tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186155382024-03-14T13:36:45.531-06:00Jill OutsideJill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.comBlogger2270125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-35591768030782004442023-10-18T21:58:00.002-06:002023-10-19T08:40:44.361-06:00Thyroid update 7<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitKVYTjhXMLg2i8RyOi2ylYckuj69AfVXgLEttJJdQrKQVAzg7HPOlmjnmJ6zGWqcxvBDf_nV7gLF6xXOMlPeJgf2kc8OMR1RNm5VOrI5qdDHaHIMlGVvwmFjgMC8qOXIa-I0_o6yM-WeQVoOzU-_WB5poi5snlnmTknAfLy-YrQzBKjA1jNep/s4080/PXL_20231014_200352599.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitKVYTjhXMLg2i8RyOi2ylYckuj69AfVXgLEttJJdQrKQVAzg7HPOlmjnmJ6zGWqcxvBDf_nV7gLF6xXOMlPeJgf2kc8OMR1RNm5VOrI5qdDHaHIMlGVvwmFjgMC8qOXIa-I0_o6yM-WeQVoOzU-_WB5poi5snlnmTknAfLy-YrQzBKjA1jNep/w640-h482/PXL_20231014_200352599.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whenever life feels all uphill, I find that a literal uphill slog always helps.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>Hello, old blog! For six months, <a href="https://jilloutside.substack.com/" target="_blank">I've switched my online writing efforts to Substack</a>. I switched because I hoped to expand my subject matter beyond obscure outdoor adventures and potentially reach new readers. Still, old habits die hard. I'm still mainly writing about obscure outdoor adventures, and my reach hasn't exactly blown up. But the Substack is up to nearly 700 subscribers and I am grateful for all of you!</p><p>I planned to use this blog for occasional personal updates. My ongoing health journey seems a good place to start. <a href="http://www.jilloutside.com/2022/10/thyroid-update-6.html" target="_blank">My last update was this time last year </a>when I wrote about autumn ennui and my frustrations with the health purgatory I was in at the time — subclinical hypothyroidism. To summarize, my thyroid became a problem about eight years ago when a bunch of antibodies created by my own dumb body descended on the gland and launched a full-scale attack. The thyroid responded by overproducing thyroid hormones to a toxic degree. This resulted in all sorts of alarming symptoms such as tachycardia, tremors, muscle weakness, shortness of breath, brain fog, and the not-insignificant risk of cardiac arrest. </p><p>This was diagnosed as Grave's Disease in February 2017, and I went on medication to reduce my body's absorption of the overabundance of thyroid hormones. Over the next year, my thyroid slowly calmed down. By November 2018, I was declared "euthyroid" and was able to go off the medication. But my doctor warned me that I was unlikely to stay in remission for life. I'm still a prisoner to those infuriating microscopic snipers that my body sent out to attack itself — meaning I'm still full-up of TPO antibodies. Some Grave's patients always overproduce hormones, but the vast majority of us experience a slow, sputtering battle as our thyroid fights for its life for a number of years before it finally gives up. When and to what degree it gives up is a matter of debate, but afterward we need to take replacement hormones to restore our health. My endocrinologist admitted this was likely before cutting me loose to fend for myself because, you know, health insurance. </p><p>And sure enough, the measure used to determine thyroid functionality — TSH — continued to creep higher. Thyroid Stimulating Hormone is the hormone that tells your thyroid gland to get to work. It's a sort of thermostat, cranking up the heat when the thyroid is being sluggish. When I was hyperthyroid, my TSH was at 0.0. When I was taken off Grave's Disease medication, it was at what is considered an optimal level, 1.4. The standard for "normal" thyroid function runs between 0.5 and 4.5 mIU/L. However, the upper limit for 97.5% of euthyroid (normal) people is 2.5 mIU/L (<a href="https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2664572/#:~:text=Abstract,8%25%20of%20the%20general%20population." target="_blank">Source</a>). People who land above that range but under the hypothyroid standard of 10 mIU/L must languish with the uncertainty — am I healthy? Am I slightly not healthy? Doctors don't know the answer and studies are mixed. The Internet overflows with theories and complaints about life with subclinical hypothyroidism — for good reason, I believe.