Riding into the Abyss: Reflections on the 2026 Dark Divide 300

a guest post by none other than Ben Everett, creator of the Dark Divide Race and Evergreen Gravel Race series. A big thank you to Kae-Lin for the amazing portrait photos from the Grand Depart! Be sure to check out the big gallery at the end of the post. Enjoy.

The Dark Divide 300: beautiful, brutal, cathartic, incredible. The Dark Divide 300 is a route that I began developing in 2020 and have been stewarding since. It occupies an outsized and disproportionately large place in my psyche and I’ve written ad nauseum about it on the internet. And for the uninitiated, it is a 340 mile mixed-terrain route which begins in my home town of Olympia, Washington, travels through the Gifford Pinchot National Forest, and ends in Portland, Oregon, but not before traversing one of the most remote and rugged ridgelines on the continent: Juniper Ridge, which is contained in the Dark Divide Roadless Area. 

On the last Thursday of every July, a grand depart is held to celebrate the route and all that it holds. Officially, the event is a race, with many participants pushing the limit of how fast the route can be ridden, how little sleep can be had, and how many packets of carbohydrate gels the human gut biome can withstand (my limit seems to be about 20 in as many hours, but we’ll get there). For many other participants, however, the grand depart is an excuse to get together with friends from near and far to ride the route at a more leisurely pace and take it all in. I recommend both touring and racing. Both are fun, both offer a unique perspective, and both approaches have great value within cycling. 

I have ridden the route one time, which was the official pre-ride in 2022. Since then, I’ve fully embraced the role of race director- organizing, planning, frantically emailing behind the scenes to put each annual event together. It’s a lot of work. It’s almost too much work to do without being paid, but in the end it’s always been worth it. As much as I love to be out on the route, and doing long rides in general, participating in long-distance racing just doesn’t fit into my life at the moment as someone who works full time and has a young kid to care for. Organizing races still allows me to feel a sense of connection to the cycling community that I love and is a way for me to contribute to the Pacific Northwest’s canon of backcountry riding and routemaking. 

However, in January of 2026, after a couple of years without doing any riding that one could characterize as ultraendurance, because of some life circumstances, I mentioned to my wife Ana that I’d like to give the DD300 another go sometime in the future. She said, “why not this year?” I couldn’t think of a real reason not to, so I began to prepare for my second Dark Divide attempt and first as a participant in the grand depart.

As I mentioned,  it had been a long time since I had really done big, multi-day ride. Between my first Dark Divide ride and the attempt I would be making in 2026, my longest ride was around 80 miles and I had only done one bikecamping overnighter in that timeframe. So, to say that I was out of practice would be an understatement, and I was sort of at a loss of where to begin to get back to it. In all my time cycling, I’ve never really formally trained for something. I’ve always tried to ride consistently and strength train off the bike, but in terms of a training plan it was always pretty loosey goosey. Even when I was really into randonneuring and riding brevets regularly, I just ramped up my volume by riding brevets in ascending order, ie a couple 200Ks, then a 300K, then a 400K and so on. Every weekend between May and October I was riding hundreds of miles, sleeping in ditches on the side of the road, then going to work on Monday morning and doing it all again the next week. It ruled.

Now I am at a different stage in life and I can’t dedicate the kind of time needed to reach that volume of riding, especially over an extended period of time. I have a fulltime job and responsibilities at home- and it’s just that I have to be at home, I want to be at home with my family. I want to spend time with them. I don’t want to regularly put all of the responsibilities of childcare and housekeeping on my wife so that I can relive my randonnering glory days sleeping on a cardboard box inside a rural post office somewhere. But at the same time, I need to ride my bike, and I want to ride long distances. I think this push/pull cycle is what I struggle with the most in terms of training, and I know that many other parent-athletes struggle with this as well. It was this push/pull that framed my experience on the Dark Divide 300 in 2026.

