Kendall Wimmer’s photography captures the beauty of the desert.

Monument Valley, March 15, 2014.
In the desert straddling the Arizona/Utah state line, the night before the inaugural Monument Valley 50-mile ultra run, three friends are packing their gear in a hotel room inside the airplane hangar. Rachael and Paul have driven south from Denver, I have driven north from Las Vegas, New Mexico. We are excited, and we are a little apprehensive. The weather forecast predicts wind gusts up to 50 miles per hour. What have we gotten ourselves into?
A cacophony of pre-dawn alarms chases us out of bed and into our running clothes. We are so wired, we don’t even need coffee. It’s freezing, and already breezy, a taste of things to come. We meet the 50 or so other intrepid souls inside the tribal park, where a traditional Navajo prayer ceremony sets the tone for a unique day ahead. We offer corn pollen to the sun rising over the red rocks, and we’re off.
Soon, runners are spread out along the various trail segments that loop back to a central aid station by the Dine’e trailride corrals. The horses watch us with mild curiosity as we stumble in, more and more disheveled each time. It’s too windy for the aid station tent, but the hogan makes a handy substitute: a sturdy, warm shelter, filled with laughter and food. Fry bread and mutton stew join the more conventional aid station snacks. It’s tempting to linger.
The landscape is surreal. Beyond words, really. The route takes us past rock formations that defy gravity. Dainty rock fingers point up to the sky, elongated arches and cubes inspire the imagination. Is there a rock giant buried under the desert, with only his nose and toes sticking out? Is there a crying face in the wall of the red mesa? A guide on a bay horse directs us into the Big Hogan, a giant upside-down rock bowl with a perfectly round hole in the middle. I stare up at the sky, as sure as I will ever be of the meaning of life. We are here, alive and running in this amazing place. Overwhelmed by gratitude, I run on.

The climb up Mitchell Mesa is steep and technical, but the views that greet us at the top are worth the effort. I am no longer sure which planet I am on. The wind blows clouds of red dirt around the jagged silhouettes of rock formations on the valley floor below us. A Navajo guide directs runners to the turnaround point. We exchange greetings. He introduces his beautiful horse, Cochise. Words seem unnecessary. The panorama speaks for itself. I finally remember that I’m in a race, and should get going.

It is afternoon by now, and the wind gusts have reached peak speeds. Sand finds its way between my toes and teeth, into my ears, and all over my camelback mouthpiece. Breathing against the wind is a chore. New dunes form at a rapid clip, erasing the tracks of the other runners. On the dirt road sections, tourists in vans press their faces against the windows. I can almost hear them: Who are these crazy people? Why are they out there, getting sandblasted, instead of inside a vehicle like normal humans? Happy to provide entertainment, I wave, lean forward, hunker down, and plod on among the tumbling tumbleweeds.
The hogan beckons, offering warmth and shelter. I resist. I won’t stop until I’m finished. And even the sandstorm is beautiful. I feel tough, and I feel happy. The desert is a force to be reckoned with, and I am lucky to be out here. One more loop. A herd of wild horses crosses a wash, oblivious to the conditions. Five more miles. Keep running. My feet sink into the dirt with every step. The gusts are so strong now that there are times when I have to turn around and walk backward to keep moving forward. Is this the right way? Looking for yellow flags is difficult through mostly closed eyes. A couple of other struggling runners appear in the dust cloud ahead. A good sign. Three more miles, then two. One more mile. Exhaustion starts to settle in. My lungs hurt, as do my ankles. One more uphill. Yes, the finish line, and the trailer. I can stop. Matt offers congratulations. I accept my beautiful, handmade trophy and sink into a chair. Fry bread with salt may become my new favorite post-race snack. One by one, other runners stagger in, covered in red dirt but glowing with accomplishment. Paul finishes twenty minutes behind me, Rachael a little later.
Yes, I won. But today was not about winning, or losing. Today was a journey into who we are, what we’re made of, where we belong. The Navajo tribe graciously shared their land, their trails, their food and their culture with the ultrarunning tribe. A beautiful, tough, exhilarating day.
Thank you, Matt. Thank you, Rachael and Paul for sharing the experience. Thank you, Navajo Nation. Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who helped make this beautiful day happen. I missed the sweat lodge on Sunday morning, but even so I feel cleansed, refreshed, and ready to deal with anything the world throws my way.