</p><p>I can't say I've felt "normal" since before 2016. But my best years were definitely between 2018 and 2019. By 2020, my TSH hit 3.5, and I first started to feel something off with the levels of fatigue I experienced at odd times, my sudden inability to sit around the house without a blanket, hair that was thinning again after growing back thicker following the hyperthyroid years, and my useless brittle fingernails that I must keep trimmed to nubbins to prevent them from breaking off. Things like that. It was also 2020, which was an odd time for us all. And I was still "normal," so nothing could be done.</p><p>I ignored my thyroid for the entire volatility of 2021 and most of 2022. But by October, routine bloodwork at my physical pegged my TSH at 5.25 mIU/L. My cholesterol was also 263 mg/dL, which isn't just borderline high — it's high. As recently as 2019, my metabolic panels were pristine, so this was a surprise since my weight, activity levels, and diet hadn't changed. Maybe low thyroid hormones are affecting my metabolism? But my primary care doctor did not think this was likely. So off I went, into another year of purgatory. </p><p>Over the winter, my mental health took an enormous dive. I've struggled with anxiety for years, really since I was a child. But the winter of 2022-2023 brought a sudden dip into depression — deep lows that had no basis in anything I thought should be affecting my mood. The depression in turn exacerbated the anxiety, and it was all-around an awful few months until I started taking an antidepressant in February 2023. </p><p>October 2023 rolled around, and with it the autumn ennui that I interpreted as unresolved trauma and thus began EMDR therapy with my counselor. My sleep improved substantially with the antidepressant, but since I returned from Europe, I've been sleeping a ton. Upwards of 10-11 hours a night if I don't set an alarm. I've gained almost 15 pounds since May — summer is a time for adventure and not a time to watch my diet, and I just spent several weeks in Europe where food is delicious, so it makes some sense. But still ... 15 pounds seems high for what I've always understood as my body's calories-in, calories-out ratio. </p><p>I went in for my annual physical last week. My TSH level measured at 8.72 mIU/L. Even worse, my cholesterol is still 262 mg/dL after all of the changes I made over the past year. I cut way back on ice cream. I added fiber. I switched to low-fat dairy and limited other sources of saturated fat. I gave up eggs! WTF.</p><p>My primary care doctor referred me to an endocrinologist, and I got in fast thanks to a new doctor who just started at the clinic where I was treated for Graves Disease. She thinks it would be helpful to start on a low dose of thyroid hormone replacement to see how I respond. I haven't had my thyroid hormone levels officially tested in a few years (I used to track these through self-ordered testing, but haven't yet this year.) But I'll have those tested in two months, hopefully when I'm in a better place all around.</p><p>I'm excited! Truthfully, I've been reluctant about thyroid hormone replacement because dipping back into hyperthyroid territory would be awful — I know how it feels and I definitely do not want that. But there's little risk on a low dose, and I'll check in soon enough. Perhaps I'll start to feel like I felt in 2018 again. That would be amazing. If that happens, I definitely want to celebrate by relaunching a winter training routine and signing up for a spring race. Right now I'm thinking either the White Mountains 100 in Fairbanks (which hasn't been officially announced yet) or the Bryce 100 (for which I'm not currently qualified and would have to finish a 50-miler first.) Hundred-mile ultramarathons are so rewarding but so hard that I want to stick to familiar territory for my foray back. By March or May 2024, it will have been five years since I last finished one, which is not a trivial amount of time.