On The Dam-A Photographers Race Recap
50K, relay, 30K—and new this year, a 10K.
My first official trail race job.
I’ve shot trail before, but just for fun. Never like this. Never for a full day.
I did my research. I had a plan. Batteries charged, bag packed. I even squeezed in a quick morning run on the treadmill to keep my own streak alive—mostly so it wouldn’t nag at me all day.
When I arrived, runners were already gathering at the start line under a sky that couldn’t quite decide, dark clouds rolling in, humidity hanging low, and a trail ahead that was about to be completely transformed.
I’d been here before. I volunteered last year, and I’ve run this loop more times than I can count-but never during the race itself.
And I missed it.
Not as a photographer—as a runner.
A trail runner, specifically.
I started unpacking my gear, dialing in settings. I fired off a few test shots with my 24-105mm f/4.
Not my favorite. Never has been.
I love the flexibility, but ever since I started shooting at f/2, it’s hard to go back.
I swapped to my 135mm prime and opened it up.
This lens can tell a story.
Looking around, I realized what I already knew—this is a Pennsylvania trail race. Everyone knows everyone. Everyone supports everyone. People are here to be on the trails together… not just to win. The awards are even hand made by a local runner.
I don’t personally know all of them, but I recognize almost everyone. I see them every week. Steph helped build and continues to grow the Johnstown Running Club. Runners share their stories on the group’s Facebook page every day—some holding years-long streaks.
The Quemahoning Reservoir has been around since the early 1900s, originally built to supply water to the steel mills in Johnstown.
It didn’t become a recreation area until it was over a century old, and the trail system followed after that.
Now, it’s home to a roughly 15-mile single track main loop, built by the local biking club, many smaller loops, rolling hills and the occasional rocky stretch. A place local runners and bikers know well.
I met up with race director Steph Leer, who introduced me to a second photographer.
This year added a 10K that starts an hour after the 50K and 30K—and it’s on a different section of trail.
One photographer couldn’t realistically cover both.
We split it up. I had my eye on a section of trail lined with wildflowers around mile seven. Or eight. Something like that.
She’d cover the 10K and then move toward the main loop. I’d shoot my spot, grab a few quick shots at a location called ‘Green Bridge’, then head to the finish.
Even coverage. Opposite sides of the lake. It made sense.
After the start, I packed up and headed out.
There’s a small pull-off near the section I wanted—perfect positioning, but it works best with a telephoto lens. The compression is what makes the shot.
I took a few test frames, got set… and then the rain showed up.
Luckily, I had a plan for that too.
I backed my car into position, popped the hatch, threw a rain cover over the camera, and turned it into a makeshift shelter.
Towels in the back helped keep everything dry and kept the lens from fogging.
About fifteen minutes later, the first runners came through.
Three guys and a woman, right on each other’s heels.
I was set up head-on, so I only got the lead runner clearly. As they passed, I tried to shift position-but they were gone before I could adjust.
Too fast.
Alright. Next group.
I started calling out encouragements as runners came through:
“Nice job!”
“You look strong!”
“Only hill on the course!”
“Perfect weather for this!”
Whether those were truths or lies… probably depended on the runner. It was certainly not the only hill on the course and while I love running in the rain, it may not be ideal for most people. Either way, it worked. Smiles, reactions, real moments.
The spirit of ultrarunning belongs to a special kind of person—the kind who’s grinning and goofing around while running uphill, finding joy exactly where most people expect suffering.
A father and son came through next.
He was coaching him through a steady run-walk up the incline. Both smiling. Both fully in it.
The height difference worked perfectly head-on-but at f/2, the margin is thin. As they got closer, I stepped left, reframed, and fired again.
Got it that time.
I stayed there for about an hour.
By then, I knew the front runners would already be nearing my next planned spot— and I wasn’t going to make it in time.
Once the flow of runners slowed and I felt confident I’d seen most of the field, I packed up and moved on toward mile 12ish-Green Bridge.
Race clock was probably around 1hr 50m by then.
My next stop was the longest stretch of flat road—usually a place where runners could open up their stride and take in a clear view of the lake. Usually. By the time I arrived, the rain had turned into a downpour and the fog had settled in thick, completely muting the view.
