Racing the Devil: An Old Gabe Story

Jim giving pre-race instructions

“Grandpa, tell me a story.”

“Did I ever tell you the one about the 2026 Old Gabe race?” My granddaughter, Hope, shakes her head.

Well, I had a few injuries that year and I barely made it to the starting line. I wanted to race, but my feet were urging caution. I had been debating making a deal with the devil, but I’m an atheist. Can’t trade your soul for a first-place finish—the devil laughed about that possibility—if you ain’t got one.

Maybe I’d find Old Gabe himself still searching the wildlands for beaver. Maybe he could whip me up a little sorcerer’s magic in a bowl of beaver tail soup; give me the burst of energy I needed to win my age group—Old Gabe shook his head and howled at the thought. But sorcery, I’ve learned, involves devilry, and well there’s that atheist thing again.

With no devilry for support, I’m at the starting line alone, just hoping to miraculously pull off a Personal Record—God appeared, laughed at that one, then shrugged. "Atheist remember."

It’s early on a cool cloudy mid-June Saturday morning. Race director Jim made announcements: the trail is dry, creeks are flowing and there’s little snow. There’s the possibility of making wrong turns and ending up lost in the mountains at a few points—don’t. He swung his arms to mark a rough starting line, looked around to see that everyone was engaged and said GO! The 2026 Old Gabe race, put on by the Big Sky Wind Drinkers, had begun.

Minimal snow this year: photo taken on a training run

Jockeying for position began. I took up a position near the rear. I’m never very fast, but my goal that year was simply to run as much of the 30K course as I could without aggravating my injured feet.

Old Gabe offers two distances: 30K and 55K. They start together trending north up Middle Cottonwood drainage to Saddle Pass, across the Bostwick drainages, and then down to Truman Gulch trailhead. A return to Middle Cottonwood trailhead completes the 30K. 55K runners head back up Middle Cottonwood for a mile then turn south toward Sypes Canyon running to the Sypes trailhead and back. Both routes have lots of vertical: 6400 for the 30K, and 4600 more for the last 25K—at least according to my Garmin. I run the 55K—in pieces: the 30K is my race day effort, the last 25K is a training run prior to race day.

The 30K is full of streams with snow up high, the last 25K has no snow and little flowing water. The 25K trail is generally better, though a trail crew had been in Middle Cottonwood for a few weeks as of race day, so things were improving. Both sections offer stunning views of the Bridgers and more distant ranges for those who dare to lift their eyes from the challenging terrain.

It had been a wet spring. Thick foliage pressed in from the sides; wildflowers carpeted the high country.

I managed to stay with two young runners for a time, but they lost me on the last climb to Saddle Pass. There was no one at the pass or on the snowfield when I arrived. The field of runners was smaller that year and I was bringing up the rear.

The first voice started rattling around in my head as I descended the snow. You don’t have to run the whole thing, you can just say you did. Turn around, head back, say you finished it, say you won. I did a double take. Where did that come from?

Then I heard, "You don’t need to do that. A ladle full of this soup will give you all you need to finish." And there it was, a ladle of the nastiest looking green goo I’d ever seen with vertebrate, bits of fur, and chunks of floating fat. I contorted my face; I picked up the pace.

A third being, God maybe, sat on my shoulder, but didn’t make a sound. “A little help.” He sat stone-faced. “Atheist, right.”

I had miles of quiet ahead of me. At least it would have been quiet if not for the temptations roiling me, and this Zen-like being mounted on one shoulder. I debated turning back throughout the ups and downs in the Bostwicks, but I couldn’t give in.

Flowers in the Bostwicks

My feet weren’t barking too loudly and I was enjoying being out. The best part was when I reached the switchbacks. The fastest runners were on their way back to Middle Cottonwood trailhead. It’s ‘good work’, or ‘good job’ and thankfully no ‘sirs’—inside joke from last year’s story—as we passed each other.

I reached the halfway point and shared a minute with Shannon, Jim’s wife, who had goodies laid out—our aid station. I headed back out and said ‘good job’ to the few folks behind me and then it was quiet again.

The rain began as I reached the switchbacks, about two miles up Truman’s. Steady, not too cold, no problem; until the first meadow. The ground had turned to glop. It piled up on the bottom and sides of my shoes. Suddenly I, and all of us stretched out at the tail of the race, were wearing lead boots. It’s slick; folks without poles had to get down on all fours to climb.

Any thoughts of pace were out the window. It was a matter of stomping it out. Some sections were truly awful, others with different soil composition were not so bad.

Middle Cottonwood meadow

A glide path took shape in front of me. Hey this is nice. A contract appears, ‘for your soul.’  I turn my eyes away; a deep mire filled with countless writhing souls tried to suck me in; a vision of Hell. I say aloud to God, “Not much sales technique.” I saw a slight smile. Old Gabe was still trying to sell his soup. I kept looking over at God as I grunted up through the snow. What was his deal? My triumvirate finished the ascent to Saddle Pass with me.

My feet were now hurting as badly as I had feared. A new contract appeared, “Your soul for a downhill that feels like you’re skipping across clouds.” I looked away.

Old Gabe held out his ladle of beaver tail soup. It was boiling with botulism, “This’ll do ya for, son.”

“No thanks, but I’ve heard there are beaver near the mouth of the Gallatin.” Old Gabe swallowed the soup in one gulp and blasted out to the Gallatin. I watched him go. Maybe I should’ve taken him up on his offer.

“Be not afraid! Just kick ass on the downhill!” Whoa! He spoke, and with such power. I smiled. I was getting to like this God guy. Maybe an upgrade to agnostic was in order.

I raced down the steep rocky trail, through the wildflowers, across creeks with God and the devil each occupying a shoulder. The devil repeatedly asked what I wanted for my soul, desperation seeping into his voice. God continued to sit Zen-like. I ignored the devil the best I could, but my mind raced. With ¼ mile to go the devil hopped off my shoulder and took full human form running next to me, “What say you for your soul?” He hissed. I saw my chance in an approaching rock garden.

I looked him in the eye. “World peace.”

He lifted his head letting out a devilish "Bru-Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha." Ooof. I put my trekking pole in front of him and aimed the tip at his heart. It penetrated; I yanked it free. He screamed and scratched my forearm with one of his long pointy nails as he was on his way to the ground. I heard a thud; I heard God laugh: "Ho-Ho-Ho." Santa? I crossed the finish line and turned to wait. Another runner crossed. Didn’t say anything about an injured runner, no devil, no God, no Santa, no nothing.

They were gone. First aid approached me. “We’d better get that arm taken care of. Did you catch a tree branch?”

“Huh? Oh yeah, yeah.” I nodded.

“Wow, grandpa. You beat the devil.”

“Hope, it’s time for bed.”

“Mom, grandpa was just telling me about the time he raced the devil.”

“Oh really, and right before bedtime. Thanks dad.”

I shrugged and reached to feel the scar on my forearm.

“Is it true mom?”

“Your grandpa races a devil every day. It’s called old age.”

“Mom, Santa is God!”

“DAD!”