</p><p>Autoimmune disease is the pits and I have one of the gentler ones ... although I know I'm at higher risk for other autoimmune conditions, so I count my blessings each day that I "only" have a wonky thyroid and asthmatic lungs ... and generalized anxiety ... and mild depression ... and seemingly incurable grass allergies ... and chronic back pain ... and a tendency to fall on my face with such frequency that my primary care doctor laughed at loud when she saw all of the items on my 2023 chart. </p><p>Perhaps it's just life that's the pits, and we're all doing the best we can to get through it. </p><p>I'm grateful for the medical community and all of the assistance they've given me in this regard. Thanks, science. </p><p>I'll write another update about my progress. If you're interested in my past thyroid updates, you can find them here: </p><a href="http://www.jilloutside.com/2017/04/thyroid-update.html" target="_blank">Thyroid update: April 12, 2017</a><div><a href="http://www.jilloutside.com/2017/05/thyroid-update-2.html" target="_blank">Thyroid update 2: May 19, 2017</a></div><div><a href="http://www.jilloutside.com/2017/07/thyroid-update-3.html" target="_blank">Thyroid update 3: July 19, 2017</a></div><div><a href="http://www.jilloutside.com/2018/05/thyroid-update-4.html" target="_blank">Thyroid update 4: May 24, 2018</a></div><div><a href="http://www.jilloutside.com/2019/05/thyroid-update-5.html" target="_blank">Thyroid update 5: May 10, 2019</a></div><div><a href="http://www.jilloutside.com/2022/10/thyroid-update-6.html" target="_blank">Thyroid update 6: October 9, 202</a>2</div>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-65351681073401228262023-05-19T17:50:00.000-06:002023-05-19T17:50:04.010-06:00On blogging<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSqmyBZL3SCwPMkVp8jd5gaNBMigloQPA1VLERpxR3ukSe1wTpW9IO1hjx6XUOXkIskxmPi2n1oRVH36Z8gGVTxaeGTFfktRw08n0P2t2kZSZQL9SdXYk7X7-dnHdUk3C3l37sGYCkUrRcKa7dFZmJ_pA5x7OK-kkj4dKTRDdO5-rMLxt1pQ/s2082/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-18%20at%208.59.08%20PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1448" data-original-width="2082" height="446" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSqmyBZL3SCwPMkVp8jd5gaNBMigloQPA1VLERpxR3ukSe1wTpW9IO1hjx6XUOXkIskxmPi2n1oRVH36Z8gGVTxaeGTFfktRw08n0P2t2kZSZQL9SdXYk7X7-dnHdUk3C3l37sGYCkUrRcKa7dFZmJ_pA5x7OK-kkj4dKTRDdO5-rMLxt1pQ/w640-h446/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-18%20at%208.59.08%20PM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All screenshots are from the Wayback Machine — such a fun rabbit hole to dive into.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>It’s odd to acknowledge that I’ve been blogging for nearly half of my life. I launched my first blog in late 2002 at the naive age of 23. Blogs themselves were still in their relative infancy. I’d recently latched onto bike touring as a large part of my identity and decided since my new hobby had changed my life, I wanted to help others discover it as well. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_QSu6nB_d6EDinBBPIZgVBQXYyRd0Hr1gfAaqsiZvPRcS1E6brA_9VBC43sYvAto1LY2MvOYFVeuvddklgxR5mKoiHIMkSQ5uAb1Sywqmkp3MMUyufduzR1QgHLLefayFrMDnV6yoq5ccNytW0FDD_PX0I4gWIQD74f6PwyjUDpuBjuzqlw/s1178/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-19%20at%2010.12.02%20AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="1178" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_QSu6nB_d6EDinBBPIZgVBQXYyRd0Hr1gfAaqsiZvPRcS1E6brA_9VBC43sYvAto1LY2MvOYFVeuvddklgxR5mKoiHIMkSQ5uAb1Sywqmkp3MMUyufduzR1QgHLLefayFrMDnV6yoq5ccNytW0FDD_PX0I4gWIQD74f6PwyjUDpuBjuzqlw/w640-h456/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-19%20at%2010.12.02%20AM.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>I initially started “Bike to Shine” — a play on lyrics from Ben Harper’s “Burn to Shine” — on Blogger. At the time, the platform didn’t offer a lot — no photos, for example. So I continued to update journal entries from Blogger (which was possible to do from rural county libraries.) But I also taught myself a rudimentary amount of HTML and launched a digital "magazine" at biketoshine.com. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyMF-mTgXs1CD4K_VzUVRHNDD-a9NLzhNdVaFmCT8ht_Pq-WAnAqItRZFpz8x95S3zrxYceLQpAVF9hyDXo0DBbXSOA4sV-3kwP02MrtUyurHwrgEbEUs5cmX0J2WXleA5jVoUbpx80cPKP6kMHta0qUMzV92vMuRJLg0WkEPmh49XGCn1jA/s2178/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-19%20at%2010.09.26%20AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1338" data-original-width="2178" height="394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyMF-mTgXs1CD4K_VzUVRHNDD-a9NLzhNdVaFmCT8ht_Pq-WAnAqItRZFpz8x95S3zrxYceLQpAVF9hyDXo0DBbXSOA4sV-3kwP02MrtUyurHwrgEbEUs5cmX0J2WXleA5jVoUbpx80cPKP6kMHta0qUMzV92vMuRJLg0WkEPmh49XGCn1jA/w640-h394/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-19%20at%2010.09.26%20AM.