Preparation and Leadup 

While the decision was made to race the Dark Divide in January, my training started in earnest around early March. For much of 2025, my wife Ana was a gestational carrier, meaning she was carrying a surrogate baby for another family. It was an amazing and selfless act to witness and be a part of. This obviously took up a lot of our bandwidth as a family, and took priority over training. She gave birth in January 2026 and spent the rest of the winter recovering. As we slowly settled back into our normal rhythm and Spring approached, I knew that I needed to ramp up my volume. I tried to keep my weekly mileage consistent, prioritizing rides with lots of climbing, singletrack, hike-a-bike, etc, while also keeping road mileage in the mix to build a solid base. I was feeling pretty good for most of the Spring. Something else that I was heavily focused on was my nutrition, especially on the bike. In the past, much like my training style, I tried to approach eating on the bike intuitively - eating what felt right in the moment, because I figured, “calories are calories.” This worked sometimes, but I found that after about 75 miles, my tank was consistently empty and I was trying to play catch up. I didn’t want to do that on the DD300. I began experimenting with a variety of gels for carbohydrates and electrolytes in my bottles. 

After some gastrointestinal trial and error, I found a formula that worked for me. My first test would be the Cascadia Super Gravel in April, a local race on familiar roads. The race was only 50 miles but with over 6,500ft of climbing I knew it would be a challenge. I set alerts on my wahoo to eat 30g of carbs every half hour and to my surprise I felt pretty good the whole time. No cramps, no close encounters with bonks, I knew that I was heading in the right direction. I even felt fine the next day- my energy levels were relatively normal and I didn’t really have any soreness or muscle fatigue. Still, 50 miles and 6,500ft are only a fraction of what laid before me on the Dark Divide, so I knew I needed to stay consistent and dedicated to upping my volume. 

I tried my best to do that, but life happens and I did experience a few hiccups in training- a weeklong work trip, long weekend outings and camping with my family, other unforeseen events that take precedent over a bike ride on the weekend, but by and large I was on track with where I felt like I needed to be. My next big test for my legs and my fueling strategy would be the summer solstice ride that I had planned with a few friends to ride from Olympia to Lake Wynoochee and back, a 140 mile loop that would take us into the Olympic National Forest. Again, to my pleasure and surprise, my fueling strategy worked well. Alas, the solstice ride was only a fraction of what I would face on the Dark Divide, but I felt my endurance increasing and had a positive outlook on my DD300 attempt. My plan was to keep doing what I was doing, prioritize rest, and begin to prep my bike and equipment. 

The Dark Divide

Fast forward about 6 weeks, to the morning of the Dark Divide 300 grand depart. I woke up at 4am, ate breakfast, had coffee, and got dressed. I quietly went out the backdoor so as to not wake my wife or kid up, and rode across town to Squaxin Park, where the grand depart takes place. I arrived around 5:45 and met Kae-Lin, who would be photographing the mass start, and then got an americano from Sean, who was serving espresso from their mobile coffee cart. Slowly, racers started to arrive and a buzz could be felt in the air. 

Finally, after months of preparation on both the organizing side and racing side, the pedals were turning at 7am. My wife and daughter gave the official “go” this year as well, sending us all off, which made the moment all the more special. Rolling out with a big group always feels good and that morning was no different. Aside from a few folks jettisoning off the front immediately, the group rode together through town until getting to the Chehalis Western Trail, which is a 25 mile long paved bike path used at the beginning of the race. Once on the bike path, racers began to settle into groups. I, however, fell toward the back of the pack because I needed to adjust my crooked handlebars. It took me the better part of 20 miles to catch up with my friend Preston in Yelm, but once I did we continued southward at a pretty good pace.

