Choosing the Unknown - Chapter Two

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Paul Johnson: I lived it, and I'm leaving it where it belongs, and maybe that's the most powerful kind of endurance. Not doing something again and again, but knowing when once is enough. Paul Johnson: I am your host, Paul Johnson, and this is Get Some stories about who we are, how we struggle, and why we keep going. This special series is devoted to Cocodona It's a 250 mile foot race across Arizona from the desert near Phoenix, up through the mountains to Flagstaff. It's long, brutal, and beautiful, the kind of race that leaves a mark on everyone who tries it. Here's the thing about ultra running. The

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longer you do it, the more you learn. that experience doesn't protect you, it just gives you more stories. In chapter two, we meet Andy Jones Wilkins. If you've been around the sport, you know the name. He's run hundreds of races, taught others how to navigate the lows and made a life around these long, stubborn miles. But here's the question. What happens when even a veteran steps onto a course that demands everything over and over again? This is a story about experience meeting uncertainty. About what it means to know how hard it's going to get and to keep going anyway, Paul Johnson: at 7:30 AM two and a half hours after the Cocodona, 250 started,

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we left the Cottonwood Creek aid station. I. And followed a battered old mining road. It climbed fast, rough tread, loose rock switchbacks, twisting under a gray morning sky. The kind of trail that tells you early, this won't be gentle. It climbed into the high Bradshaw mountains beneath a sky that felt unsettled. The mountaintops above were shrouded in cloud. To the North storm bands still hung, low, thick, bruised with color, like something hadn't quite passed. The air was cool. The breeze moved steadily. Nothing violent, just constant like the whole mountain was exhaling. The trail itself was messy in places A storm had blown through hard. Heavy

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rain. Even hail the ground at higher elevations was wet soft in patches. There were mud traps tucked in the corners of the road. Runners had already carved new tracks to dodge them, but this wasn't just a tough stretch. This road carried history. Long before ultra runners or freight wagons, this was Yavapai land, specifically the Wipukepa and the Tolkepaya bands. They called these mountains, Wikanyacha—“rough black rocks.”. They were here a thousand years ago. Mining copper, shaping it, trading it across the southwest. Long before anyone from Europe showed up to the north and west. The Paiute moved through the same terrain. Season by season,

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hunting mule deer, gathering medicinal plants. Walking the same paths that would one day turn into stagecoach lines. And then in the 1860s everything changed. Gold was discovered at Lynx Creek and suddenly Arizona had its first gold rush. By 1863, a riverboat captain named William Bradshaw, who was part adventurer. part schemer helped carve out a road and a town here. They called it Bradshaw City. For a moment, it boomed. Mines dug deep saloons opened. Men drank, gambled, and sent letters back east bragging about the gold they were sure they had found. And then it was over. The gold dried up. Bradshaw

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himself died under murky circumstances. Some say it was suicide by the 1880s, the town was gone. Today, you'd need a GPS and a little luck just to find what's left. Buried under pine needles and scrub, and still the trail continues. For us, the Cocodona course skirts the Western Edge of Horse Thief Basin, a place with a name that comes with a story In the late 1800s rustlers, he had stolen horses here. They'd grazed them on rich grass, changed the brands, and sell them off under new names. It was secluded, fertile Lawless. We didn't see any horses. The rough old mining road kept climbing winding through

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pines and scrub as we moved along. Tired, quiet. Chasing a finish line. Still impossibly far away. In the 1930s the Civilian Conservation Corps, a program that put young men to work during the Great Depression, punched a road into the basin and built a dam that formed Horse Thief Basin Lake. Now stocked with bass and catfish. But on a morning like this with clouds still rolling over the mountain ridges, the place felt more like a hiding spot than a picnic ground. By mile 10, we crossed the dry bed of Boulder Creek. From there, the real work began. A relentless eight mile climb over loose rock and rubble. We climbed nearly 2,800 feet and by mile 17, the ridge finally broke

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open at just under 4,900 feet elevation to the south. Far below we could still see Lake Pleasant in the Phoenix Valley. Washed, clean and glowing in the morning light. At mile 19, the course turned again. Rolling. Climbs the climb that at mile 19, the course turned again. Rolling. Climbs the kind that wear you down, not because they're dramatic, but because they never quite end. Somewhere in those rollers, around 10:15 AM Andy Jones. Wilkins passed me Bib number 76. He moved steady unhurried. You could feel the years of pacing in his stride, like he wasn't just running a race, but paying tribute to something deeper pinned to the back of his vest was a photo. I called out to him as he passed running for your friend. He turned briefly and nodded. Yes, Rob, and then he was gone.

