🏕️ Overnighter
Estimated Time on This Trail: 25 Minutes
The Last Step
My feet touched down on the pavement of the Goat Peak–Pleasant Valley Loop trailhead, marking the end of Operation Goat. It was an endurance event hosted by Green Beret Fitness, and it had taken me on one of the most challenging ascents the Naches Ranger District had to offer, spanning more than nine miles through the backcountry–all while fighting the clock.
Drenched in sweat, I peeled my rucksack off and posed for a picture holding the Green Beret Fitness flag.
As I climbed into my car and began the drive back to Yakima, I found myself ambushed by an emotion I hadn't expected.
Peace.
Of all the emotions I'd anticipated feeling after Operation Goat—contentment wasn't one of them.
It wouldn't be until later that I'd understand why.
I'd certainly experienced the familiar endorphin rush after a long hike or a hard workout before.
This was different.
Quieter.
Less like excitement and more like acceptance.
I couldn't understand why peace, of all emotions, had found me there. It turned out Operation Goat’s surprises didn’t end just because it was over.
Why This Mountain?
When I first stumbled across Operation Goat on social media, I was skeptical because it seemed laser targeted for my interests. Honestly, I thought it was AI clickbait, or maybe an online fundraiser, rather than a bonafide endurance event.
The simple gray and black illustration on the virtual poster matched the direct, minimalist description of the event:
Carry a twenty-five-pound rucksack over more than nine miles of mountain terrain.
Finish under six hours and you pass.
Finish under five hours and you earn a pair of dog tags.
No age groups.
No participation medals.
No excuses.
Navigation and self sufficiency were also an integral part of the event. You had to follow the specific route as it was laid out in the Alltrails app. The required packing list included emergency supplies: food, emergency drinking water, shelter, navigation equipment, whistle, light source, water purification, first aid supplies, rain gear, and a compass to keep you alive in case you got lost.
I'd spent years exercising as part of my daily routine. It had been six years since I'd left the Forest Service, and with it the objective physical standards that had once shaped how I trained.
Operation Goat felt like the next natural challenge.
These weren’t just any dog tags. They were custom made for the event. They couldn’t be purchased. They had to be earned.
Besides, Goat Peak already felt strangely familiar.
I'd retrieved and stocked the wilderness use permits at the Goat Peak-Pleasant Valley Loop Trailhead too many times to count.
Ironically...
I'd never actually climbed the trail.
Now, it was time. I purchased my event ticket.
I somewhat begrudgingly downloaded the Alltrails app and event map onto my phone. I had reservations about using a phone for wilderness navigation because service was always spotty up there, but I was determined to succeed.
I trained diligently for several months–deadlifting, squatting, running, and rucking. Anyone who’s ever tried to balance an endurance training program with a family, and full time job know that even creating the time to train is a triumph.
With all of my preparation, there wasn’t much left to do, but show up, put one foot in front of the other, and see what fate the mountains had in store for me.
The Trailhead
When I arrived that morning, the ground was soft and moist with dew. I was surprised by how small the gathering was.
Just me.
Another participant who had driven from Oregon.
And Clint, the Green Beret Fitness ambassador overseeing the event.
That was it.
No finish-line banners.
No music.
No booths selling IPA’s.
No crowd.
Just three men standing in a parking lot at the edge of the William O Douglas Wilderness Area.
Clint weighed our packs.
Mine came in just over twenty-seven pounds, minus the water in my Camelbak, and the 32 oz. Nalgene at my hip.
He looked at both of us.
"Ready?"
We nodded.
He reminded us of the standard.
"For those tags. The timer starts and ends when your foot touches back down on this pavement.mAt one event I had a guy miss it by one second."
One second, I thought, imagining
One second too late, and no tags.
Before I had time to dwell on failure...
We were off.
The Ascent
My first step was in sync with hitting the “Start” button on Alltrails.
I started at moderate effort. The other guy moved strong and steady, and I was certain that if we maintained our pace we’d both earn our tags, but I also didn’t want my success dependent on someone else’s pace.
I picked it up slightly and found myself coming up on his heels.
"Do you care if I take point?" I asked.
"Nah," he replied. "You go for it."
So I did.
I settled into my own rhythm, allowing my breathing to dictate my pace.
Goat Peak wastes no time introducing itself.
The trail quickly tilts skyward, climbing nearly three thousand feet over the first three miles. You climb through forest on a path made of loose dirt and scree that demands confident footing with each step.