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>BiketoShine.com was an expensive endeavor for me — I believe at the time I was paying something like $30 a month for hosting. Since I didn’t have personal access to the Internet at home (I lived in a house with eight roommates and only one desktop computer and dial-up phone line among us), I usually worked on my blog after-hours at my desk at the Tooele Transcript-Bulletin. I wrote wordy posts about the wisdom I’d gained on the single bike tour I’d completed thus far. I also tried to pass myself off as an expert in whitewater rafting (a sport I was already terrified of) and backpacking. I promoted my site everywhere I could — Ken Kifer’s bike forum, crazyguyonabike.com, plastering a printout of the Web address on the back of my friend’s truck shell. I hoped to gain thousands — or at least tens — of readers and leverage my great new Web site into a lucrative carrier in outdoor magazine writing. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhddYICi1ThEZkqqEe9KQkqqyHNk57xCbfqqgwGKhbedeZ2DWyzXok0OphHF2ycLzBiGeDYjKVBIYnjQPsxaJSSQrRYeTI3sywKtGbo5h8NFsT0RWCM_MsaffF1ihEHwKPlqub7jlqlYTLSMKLBZPJiDB27Z_Fkaq13TxeWMa4hkM1aLAKlYA/s1818/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-19%20at%2010.25.33%20AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1228" data-original-width="1818" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhddYICi1ThEZkqqEe9KQkqqyHNk57xCbfqqgwGKhbedeZ2DWyzXok0OphHF2ycLzBiGeDYjKVBIYnjQPsxaJSSQrRYeTI3sywKtGbo5h8NFsT0RWCM_MsaffF1ihEHwKPlqub7jlqlYTLSMKLBZPJiDB27Z_Fkaq13TxeWMa4hkM1aLAKlYA/w640-h432/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-19%20at%2010.25.33%20AM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Comic Sans! The horror! Also note: "I'm not athletic. I don't particularly like challenging myself physically."</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>Obviously, it didn’t work out that way. I did gain at least tens of readers, but eventually, I began to resent the thankless after-hours work and hosting fees. When I announced I was shutting my site down, another blogger offered to mirror the poorly designed pages on his site. To this day, I can still access remnants of my first blog at <a href="http://bonius.com/biketoshine.com">http://bonius.com/biketoshine.com</a> — a fun (if embarrassing) time capsule of my youth. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkNZLQZppUSCE4TLOIqAyHvDRpzTUni6WtMRhvhFE4d5EU7euHGkzID0ztIYxuJVYV3cg-1m_AnMx_KejTKl8McLvm-D6J_1SViKypwir-oM9mggiap1R6qZWUIojXOuSp7l8U7BCt-mibnkwEingTGdSgmrBYIn_Dwc8z7USeDa63YG-7cA/s2048/1973767_10201685057950152_1714323323_o.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkNZLQZppUSCE4TLOIqAyHvDRpzTUni6WtMRhvhFE4d5EU7euHGkzID0ztIYxuJVYV3cg-1m_AnMx_KejTKl8McLvm-D6J_1SViKypwir-oM9mggiap1R6qZWUIojXOuSp7l8U7BCt-mibnkwEingTGdSgmrBYIn_Dwc8z7USeDa63YG-7cA/w640-h480/1973767_10201685057950152_1714323323_o.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ausilia and I pose with Dave in Anchorage in 2014.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Going online also revealed the cyclical nature of life. After a few months of writing, I added a PayPal link urging readers to “Get involved in the adventure!” I still remember the thrill of my first donation from a man named Dave Cushwa. Here was a complete stranger who took me seriously as a writer and adventurer! The Internet seemed so young and innocent back then — these types of distant connections were still a novelty. </div><div><br /></div><div>Eleven years later, we connected again in Anchorage, Alaska, before the 2014 Iditarod Trail Invitational. I don’t remember the reason Dave was there — I think he was helping out Italian competitors Ausilia and Sebastiano in some way. But I remembered him. He greeted me and I reminded him of the $10 and the subsequent confident boost he gifted me when I was a baby adventurer. </div><div><br /></div><div>“You’re basically the reason I’m here,” I joked. Dave flashed a knowing grin. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPxpud43fJtFFcBPSYHCa6hWpHugCY1svUs4I-Wv5ixyRVHhBDxOd0OCcXuk1wHobWG_PiWmSjzD8URBc0wUBYVtNByKbsC48-pNHSfOmC1I18xK_ZNp0GkZvY9AxtxzExcIQOhUPVPLNFc0n0zfux7iDUyJdcugLWgdkRR1NPCQVFVZVEeg/s1208/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-19%20at%2010.43.33%20AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="806" data-original-width="1208" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPxpud43fJtFFcBPSYHCa6hWpHugCY1svUs4I-Wv5ixyRVHhBDxOd0OCcXuk1wHobWG_PiWmSjzD8URBc0wUBYVtNByKbsC48-pNHSfOmC1I18xK_ZNp0GkZvY9AxtxzExcIQOhUPVPLNFc0n0zfux7iDUyJdcugLWgdkRR1NPCQVFVZVEeg/w640-h428/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-19%20at%2010.43.33%20AM.