During last year’s States of Elevation project, I made my way through many different landscapes across the American West. High alpine ridges, forests, deserts, volcanoes, long empty roads, and places where I could move for hours without seeing many signs of human presence.

Many of the places I crossed are public lands. That means they are not owned by one person or one company, but held in common. They are places that can be accessed, discussed, cared for, and protected by the public.

Many of these landscapes have histories that are much older than the idea of public land itself. Long before they became public lands, they were home to Indigenous communities, whose relationships with these places continue today.

Remembering this is important. It reminds us that access, ownership, and stewardship are never neutral ideas.

But public lands ownership and stewardship is not a passive guarantee of safety. It is an active, ongoing pact.

No management system is perfect. Even when land is public, decisions are complicated. Funding can be limited. Bureaucracy can be slow. Different interests can collide: conservation, recreation, grazing, mining, energy, trail maintenance, restoration, access.

So the question is not only whether these lands remain public, it is also how they are managed, who gets to participate in those decisions, and how we take care of them.

Public ownership matters because it gives people a voice. It creates space for debate, accountability, and democratic oversight. It can also act as a vital firewall to help protect landscapes from permanent changes that are difficult, or impossible, to reverse: unchecked development, fragmentation, or resource depletion.

For those of us who run, climb, ski, bike, or hike, public lands can feel like stadiums, sanctuaries, and testing grounds. It is easy to see them as places for our goals, our training, our escape.

But we are not only users of these places. We are part of them, and we benefit from them every time we breathe clean air, drink from a stream, move through a forest, or find quiet in a wild space.

Because we rely on these lands for both physical and emotional refuge, we cannot afford to be passive visitors.

If States of Elevation taught me anything, it’s that the privilege of access comes with a non-negotiable cost: responsibility.

It means advocating for the wild spaces that cannot speak for themselves.

We are temporary visitors passing through landscapes that have existed for millennia. By stepping up as active stewards today, we ensure that the untamed wilderness remains intact, vibrant, and free for the generations running right behind us.

Public lands need advocates, and there are many local and national organizations across the United States working every day to protect them. Through the Kilian Jornet Foundation, we want to help give visibility to these efforts by showcasing their work and sharing opportunities for engagement.

Explore our website to learn more about how to find ways to support the protection and health of public lands.

Photos by Nick Danielson and Andy Cochrane.

Read Part 1 here

“Moderate hydrops. Horizontal rupture in the anterior horn of the lateral meniscus with marked edema in the adjacent Hoffa’s fat pad. Cartilage damage centrally on the patella with adjacent bone marrow edema.”

Reading these lines on the MRI report the day after Zegama gave a more precise explanation to something I had been feeling for weeks. During the lead-up to the race, I had been managing pain in my left knee, doing physiotherapy at home, and trying to get through training as well as I could.

It is a familiar routine; ever since my accident and surgery in 2006, my left leg has been a constant companion in pain.

It started in 2006, when I was running home from school with my arms full of books. I jumped between two streets and landed hard on my knee against the cobblestones. The impact broke my patella.

After surgery, with a cerclage, the diagnosis was not very optimistic. My doctor was not sure I would be able to compete again at a high level.

With nothing to lose, I trained harder and smarter than ever. Since then, I have kept one idea with me: every kilometer my knee allows me to run hard is a gift.

Over the years, this has created a big difference in strength and range of motion between my two legs. But in endurance sports, this has not been so important most of the time.

The pain I have now is a familiar one. I have been dealing with it for the past three years, probably since the first meniscus tear happened.

It gets worse when I run fast on flat ground, where the impacts are higher and the range of motion is bigger. It gets much better when I focus more on vertical training.

The same pain appeared during my preparation for Chianti and Western States last year. Because I had learned to manage it, I was not too worried.

After Western States, the pain almost disappeared when I went back to mountain training, but it came back a few months ago when I started doing more flat and faster running again.

Performance is always the result of many different systems working together. To perform at the highest level, all of them need to function very well. In the past years, with consistent training and lifestyle, I have seen that most of my metrics are still improving. I can see that clearly in tests on routes I have run hundreds of times.

But the system where I notice the biggest decline with age is the neuromuscular system. Because of that, mechanical injuries and muscular problems have become more frequent. This is something I have felt myself, and it will need more focus in the future.

I share this not to ask for sympathy. If this injury had happened ten years ago, I would have been disappointed. Twenty years ago, probably devastated. Today, I mostly feel grateful.

At Zegama, even when the pain made it impossible to keep racing at full intensity, I was still able to continue at an easier pace, enjoy the crowds, and feel the energy of the race. During the race, I spent a lot of time feeling silently thankful for all the support I have received there over the years.

Now, with an uncertain preparation for the next races, I see an interesting challenge ahead: recovering as quickly as possible and experimenting with new ways of training for races that usually require a lot of impact.

Injuries are part of an athlete’s life, and learning to manage pain is also an important part of performance. In a way, I am grateful for this moment. Without the same pressure to chase a specific result, I have more freedom to be bold, to be ambitious, and to experiment with my recovery.

A setback can also be an opportunity to learn. The next goal is clear: I will be on the start line of Western States, with a different preparation, but the same curiosity to see what the body can do.

At the end of January, I received a text message from Ainhoa:

“Hey Kilian, this year Zegama holds its 25th anniversary. We want to do something special, and among all the ideas, the one that excites us most is to bring together as many of the past winners as possible since the first edition…”

I didn’t need to read any further; my decision was already made.

Zegama is a quiet village of barely 1,500 inhabitants, deep in the Gipuzkoa province of the Basque Country.

