The nerves were there, as always—but fading the closer the start got. Superior nerves feel different than other race jitters; they’re familiar, comforting even, like an old training partner who shows up whether you asked them to or not. On the walk up with Dot I spotted Kevin, then Nikk and Ben, Jeff, Kate, and what felt like half the ultrarunning world. I ducked into the bathroom twice (better safe than sorry) and honestly can’t remember a word of the pre‑race speech—only the sea of faces around me. One last hug for Dot, and then we were off into the woods.
📷Melissa Peterson
Gooseberry →Split Rock
The early miles were full of chatter. I traded a few words with friends and introduced myself to someone new, a dad juggling long hours at work who wasn’t sure what the day would bring. He was shooting for sub‑24 but admitted he was mostly looking forward to catching the runners who’d flown out too hard. Honestly, so was I.
I fell into a single‑track parade, listening to snippets of conversation float around. The couple in front of me: she was back for her second Superior after finishing last year on a bum ankle. The runner behind me: a first‑timer, all nerves and excitement. Eventually, on a climb, I slipped past a few runners and ended up watching a fresh set of shoes. That’s when I spotted Nikk ducking off for the “men’s room” (read: tree). Sure enough, within minutes he was right back, shouting “Hey Shannon!” loud enough for the guy in front of me to hear.
The runner ahead of me turned at the sound and asked my last name.
“Hogan,” I answered.
He introduced himself as Walt. Then, casually, he told me that he and a friend had studied last year’s splits and decided mine was one of the smartest races out there. He was using my pacing as his blueprint for his first 100. The words gave me a jolt of pride—and a healthy dose of intimidation. Between Nikk behind me, with the same time goal, and Walt shadow‑pacing me up front, I suddenly felt like the accidental poster child for “sensible racing at Superior.” The boost of confidence was real; so was the pressure not to go down in flames.
Split Rock →Beaver Bay
We wrapped up the reroute and headed into the first aid station. I topped off a bottle, ditched a gel wrapper, and was back on trail in minutes. At the top of the stairs stood Troy, my pacer from last year, waiting with a hug. The kind of hug that powers you farther than any SIS gel ever could.
Not long after, I found Mike Ward. His 2017 Superior race report planted the seed that I could run this race one day. This was his second time on the course, eight years after his first. Poles in hand, strategy dialed, he looked every bit the seasoned Superior veteran. We chatted briefly, though I couldn’t tell you what about, and then I scooted ahead. Truthfully, I was nervous. Mike’s an incredibly strong runner—if I was leaving him this early, was I making a huge mistake?
As it turned out, a new friend, Eric, appeared on the trail with me, and the miles dissolved in conversation. The reroute had spread us all out, and suddenly the woods felt quiet, just the two of us clicking along. At some point I tripped, went down, scraped my knee, and popped back up without much fuss. The beauty of early miles: everything still feels fixable. Before I knew it, Beaver Bay was right there.
Beaver Bay → Silver Bay
Dot greeted me like a one‑woman parade, leading me straight to the crew—Barb, Steve, Melissa, Mike, and Kevin—stationed conveniently next to the portapotties. Brilliant positioning, 10/10. I swapped vests, grabbed my Naked Belt and an Uncrustable, and was booted back onto the gravel road before I could think too long about comfort. No sitting. No lingering. Just hugs, food, and go.
The road into Silver Bay might be pretty, but it always tests me. Gorgeous, yes—the trail skirting the river, the climbs opening to sweeping views—but rugged enough to prevent rhythm. I ran the runnable, hiked the climbs, tiptoed the descents while a few fearless souls bombed by. My mind drifted to the summer training run here with Amber—snacking on berries, laughing about the bear scat dotting the trail. The pleasant memories pushed me along.
📷Melissa Peterson
Silver Bay → Tettegouche
Silver Bay was an exercise in efficiency: poles, headphones, resupplied vest. No dawdling this year. Then it was straight back to the climbs of Bean and Bear.
Steve snapped photos in the woods, grinning, and this year I wasn’t mid‑snack (like almost every picture taken)—small improvements matter. On the ridgeline, a sharp gust nearly sent my hat over the edge of the cliff. I wrapped it around my wrist and pressed on, laughing at the absurdity of it. Alone for the first stretch, then passing a woman near Bear Lake. “Pretty good,” she replied when I asked how she felt. I told her the same, though admitted it was too early to know. We climbed together briefly until I pulled ahead.