At this point in the race I was feeling pretty good. The first 60 miles of the Dark Divide 300 can be described as the transport stage - paved roads and paths that get riders from Olympia to Eatonville, where they can stop in town for a quick resupply, or continue on to hit the first unpaved climb in the Elbe Hills State Forest. We hit the dirt right around noon. By this time, Preston and I had linked up with other racers Ellis and Leah, whose pace was a pretty good match for ours. Preston was having some tummy troubles at this point, so we slowed down a bit and he eventually stopped to take a break. I kept going knowing that I’d stop in and wait for him after this section. The Elbe Hills are dry, dusty, and loose in the summer and steep all year round, so both climbing and descending felt challenging, but again, I was fueling well and my legs felt like they had enough juice in them to ride pretty hard. 

Once up and over the Elbe Hills, we descended into the Hamlet of Ashford where there is a church on route that has a water spigot open to cyclists. Many folks stop here to fill up on water and lay in the shade for a bit before heading into the abyss again. I think that at this point I was starting to feel the first signs of fatigue, but Preston showed up about 20 minutes after me and shortly thereafter we got moving again. We knew that the second half of the day would be the hardest, with our next challenge being the crossing of Catt Creek. 

Catt Creek is a shallow but fast flowing mountain creek that’s about 20 yards wide. The actual creek itself isn’t too bad to cross, but since the road that it splits is decommissioned, there are about 2 miles of tank traps on either side, built to keep 4x4 enthusiasts out. For the unfamiliar, a tank trap is a large pile of gravel, rocks, dirt, and other debris constructed across the road. They are impossible to drive over, but not impossible to lift a bike over. I would, however, caution trying to ride over them, even if there is a worn path. I made this mistake, committing the sin of pride, thinking I could ride over one of the larger tank traps. Well, remember when I stopped to adjust my handlebars? It turns out that I did not tighten the stem bolts enough, and when I hit the steep angle of the tank trap, my bars rotated, throwing me off of my bike and onto the rocks below. I stood up, dazed and unsure of what happened until I saw my bars. I walked my bike to level ground in the road to fix the bars and inspect my bike and body, which is when I noticed that I landed on my camera. Preston adjusted my bars while I tried to turn my camera on. I have a trusty albeit well-used Ricoh Grii. It comes on all my rides with me, regardless of weather or conditions, and it’s seen some shit. But the impact of that fall seemed to prove too much for it. It wouldn’t turn on and there were dents in the body from where it was wedged between my thigh and a rock. I think this is where I started to lose it, mentally. I love that camera and documenting rides and was sad to think I wouldn’t be able to do that on the Dark Divide. Although taking the battery out of the camera and putting it back somehow fixed it, my camera was (and is) now pretty damaged and my body didn’t feel great either from the fall. 

We kept riding, our forward progress was slowing but it was forward nonetheless. We crossed Catt Creek and began our next long climb to the top of Silver Creek Pass. The popular hiking trail near the pass, High Rock trail, is closed so there was no traffic on the climb. It was steady and quiet, Preston was ahead of me and I was slowing down. The last few miles of the climb are on FR-8440, which is steep, loose, very rutted, and overall sort of a gut punch before cresting the climb at the aforementioned trailhead. After alternating between walking and riding, I made it to the top where Preston was waiting for me and we started our descent down the other side of the pass. I hadn’t really bounced back from the low mental space I was in after falling earlier and I was at the point where even descending was hard. I could feel each washboard on my hands and in my sit bones. By the time we reached the base of our last climb of the day it was a little after 8pm and we had to climb over 2,200 feet in about 6 miles around the northwestern side of Purcell Mountain. This was a new section for me and I was really looking forward to seeing it.

Unfortunately, a lot of what we saw was by the light of our dynamo headlamps (or helmet lights when we were walking). The climb took me about 2 hours, and from there we dropped 3,500ft in 10 miles before intersecting with Highway 12 outside of Randle. That descent is a blur in my memory. All that I was able to see was what was in the beam that my headlight threw in front of me. When we reached the paved road it was about 10:30 and I was just happy to be off the mountain and pedaling on a flat road. Our plan for the night was to make it to around mile 130, at which point we’d camp at our friend John’s property. John is an elder and citizen of the Cowlitz Tribe who served as an informal consultant when I was designing the route, offering us context and history of the places we were riding. Each year he opens his property to racers to camp, resupply on water, charge devices, etc. It’s sort of a clandestine neutral aid station with a firepit and a couple yappy dogs sniffing around your tent. It’s one of the places that makes the Dark Divide 300 a special route. 

