by Glenn Stout
Running was essential to the human experience, he had decided. Most people undervalued its importance. Running was not merely a sound cardiovascular choice in a fitness craze; it was an ancient art, part of mankind’s genetic imprint. Humans had survived across geological time because they could chase animals until the prey dropped from exhaustion.
The Rarámuri, then, did not possess any locomotive secrets. They simply retained the “genetic cellular memory” most human beings had forgotten.
“Every one of us used to be a long-distance runner,” True said.
But the Rarámuri were themselves unhinging from their ancestral past. Many of the running people no longer ran; they lived in towns and wore blue jeans and cowboy hats. Modernity now flooded into the canyons. Mining companies sent huge trucks down new roads. Marijuana thrived in the soil, and rival drug cartels were in a merciless war within the ravines.
True wanted to help the Rarámuri preserve their running heritage. In 2003, he organized a 29-mile race that was intended to be a festive celebration of local culture, a gathering of the Rarámuri from the caves and ranchos of the “mother mountains.”
To advertise it, True ran from canyon to canyon, handing out fliers and spouting enthusiasm. He hoped for a large turnout, but come race day only seven runners showed up. True finished fifth, ahead of two thirsty Rarámuri who allowed themselves to be diverted by a spectator with beer.
The event wasn’t all he had wanted, but it was a start. It became an annual ultramarathon race, and in 2006, True had an exciting brainstorm. He would entice American ultrarunners to the Rarámuri’s home turf. Highest on his wish list was Scott Jurek, the greatest of them all.
Organizing such a thing was difficult for a man living without a phone or electricity. True journeyed to the town of Creel, where there was a computer to borrow and a dial-up connection. He reached out through cyberspace.
As it turned out, Jurek was a metaphysical soul mate, another man who considered running a cherished legacy from primitive times. To him, racing the legendary Rarámuri in their own canyons sounded awesome.
Getting there, on the other hand, was no simple matter. Once across the border, it involved a relay of bus rides—the vehicles hugging the road through narrow switchbacks—and True was not much help with logistical advice. Seven Americans showed up, uncertain what to expect, and although they found the landscape breathtaking, the course itself was a brutal and twisting 47 miles of forbidding climbs and frightening descents.
Caballo Blanco gave each of his visitors the nickname of a spirit-animal—the deer, the bear, the young wolf, the snow hawk—and the race was held on a glorious Sunday. Crowds congregated in the town of Urique, where the race started and ended. Avid spectators risked their pesos with wagers.
First to finish was Arnulfo Quimare, the swiftest of the Rarámuri, and then came Jurek, six minutes behind. Though unused to defeat, the American acknowledged the winner with a gracious bow. The race is vividly described in Born to Run. McDougall, the author, not only witnessed it but also ran in it. He had his own abiding interest in the Rarámuri—and he had previously met the curious American called Caballo Blanco who lived among them.
Earlier, McDougall had an idea to write a book about four ultrarunners. But his time in the Copper Canyons pushed him toward an entirely different project. Here was a hidden tribe of superathletes who had “mastered the secret of happiness” and lived “as benignly as bodhisattvas.” Here was an American dwelling among them, a “mysterious loner with a fake name.”
This was the stuff of a mind-blowing book.
At one point, the canyon around Little Creek gets even narrower, and at the same time becomes straighter. Molina, Haines, and Bannon had been in the stream for 90 minutes when they saw something ahead that was blood red, a color out of harmony amid the shadings of greens and browns.
“Do you see that?” Molina asked.
He rushed ahead while Haines hesitated. She thought it could be a dead animal, and in Alaska she had been taught to be cautious when coming upon fresh kill.
Molina was not so heedful. He soon recognized that the patch of red was a shirt with limbs on either side. A surge of emotions pulsed through him. His first thought was that his old friend was alive if hurt.
But once nearer the body he knew instantly it was a corpse. True was lying face up, his eyes glossy, his jaw open. Flies were busy.