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Climbing into the next stretch of unknown, carrying something that couldn't be measured in miles. Rob was Rob Martin. Rob was Rob Martin, a pillar of the Arizona Trail community, an ultra runner, a father, a physicist with a PhD in high energy particle science, a bow hunter who loved spreadsheets. He once hiked a 200 mile stretch of the Arizona Trail just for the experience. He died suddenly on November 9th, 2024. He was 54. People say you run with someone's memory, but I think Andy Jones Wilkins was running through it. Not just carrying Rob's photo, but carrying his unfinished miles, his absence, his fire. That's what you do when you choose the unknown. You don't go out there to prove something. You

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go because you can't stay where you were. Andy Jones Wilkins wasn't just running Cocodona He was showing us what it looks like to honor someone you lost by stepping into something. They never got the chance to finish. At the top of the climb. The course cut hard to the right off road and onto the Lane Mountain Trail. That's where things shifted again. The trail narrowed, the Chaparral thickened Manzanita. Acacia, Juniper and oak all clashing together like they're trying to keep you out. But the air cooled further. Ponderosa Pines started to appear, softening the light, giving the trail a sense of enclosure, like walking through the inside of something alive. We passed Lion Spring,

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a shaded, reliable watering hole where Mountain lion tracks are sometimes pressed fresh into the edge. It's not fear you feel there. It's presence. A reminder that you've entered a space that isn't yours. Somewhere in that high forest, the trail crossed the former site of the lane mine. One of the first silver mines in the Bradshaws. The ore was so rich, they packed it on burrows to Wickenburg, loaded it on wagons to Yuma, then shipped it by steamship to France for refining. Even now, if you stop and listen, you can almost hear the creak of harness leather. The echo of a

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pick on stone, Yavapai, copper, Boon, towns that vanished, outlaws, hailstorms, mule trails, and silver runs to France. It's all still here. It's all still there. It's all still there. Soaked into the soil, buried under mud and pine needles. Waiting for someone to pass through and notice. We'll get back to the Cocodona 250 race in a second. But first, who is Andy Jones Wilkins? Most people in the ultra running world know him as a AJW name that became synonymous with Front Pack Grit at Western States. That's the Western States 100, a 100 mile foot race from Squaw Valley to Auburn, California,

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known for scorching canyon heat, relentless climbs, and the kind of competition that defines careers. AJW didn't just run it, he raced it. He finished 10 times, placed in the top 10, seven years in a row. And became a fixture at the front of the pack during one of the sport's most competitive eras. His race reports, columns, and early blogs helped shape the voice of ultra running before podcasts and film crews showed up. He's tall and lanky with long arms that swing low, and a gate that looks. He's tall and lanky with long arms that swing low, and a gate that still looks smooth, even 80 miles in. His voice has a bit of a rasp to it. The kind of voice you'd expect from someone who's been shouting, encouragement across aid stations for decades.