These switchbacks were unforgiving.
One of the purposes of switchbacks–those zig-zag patterns that guide hikers up hills–is to make the climb more manageable. On other trails I could feel the switchback level out some–easing the grade of the climb. Goat Peak was different. It had its own unique, signature switchbacks. The trail crew who carved them must have had agony in mind because they had a thigh and butt burning incline that served to remind me that no matter how well we prepare for a hike we still have to earn each and every hill we climb.
My phone sat in the right cargo pocket of a pair of fire greens, left over from my time with the Forest Service. I pulled it out without stopping just to ensure Alltrails still had my location. I knew I wasn’t going to miss the tag time on account of the few seconds I lost stopping for a map check, yet it didn’t feel like I was giving the challenge, or myself and all of the effort I put into preparing, the respect it deserved if I approached my win with too much leisure in my pace.
Growing up, I'd never been particularly competitive. But as I climbed, gasping for mountain air, something clicked. This was the way I was designed to compete. This. Right here—alone in the wilderness, against the mountain, against the clock, and ultimately, against myself.
Whenever the burn in my legs started getting intense I told myself that this was just temporary–this was the hard 3.3 miles of today’s test. It wouldn’t last long, and the rest of the route would be relatively easy.
I trudged forward at a steady one mile per hour pace, until I’d conquered all 3,200 feet.
The Summit
Just past the three-hour mark, I broke through the fog bank, and stepped onto the summit of Goat Peak.
I took my pack off, and it felt like Christmas morning. Suddenly 30 pounds lighter, I felt like I could float away. I shrugged the tension out of my traps and shoulders, savoring the momentary relief.
I slurped down some Liquid I.V., chewed a handful of energy gummies to give my body some much needed electrolytes and fast acting carbs, and chased it all with a pull of warm water from my hydration bladder.
I snapped some quick pictures of the ocean of clouds surrounding me, attempted a selfie, and checked Alltrails:
It looked right. About six miles to go. I didn’t have time to be too precise
Next came a critical juncture: the descent.
This was where I could buy myself time.
I freed my trekking poles from my pack, then slung it back on. In total my break had been 6 minutes–the shortest Summit break I’d ever taken in my life.
Just as I was about to push off, the other participant emerged through the fog.
I don't remember his exact words, but they were something like,
"Man... what a lung buster! This is awesome!"
I laughed and agreed.
"I'll see you down there."
I began my descent before I could be drawn into a longer conversation.
If the climb had been an exercise in patience, the descent became an exercise in controlled aggression.
I harnessed my inner mountain goat. I bounded down sections of trail while putting my trekking poles to the test, using them to help pivot with each turn of the switchback. At minimum, each leap allowed me to cover what would have taken at least three normal steps of trail.
Normally, I would have taken my time.
But this wasn't a normal hike.
I was racing a clock.
Each step required precision foot placement.
If I turned my ankle….
Or the dirt shifted underneath my foot…
Or my trekking pole snapped…
It would make this my final adventure. Each leap challenged my knees, gear, and luck.
In hindsight, this was a stupid, unnecessary risk. Yet in hindsight, logic rules. But in that moment, emotion was at the reins.
When the grade eventually eased up I decelerated into a “walk with purpose” pace.
Soon came a trail junction.
I stopped.
Not for long—but long enough.
One wrong turn, even if I caught 100 yards later, would be costly..
Suddenly I was grateful for the Alltrails app. Pulling out, and squinting at my paper would take twice as long. I whipped out my phone. Alltrails told me what I’d suspected: turn right. I obliged, well aware that I was nearly in the final third of my journey.
The moment I'd imagined for months was almost here. I wanted those dog tags—not simply as a trophy, but as tangible proof that I was capable. Part of me believed they'd give me greater credibility as a coach. After all the work I'd put in, I was certain that validation was finally within reach.
The Math Changed
Before long I was walking through an uncleared section of trail ripe with downed trees. An obstacle course from mother nature herself.
Each tree was a different size, and required a different approach so I couldn’t capture a smooth rhythm.
One would be a foot tall and easily stepped over. Another would be three feet thick, and I’d have to pull myself up, straddle the tree, swing my leg over, and slide down. Others were across the trail so high, I had to baby crawl underneath.
This went on. And on. And on…
Climb over.
crawl under.
Step around.
Step over.
Step on, then over.
Regain footing.
Start moving again.
