Originally published March 31, 2017 on Facebook.

On March 31, 2016 (a year ago today) Leon Lutz and I did an all-night drive down to Frozen Head State Park in eastern Tennessee to attend the annual running of a once-obscure ultra-running event called the Barkley Marathons. Leon was working on a feature for Ultrarunning Magazine, covering the Barkley experience from the perspective of five participants, and I was along to get some photos to go with his story. The result: "Where Dreams Go to Change", Ultrarunning, July 2016 is an excellent read, full of insight into the race and what makes Barkers tick.

Of course I came home with far more photos than Ultrarunning could publish, so I’ve (finally) posted the rest of them (or at least 445 reasonably presentable ones) in my gallery. I’m also posting a small sampling of them here, along with some words — not a race report or even a story, just some of my own observations from an event that I found profoundly moving.

Frozen Head is not the bleak-and-dark place of its media image.

Of course the race offers physical/mental/emotional/spiritual challenges in the extreme, with inevitable pain for every participant, and it might be that sometimes bleak-and-dark things happen here, but that’s all self-imposed, voluntary submission to an arbitrary test. The park itself is just there, not for or against anyone, and the mountains don’t care. On this weekend it offered the welcoming embrace of pure Appalachian springtime: crisp air, warm sun, birdsong, the first wave of wildflowers.

The media swarm.

Yes, I know — that spectacular documentary… This race is no longer obscure, and there’s a broad and well-deserved fascination with all things Barkley, so I shouldn’t have been surprised by the media presence.

But it was a jarring contrast to every other aspect of the place and the event – the film crews, the gimbals and fuzzy boom mics and the photo drone, the bristling lenses and the ubiquitous staccato clicking of mashed-down DSLR shutter releases. And the swarming.

My own reluctant participation as a member of the swarm.

I love photographing races, but I don’t like to be intrusive with my camera, and I hate even the slightest feeling of paparazzi-ness. I never want my camera to be part of the story or influence the flow of an event. So I watched the media swarm and I was offended by it and didn’t want to be part of it. But at the same time, I wanted to get my shots…

A couple vignettes to illustrate…

• A quiet pre-race moment by the campfire, and there sits Leon (of the glorious beard), preparing to eat a plate of beans. Next to him is a photographer, watching and waiting. Leon brings fork to mouth, the photographer raises his camera, and as his mouth opens, the camera pushes forward, deep into the personal territory of Leon’s face, to capture all the drama in wide-angle splendor (click-click-click-click-click).

• Afternoon at the top of Rat Jaw, and the small crowd is straining to identify two runners who have appeared far below for the long, exposed climb. We soon recognize John Fegyveresi (those distinctive green shorts), but the other guy, working so hard to stay close to him? — we don’t know. As the distance closes, it becomes clear — this is a photographer, chasing John up the climb (and I’m sorry, but I get the impression of a horse pestered by a fly). But John is smiling and the photographer drifts away (after some jeers from the crowd). He got his shots, and I get mine.

The people.

I’m afraid I was feeling pretty accomplished when I got to Frozen Head (having recently done my first 100-miler — my ultra-running bachelor’s degree), but I was cured of this left-over hubris in about 5 minutes. Most of the people around me in this campground (racers, crews, staff — everyone, it seemed) were post-docs with truly impressive endurance resumes. And typical of our trail tribe, there was a native humility, a laid-back toughness, and a basic good nature — these were really good people accustomed to doing truly hard things, and loving the struggle and the beauty of it all. It was a pleasure and a privilege to share the woods with them.

You can’t have it both ways.

An ongoing background conversation in camp asked whether publicity would change the nature of the race, with the larger corollary question: how do you share something special with the world while also protecting the things that make it special? We want to spread this gospel of trails and ultra-running, show people what is possible, inspire them to their own greatness, but that doesn’t just happen — there are no photos without a camera, no documentary without a film crew…

I don’t have an answer to the question. Vigilance is warranted, but I suspect we exaggerate the threat. I think perhaps this is only a peripheral intrusion with marginal impacts. I think the heart of Barkley beats in solitude, deep in the woods, beyond the camera, and I think it will be alright.

See the full photo set in my gallery.