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It's the voice of a coach or more precisely a head of school. Because that's what he was. After a 34 year career in education, including roles as teacher, administrator and head of school, AJW retired from formal schooling to focus full-time on coaching, writing, and podcasting As an educator, he guided students through the delegate balance of pressure and purpose. It's a role he embraces the same way he approaches a race, show up prepared, adjust when things go sideways. And above all, be steady. But to really understand, Andy, you have to go back. Back to the East Coast. He was born in Massachusetts, grew up in Rhode Island, not a place known

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for mountain trails or desert running. But there was plenty of structure, plenty of competition, soccer fields, classrooms expectations, and early on, Andy found something comforting in that rhythm, something reliable in the work. That same instinct carried into adulthood, into his vocation, and eventually into his running. But ultra running didn't come to him early. It wasn't until his late twenties that he discovered long races, and when he did, he committed with full force. His first ultra marathon was the Mountain Masochist 50 mile Trail run in Virginia. This race played a pivotal role in launching his ultra running career, and AJW has often cited it. As his introduction to the

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community and the challenge of long distance trail running, he didn't dabble. He studied, he watched the sport grow. He wrote race reports like Field Dispatches. He hosted podcasts. He penned a weekly column called AJW's Tap Room, where he shared not just training tips. But stories about failure, family suffering, and joy. He once wrote, ultra running is not about victory. It's about survival connection. and meaning we don't run these races to be seen. We run them to understand something. And few runners have lived that idea as completely as AJW. He's run the Western states 100 ten times, earning the coveted 1000 mile buckle. And for much of the

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2000's, he wasn't just consistent, he was fast. From 2004 to 2010, he finished in the top 10 every single year, including a third plate from 2004 to 2010. He finished in the top 10 every single year, including a third place finish in 2005. He knew how to race through heat, through carnage, through competition, but more than that. Andy became the kind of runner who understood the course in his bones. The one you'd ask what Mile 78 feels like and what to do when it doesn't feel right and what to do when it doesn't feel right. That's near Rucky Chucky, the River Crossing. It's one of the most iconic points on the Western States course. By then, you've been running for nearly 80 miles through high country granite canyons and furnace grade heat. And just when your body starts to break, the trail drop and just when your body starts to break, the trail drops toward the American river and you wade sometimes waist deep

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across cold, fast water. That crossing resets some people, it breaks others, and AJW, he knew how to move through all of it. But there's a flip side to that legacy. When you become known for mastering something, what happens when you choose to do something you can't master? In 2025, Andy made a decision. He signed up for Cocodona 250. Not to win, not even to prove he could, not even to prove he could, but because after decades of knowing what to expect, he wanted to step into something completely unfamiliar. He wanted to choose the unknown. And so at age 56 AJW pinned on bib number 76. Stepped to the starting line in Black Canyon City and joined a field of

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runners half his age, for a race twice the distance of anything he'd ever done. What he carried with him wasn't just gear or food or pacer plans, he carried history. He carried his students, his family, his aging body, and pinned to the back of his running vest. Pinned to the back of his running vest, he carried a picture of his friend Rob Martin, who had died unexpectedly just months before the race. And so the question becomes, what happens when one of the sport's most reliable finishers chooses a race with no guarantees? The Coca Don race started with something. The Cocodona race started with something most hadn't planned for rain, and then mud AJW later wrote that the first 48 hours felt like moving through glue. The. In the canyons, the trails turned to thick red

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sludge coating shoes, sticking to trekking poles, grabbing ankles with every step. Each mile didn't just take energy, it took negotiation. AJW wasn't the only one suffering. He shared hours with other runners as they inched through soaked washes. and clay laden climbs. One section he said was so slick that every step forward felt like two inches of sliding backwards. There were places where my shoes had gained two pounds of mud on each foot. Just lifting them became its own workout. The rain didn't cool things off. It just complicated everything. Clothes soaked, chafing. Started early aid stations, became drying

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stations with runners holding socks over propane heaters just to feel human again. And then there was sleep, or the lack of it. For the first two nights, AJW stayed awake. He tried to sleep in Jerome, laying down on the cot, shoes off. Zach had he tried to sleep in Jerome, laying down on a cot, shoes off. jacket zipped, but the pain in his feet wouldn't let him rest, but the pain in his feet wouldn't let him rest. He described it later as brain fog, like being inside a dream. He couldn't wake up from still moving, still trying to remember what day it was. He described it later as brain fog, like being inside a dream. He couldn't wake up from still moving, still trying to remember what day it was. I kept thinking I'd slept for an hour and I'd look at my watch. And it had been six minutes. Everything was louder at night. The wind, my breath, even my thoughts. By day three, the hallucinations started. Shadows became trees that weren't there. A pile of rocks looked like a sleeping