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Bike to Shine went dark in 2004. I too went dark, moving to Idaho to work late nights on a newspaper copy desk followed by later nights of bars and parties and days of sleeping and hangovers. My relationship with my boyfriend was in tatters. My bike sat dormant on an unused trainer. My more adventurous endeavors lapsed as well. This was the “quarter-life crisis” that led me to make a last-ditch effort to revive both my relationship and adventure dreams by moving to Alaska. </div><div><br /></div><div> Within a month of moving to the 49th State, I was a full convert to all things Last Frontier and wanted to reveal my discoveries to everyone I knew. I started what one might now call a newsletter, but at the time was simply, “the annoying reply-all mass e-mail.” An acquaintance sent me an unnecessarily mean “unsubscribe” sort of response, and that’s when I slinked back to my origins and discovered that Blogger.com was not only free, it was way better than it used to be. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioitgxClZVxI0N6g3eNlDoOGjI81V2qIOxP9NKu06qKj2rCj4gGdIQ40aHjgqwxwJzwtRO2oSA9xTocMckVRQtEXniH0a1OkItFYyMGxhgvbXQxoucVGlfh_-Q0hqCBDxiwj6PuRW04aLTdRp2QmC2II37NvKWKC4142DJ5IC62QVEH3-SZQ/s1514/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-28%20at%207.22.38%20AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1146" data-original-width="1514" height="484" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioitgxClZVxI0N6g3eNlDoOGjI81V2qIOxP9NKu06qKj2rCj4gGdIQ40aHjgqwxwJzwtRO2oSA9xTocMckVRQtEXniH0a1OkItFYyMGxhgvbXQxoucVGlfh_-Q0hqCBDxiwj6PuRW04aLTdRp2QmC2II37NvKWKC4142DJ5IC62QVEH3-SZQ/w640-h484/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-28%20at%207.22.38%20AM.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>I launched “Up in Alaska” and published my first post on November 3, 2005. “<i>So this is my new online journal about moving to Homer, Alaska — a place where it snows in October, where moose traipse through my backyard, and where everyone can spell my last name but if you can’t spell “Xtratuf,” well, so help you God.” </i></div><div><br /></div><div> At the time, I had no conception of where this blog would take me within a matter of weeks. I couldn’t foresee the connections I’d make with Alaskans in the blogosphere, how they’d introduce me to this crazy thing called “snow biking” and the then-inconceivable goal of a 100-mile wilderness race on the Iditarod Trail in the dead of winter. I couldn’t imagine that complete strangers would cheerlead my audacious race goal and offer crucial gear and training tips when I had no idea what I was doing. It was this whole thing. <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Becoming-Frozen-Memoir-First-Alaska-ebook/dp/B011D65THI/">I’ve already written an entire book about how this blog changed my life</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Kl22lc6WwTYqKc5JL31Dyrg9SU-5Q5RZtboglu7Ifby62UZnhEotaQX2Dwijj8ns6jo4Rrp3rVYbxuCLz-BXtfAtP3gqsLI17KADqg3nLCJajjDDZjx2xKHhGDn_Y83j1cbc9bY08FmMG4YfIMlLH-Ppex06awgx4kunTKwh-wAI5QKgMA/s2378/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-19%20at%2011.30.33%20AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1552" data-original-width="2378" height="418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Kl22lc6WwTYqKc5JL31Dyrg9SU-5Q5RZtboglu7Ifby62UZnhEotaQX2Dwijj8ns6jo4Rrp3rVYbxuCLz-BXtfAtP3gqsLI17KADqg3nLCJajjDDZjx2xKHhGDn_Y83j1cbc9bY08FmMG4YfIMlLH-Ppex06awgx4kunTKwh-wAI5QKgMA/w640-h418/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-19%20at%2011.30.33%20AM.