Until that day, I'd never realized just how much a downed tree can force us to adapt. Individually, a tree across the trail seemed insignificant. Collectively, they stole minutes.
Altogether there hadn’t been less than twenty trees across my path–probably many more, but I gave up counting them when I got to twenty.
My forest agility test finally came to an end. Back on unobstructed trail, I checked Alltrails.
My stomach sank. A cold sweat and a prickle rushed over my body.
According to the app’s tracker, I'd only covered only 6.8 miles. Could this be wrong? I wondered, frantically.
My time on the route was at four hours and thirty-five minutes.
I'd been moving steadily all day. I'd pushed the descents. I'd run every downhill and even some of the flat stretches that didn't involve scrambling over fallen timber.
In my mind, I'd been making good time.
Alltrails, argued the contrary.
The numbers didn't make sense, but didn’t matter because the math became painfully simple.
I had twenty-five minutes to cover nearly two and half miles.
Objectively, that wasn't impossible.
I'd spent years hiking, rucking, running, and working in these mountains. Two and a half ten minute miles with a ruck was absolutely within my capabilities–fresh and on tfairly stable terrain.
But this wasn't just two and a half miles.
It was two and a half miles after four and a half hours of climbing, descending, navigating, and carrying a loaded rucksack.
For the first time that day, doubt found an opening.
It had been quiet all morning.
Patient.
Waiting.
"See?" it whispered.
"I told you. You can't do it. You didn’t train as hard as you thought you did."
I pushed the thought aside, and broke into a jog.
The time hack was the time hack.
The only thing left to do was keep putting one foot in front of the other.
I found myself slowing to a quick walk frequently to check Alltrails. It didn’t help, but I couldn’t not anxiously check it as though if I glanced at enough it would suddenly read a different time or a different distance covered.
The Final Leg
By now the trail paralleled the clear waters of the American River. That sound of water trickling water in the forest usually came with a sense of tranquility. Not today.
My pace slowed as the hardpacked trail transformed into squishy, slippery sand. Each step my feet sunk, then slid backwards slightly. It was almost like walking on a treadmill, giving the concept of lower body endurance—something I thought I was familiar with—took on an entirely new meaning.
Gritting through the burn in my legs, I did my best to keep up a fast walk, hoping the sand wouldn’t last long so I’d have a chance to make a solid final push, but the forest’s treadmill feature seemed endless.
I'd been alone since leaving the summit.
Then movement appeared ahead–a horseman.
A dog bounded toward me, barking and growling.
I immediately stepped off the trail and waited.
The dog stopped just yards away, head lowered, staring at me, growling. I held my ground, and maintained my posture.
The horseman shouted.
The dog backed off but never took its eyes off me.
The horseman continued forward, then another appeared. Then another.
I waited.
And waited.
Standing still on the side of the trail, going from 60 to 0, mid-race ate away at me. But I knew that spooking a horse—or turning my back to the dog—could cost me more than time. Unlike Goat Peak’s descent, here, I let logic call the shot, upholding trail etiquette.
I gave each horseman a polite nod, praying they didn’t try to dive into a leisurely conversation about the weather or the upcoming trail conditions. This was one of the few times in my life I honestly felt l didn’t have the time to be “nice”.
Finally, all horsemen had passed down the trail, along with their canine companion.
I stepped back on and continued forward. I gave Alltrails one more check: 1.2 miles left. Only 5 minutes on the clock. It still didn’t make sense to me, but I couldn’t argue.
Each season when I was with the Forest Service we had to take a “pack test” to qualify as physically fit enough to fight wildfires. We had to complete 3 miles around a track in a certain amount of time with 45 pounds on our back. Every so often there would be one or two people who just wouldn’t be able to make it time. It would be obvious they were giving it everything they had–the way they panted, and the way their faces flushed. I’d always felt bad for them. It hadn’t been since high school cross country that I’d had that feeling. Now, I was transported back to that feeling of helplessness, remembered that this probably how they felt taking the pack test.
I got back on the trail, and hiked on, knowing all I could do now was complete the course with dignity.
The Finish
The parking lot suddenly appeared before me. It certainly hadn’t felt like 1.2 miles since my horseman encounter.
I took the last few steps off the trail and onto the pavement where the day had begun.
Clint looked at his watch.
"Four hours, seven minutes."
Seven minutes.
Not one second.
Not seconds.
Seven full minutes.
Enough to pass Operation Goat.
Not enough to earn the dog tags.