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runner. He had moments where the trail seemed to drift sideways. That's what happens when sleep deprivation. Physical exhaustion and caloric deficits start stacking up. The brain short on glucose and stripped of REM sleep begins to blur the line between what's real and what's expected. Visual processing stutters, the mind starts to fill in gaps with memory, with dreams, with fear. In ultra running, they call it seeing things. In neurology, it's called hypnogogic imagery or sleep wake intrusion. Your body's desperate attempt to rest while still moving. For some runners, it's benign. For others, it's a warning. You're running on borrowed brain power, and

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then there was AJW's, feet blistered, emaciated. Soggy for too long. By mile 180, they looked more like wet paper than skin. He described peeling back a sock and seeing the top layer of skin come with it. My legs and feet bounced back within about 10 days, but the rest of me took much longer. He said the brain fog, dizziness, and emotional irritability lasted weeks. This wasn't the hard part of the race. This was the race. Cocodona didn't give AJW a clean moment of triumph. It gave him miles and miles of uncertainty. And in that he found something when he crossed the finish line after 117 hours, he didn't raise his arms, he didn't weep. He just stopped. A quiet, deliberate

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ending, not because it wasn't meaningful. But because it was complete, I don't need to do it again. That's what makes it special. I chose it. I lived it, and I'm leaving it where it belongs, and maybe that's the most powerful kind of endurance. Not doing something again and again, but knowing when once is enough. AJW: Yes. Wow. Here we go. Although, to be honest, I can't quite tell, do we have audio on this? Huh? I said I can't quite tell us this. Oh, we have audio. Oh. Oh wait. I need my, we have the legendary Andy Jones Wilkins coming through for a incredible 250 mile finish crash. Okay. So we, the left hand wall, the bumper, the balling. Yeah. Better guard. It's a better,

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you know what? We should just take a bowling guy. That would be so much nicer. It doesn't last a whole week. I think I'm better at bowling than I am at ultra running. I think you are too, which is hard to say. Yeah, Brian, you can't incorporate fishing into bowling Very well. Sacrifices man sacrifice. It's probably make it more of a triathlon. I mean, it's sequential beer, bowling and fishing. I can work it out.

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You think the taco tree's still open. I don't like the chances there. It might be Del Taco or Taco Bell. Or Baro. Taco Bell. Oh, the Bartos are the best. I could go to Hilly Bertos a mile right now and get a super fries burrito with guac and some par salad and french fries. Okay. But yeah, Bertos is best. Hey, Steven, didn't mean to jump in there and. It's your birthday. You want? Who told you? Hey, happy birthday, Chris. Trail running content that the world needs right now. It doesn't matter how long you're running for, you just wanna talk about food So. Glad to see you and look who's holding the other camera. Thank you for carrying his bib, Chris. God, because here a tag team with Javelina, we would tag team at, uh,

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all right. So what's your first thoughts of this race? You know, you know, it's an, it's an incredible, uh, it's an. Um, it's, it's a, there's a, there's a Cocodona feeling I wanted to survive. I'm sorry. It's really a be the man. I'm just No, you the man too to be able to live that feeling. Five days see it from the side you guys are on.

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So that's the first thing. The other thing is it's really, really hard. It's really, uh, you know, I, and, and, and, yeah, sure. There's harder races out in the world, man. What? Everybody who's finished, and I understand there are number of DNFs with the weather the way it was. Um, anybody, anybody who finished this thing is a massive winner this year, including this guy. Hold it off, man. Oh goodness. And you know, I did it for Rob, Rob Martin, our dear friend, passed away in November, day of 54, and I thought of him a lot out there today. Oh, and yesterday

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and the day before, and the day before, and the day before four. There were a couple times, I won't say the words he probably would've said, but I think there were a couple times when I was having some pity parties where he would've really. kicked my butt. Okay. I've waited for this moment for a long time. Call it Chris. Call it. Coming up with that. Left on Birch Andy Jones. Wilkins gonna head down Birch Cross Larou, head down Cocodona alley and celebrate his first ever 250 mile finish. Oh my God. I have the chills. Chris left on Birch. We need to get you the hat. All sports, the most famous left turn in all the sports now immortalized.

