Venturing beyond the Cool - 1 Aid Station, the journey unfolded into a wondrous loop that led alongside the enchanting North Fork American River. This was a beautiful and runnable section on well-maintained trails that would have been the highlight of the race if the temperature wasn't too damn hot! 

Upon returning to the welcoming embrace of the Cool - 2 Aid Station, I replenished my water bladder and refueled with some munchies. I resumed my journey and after couple miles of runnable section, the path became more technical going down with large rocks and boulders that last for about a mile before continuing back on single tracks.  

Weary and drained by the relentless onslaught of scorching heat, I finally reached Browns Bar - 1 Aid Station, my body yearning for relief. Seeking refuge in shade, I lingered longer than I should have, for I required additional time to regain my bearing. A volunteer shared with me that I came into the aid station at 200th place out of 276 runners who started this race. The heat's unrelenting grip had already begun to claim many runners, I was told. 

As the race unfolded, the course took me through a series of loops, guiding me around the American River Canyon. I was doing well in terms of drinking and eating. I had a 2-liter bladder for water and a 0.5-liter flask for Coke on the go. But, despite my best efforts, I could not evade the creeping erosion of my pace. As the hours waned, my pace slowed and I was passed by more and more runners, each runner demoralizing me little bit more than the last one as they passed... 

As I embarked on my second journey from the No Hand Aid Station (37 miles), the sun's fiery heat began to wane, offering a merciful respite. With hopes of rejuvenation and a renewed sense of urgency, I hoped that I could recover and regain some time as I was uncomfortably close to the cut-offs. I pondered the arrival at the aid stations and wondered how much time I would have to rest and refuel.   

As the twilight descended upon Mammoth Bar (41 miles), a tranquil ambiance enveloped the surroundings, stirring within me a mix of weariness and yearning. In ultrarunnig world, this point often marks a pivotal challenge for the runners as physical and mental fatigue test even the most resilient souls. Having endured a grueling twelve-hour journey, I found myself standing at the edge of darkness, tempted to linger at the aid station to avoid encroaching darkness and impending suffering of the night.

Fortunately, despite moments of doubt, I found within me a little bit of grit and mustered the strength to leave the aid station shortly after my arrival. I had to cover the next 8 miles with only 2 hours and 30 minutes remaining before the next cut-off at the halfway point.

I don't recall this particular 8-mile section very well. I remember it being dark and seemingly endless and constantly checking my watch to ensure I reached the aid station before the cut-off. Eventually, I arrived at Drivers Flat - 1 (49 miles) with a mere 20 minutes to spare before the 14-hour and 30-minute cut-off.

The scorching furnace of the sun had inflicted upon me both physical and mental toil, yet amidst this turmoil, a flame of determination still flickered within me. I clung to the hope that the latter half of this race would be more forgiving, offering more generous cut-off times. I carried a laminated copy of the course map and noticed there was a significant climb leading to Forest Hill at a distance of sixty-seven miles. However, beyond this formidable challenge, the path seemed to reveal a less daunting challenge with more descents and cooler temperature. Swiftly, I exchanged my weary socks and with a mere 5 minutes remaining, I embarked from the sanctuary of the aid station.​

At first, I basked in the conviction that my perseverance had guided me to the correct path, as the course started out as a gently descending gravel road, allowing me to run at a nice pace. Yet, to my dismay, this fleeting respite swiftly dissolved into an encounter with treacherous trails and challenging climbs that sapped my dwindling vigor. The trail seemed to stretch on endlessly, exacerbated by my weakened physical state, which further affected me mentally.

I finally arrived at Cal 2 Aid Station (58 miles), exhausted and broken. While sitting there in misery, a volunteer informed me that it would likely take a while to arrange a ride back to Auburn, as they weren't expecting a vehicle until morning. He suggested that it might quicker to continue to Forest Hill, a large aid station, and find a ride from there if I decided to drop. Not sure if this was true or he told me this just to get me out of the aid station, but I mustered what little energy I had and left the aid station, hoping for the best, with about 2 hours left to cut-off.

As I embarked upon the arduous path towards Forest Hill, a formidable 8.4-mile stretch lay before me. The journey commenced with a treacherous ascent. Yet, I pressed forward, believing that the toil would soon give way to respite. But, the trail deceived me with its terrain, teasing me with moments of level ground before subjecting me to yet more uphill battles. A procession of fellow runners, their faces etched with the mark of exertion, passed me in the opposite direction. Naively, I interpreted their presence as a sign that the turning point was within reach, igniting a spark of hope in my weary heart. Oh, how I was mistaken! The path stretched on relentlessly, seemingly without end, as the false promise of proximity strained my fragile state of mind.​

In the midst of this grueling leg of my journey, approximately 5 miles into the arduous expanse, a ridiculously intense and comically steep hill manifested before me. This unexpected obstacle elicited a mixture of astonishment and amusement, for I had not fathomed such a steep hill. The incline was so outrageously steep that within mere minutes of my effort, I knew that there's no way I was going to make to the aid station on time...   

The passage of time seemed to stretch into infinity as I maneuvered my way up the treacherous slope, cursing the race organizers who had deviously orchestrated this ascent at such a late stage in the journey. Each step felt like a cruel taunt, as my exhausted mind echoed with curses directed towards the race itself. Needless to say I was in a very dark place mentally. In the depths of my self-pity, I made a solemn vow, swearing upon my weary soul that I would never again subject myself to the agonizing ordeal of a 100-mile race!

At long last, I found myself within the confines of Forest Hill. Yet, despite my proximity to the aid station, the path ahead was seemingly endless, continuing on and on. Each step felt like a cruel jest, as if the race itself was prolonging my torment. Overwhelmed by frustration and fatigue, a primal cry of anguish escaped my lips, "Ahhhhhhh!", I shouted, the sound reverberating through the silent streets. Thankfully, the early hour shielded me from the prying eyes of onlookers, sparing me the indignity of public embarrassment. Only a solitary runner, trailing behind me, bore witness to my outburst, and I surmised that he, too, understood the depths of my agony.

I finally got to the aid station as volunteers were dismantling the tents. I missed the cutoff by more than an hour. The official decree had set the limit at twenty hours, yet I stumbled into the aid station well beyond the twenty-one-hour mark. I joined 150 other runners out of the initial 278, who, like me, had succumbed to the unforgiving challenges of the race. Our collective failure bore witness to a staggering 55% DNF rate, a testament to the immense trial that awaited us on this arduous journey.

So, I notched another DNF on my record. This one really stung, though, because I felt that I've really trained and prepared for this race, even completing Badger Mountain Challenge 100M just a month before as a training race. Also, being one of the Majors, Canyons 100M offered 8 Running Stones, a prized currency in the realm of ultrarunning, compared to usual 4 Running Stones for non-Major 100M UTMB-sponsored races. I was counting on this race to double my Running Stones to increase my odds of getting to Chamonix next year. I guess it wasn't meant to be...

Physically, I recovered within a few days after the race, but the emotional and mental healing process took significantly longer. It's always hard trying to overcome a DNF.

I reminded myself that this wasn't my first DNF and it certainly wouldn't be my last. How do I know this? Well, because I'm going to keep on running!