Two Tracks and Washes

Running in NorZONA!

When we think of hiking, trail running, or even road running, navigation isn't always the first thing on our minds. We aren't worried because we can always just "loop the block" or follow the color-coded signs back to the trailhead parking lot. For me, the real adventure starts when those signs disappear. One of my favorite ways to get my miles in is to take the path less traveled—whether that’s finding an established forgotten trail or, depending on where I am, making my own route entirely.

The Freedom off the Map
Obviously, forging my own path relies heavily on the legal ability to do so. I can’t go skedaddling through the countryside if it’s private property or restricted National and State Park land. They have every right to tell us where we can and can’t be. But if you are lucky enough to have thousands of square miles of BLM (Bureau of Land Management) or State Trust Land at your back door like I do, you can pretty much make your own routes and enjoy the land as you see fit.

Oftentimes out here, I have a much higher likelihood of running into a lone cow forgotten in a pasture or the occasional curious coyote than another human. In the "Two-Tracks and Washes" world, you aren't chasing a PR; you're just chasing the horizon.

Flowing and moving with the terrain is almost spiritual. Unlike a manicured, marked trail, this environment forces me to pay attention to my surroundings—to take notice of my cardinal directions. I have to be able to "see" where I've been to even guess how to get back to my truck. I’ve been jogging along, lost in the rhythm, only to realize I’ve veered off on some random cattle path, now every juniper and wash looks exactly the same as the last. While making our own way can be an awesome way to keep running and hiking fresh to avoid burn out. It is an easy way to get yourself lost figuratively and physically. Figurative lost is not such a bad thing, "lost" lost is.

In this part of Northern Arizona, the "Two-Track" is my byway to the backcountry. It isn't a designed trail; it’s a relic carved into the crust of the earth by ranch trucks and moving cattle over decades. Two simple parallel ruts of hardpack and gravel, separated by a "high-center" spine of weeds and goatheads that wait for a lazy foot.

Running them is a constant negotiation. You find a rhythm in the left rut, then the right, hopping over the center spine as the terrain dictates. It’s a primal, focused way to move. I'm not worried about my watch; I'm reading the ruts, watching for the "pattern" of a coiled snake in the shade or the sudden dip of a washout.

Eventually, the two-track simply fades out. In the desert, water is the ultimate architect, and every path eventually leads into a Wash.

The transition is a physical shift in the narrative of the run. The "crunch" of the gravel is swallowed by the "muffle" of sugar sand. As we drop into the dry creek bed, the world changes. The walls of the wash cut off the breeze and leave me alone with my thoughts.

Here, the "nameless miles" begin. In the washes, distance doesn't matter, effort does. Every step is a fight for traction. I read the sand like a map, looking for the firmest line and dodging the debris left by the last monsoon. It’s here, deep in the sand and silence, I realize my lack of impact on this landscape. It was there before me and will be there long after my running is over; coursing thru the landscape, ever changing with the wind and rain.

Eventually, the wash opens up or the two-track climbs a ridge, and the "nameless" portion of the run comes to an end. Looking up I see the distant silhouette of my truck, a tiny white speck against the vast red and tan of the desert.

This is the moment, spiritual meets modern, and I'm reminded that the desert doesn't care about our training plan or our pace. Out here, every mile is rewarding, but every single one is earned. We don't just "get" these miles; we negotiate for them against the sand, the heat, and the silence. We're no longer "lost," we carry a connection with the land back to the pavement; knowing that the world is still big, still wild, and always waiting for those willing to pay the price to see it.

If you liked this article check out this one, where we take a deep dive into the best socks for running the backroad byways of NorZona! The Textile Trials.