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Yeah, just stay in the middle. Chris, I saw Matt Felden at the, at the path on the way up, Elden. He was there to gimme a big hug. He's so sweet. He's a great guy, but so are you. What a day. What a day. All right. This is the other thing I've wanted to do. We've told this so many times, Chris. Thank you. Andy Jones, Wilkins making that last half block down Birch

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coming up just past the parking garage. I am gonna make that right hand turn down Cocodona alley. Gonna see that finish line for the very first time as a competitor and Andy Jones Wilkins.

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Back finish. Hey buddy, you did it. Oh, Chris. Oh, oh, you did it. Oh, Logan. Yeah. Your grandpa runs 250 mile race. Hey, sweet. Paul Johnson: AJW left Cocodona with mud caked shoes and a quiet mind, a mind that knew some journeys are

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meant to be final, for your sake. He chose the unknown. He lived it. I didn't see Andy again that day. In fact, after that morning, I never saw him again. I didn't see Andy again that day. In fact, after that morning, I never saw him again. He disappeared up the trail the same way he arrived, quiet, steady carrying something bigger than himself. As for me, I kept climbing by late afternoon, I reached the Crown King aid station set in the tiny old mounting. By late afternoon, I reached the Crown King Aid station set. In the tiny old mining town of Crown King, Arizona High in the Bradshaw Mountains, the mountaintop was shrouded in low clouds, and the air had a damp chill from the storm that had passed through earlier. Hail, rain and all the ground was soft and muddy in places, and runners tracked it in with every step. Crown King was bustling. Volunteers moving quickly between tents,

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refilling bottles, offering warm food, helping runners gear up for the night ahead. You could feel the shift in urgency. People weren't just resting, they were preparing. Word had spread. The next section would be colder, wetter, higher. Ahead was a long climb toward Towers Mountain elevation Over ahead was a long climb toward Towers Mountain elevation over 7,600 feet followed by the descent to the so-called Senator Highway, a rugged forest road. That was anything but smooth From there. The big climb to Union Mountain. Some runners changed clothes, others pulled out waterproof layers. I grabbed calories and layered up. Then I headed out into the clouds upward Again, you think about people like Andy when the miles get hard, not because they make it look easy, but because they

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remind you what perseverance actually looks like when nothing about the trail feels possible. That's what I carried out of Crown King. Not just my own momentum, but the weight of watching someone else run with love and grief in equal measure. That's what I carried out of Crown King. Not just my own momentum, but the weight of watching someone else run with love and grief in equal measure. Paul Johnson: That's it for chapter two of Choosing the Unknown. If you've got a story you think we should hear, I'd love to know about it. Contact me and share a few details. Who knows your story might end up in a future episode. Next time on Get Some. We head into the ghost town of Jerome, Jerome, Arizona. A place where miners and outlaws once tried to scrape out a life on a rocky mountain side and where Maynard James Keenan, the lead singer of tool and a perfect circle, chose to start over trading the noise of stage. The lead singer of tool and a perfect circle chose to start over

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trading the noise of the stage with the quiet uncertainty of growing wine. On Mingus Mountain, we'll look at what it means to leave the known for the unknown, and why the second half of the Cocodona 250 is where the real race begins. Paul Johnson: Get Some is written, produced and hosted by me, Paul Johnson. Theme Music and Sound designed by Epidemic Sound. You can find some, you can find show notes, photos, and more at Get Some. You can find show notes, photos, and more at getsomepodcast.com or on our YouTube channel. If you're enjoying the show, please consider leaving a review on Apple Podcasts or sharing it with a friend. It helps others find these stories. Today is the best day of your life. Now go Get Some. Today is the best day of your life. Now go Get Some. Today is, today is the best day of your life. Now go Get Some.