Fighting Wind, Hallucinations, and a Mountain That Never Quits

Green Beret Fitness‘s Operation OCALI sounds so simple from the outside.

A 70-mile course.
14,692 feet of elevation gain.
25# minimum ruck weight.

But OCALI isn’t a map.
It isn’t a number.
It isn’t a line on a watch.

It’s a mountain-shaped interrogation of who you believe you are.

Starting With a Partner Who Matters

I didn’t step into this ultra rucking race alone. I stepped in with my friend Shane Donnelly — someone whose presence is steady when things get hard.

The first miles left the trailhead in darkness, headlamps slicing a ribbon of reality through the wild. We talked about family, life, why two grown men willingly choose to suffer on a weekend when others sleep.

Laughter came easy.
The work felt distant.

Then the trail turned upward, the air cooled deeper, and the night asked us for silence.

Steps replaced words.
Trust replaced talking.

We finish. Together.
The quiet promise we didn’t need to say out loud.

Owning the First Night

Night is its own competitor.

We managed pace, managed effort, managed patience. I led navigation — scanning trail, checking route, keeping movement constant and clean. But leading demands your mind stays fully awake.

Then, somewhere around 3 a.m., the switch flipped.

Hallucinations crept into the corners of my vision —

• Mailboxes where no homes existed
• Trees shifting like they were walking
• Rocks breathing as mountain animals
• The moon dancing an impossible rhythm

My brain wanted out. My body kept going.

I looked at Shane and said:

“I need you to lead so I can get a little mental rest.”

He took the lead instantly — no ego, no questions — and I locked my focus entirely on his feet.

Just follow.
Just stay awake.
Just keep moving.

That is what partnership feels like when the night tries to erase you.

The Santa Monica Mountains Don’t Care

Before sunrise, the wind arrived.

Not gentle. Not inconvenient.
Hurricane-level Santa Ana gusts pounding the ridgeline.

Shane drove trekking poles into the ground like anchors. I had no poles — so the wind made me the target.

It shoved hard — trying to peel me off the mountain. But panic never even tried to enter. This was simply another obstacle to solve.

Windbreaker up.
Core tight.
Balance fierce.

Stay upright. Stay on trail. Stay in the fight.

I didn’t flinch.
The wind learned who I was.

Point Mugu — The Reward for Surviving Night One

Then — the sky cracked open.

We rounded a turn and Point Mugu appeared below us. The Pacific Ocean caught the new sunlight and glowed a blue that didn’t seem possible in the real world.

It was beauty sharpened by suffering.
A reward that didn’t ask for anything…

Except to be left behind.

I didn’t reach for a camera.
I didn’t slow down.

Some moments are sacred because they stay in motion.

The Midpoint — No Room for Pretending

The beach checkpoint was quiet. The Pacific crashed behind us. But we didn’t sit there to admire anything.

We sat to survive the second half of the race.

• Shoes off
• Socks changed
• Feet cleaned and taped
• Problems erased while they were still small

We took longer than planned.

But we also knew what waited above:
The longest continuous climb of the OCALI endurance race.

I didn’t dread it.
I wasn’t afraid of it.

I respected it.
And I welcomed the chance to rise again.

Climbing Into Heat and Hurt

Sun climbed.
Shadows vanished.
Hydration lag caught up.

My stomach tightened — dehydration hinting at consequences.

But I’ve met that enemy before.
And I don’t negotiate with preventable problems.

Hawaiian roll.
Applesauce.
LMNT.
Keep going.

The shade returned briefly — a tiny, powerful reset.

Not a reprieve.
A permission slip to continue.

The Cruel Reality of the Third Quarter

This section separates finishers from excuses.

Two massive climbs stack on each other without mercy.
Elevation that doesn’t care how long you’ve been moving.
Heat that doesn’t care how much you want it.
Gravity that doesn’t care about your resume.

We rested occasionally — not from weakness, but from wisdom. Every short pause purchased more upward progress.

We weren’t surviving.
We were advancing.

Belief over muscle.
Grit over gravity.

Trail Math Breaks

Somewhere in those endless climbs, time gave up obeying.

Twenty minutes…
Thirty…
Still barely any distance gained.

Summits that stayed in the same place forever.

Nothing added up.
Nothing behaved logically.

So we stopped counting distance
and counted what mattered:

One more step.
And another.
And another.

Until the mountain finally blinked first.

Feet on Fire — The Bed of Nails

Even the best taping can’t hide pain forever.

Every rocky descent felt like driving nails through the soles of my feet — step after step, punishment after punishment.

Pain wasn’t optional.
It was the toll to move forward.

And I paid without hesitation.

The Final Quarter — When Hunger Takes the Wheel

As night returned, I prepared for sleep to come back for revenge.

Instead, hunger took over — loud, demanding, relentless. Nutrition trickled in but never satisfied the craving. My gut was on a timer. Every 15 minutes, it demanded fuel.

I conserved a roll and an applesauce pouch as the final line of defense.

Then — a miracle disguised in sweat:

I reached into my pocket
and found a half-eaten Hawaiian roll I didn’t remember putting there.

I shouted, ecstatic:

“I just found a half-eaten roll in my pocket! It’s like Christmas!”

We laughed — real laughter — the kind that feels like winning.

After the final checkpoint, I ate the Milky Way bar I had carried for hours but never wanted. With 14–15 miles left, hunger finally surrendered.

And we continued.

Final Miles — The Lights of the Finish

Then we saw it.

The glow of streetlights below.
The road where we parked our vehicle the day before.
The start — now waiting to become the finish.

The trail looked familiar — we had climbed it nervous and hopeful.
Now we descended it proved.

A surge hit me — a deep knowing.
Not a burst of energy.
A declaration:

I am finishing this as who I choose to be.

My feet were still on fire.
But pain didn’t matter.

I moved faster.
Stronger.
Purpose driving every stride.

In my memory, I was flying.

Finish — 29:12:30

We crossed the finish line together — no collapse, no theatrics, no fanfare.

Just truth.

I hugged Gregg and told him:

“I now have redemption from CENTURY.”

And quietly inside:

I had proof.

Proof that I don’t need anyone’s approval.
Proof that quitting once never defined me.
Proof that doubt’s voice is a liar.
Proof that I can ruck mountains into submission.
Proof that failure is a forge — not an identity.
Proof that I am who I choose to be.

This one stays with me.