My breathing quickly returned to normal.
I shrugged my rucksack from my shoulders and posed for a photo with the Green Beret Fitness flag.
Now that I'd stopped moving, the sweat soaking my shirt invited a chill across my back and chest.
The funny thing about failing a time standard is that the clock stops arguing the moment you finish.
The weight on your mind, however, doesn't.
I wondered, had I been too conservative on the climb?
Could I have run through more of the sandy part?
What about that last mile?
Clint never questioned my effort.
The mountain didn't question my effort.
The only person still holding the trial was me.
Why I Left Content
Clint congratulated me on passing Operation Goat and encouraged me to come out to another event. He even gifted me a patch for his personal brand as an endurance athlete: Carving Trails. I thanked him, and we chatted for a bit. We shared a deep appreciation for finding the time to pursue these kinds of adventures. We were both full-time employees behind a desk, with wives and children waiting for us at home.
I assured Clint that the other participant couldn't be too far behind me—that I'd last seen him at the summit. We shook hands, and I climbed into the car.
As I drove back toward Yakima, the questions I'd been asking myself about my performance slowly faded into the background.
In their place came something I hadn't expected.
Peace.
Not because I'd accomplished exactly what I'd set out to do.
I hadn't.
Not because I'd lowered the standard.
The standard hadn't changed.
And not because I'd convinced myself that seven minutes didn't matter.
They did.
Instead, I realized I'd spent the better part of a decade searching for meaningful challenges.
Not challenges I knew I could complete.
Challenges capable of exposing my limits.
Operation Goat had done exactly that.
The mountain had asked an honest question.
The clock had given me an honest answer.
There was another realization waiting for me.
I'd spent more than a decade lifting weights, running races, hiking, and pushing myself physically. But since leaving the Forest Service, I hadn't pursued anything that held me to an uncompromising standard of pass or fail. Somewhere along the way, I'd realized I missed that.
There had always been something deeply satisfying about knowing my training served a purpose beyond looking better or staying healthy. It prepared me for the pack test. It prepared me for long days in the mountains. Operation Goat gave me that sense of purpose again. Every workout became intentional. My rucksack came out more often. My miles increased. I wasn't simply exercising anymore—I was preparing to meet an honest standard.
For years, I'd measured success almost entirely by the outcome.
Did I hit the time?
Did I reach the goal?
Did I earn the result?
As I drove home—I realized there was another measure that mattered just as much.
Had I prepared?
Had I shown up?
Had I kept moving when doubt told me to stop?
The answer to those questions was yes.
The dog tags would have been nice.
But they weren't why I felt content.
As I was driving, my wife called.
"How'd it go?"
"I was about seven minutes too late," I told her.
"Oh honey, I'm sorry."
Her sympathy was appreciated, but I wasn't disappointed. Atleast, not in the way either of us thought I’d be.
Of course, part of me wanted redemption if only to prove I could meet the time standard.
But I also knew the event itself was over and done. Something Clint had mentioned that morning was that this was likely the final year Green Beret Fitness would host Operation Goat.
There would be no rematch.
In the days that followed, I found myself replaying the course. I realized I could easily blame the inaccurate GPS tracking on AllTrails for convincing me I still had farther to go than I actually did. I could blame the horsemen and their dog for the few minutes I spent standing motionless beside the trail. Maybe, with a different mindset—or a little better information—I would have pushed just hard enough to earn the dog tags.
But that's not the story I wanted to tell myself.
Operation Goat wasn't about perfect conditions. It was about meeting the mountain on its terms, not mine—and realizing that life works much the same way. The horsemen. The dog. They were part of the trail that day. Uncertainty was part of the navigation. Fatigue was part of the challenge. I had done everything within my ability to succeed under those conditions. The standard hadn't been unfair.
It had simply been honest.
I felt content because I'd stopped wondering where my limits were.
I'd gone looking for them.
More than that, I'd rediscovered something I'd been missing since my days on the fireline: the satisfaction of preparing for a standard that didn't care about my excuses.
I hadn't earned the dog tags.
The standard hadn't changed.
But neither had the value of pursuing it.
Somewhere between the first step onto the trail and the last step back onto the pavement...
I'd found exactly what I'd come looking for.
Questions from the Trail
Are you preparing for something meaningful right now?
I'd love to hear your thoughts. Feel free to leave a comment below or send me a message at coachlee@trailtone90.com.
Until next time...I'll see you on the trail.