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>It’s strange to realize that this fateful step took place nearly 18 years ago — that if my blog were a baby, it would have grown into adulthood this year. What growing up have I done in that time? It’s difficult to quantify. I’m still riding bikes. I’m still hopelessly dedicated to adventure. I'm still making editorial and design choices I'll likely regret later. I’m still a newspaper copy editor who’s actually okay with the fact I’ve moved laterally through a low-end career. I figured out early that I don’t find value in work just because people pay me to do it. Money and some measure of success are necessary in life, but they’re not interesting in and of themselves. What feeds my fire, and what gives my life meaning, are stories. I value moving through the world, accumulating experiences, observing all the details I can take in, learning what I can, and telling stories as a way to connect with others. </div><div><br /></div><div>The blog was the simplest way to accomplish this goal. This is the reason I stuck with it even after social media caused a sea change in the landscape, and even after the community that brought me up through my baby years abandoned their own blogs and disappeared into the void. Although I remained, I realized that the community is what I missed the most. I again began to resent the time and energy I was spending on an endeavor that was feeling more and more like whispering into the void. </div><div><br /></div><div>It wasn't just the comments that faded away. It was any kind of reciprocal reader engagement. The intimate stories that people used to share on their blogs became snarky memes, generic photo captions, and hashtags. In turn, I felt over-exposed and self-conscious in this space. I considered pulling away — I even tried going dark a couple of times. But it never stuck. I still don't care about viral content or influencer culture or any other measure of Internet success. All I want, still, is a space to be vulnerable, to scratch my name into the proverbial cave wall, and to continue to learn and grow. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdOu-kcNazH12pCZEXBp6ZZyAIa031w7vz4WM27Gm_DRDgkZ-LMbFN6dyjetV-DF7VzMOTonqsPlZVyyrHPwd8cT3RKkBR1Wq6NgQ2V0FzkvxgG_ClVsWrkiV_sEB7FMHNwMqZS80ylMHUk07UmSuegc0wP4YEmGvi9sXUb99LT5JZxPfEYQ/s1266/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-19%20at%2011.41.56%20AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="722" data-original-width="1266" height="364" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdOu-kcNazH12pCZEXBp6ZZyAIa031w7vz4WM27Gm_DRDgkZ-LMbFN6dyjetV-DF7VzMOTonqsPlZVyyrHPwd8cT3RKkBR1Wq6NgQ2V0FzkvxgG_ClVsWrkiV_sEB7FMHNwMqZS80ylMHUk07UmSuegc0wP4YEmGvi9sXUb99LT5JZxPfEYQ/w640-h364/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-19%20at%2011.41.56%20AM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My blog as written by ChatGPT</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>These are interesting times to be a creative person who has essentially grown up online but also remembers what the landscape was like before the Internet was ubiquitous. Beat has been dabbling in AI development at work. Last month, he sent me an example of an essay that ChatGPT-4 would pen when instructed to: "Write a vivid and introspective blog post in the style of Jill Homer, author of the Jilloutside.com blog, detailing a challenging yet transformative endurance adventure in the wild." </div><div><br /></div><div>The result provided an unsettling mirror that I did not like gazing into. Through its generic scope, ChatGPT did capture me. But it seemed to capture the worst of me — the flowery language, the overwritten descriptions, the navel-gazing. I don't claim to have fixed any of these issues in my writing — this, in many ways, is who I am. Still, it's uncomfortable to acknowledge that yes, this is my digital footprint. When our AI Overlords take over, this is how I will be replaced. </div><div><br /></div><div>"You should have ChatGPT write your blog for you," Beat teases me, and I won't admit to him how much this suggestion hurts my feelings. If there is no longer value in connecting with other humans through the power of the written word, what even am I doing with my life?</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXktPNWEX7emQQADz29SjGJ--84qKl2Pxdt6COH1LuXJkXyNjH_CvkU7r8-grLVkkRE9w32y-d8yyqSad2FjHRBXCMGzcEy5zhib3adslrrIeSRqJPCtzEDyaOKqzfUCT4duJwej3v44mlYtwTx7pAMeY-h6gn8KbE2uKLrprby4UkU1ze0Q/s1534/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-19%20at%204.00.08%20PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1534" height="418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXktPNWEX7emQQADz29SjGJ--84qKl2Pxdt6COH1LuXJkXyNjH_CvkU7r8-grLVkkRE9w32y-d8yyqSad2FjHRBXCMGzcEy5zhib3adslrrIeSRqJPCtzEDyaOKqzfUCT4duJwej3v44mlYtwTx7pAMeY-h6gn8KbE2uKLrprby4UkU1ze0Q/w640-h418/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-19%20at%204.00.08%20PM.