It sits in a valley overshadowed by the towering limestone walls of the Aizkorri massif: a landscape that is raw, green, fiercely beautiful, and frequently shrouded in heavy mist and relentless mud.

For 25 years, every May, the village has transformed, welcoming tens of thousands of trail runners and mountain enthusiasts to witness 500 runners charge through its mountains.

The race was born in 2002 out of local necessity. The village was facing the quiet crisis of rural depopulation, a familiar story in many mountain regions. A local group of friends, the Asociación de Amigos del Aizkorri, wanted to breathe life back into their home, showcase the wild beauty of their mountains, and give the community a shared purpose. They drew a 42-kilometer line over the peaks, across brutal limestone ridges, through ancient beech forests, and back down to the village square.

Alberto, Ainhoa’s uncle, a forest ranger and the race director for the first decade, was the mastermind behind it. He once said:

“Zegama arose from the need for a village to survive. At the end of the last century, Zegama registered 22 deaths compared to only 4 births. Today, the population has increased from 1,200 back then to 1,500 now, and between 25 and 30 children are born in Zegama each year. None of us in the village had any connection to mountain running; we’d never run. I had heard that some races were held elsewhere, like the Aneto, Galarleiz, or the MAM. I suggested to the Sociedad de Montaña Amezti that we should do something similar. One day, I sat down at the kitchen table, grabbed a map, and that is how the Zegama-Aizkorri marathon route came to be. We are Basques, from Gipuzkoa and Goierri, and this is Aizkorri. We are people who support sports and the mountains wholeheartedly. In our town, everyone who can stand goes to the mountains. The volunteers are still local, and we are sure that will continue to be the case; the whole town is involved.”

It is this strong grassroots connection that mobilizes the entire village, from the elderly to the children creating a unique atmosphere for every participant. What makes Zegama the undisputed “cathedral” of mountain running is the fact that it has remained completely true to those local roots, not dependent on a marketing budget or artificial hype. The organization today is still run by the same group of passionate locals (or their daughters and sons!) who started it nearly a quarter-century ago.

The genuine love the region has for its mountains was evident from the very first edition, drawing thousands of spectators to cheer on the runners. The corner of Sancti Spiritu, situated at the halfway point on the climb toward the Aizkorri summit, has become a mythical pilgrimage for trail lovers.

I remember it as if it were yesterday: listening to friends and teammates like Xavi Cadena, Anna Serra or Agusti Roc describe what it was like to run through the wall of sound at Sancti Spiritu. “It’s the Alpe d’Huez of trail running,” they said. “Nothing compares to it; you have to experience it.” That was 2007, my first year racing internationally in the Skyrunning World Series. At the time, Zegama was the series finale in September. I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of spectators. Despite the rain and the bitter cold on the summits, thousands had hiked for hours just to stand there, cheer for every runner, and celebrate the sport.

For me, it was a life-changing moment. As a teenager, winning at Zegama and taking the Skyrunning World Series title, following in the footsteps of athletes I looked up to, like Mario Poletti, Ricardo Mejia, Rob Jebb or Agusti Roc, was the moment I realized I could have a future in this sport. But mostly, I just loved racing at Zegama.

That’s why, when Ainhoa sent me that message, I didn’t hesitate. We had to sort out some family logistics, but eventually, everything fell into place. I told her I couldn’t miss it and that I would love to race.

I arrived in Bilbao on Friday night. I told the taxi driver I was going to Zegama, and he asked, “Where the race is?”

About 10 kilometers out, we started seeing camping cars and vans lining the roads. It was past midnight when I arrived, and the streets were still full of people.

I entered the Ostatu, the only hotel in the village, located right by the start line where most of the elite athletes stay. I snuck into the room silently; Elhousine, my teammate at NNormal, was already asleep.

In the morning, Elhousine and I went for a short shakeout run. The air of the deep Basque forests and the mud on our shoes brought back a flood of memories from the 12 years I’ve been running here.

Between press, friends, and the general pre-race madness, the evening arrived quickly. We went to bed, but outside our window, the party continued late into the night. We woke up early; the street was silent, but not for long.

At 9:00, the race began. After a traditional Basque dance and the opening chords of Vangelis’ Titans, the countdown started. Runners surged forward. A turn to the right, then one to the left, passing people as we did a loop through the village before hitting the first steep, immediate climb.

I moved up, spotting Remi Bonnet and Adrien Briffod at the front.

I caught them, and when Remi accelerated, I followed. I didn’t feel great, but I wasn’t doing poorly, either.

However, once we crested the climb and hit the flat, rolling terrain, I knew I was in trouble; my left leg wasn’t responding. I held a steady pace at my threshold, but eventually, Adrien and Elhousine passed me, followed by Robert, Taylor, and Pattis.

The climbing felt okay, but the flats and downhills were a different story. By the time I reached Sancti Spiritu, I realized that because the second half of the race is mostly non-technical flats and descents, I wouldn’t be able to race at full tilt.

I shifted my mindset. I decided to simply have a great day, soak in the atmosphere, and thank all the spectators whose cheering has given me wings for decades. I enjoyed running the ridge with Manu Merillas.

There we were still in podium positions, but I was very aware of the problems I would have in those last 20 km, so from there, I slowed down to prevent further damage.

I chatted with friends cheering on the sidelines and watched in awe as Tove passed me, flying toward an incredible record. I heard that Elhousine had taken another win after an amazing battle with Pattis.

I crossed the finish line in 42nd position, happy and grateful to have experienced the magic of Zegama once again.

But once the noise passed, I knew it was time to listen to what my body had been trying to say for weeks, and get my knee properly checked.

To be continued in part 2.

All photos by Víctor Pérez Pelayo, except for the 2007 Zegama archive picture.