Up near Mt. Trudee, I remembered last year’s struggles and braced myself for the same. But instead of darkness, this time there was lightness—my legs felt strong, my lungs steady. Just past the peak, I spotted Dusty. He was nursing a calf injury and limping along, still moving, still determined. We traded words—it bummed me out to see him hurting—and I pulled ahead just as a whoop echoed behind me. Mike Ward again, no doubt. Motivation to press.
The back side of Trudee remains one of my favorite places on the course: runnable, slightly downhill, pure joy. There I found Andy Holak, race director extraordinaire, with his own story—fifteen years since his first Superior, when he spent seven hours in the back of a truck fighting nausea before clawing to the finish. This time, he was aiming to redeem it. We chatted all the way into Tettegouche, where soup, bacon, and the saintly volunteers from Performance Running Gym awaited, my drop bag already in hand.
Leaving Tettegouche, I chased memories of last year’s magic: perfect sun, music swelling, miles dissolving into awe on the way to County Road 6. This year wasn’t quite that charmed, but still beautiful. A mist of rain, a few quiet climbs, a stubborn fatigue creeping into my quads earlier than I’d hoped. And my left foot, was starting to hurt with every toe off. My right had bothered me back in August with a sprain to the upper part, right on this same stretch of trail. The soreness persisted in whispers.
Instead of panicking, I prayed. That’s what I do out here: whispered prayers for catching myself when I trip, giant prayers of gratitude for the lake views and forests, the people in my life who make it so much more rewarding, that I even ended up here at all. Honest pleas for strength when I can’t find enough of my own. The foot hurt, but it was only a minor annoyance and I was only a few miles from seeing my people.
By County Road 6, I’d traded places with only a few runners in either direction. My crew swept me in, Dot with soup in hand, everyone efficient and upbeat. Again, no sitting. Some smiles, some hugs, some quick resupply. Cheryl, last year’s winner, was just leaving the station. I tapped Kevin’s hand—he’d be pacing me soon—and left buoyed by community and momentum.
📷Christine Armbruster
County Road 6 → Finland
Section 13 gave me one of my best memories from past years—cresting its rocky outcrop at sunset. My goal this year was to be farther, closer to Finland, before the light dipped. The climb felt hard but joyful. On the rocky peak I passed Cheryl and her pacer and silently hoped the shin issues she had during training wouldn’t affect her race. On the descent, my foot flared again, especially on the steep pitch, but I pressed through, eager for the swamp and clearing the infamous Beaver Pond.
The pond—always a nerve‑wracking, wonky balance beam when you’re fifty miles in—surprised me with a brand‑new plank, flat and perfect. Safer, yes. But honestly? A little disappointing. The sense of danger gave the old one personality.
The trail into Finland gleamed with runnable stretches, and I took full advantage, pressing forward with fresh legs. Somewhere in there, I realized I was passing women—two of them—which meant I was now top three. Colleen MacDonald cheered me on, and her encouragement lit me up even more. Before I knew it, the aid station was in sight. I’d beaten the sunset and reached Finland in daylight, ready to scoop up Kevin and start the night.
📷Ryn Haaverson
Finland → Sonju
I had been looking forward to my miles with Kevin all day. We’ve logged enough runs together that I knew exactly what I was in for: plenty of laughter, a touch of mischief, and a healthy dose of accountability when the race started to get real. In Finland I pulled on a long‑sleeve shirt, gulped some soup or maybe potatoes, clipped on headlamp and waist belt, thanked my amazing crew, hugged Dot for the last time until morning, and off we went into the night.
The stretch to Sonju flew by. At one point Kevin managed to snap the BOA on his brand‑new Mount to Coasts by catching it perfectly on a root. Trail physics at work. Once we realized the shoes were still runnable, the incident became comic relief. Our conversation wandered everywhere—from food to which mythical creature we’d be. I landed confidently on “troll,” so I could hassle kids as they crossed bridges. Kevin went with “giant,” but we decided he was more BFG than “fee‑fi‑fo‑fum.” We swapped life stories, tossed out hypotheticals, and suddenly the glowing lights of Sonju appeared.
📷Ryn Haaverson
Sonju → Crosby Manitou
Sonju always feels like a back‑woods carnival. Glowing jelly fish, music, and volunteers practically vibrating with energy. My drop bag was waiting, my vest was filled, and someone handed me a coffee with crème brûlée creamer that tasted like liquid bliss. Then came a potato pierogi that was so perfect it deserves its own race report. Salty, chewy, exactly what my body wanted. A half hour earlier I was a troll on a trail; now I was a troll in culinary heaven.