The others also forced themselves to look. True’s body was reclining on an outcropping of small rocks and boulders. His legs were in 10 inches of water, and his arms were against his chest, the right one down, the left one up. One of his shoes was off, and nearby was a plastic water bottle, two-thirds empty.
It appeared that True had taken a bad tumble at some point. There were abrasions on his legs and the backs of his arms. The middle finger of his left hand was bent and purplish. It looked to be broken.
“Oh, man,” Molina said softly, and he realized he was weeping.
The task now was to get the word out, but they had no radio. Nor did they know exactly where they were. They had no GPS device.
They discussed what to do. Perhaps someone should stay with the body while the others went back. But that seemed too spooky to contemplate further: out there, in the dark, alone with the body. Mountain lions were mentioned.
No, they decided, they would all go. Yet other images crept into their minds. Molina wondered if they should place rocks on the body to keep animals from dragging it off—either that or cover it up with reeds and branches.
But they decided this too was unwise. They shouldn’t contaminate the scene. The medical examiner would want things untouched.
So they turned back toward where they had entered the canyon.
And this time they ran as fast as they could.
Born to Run begins with McDougall, its author, going to Mexico’s Copper Canyons, which he calls “a kind of shorebound Bermuda Triangle known for swallowing the misfits and desperadoes who stray inside.” He hopes to find the “phantom” Caballo Blanco, who seems to be “a ghost among ghosts.”
For a while, some of True’s friends in Boulder were particularly fond of quoting that passage. He had been a well-known fixture in the city for 25 years. Now, when he would stop in at the Trident Café or the Mountain Sun Pub and Brewery, they would genially feign surprise, shocked by the presence of the phantom.
Becoming the central character in a best-selling book is a monumental life-changer, especially if it happens unwittingly to a man who made a sacrament of living simply. A thousand conflicting feelings eddied in his head.
True told people the book contained exaggerations and inaccuracies. For one, the Tarahumara lived no such idyllic life. Then he retreated from those criticisms, praising and thanking McDougall; then he alleged more flaws.
The book was flattering, surely. But that itself was a source of unease. True did not see himself as anywhere near so eccentric and amazing. He oftentimes felt two forces were in a tug-of-war for his identity: was he the person inside his own skin or the person inside the pages of Born to Run?
Much of the book’s significance rested in its assertion that cushioned running shoes were a hazard to the human foot. But what made Born to Run a superb read was the story line in Mexico. Many readers wanted to meet the celebrated Caballo Blanco, and they seemed to expect a guru or a shaman or a fleet-footed saint. “I feel like I always have to live up to the expectations of the book,” True complained.
But fame was enjoyable as well. True may never have wanted the world to beat a path to his door, but now he encouraged people to follow him on Facebook. He spent hours online tending to his messages, either at the Boulder public library or in the municipal building in Urique, Mexico.
Within months of the book’s publication, two Facebook friends became love interests. One was Kati Bell, a runner who worked in corporate marketing. “I told him: ‘You’re a celebrity now. You can make money out of this,’” Bell said.
That was an intrigu
ing notion, though not for his own sake but for the Rarámuri. The Copper Canyon Ultra Marathon was beginning to fulfill his grand vision. The number of participants was multiplying. There were cash prizes for the winners, and every finisher received 500 pounds of corn. True was not only reviving the running culture but also feeding the hungry.
The race needed infusions of cash to sustain itself, and he agreed to a small number of personal appearances, Bell said, although he was appalled when she suggested they hold dinners and charge $100 a head.
“Let people donate whatever they want,” he insisted.
True proved to be an amiable and amusing speaker. He needed no notes to tell his stories, although a few beers helped. He was shaving his head now, a look that made his face all the more striking, the large ears and lips, the protruding chin, the deep crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes.
Audiences were reliably friendly, won over well before he uttered word one. True would smile at them even in mid-jeremiad. “Long after we’re gone, long after greed blows everything up, the Rarámuri are still going to be subsisting,” he said. “They know how to survive, they know how to endure.”