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>I feel as though I've reached another crossroads with blogging. In Spring 2022, I launched a <a href="https://jilloutside.substack.com/">Substack newsletter </a>as motivation to continue working on a personal archiving project I'd started. I figured a few family members and friends would sign up — or maybe not even them, because most didn't seem to check in with my blog anymore. What I found was a surprising amount of interest. And not only that — new engagement. Other writers who I'd followed on Twitter for years were writing on Substack. Authors on road trips. Runners grappling with past eating disorders. Mountaineers addressing trauma recovery. Feminism and journalism and essays about what it means to be an "Oldster." The more I dug in, the more I realized, "Here it is! Here is the blogging community I've lost. It's back!"</div><div><br /></div><div>This realization came just as I'd grown weary of the Substack corner I'd boxed myself into, which was essentially writing only about artifacts from my more distant past. I too wanted to expand my writing to any and all of the issues I'm exploring in the present — including mental health, grappling with climate change, the challenges of middle age, grief and loss, existential philosophy, and of course, outdoor adventure and travel. </div><div><br /></div><div>I decided to shift gears. After doing so, the only pieces I've written are <a href="https://jilloutside.substack.com/p/under-the-sky-we-are-all-free">a day-by-day account of a recent bikpacking trip through the Scottish Highlands</a>. It's the same sort of thing I've been writing on this site since the start. It's not exactly my wider goal with my Substack blog. Still, the response has been satisfying. I nearly doubled my subscriber list within a month, including 23 paid subscribers. Paid subscriptions are a thing with Substack. They're voluntary, and in my case still more of a donation or tip than an exclusive subscription. I haven't yet published subscriber-only posts, although I likely will in the near future. I like that there's a place where I can be particularly vulnerable and honest in my writing and still connect with readers without having to blast the entire Internet with my deepest feelings. </div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you to those who opted to "support the adventure." It's certainly not a requirement, but it means a lot and motivates me to stay committed to the craft. Perhaps, like Dave, our paths will cross someday and we'll be able to muse about the good ol' days before ChatGPT took over the world. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://jilloutside.substack.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="964" data-original-width="964" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBFmMT0rY1ee5T2mOW9QjJ-kmEiFoXnamZDnFF3C6yre0W12NcS6M_TGOLXvmlCs-NXxctf5mTNYudDEhjkGzKFK8K45uN3t_2BJM4gygUSajagSyqjo9zqOrXqzzIpZ_OS8j325mW6pDJ07RD5_Wv7ndZyci51YfToCuabNDRM4huU_BZhA/s320/121434271.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>While I dip my toes in the Substack ocean, I'm not exactly sure what to do with this space. It's been around for so long that it remains a great way to connect with people from my past. I still sell a few books each week directly from the links here. I certainly have no intention of taking down its vast archive, which I sadly nearly did when I was in the midst of mental turmoil last November. But will I continue to update this blog? It's difficult to say. </div><div><br /></div><div>If you are still around and still reading, I'd encourage you to check out my<a href="https://jilloutside.substack.com/"> Substack page and sign up</a> for the e-mail list. You don't even need to sign up, though; you can simply bookmark the page and read posts online, similar to any other blog. If I truly make a full migration, I'll post a much shorter update and link at the top of the page. But it's been fun to take this trip down blogging memory lane. Thank you. </div>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-10564410906608987492023-04-11T22:52:00.001-06:002023-04-12T07:43:50.283-06:00Long-lived beauty, short-lived pain<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHY4-LfnqtgeMgtzRUq-p66PfrJHloWt7CpOyRn3tdV8kuRX9mcADREkr-qDicwNATPDv8qgHIqWNG5T4RCa8T_BWc8InF4wFgrU12Tidfwao7qFm-yypldEvOskGCukur7r50kwE1FcBkbYWhn-drVZ3-PfQ0UG9mfEyL6DdtniL3YX1wQA/s4080/PXL_20230326_034049610.