With bellies happy and gear squared away, we stepped into the dark again. The sky stayed cloud‑wrapped, but both of us kept sneaking glances upward hoping for a break in the cover, just one moment of stars. Instead, we filled the miles with more stories, and the night felt like it was rushing by too quickly.
Somewhere on a logged‑off section, my grace failed me. I clipped a root, pitched forward, and drove both kneecaps directly onto my poles. Pain lit up my legs like a bad punchline. Kevin and I laughed about it as I walked it off—the kind of laugh that’s half‑grimace, half‑resilience. “Remind me not to be a bitch,” I told him, quoting Justin @runninginstache’s motto: Don’t be a hero. Don’t be a bitch. Simple wisdom, perfect for the nighttime miles of a 100.
We ran into a cluster of runners here, and the energy was still surprisingly upbeat. Of course it was—we hadn’t hit Crosby yet. Everyone knows Crosby is where the party sobers up.
The glow sticks guided us down the road into the aid station. I was savoring the whole thing: as we ran side by side, the quiet crunch of gravel, the hushed excitement of nighttime in the woods. I didn’t want it to end. At the aid station, another round of coffee, another blur of soup and gels I can barely remember, and we pushed on.
Crosby Manitou → Sugarloaf
Crosby Manitou always earns its reputation. The steep drop to the river, the bone‑grinding climb back out, and—just to mock you—three “false summits” daring you to celebrate too soon. I locked my eyes on Kevin’s heels in the glow of my waist lamp, my beam probably blinding him, and let his voice pull me down and then back up.
By then my stomach was mutinying. In hindsight, I think the cool temperatures had me overdoing electrolytes, and hours of SIS gels had fried my taste buds. Hyperlyte, gels, anything sweet—suddenly revolting. But here’s the strange part: my legs felt amazing. Strong, steady, willing. So I leaned into that. Kevin and I ran much of the section after Caribou Falls, and when we crossed the bridge, we celebrated. I flashed back to our training run there a month earlier—flying, laughing, unstoppable. Tonight wasn’t quite that effortless, but it was still good. I was grateful to be there with a friend, doing the hard thing together, step after step through the dark.
Sugarloaf → Cramer Road
We rolled into Sugarloaf, which I’ll always claim as my favorite aid station thanks to the Bigger Than the Trail crew. That’s where we met up with Nate. He and his wife, Sarah, had made the trip after running the Minnesota Mile in Duluth. Sarah was somehow crewing all night before running the marathon the next morning. Nate had planned to race the 50‑miler but sat it out after aggravating his already touchy calf during our Hoops training camp in August. Instead, he dedicated himself to crewing, and he already had my drop bag waiting—and the scoop on first place, who was just 10–15 minutes up.
Tommy and the volunteers weren’t about to let me get too comfortable. They joked that I had four minutes tops before they’d kick my butt back on the trail. Fair point. I squeezed in another coffee, maybe some soup, and made a futile bathroom attempt (my stomach wasn’t buying it). Hugs, smiles, and then Kevin and I were gone again.
Here’s the truth: as much as I love Sugarloaf itself, the miles that follow—through to Temperance—are historically my low points. And once again, the pattern held. My stomach was in rebellion, and physically I felt lousy. But weirdly? I was still having fun.
The clouds had finally cleared, and suddenly the night was dazzling. The moon beamed down, illuminating the ridges, and at one overlook we stopped, shut off our lamps, and let the stars pour over us. Orion’s Belt gleamed. The moonlight was so bright you could even make out the faint shimmer of Lake Superior. It was a rare gift in the middle of 100 miles, and I wanted to freeze the moment.
Kevin was patient, pulling me along through the section, while I struggled to give much back. I knew I wasn’t pushing as hard as I could—and guilt tugged at me for not matching his effort—but thank God for friends who stick with you anyway. Even in the hard miles, the laughter and quiet wonder of the night made it all worth it. It sounds really strange in the middle of a race, let alone the middle fo the night, but it was going by too fast.
Cramer Road → Temperance
Only seven miles stood between me and the hand‑off to Jaci, who would guide me all the way to the finish. First, though, we pulled into Cramer Road where Nate appeared once again, a steady anchor in the night. Between him and Kevin, I was quickly restocked and booted back onto the trail before I could linger too long.
As we moved on, I thought of Sarah. I’d run this very section with her during our little training weekend, and now she was toeing the line for the marathon after all. It made me so happy that she’d changed her mind—that she’d decided to run simply for the joy of it, with no expectations tied down to pace or outcome. That’s the beauty of trail running: the freedom to make it whatever you need it to be.