There’d be no sheltering under the car this time. I pulled on my rain jacket, grabbed my camera, and headed for the bridge.
On the way, I passed an aid station where two local runners were greeting racers, refilling bottles, and sending them back out.
In the rush to get into position, I didn’t stop.
I didn’t shoot. I missed it. That’s one I’ll be kicking myself over for a while.
The couple running the station had their kids with them, fishing off the bridge. I asked if they’d caught anything.
“Nope. Nothing yet.”
It became a refrain—every runner asking, the same answer every time.
While I waited, I put my earbuds in and let the music take over.
Trail running feels like jazz—unpredictable, rhythmic, alive in the moment. Every step adjusting to roots, rocks, turns. No script. Just instinct, timing, and flow. Another sense, a quiet conversation between body and environment.
The father and son came through again. Still smiling, still strong-they looked fresh after the last decent before crossing the bridge.
Trail running has a way of turning every climb and descent into a mirror of your own highs and lows—the legs burning on the way up, the spirit lifting on the way down, each step echoing the emotional rhythm of the run itself.
I made it through about half the pack and glanced at my watch—2:30.
Last year, the winner of the 30k hit the finish around 2:45.
For a moment, I stood there, caught between staying and going. Between one more shot and missing the one that could matter most.
That’s the thing about days like this—you don’t get both and you never know where you’re going to miss something.
I took one last frame, lowered the camera, and headed for the finish.
I’ve shot finish lines before—5Ks, 10Ks, even a marathon. They never really excited me.
Bright orange cones, parked cars, picnic tables… distractions everywhere. This one wasn’t much different. A big blue slide, a pool, a metal fence. Not exactly inspiring.
Oh… was I wrong!
I got there at 2:55.
I grabbed my camera jumped out the car and got to the finish line.
A few 10K runners came through first, then the first male in the 30K. Relief. I made it. I fired off a few frames as he crossed, looking unsure. Had he won?
Steph confirmed it— first male.
Then came the gut punch.
A woman had already finished. Seven minutes earlier.
I missed her.
Steph pulled them together for a photo, both of them smiling, holding their handmade wooden awards. A great moment.
The 50K record sat just under four hours.
Plenty of time. No way I’d miss that one.
I settled in and found my angle. There wasn’t much to work with, so I opened up my aperture and let the background fall away. If I couldn’t change the scene, I could at least control what mattered.
Then the cold set in.
Rain-soaked and finally standing still, the adrenaline faded and the shivering started. I called Phil. He showed up twenty minutes later with dry clothes, boots, and a heavier rain jacket. Back to work.
Runners kept coming-10K, 30K. Steady now.
Then a moment.
The father crossed the line with his son. The dad was beaming. The boy looked stunned, overwhelmed.
They hugged.
I took the shot. Ugh. That bright blue slide.
I stepped left. Reframed.
One image that holds over three hours of rain, mud, effort, and something bigger than all of it, love. Later I learned—it was the boy’s first 30K.
Then the energy shifted again.
Word spread: a woman in the 50K was coming in fast—on pace to break the course record.
I checked my camera.
Blinking battery.
Backup’s in the bag. Bag’s in the car.
I hesitated.
Clock: 3:30. Record: 3:48.
I ran.
Swapped the battery. Grabbed the bag.
Turned back.
Too late.
She was already there—charging toward the finish.
I sprinted up behind her, raising the camera, firing as I moved. She slowed just before the line. took her babv into her arms. and crossed holding him.
Steph met her, as she did every single finisher that day.
She didn’t just win—she shattered the record by over ten minutes.
Not perfect. But I got it.
Moments later, the first male 50K finisher came through—another record.
And then they kept coming.
One by one.
Crying. Laughing. Hugging. Holding hands. Celebrating.
This finish line hit different.
This race hit different.
Out here, it’s not just about who wins. It’s about who keeps going-through the weather, the doubt, the long miles and the trails’ up and downs.
All day, it felt like jazz—unpredictable, messy, alive. And here at the finish, every story found its way home, each one landing on its own final note.
And this time, I stayed long enough to hear them all—and capture them as they crossed.
