49 Hours with My Son in the Desert - Sedona Canyons 125

The Sedona Canyons 125—often called the “half-Cocodona”—starts in Jerome, Arizona, and finishes in Flagstaff. The route winds through Sedona’s red rocks, climbs into the Coconino National Forest, and traverses remote desert trails.

For the last two years, I completed the Cocodona 250 and was eager to share Arizona’s rugged beauty with someone else. My son Ronnie had finished his first 100-mile race last year at age 15, and this year, he wanted to go farther. 125 miles was the perfect next step. But unlike his last, flat race, this one came with 13,000 feet of elevation gain.

This time, my one focus was Ronnie—not my own race. But he had to get himself to the finish—carrying his own gear, water, and doing all the work himself. I was just the navigator, advisor, and acting race captain.

We estimated 48 hours on course: two full days and two full nights. The second night would be completely new territory for him. From past races, we expected people to say, “Wow, how old are you? You’re doing this race?” But not this time. I told him, “You know why, right? It’s because you look so grown-up and capable now.” Still, what he was doing at his age is incredibly rare. He deserves to be recognized!

The race began at Gold King Mine, a very cool looking abandoned outpost near Jerome.

The first 16km were fast, downhill, and deceptively easy. We went faster than we should have.

Around 12.5km, we hit a water crossing. We had planned to change into water shoes to protect our foot tape, but Ronnie got a soaker just before. With his feet already wet, we barreled through. The current was strong but safe. It felt good not to stop, but the tape took a hit. At the next aid station, I re-taped what I could. We each grabbed two meat tacos and scarfed them down.

Hours later, near the marathon mark, it was hot. Ronnie overheated, and the tacos didn’t sit well. After a short break, I resumed my constant reminders: “Drink water,” “Eat something,” “Take salt pills.” I knew I was being annoying, but it mattered.

Running into Sedona, support through Shannon’s Facebook posts—from friends and family—kept him going. His school even made announcements about his race. Ronnie had to do video calls to some family members to show the beauty he was experiencing.

We rotated through mini-pushes, as an example: run 3km, walk 0.25km. At the Sedona aid station, we geared up for the cold night. It was too early to sleep.

We climbed the Hangover Trail for five steep hours, stashing our poles and using our hands at times because it was too steep. One section required hopping over a 60–70 degree slide with a drop that felt like certain death. We had hoped to do this in daylight, but maybe it was better in the dark.

Some parts were downright scary. I stayed close to Ronnie. One woman nearby was frozen with fear, and I held her pack to help her across a narrow section.

Ronnie pointed out how beautiful the stars and moon were. It was nice to see him repeatedly appreciate nature.

The course includes a mandatory shuttle midway due to nesting endangered owls. We were ahead of schedule at the sleep station before the shuttle. It was supposed to be a 15-minute wait, but the shuttle had just left. We waited nearly an hour by the fire, unable to sleep in the cold. During the shuttle ride, I dozed off, experiencing vivid hypnagogic hallucinations—a first for me. Scenes played in my mind with crystal clarity: Ronnie and me running through the desert, shifting landscapes like a film projected in my brain. I thought to myself “this is what it must be like for someone with photographic memory.”

After running longer, we reached the second sleep station, Munds Park—our first real rest. Runners by the fire said all the tents were full. I didn’t want to rely on trail naps with Ronnie, it was cold. I headed for the medical tent. Both cots in the medical tent were taken, so I told Ronnie to try sleeping upright in a chair. Fifteen minutes later, a cot opened up and I had him grab it. He got 45 minutes of sleep. I nodded off for 15, hallucinating again. Then I prepped our gear for the next stretch.

The next day was a grind of running and walking, letting the terrain dictate our pace. We headed toward Fort Tuthill—the biggest and best aid station I’ve experienced.

As the second night began, I got a nosebleed that wouldn’t clot. It started 20 minutes before the Tuthill aid station and lasted hours. I felt I lost a lot of blood, I was worried I could faint, Ronnie needed me for navigation. We rushed uphill. I asked Ronnie to stay close as I pinched my nose to stop it from draining into my throat. Ronnie, though exhausted, knew it was a mini-emergency. He even asked if he should blow the emergency whistle. Low platelets and iron—which I’ve since been addressing—were likely factors.

Arriving at Fort Tuthill, we slept around the 100-mile mark. I got 15 minutes, Ronnie got 45. I woke him when a massage therapist was available and moved him over while I got our things ready. After a good recovery at that aid station we moved on.

That night, Ronnie suddenly shouted, “WHAT THE HECK IS THAT, THE GRIM REAPER?!” It was a guy peeing off-trail in a black hoodie. I apologized, explaining the hallucination. The man peeing didn’t find it funny.

Just over a half marathon remained until the final aid station. Nearing morning, Ronnie broke down. The forest was repetitive and disorienting.

“How much longer?” he asked.
“17km,” I said. It was 19.
“17?! We’ll never make it!” he cried.
“This isn’t like you, Ronnie. One step at a time.”
“No! It’s the same thing over and over. We’ll never arrive!”
“Crying won’t help!” (I later regretted my lack of compassion, I’m far from perfect)
“I need to let it out!”
“OK. Just 16.5km left.” Another lie.

This might sound like a short exchange, but this section lasted around 5 hours. I layered on the lies as needed. Several miles, tears, and lies later, we made it to the last aid station. Dawn was breaking. Ronnie slept 15 minutes in a medical cot while I prepped gear. I envied that cot. I had about 30 minutes of sleep in two days. Someone at the aid station asked if my son was OK? He looked bad in that last section. I assured him that he was fine and that he would bounce back. When it was time to go, I struggled to wake Ronnie. He sat up, then collapsed back asleep. I finally got him up and moving.

As we continued in the last segment, there were no more aid stations. You can’t quit at that point, we virtually made it! We took it slow. Ronnie had long calls with family, recounting everything. It was peaceful. I fell asleep while hiking—drifting off the trail until Ronnie said, “Dad! Isn’t it this way?” I snapped awake. “Oh, sorry. I fell asleep.” Yes, you can hike, walk, and even run while sleeping. I’ve done it more than once.

Over 212 kilometers and 49 hours, Ronnie climbed 4,000 meters, burned 15,000 calories, and poured out 17 liters of sweat—taking 170,000 punishing steps. He tripped, slipped, kicked rocks, and still tucked a few into his pack—adding weight to already heavy gear. His rock collection back home is now more impressive.

We made it at last—Ronnie, true to form, couldn’t resist a sprint finish.

The next day, we were both moving well. Just minor blisters. Ronnie even signed up for a trip to Six Flags water park despite my warnings about stairs. He ate more ravenously than usual.

The difficulty didn’t deter him. He wants to do the full Cocodona 250. I understand. This kind of challenge is brutal—but it makes you feel alive. I’m hoping to do Fat Dog 120mi with him in British Columbia before we get back to Cocodona to give him more experience.

Congratulations, Ronnie—you did something extraordinary. You found a confidence that you’ll carry for life. We’re so proud of you.