Race report: A mountain ultra with extreme elevation gain

This race was a 100-kilometre mountain ultra in New South Wales’s Snowy Mountains, with about 7,000 metres of vertical gain and a 30-hour cutoff. On paper, the distance looked manageable for an experienced trail runner; on the profile, the repeated climbs looked closer to a series of stacked marathons. The first aid station sat 14 kilometres away, but elevation made distance a poor measure of effort. Every contour demanded attention, and a fast uphill section could undo an entire hour of careful pacing.

Most of the field had trained through Canberra’s cold months or travelled down from Sydney for the weekend. I arrived from Canberra before dawn, carrying two poles and a pack that felt sensible in the car. My plan was conservative: eat before I was hungry, walk the steep pitches and save enough energy to reach the next ridge. The race exposed the gap between that plan and what the mountain required.

The climb that defined the course

The route climbed from the lakeside town of Jindabyne towards the alpine trails, where the surface changed between packed dirt, loose rock and roots. Vertical gain accumulated through short, sharp pitches rather than one monumental ascent. That was deceptive. Each rise looked possible, yet the repeated transitions between running and walking reduced my ability to settle into any sustainable rhythm.

Above the treeline, the exposed ridges offered little shelter from wind or rain. Ordinary running strides became inefficient on gradients above 20 per cent, so I shortened my steps and used the poles for balance and propulsion. By the second major climb, walking uphill no longer felt conservative; it was the clearest way to preserve speed for the descents and the final cut-off.

The alpine weather added another layer of unpredictability. We started near freezing, passed through drizzle and later emerged into bright sun, a familiar contrast in the Australian mountains. Organisers also monitored fire-danger information and temporary access restrictions, so route control was part environmental management rather than an inconvenience added to race week.

Pacing the first vertical hour

The opening hour contained a trap for runners accustomed to fast trail starts. I moved too quickly on the first rolling section, then found myself walking the first serious climb with an elevated heart rate and cold hands. A runner who had waited beside me for a flat white at a Jindabyne service station overtook me before the first ridge. The coffee was ordinary; the lesson was not.

I also found a useful parallel in bait selection: an angler adjusts the approach to conditions, weather and target rather than forcing one setup. Pace worked similarly. On the climb, I needed a conservative effort I could repeat; on the runnable track, I could open the stride without borrowing from the next hour.

The correction came at the second aid station. I drank, ate a gel and walked the next hill without chasing the runners ahead. My pace was unremarkable, but my heart rate settled and the climb became manageable. The lost minutes early were eventually recovered through steadier movement later, which is one of the quieter lessons of ultra running.

Aid stations and the work of refuelling

Aid stations were more than drink stops. They were small operating bases with timers, radios, bin bags, first-aid supplies and volunteers managing the queue of tired runners. The gaps ranged from 12 to 18 kilometres, but climbing made the longer sections feel exposed. Reaching a station late also meant reaching it in poor shape, with less appetite for the food waiting inside.

The supplies fitted the Australian market I knew from Canberra supermarkets and chemists: electrolyte sachets, energy gels, malt-based products, lollies and plenty of options branded for endurance racing. Before travelling, I had bought sports nutrition at a local chemist and tested each product during training. That preparation prevented the common race-day mistake of trusting an unfamiliar brand because its packaging looked convincing.

My own weak point was drinking too much plain water while taking in insufficient carbohydrate. By the second climb, I felt bloated and lacking energy. I fixed it by mixing electrolyte powder into a soft flask and eating a fixed carbohydrate amount every 30 minutes. Aid-station volunteers were generous with encouragement, but they could not correct a fuelling plan that had been ignored during the previous hour.

When climbing became a tactical problem

At roughly 60 kilometres, the course presented the largest sustained climb of the race. Reaching it comfortably would have been ideal; reaching it with tired legs required a different calculation. The sensible runners were not necessarily the fastest on the flat sections. They were the ones who had protected their footing, ankles and willingness to keep moving.

The marked trail was essential. The event operated within Kosciuszko National Park under the National Parks and Wildlife Act 1974 and the park’s management plan. That framework shaped permissions, emergency access, waste removal and route closures, while the on-course signs prevented runners from cutting across fragile alpine ground. Respecting those rules was part of racing well, not separate from it.

I used the navigation app conservatively and checked the physical markers at every junction. The app showed distance, but the fading colours on the trees and the condition of the trail often told a more useful story. I passed one runner who had left the marked path to save a minor climb and returned to the course with wet feet and lost time. That shortcut taught me more than my own cautious route did.

The final descent and the finish

The last descent was everything I had tried to preserve. My quads burned on the steep pitches, and the loose surface made several runners turn to cautious side steps. I kept my hands low, shortened my stride and avoided the heroic downhill running that had caused problems in earlier races. Finishing well meant recognising that a descent could still take more energy than it appeared to demand.

Mentally, the final 20 kilometres became a sequence of small commitments: reach the next marker, refill the flask, eat again and keep moving. The enormous nature of the event became less useful than those immediate tasks. A runner near the final ridge said she no longer cared about the overall result; she cared about completing each bend with the finish still possible.

I crossed the line in 15 hours and 47 minutes, 1 hour and 13 minutes inside the cut-off. I had run 86 kilometres and power-hiked the rest, including 14 kilometres that turned out to be much harder than my training had prepared me for. The result was satisfying, but the gaps in my preparation were clearer: I needed more climbing volume, better downhill durability and stricter execution of the fuelling plan.

Lessons worth carrying forward

For event selection, the framework in choosing a fitting race was more useful than chasing the largest elevation figure available. A mountain ultra should match a runner’s climbing strength, recovery capacity and willingness to hike. The most demanding-looking course is not automatically the most satisfying one.

The durable habits were unglamorous. I trained climbs with a loaded pack, practised eating and drinking at set intervals, and rehearsed descending on technical ground. I also learned to use cut-off times as live decision points instead of distant threats. That approach combined physical restraint with clear acceptance of when effort needed to change.

The practical takeaway is to treat the climb as the race: preserve the legs for the descents, fuel before hunger appears, and adjust the plan when the mountain makes the original one unrealistic.