By the time we made it to John’s, got our tents set up and our dinners cooked it was almost midnight. My body was actually feeling okay considering that all I had really eaten was carbohydrate goop (about 20 packets) and water all day, but my legs were definitely drained. My Backpacker’s Pantry dehydrated pad thai hit my gut like a freight train so I quickly put my oatmeal for the next morning in its cold-soak bag, crawled in my tent, and fell asleep. Day 2 would bring with it Juniper Ridge, and we wanted to get an early start. 

After what was probably my best night’s sleep ever while camping, I awoke around 6. I laid there for a few minutes assessing my body: legs, gut, head, hands. Everything felt okay while I was horizontal. As soon as I stood up, the problems started. Immediately I was lightheaded so I chugged some water and sat down. It occurred to me that in my carbohydration mania, I had neglected electrolytes and was likely pretty dehydrated. When I emptied the tank in the trees on the edge of John’s property, my suspicions were confirmed. At this point I was worried. I knew the second day was going to be much harder than the first, which I had struggled to get through. I thought that the best I could do was start trying to make up for lost time. I ate my breakfast and had a couple bottles of water with some Skratch, then broke down camp and gameplanned with Preston. It was around 8- later than we wanted to leave but we decided to make a quick pit stop in the town of Randle, about 1 mile off-route, so resupply in their town grocery store before heading south toward Juniper Ridge. As we rode from John’s into town, my lightheadedness persisted and my stomach started to churn. We met up with Ellis and a few other folks at the grocery store and all rolled out together as a group once we got our sundry goods for the day. 

However, once we entered the National Forest south of Randle and began to climb, I immediately fell behind. I tried to keep eating and drinking but I was still feeling lightheaded and my stomach was not happy. It demonstrated its displeasure by sending my food from whence it came, out my mouth and onto the side of the road. It was at this point that I knew in my (very fragile) gut that I probably wasn’t going to finish the ride. After getting sick, I did feel a little better and decided to keep moving to try to catch my friends. I debated whether or not to keep going, but ultimately decided that if a gentle, paved climb at the beginning of the day was giving me this much grief, I would likely be endangering myself by trying to ride across Juniper Ridge. Part of me wanted to say fuck it, this is my only shot at this route for a long time and keep going, but I knew that wasn’t the right move. I guess that’s growing up? I ended up catching my group right before the first unpaved section of the day and broke the news that I wouldn’t be continuing with them. They were sad, but understood, which helped me feel more secure in my decision, and I wished them luck as they pedaled off. 

I rode back to Randle, called Ana to let her know, and she left Olympia to come get me. While I waited, I got some hashbrowns at the diner next to the grocery store with a couple other racers, had some coffee and water, and cheered on others as they passed through on their way. 

Ultimately I am still processing all of this and feeling both disappointed in and proud of myself. Disappointed that I didn’t stick with it, but proud of myself for making what was in all reality the right call. I think that there is a lot of pressure for folks to forego safety when racing in these kinds of events and while I understand that impulse, I know it’s the wrong choice. 

Postscript

Hindsight is 20/20 and now that I am three months removed from the event and have had time to reflect, I still think that I made the right call by not continuing on. As I get older, it becomes more clear how fine the line is between perseverance and ego in those situations. I don’t regret pulling out of the race and if anything it serves as a motivator to go back and try again. I think that the most fun and rewarding part of the whole experience has been figuring out what works for me in terms of fueling, recovery, and overall balance in life. I feel like I learned a lot about myself and learned not only what I was capable of in the moment, but what I can work towards in the future. Those are things that will continue to serve me well beyond the Dark Divide.