The miles between Cramer and Temperance clicked steadily by, even as my stomach continued to sabotage me. I pulled over to the side of the trail, hoping for relief. Poor Kevin just rolled with it. Ultras are awkward like that—you can’t really hide your low points when you’re sharing every muddy step with someone else. Still, the peace of the night carried us forward.
Soon enough we were climbing out of the woods, crossing the river, and winding down into Temperance. More than once that night, Kevin floated the idea that I could hit Carlton Peak right at sunrise. At first, I laughed it off as over‑optimistic—pure crazy talk. But as the thought kept circling, the possibility began to root itself in my mind. Sunrise on Carlton… maybe crazy, but wasn’t all of this?
📷Melissa Peterson
Temperance → Sawbill
We rolled into Temperance a little earlier than I had on paper, and the number alone lifted me: fewer than twenty miles left. But my stomach was still staging a full‑on rebellion. I’d been managing the occasional gel, sipping here and there, but every bite felt like it might come straight back up. Anti‑nausea chews, ginger candy—nothing worked. I wished I could throw up, just to hit reset, but it didn’t happen. Deep down I knew it: the nutrition wheels were coming off.
Even so, I found myself mourning the night. For all the misery of an unsettled stomach, the dark had been magic—steady companionship, the rhythm of the trail, bursts of energy at the aid stations, long stretches of solitude with only the moon and stars overhead. I’d written my splits expecting to hit Temperance right around dawn. What I hadn’t pictured was running so much of Superior in the dark—or that I’d be loving it so much.
The aid station was alive with my crew: Dot, Steve, Barb, Melissa, Mike, and Nate. They fell into their usual pattern of efficient chaos—topping off my vest, teasing me for how full my bottles still were. Nate handed me the update: first place had just left-this would have been the time to really get into gear, see if I could catch her. But I didn’t have it in me at that point. Instead, I ate a quesadilla, had some more coffee. Then it was time.
Ready to roll was Jaci—my last pacer. I’d followed her coaching online, admired her from afar, and now she was here in the flesh to pull me to Lutsen. We set off into Temperance, my eyes glued to her feet as we ran most of the way up the gradual climb toward Carlton. The darkness was lifting, and Jaci’s conversation carried me forward: running, training, backyard ultras, little slices of life. Before I realized it, we were scrambling over the rocky approach to the peak.
And then sunrise hit.
The horizon flared pink, red, orange, spilling light into the lake below. It was beautiful. And we’d timed it perfectly. Carlton at sunrise: a dream I hadn’t even dared to imagine when I started in Two Harbors.
Of course, what goes up must come down. My technical descending skills aren’t much to brag about even when fresh, and at this point they were thoroughly shot. I shuffled carefully down the rocks, until the trail leveled into familiar boardwalks. There, legs freed from the boulders, we pushed again, running toward the miles that would decide the finish.
Coming into Sawbill, the first thing I saw was Dot’s bright coral jacket bobbing up the trail. Later Barb told me that jacket was a godsend—an easy way to spot her in the chaos of aid stations. Which tracks perfectly, because Dot is always in motion: petting every dog, climbing trees, hopping on rocks. She’s impossible not to notice.
After the race, Mike told me it looked like I wasn’t having any fun at Sawbill. It reminded him of my first 100K, when I shuffled into mile forty looking defeated until an aid station volunteer handed me cake and everything turned around. The comparison made me laugh, because I wasn’t defeated at all this time. Tired? Yes. Sore? Absolutely. Feeling pretty crappy? Without question. But mentally, I was locked in. Less than a half marathon remained, and I knew exactly what I needed to do: push.
I downed some coffee, maybe swapped my shirt (I can’t remember), kept my headlamp because the maples overhead still held onto the dark, and then Dot walked Jaci and me back to the road. From there, it was back into the woods for one more push.
I’d been looking forward to this section for months. It isn’t remarkable for big views or dramatic climbs, but on paper it’s runnable—at least for anyone not sitting ninety miles deep into Superior. When we held Hoops camp, I’d run it with Nate and Justin. That was the day Nate’s calf gave up on him. One wrong step on the way back to Sawbill and he limped pain‑etched to the Oberg trailhead. He’d been signed up for the 50‑miler, and I carried him in my thoughts now, determined to honor his effort by driving mine through these final miles.
