One Segment: The M Trail

The folks at Strava asked me last summer if I’d like to tell a story about a particular segment of trail, for part of their Segment Stories project. I told them that I had exactly one story, about one segment—and thankfully, they were into it. You can read the rest of the stories on the Segment Stories page on Strava’s website.

About 150 years ago, or about seven years before Strava was invented, I moved out West from Iowa to go to the University of Montana, where the campus abuts Mt. Sentinel, a mountain with a large "M" partway up its west face.

The trail to the M has 14 sections, 13 switchbacks, and gains 609 feet in just .65 miles. It's objectively pretty steep. If you come from a flat place, are not in good physical condition, and have a legit smoking habit like I did back then, it's basically Mt. Rainier.

Even as short as it was, and that close to town, it was still the first real hike I did on my own as an adult. I probably hiked to the M a couple dozen times during my two years at school, mostly while wearing jeans. I don't think I even knew trail running was a sport. Hiking just felt like something I should do.

After I finished school, I moved away for a long time, but on my visits back, beginning in 2012, I started trying to run up the M trail. I guess I thought it would be fun or symbolic to run up the trail instead of hiking it, but it turns out to be more of a near-death experience that pushes me to the brink of cardiac arrest every time.

It became a sort of barometer for me: making it to the top without walking = I am in decent physical shape. It's funny, I'm 42 now, and I'm more fit than I was at 24, but I can't beat my time from when I was 39. Based on my time, I can tell when I'm affected by work stress, or the heat is getting to me, or my legs are tired from a run or ride the previous day.

In 2021, I joined the volunteer crew that works on the M Trail. I show up for two hours each week to help grade the trail, move rocks, put in water bars, build retaining walls, and get dirty. It feels good to give back even a little bit to a trail that has been such a part of my life. It also gets kind of weird.

When I put in a water bar, I step back to see how high the wood sits above the trail, knowing the next time I run it, I'm going to curse every inch I have to step over. When we extend switchbacks, lengthening the trail, I know I'll be grateful for the extra few seconds of easy breathing I'll have on my next run—but it will also slow down my segment time.