A nonprofit group, Norawas de Rarámuri, was set up to handle donations. Every dollar would benefit the Rarámuri, as True demanded.
But were others willing to demonstrate the same selflessness? True was certain of his own integrity but deeply suspicious of everyone else’s.
What was McDougall doing with the profits from the book, True wanted to know. And what about Ted McDonald, Barefoot Ted, another memorable character from Born to Run? He had started a company that made minimalist sandals modeled after the huaraches worn by the Rarámuri.
“Running is not supposed to be about getting people to buy stuff,” True wrote in an email to friends. “Running should be free, man, and the Rarámuri are being used to sell lots of stuff. What do they get out of it?”
Barefoot Ted often found True irritating. “I give back every year to the Copper Canyon, but Caballo equated any business with evil,” he said. “He did great things down there, but you ended up loving him and not quite liking him. I told McDougall, you’ve brought into being a new Frankenstein.”
That is hardly a prevailing view, but True could indeed be prickly and sharp-elbowed as well as warmhearted. His mantra for running was: easy, light, and smooth. But off the trails he was an easily frazzled man living a newly frazzling life. The “whole notoriety thing,” as he called it, was useful for raising funds, but he was afraid of looking like a sellout at the same time.
To him, honesty was everything. He worried: Am I pretending to be something I’m not? Am I unfairly benefiting from someone else’s book?
But he continued with the public speaking gigs, usually at running stores.
Scott Leese, another of True’s cyberpals, was an “executive coach” in California who “specialized in the rapid transformation of people.” He, too, was smitten with the Caballo Blanco portrayed in the book and wanted him to reach a wider audience. Last year, Leese became his reticent friend’s agent, “though Micah hated that word because it really screamed establishment.”
Leese’s new client was often a headache. He despised anything corporate. He refused to consider endorsements. But finally, last summer, he agreed to attend an event hosted by Saucony, the shoe company, going on a trail run with some of its retailers and speaking at a dinner in Utah.
Then, in the fall, True consented to a trip to Sweden, Denmark, and Britain. In England, he spoke in small theaters or halls in London, York, Chester, Bristol, and Birmingham. Admission cost £10, about $16.
All the while, the runner found reasons to bellyache. “Very high maintenance,” Leese said. But when the trip ended, True regarded it as a success. The audiences appreciated him, and he wanted to do more public speaking. He was close to a multi-appearance deal with Saucony.
Micah True was making his peace with the “notoriety thing.”
Not long after Ray Molina and his friends came out of Little Creek, they saw three of the Mas Locos, the so-called crazy ones, which loosely includes anybody who has traveled into the Copper Canyons to run the big race.
“We found Micah,” Molina shouted.
“What?”
“We found him. He’s in the creek and he’s dead.”
They stood together for a few moments, awash in melancholy.
Two of the ultrarunners volunteered to go to the creek and watch over the body. One was Simon Donato, 35, a geologist from Calgary, Alberta. The other was Tim Puetz, 33, who had been a captain in the Army infantry in Afghanistan. Never leave a comrade behind, dead or alive, he was thinking. What if the body washed down the creek? This required “eyes on.”
While posted in Logar Province in Afghanistan, Puetz read Born to Run in two sittings, and it changed his life. He used to awaken at 4:00 A.M. and jog for a few hours along a two-mile circuit around the perimeter of his outpost. He would often think of that amazing guy in the book, Caballo Blanco, who “seemed to live without limits and go wherever life led him.” When it was time to leave the military, he emailed True, asking permission to run in the ultramarathon.
“You don’t need permission, just come,” True wrote back.
Puetz (pronounced Pits) had met Donato at the 2010 race. To them, Mas Locos felt like a brotherhood. And now there they were, scrambling up the trail to safeguard Caballo’s body. They were wearing only running gear, but Molina and his friends had given them fleece jackets, a nylon cover, two flashlights, a cigarette lighter, and a couple of granola bars.