Jaci filled the time with conversation that fed me as much as any aid station could. We talked about raising kids to chase adventure, how parenting doesn’t have to end bold choices but instead multiplies them, handing you ready‑made adventure partners. I thought of Dot, who has grown up surrounded by this ultrarunning family, who considers crewing for days in the woods completely normal, who delights in the feeling of her feet floating over the leaf covered trail, just as much as I do. She has received the same acceptance and love from this community that has changed me, too. Watching her thrive in that space fills me with gratitude deeper than any finish line ever could.
The first half of the Sawbill segment hit harder than I remembered—climbs steeper, runnable stretches less runnable. But that’s always how it feels this late in Superior. Eventually, the trail tilted into a long, gentle downhill. We leaned into it, legs loosening, minds already tasting the last aid station, the crew, and the shot of energy that comes from knowing you’re in the homestretch.
Oberg → Lutsen
📷Steve Peterson
We ran into the forest, heading toward Moose Mountain. I’d trained here earlier in the summer and knew this stretch was runnable—except, of course, for Moose itself. I stuck close behind Jaci, her conversation carrying me again even as mine dwindled. We splashed through mud, clicked over the little footbridge, and began the climb.
The steep wooden stairs of Moose felt endless. My heart hammered in my ears, my legs and lungs burned with every step. But then we were on the ridge, and suddenly I could run again. Heavy‑legged, yes—but moving. We passed beneath the open sky, dropped off the back of Moose, and tilted toward Mystery.
Overall, Mystery is kinder: switchbacks, winding trail, runnable when fresh. But at mile 100, the definition of “runnable” shifts. I hiked, I pushed, I ran when I could, and eventually we crested the top. Ahead stretched the long descent into Lutsen.
The rocks on the initial downhill made me cautious. Every sharp edge slowed me, and the clock ticked louder in my ears. I worried I wouldn’t make it in under 27 hours, but Jaci kept reassuring me—we had time. Her steadiness steadied me. We drifted back into conversation, this time about her hunting dogs—good, loyal companions. Too good for us, we agreed. And in that moment I realized that’s how I felt about all of it: my crew, my pacers, the trail, this whole experience. Too good. Undeserved. And yet… mine.
The trail finally eased, and I recognized where we were. Poplar River was just ahead—the bridge, the moment Dot was supposed to meet me for the final push. My anticipation built and I ran faster. And then there they were: Dot and Kevin, waiting on the far side. My heart soared. Gratitude, joy, disbelief—it all blurred together. Kevin gave me a quick word of motivation, and then Dot leapt in beside us.
From the first stride she was calling over her shoulder, urging me on faster, faster. And somehow, impossibly, I had legs again. We flew down the ATV trail, spilled out onto the road, climbed briefly onto the ski hill, then dropped under the road toward the resort. Every small rise felt like an insult to my exhausted quads, but Jaci and Dot pulled me through, figuratively and soon, physically.
Finish Line & Beyond
25 hours. 47 minutes.
2nd woman.
In my wildest training runs, I never let myself dream that number. Yet here it was, blinking on the finish line clock, like some sort of cosmic typo that worked in my favor.
My crew swooped in—Mike, Barb, Steve, Melissa, Nate, and now Shannon from Hoops—hugs, laughter, snacks, stories. Gratitude upon gratitude. I wandered over to Rachel—first place—the woman I couldn’t quite catch. She told me my chase had kept her running scared. That was enough, more than enough.
Because that’s what this whole race was: yes, running scared—from being caught by Mike W, from the threat of the 3rd‑place woman, from the 26 hour mark, from the shadow of my doubts, from the old me who would’ve never even attempted this race. But also running toward: my pacers, the sunrise on Carlton, the bridge at Poplar where Dot waited, the finish line where the running community wrapped me up. Running toward something bigger, messier, and so much more beautiful than splits or podiums.
📷Steve Peterson
The rest of the day unfolded in a haze of finish line magic. Soaking in the camaraderie and avoiding the campfire smoke. I cheered in friends from the 100, the 50, the marathon; swapped stories with Kevin, Jaci, Mike W, Nikk, and Justin; and laughed about mishaps, aid station food, and everything in between. Every finish belonged to all of us. That’s the thing about Superior: it’s a solo effort powered by an entire village.
Superior didn’t just hand me a finishing time on a results sheet. It gave me a connection with the people I love, more stories to reminisce on when I can no longer participate in this crazy sport, and more proof that the impossible bends when you’re stubborn enough to keep moving forward. It etched another layer of trail magic into my bones—so deep I’ll carry it into every run that follows.
I don’t know what I did to deserve this community, this beauty, or this life—but I know I’ll never stop being thankful for it.
