learned - science can’t always explain everything, and my dad’s exaggerations contain, more often than not, gems of truth.

At the Angel Fire Adventure Marathon in New Mexico on July 1, I ran 26.2 miles. Uphill, both ways.

As I prepared for the race, I checked out the course profile on a map. Dividing the race into quarters, the first section would be generally downhill as I travelled north along the valley floor from Angel Fire toward Eagle Nest; then I would retrace my steps back to the resort, climbing in elevation. The third section would climb more sharply as I travelled south into the mountains toward Black Lake; then I would again retrace my steps to Angel Fire, ending with a descent.

Come race day, I was pumped. The air was somewhat hazy from wildfires burning to both our north and south that morning, but still, the valley was amazingly beautiful, painted in hues of crimson and emerald and azure as the sun broke over the mountains to the east. As I made my way to the starting line along with my running buddy, Jeff, I was giddy with anticipation.

Then the race started. I pumped my way along the road, finding my place among the crowded peloton of runners. As we wound our way north along the valley floor, I grew confused - wasn’t this section of the race supposed to be downhill? Instead, around every corner, I was faced with a new section of uphill to climb. Pumping hard to crest each new obstacle, I comforted myself - all this would be downhill on the return leg back to Angel Fire.

Nope. I was stunned to discover that everything was still uphill as I turned and made my way back toward the resort. My pace fell slower and slower with each quarter mile. My shoes had morphed into lead weights attached to the ends of my legs. My stomach cramped into a ball of worry. Sweat poured down my face. Panic rested in a tense knot between my shoulder blades.

Why was this happening? Had the magnetic poles reversed? Was gravity fluctuating? Had rising ocean levels changed the tilt in the North American tectonic plate?

Nope. This was just one of those races where I would have to run uphill. Both ways.

I’m not a naturally-gifted runner. I have big feet. I tend to be a bit on the chunky side. I can’t sprint to save my life. But my one saving grace as a runner - I am stubborn.

I have found that some days, there’s no way around it - I have to run uphill, both ways, but there IS a plus side. If you don’t quit, your legs become twice as strong. You can reach fantastic heights that few others ever reach. The harder the effort involved in the climb, the more rewarding the view from the top.

So, in Angel Fire I told myself - bring on the hills.

And the course obliged.

One thing about running a marathon - you find yourself with a lot of time on your hands to think. As I finally reached a crest in the road around Mile 18, to the south I saw a plume of smoke from a nearby wildfire rising like an endless column into the New Mexico sky. I could smell the char in the air. My eyes burned in the smoky haze. It made me think of home, of the ravenous Spring Fire engulfing the parched forests near La Veta, Cuchara and Gardner. I thought about all the destruction, and displacement, and loss. I felt a deep sadness.

This year’s drought has been endless for those who live in the West, and discouraging, like running uphill both ways.

I know the people of Colorado are stubborn. Tough. Resilient. Folks around these parts don’t last long unless they possess a backbone made of grit and determination.

So, as my path turned for the last time back toward Angel Fire and I pounded out the remaining miles in my marathon, I offered each step up as a sort of prayer for the folks back home. May those who live in the path of the Colorado fires this summer find strength and peace and hope in the face of the blaze. May they come out on the other side knowing they have the support of their community for the days of rebuilding that lie ahead. And may they know, as they face what will surely feel like an endless climb back to some sense of normalcy, that eventually, they will reach the finish line.

May they be assured that they aren’t running alone. We will run uphill both ways - together.