Puetz and Donato hit the water. They wanted to move quickly through the creek but were also afraid of overshooting the corpse in the waning light. Then they finally saw him, lying peacefully on his back, like a man who had stopped to relax.
They built a fire on the bank across the creek, using pine cones for kindling. Despite the flames, the chill insinuated itself through the drifting night air.
Later, they shared a granola bar and slid under the cover, sitting with their backs to True and the creek and the canyon wall behind it. They preferred to face the steep forest slope. If a bear or a mountain lion came darting out of the darkness, it would most likely come through those trees.
They figured to take turns all night, one man feeding the fire while the other slept. But then, near midnight, they heard whistles, and there was Ray Molina with several others. They had brought warm blankets and food.
In the morning, the corpse was put in a body bag, then maneuvered onto a light metal frame. It was carried through the dense, snaggy brush of the forest until the woods intersected a trail. Three pack animals were there waiting, and one of them immediately caught Puetz’s eye. It was a light-shaded palomino with a cream-colored mane.
“Are you kidding me?” he said. “They sent a white horse.”
The 2012 Copper Canyon Ultra Marathon, held March 4, was the biggest yet. More than 350 Rarámuri ran the tortuous course. Some were as old as 70, some barely in their teens. Many women ran in their traditional long skirts, the bright material swinging back and forth.
About 100 other Mexicans competed, as well as 80 foreigners. Three runners broke the course record. The winner was a Rarámuri. A runner from the Czech Republic came in second.
In the days before, True was on a pendulum of mood swings, happy with being the host and anxious about the responsibility. Was there enough water? What about medical support? The Rarámuri were arriving 20 and 30 at a time in cattle trucks. They needed food and places to sleep.
But not all the arrangements fell on True’s shoulders anymore. In many ways, the event was outpacing him. Public officials considered the race a signature municipal event that merited their co-management. Politicians made the welcoming speeches. Goldcorp, the big mining company, had been enlisted by the municipality of Urique as a sponsor.
At times, True wished it were again just him running through the mountains with a handful of the Rarámuri. But mostly he was elated. These were tough times
; a drought was in its second year, and the runners in the ultramarathon were rewarded with a voucher for 110 pounds of corn for every 10 miles they completed.
The race was the best of True’s good deeds. He described himself in the third person, all at once modest and grandiose: “Caballo Blanco is no hero. Not a great anything. Just a Horse of a little different color dancing to the beat of a peaceful drum and wanting to help make a little difference in some lives.”
The day after the race, he contentedly sat at a table by the municipal building handing out the valuable vouchers. The line stretched so long it took two hours to finish the paperwork. He and his charity gave away $40,000 in food.
On March 6, True left the canyons in his 25-year-old Nissan truck, driving with his dog, Guadajuko, and his girlfriend, Maria Walton, 50. They had been a couple for about two years. She too had found him on Facebook.
A divorcée with three grown children, Walton was the general manager of a large restaurant in Phoenix. She was as reliably even-tempered as True was mercurial. The Mas Locos generally agreed: Maria was an infusion of love and serenity into Caballo’s life. He called her by the spirit name La Mariposa, the butterfly.
True spent two weeks in Phoenix, then drove east with the dog to the Gila Wilderness in southwestern New Mexico, one of his favorite retreats. His friends Dean and Jane Bruemmer own a small lodge there. He sometimes stayed with them, although other times he camped out. Either way, in the mornings he used their wireless Internet connection. He remained compulsive about reading his email.
“Life was going good for Micah; actually, life was going great,” Jane Bruemmer said. She had been unsure how well he was handling his sudden starburst of fame. “He didn’t seek it or need it, but he was using it now to fund his favorite cause,” she said. “He had an agent.” She found that so astonishing she needed to repeat it with more inflection: “Micah True had an agent!”