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHY4-LfnqtgeMgtzRUq-p66PfrJHloWt7CpOyRn3tdV8kuRX9mcADREkr-qDicwNATPDv8qgHIqWNG5T4RCa8T_BWc8InF4wFgrU12Tidfwao7qFm-yypldEvOskGCukur7r50kwE1FcBkbYWhn-drVZ3-PfQ0UG9mfEyL6DdtniL3YX1wQA/w640-h482/PXL_20230326_034049610.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Evening at Wolf Run cabin, March 2023.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Alaska's White Mountains have the cure for what ails you. Don't believe me? How many places in this world are so accessible and yet still so wild? So rugged and primitive and yet infused with promises of comfort and peace? So cold and distant that quiet is all but assured and sublime beauty is guaranteed? There are many places like this, I suppose, but the White Mountains seem custom-designed for me. </p><p>I discovered this place through the White Mountains 100, my favorite race. Miraculously this event has survived four different race directors and two pandemic-related cancelations. It's been four years since the last time I raced and I wanted to return in 2023. Really, I did. But the sign-up period in November was not a good time for me. Not at all. My mental health was crashing, and then I physically crashed while trail running, sustaining injuries that lingered for weeks. A large part of me wondered if I'd ever get up again. </p><p>Just as I started to come around, the 2023 event was already here. <a href="https://notquiteoverthehillcorrineanderic.blogspot.com/2023/04/the-quintessential-white-mountain.html" target="_blank">Corrine had formulated a fun adventure</a> to ride the classic loop backward (with bonus spurs) over four days and photograph all of the racers we encountered on day three. She invited <a href="https://4theluvoffat.com/2023/03/30/the-quintessential-alaskan-experience/" target="_blank">Betsy </a>and me. While I resisted for a strangely long period of time, by the time I got on board, I was giddy with anticipation. Since I've been writing such long posts about the White Mountains, it seems a good time to sum up my history with the race that started it all for me: </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDYGZQyB1aWCkowP5wJJULTJJQtYlRikEhS1M_tg4A0zvCLXP6vmQKozWZ8w0jT6P6e7IiqujiYm89XET4_P2L5kt5_iY7wirERxfOvdmTmveNFPt3I3LheU5W5dai1YfDL25DNHPh3_3A4EXurs_lT7Dbx8vx1ozscS6WyX8hHJ6gEeMKHg/s1600/DSC05687.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1066" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDYGZQyB1aWCkowP5wJJULTJJQtYlRikEhS1M_tg4A0zvCLXP6vmQKozWZ8w0jT6P6e7IiqujiYm89XET4_P2L5kt5_iY7wirERxfOvdmTmveNFPt3I3LheU5W5dai1YfDL25DNHPh3_3A4EXurs_lT7Dbx8vx1ozscS6WyX8hHJ6gEeMKHg/w640-h426/DSC05687.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Possibly my best-ever day on a bike, the 2014 White Mountains 100.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><h3 style="text-align: left;"><b>A somewhat-brief synopsis of my history with the White Mountains 100:</b></h3><p>2010. My life was in shambles. I was depressed and grieving a failed relationship, which led to a rash decision to leave my intolerably stressful newspaper job without a solid plan for the future. Another important change I decided to make during this time was to quit endurance racing, which had unquestionably complicated all of my problems. The day after I put in notice at my job — coincidentally — I received an e-mail from a Fairbanks friend who was starting a new 100-mile race in the White Mountains. No one from Juneau had signed up yet, and Ed wanted to round out the roster. I showed up two weeks later to bike a course with endless hills, ice, overflow, and temperatures dipping to 25 below. I finished 14th overall in 22 hours and 23 minutes. </p><p>2011. Signed up again and invited my new love interest, Beat. He initially agreed but then balked at the biking part of our plan. I finished in 17 hours and 55 minutes. Beat needed 35:41 to get around the course without the aid of a bike. </p><p>2012. Again with a bike and several inches of new snow. Finished third woman in 20 hours and 47 minutes. </p><p>2014. After training all winter to complete the Iditarod Trail Invitational 350 on foot, I took a bike to race the WM100 for fun, fatigued and undertrained as I was. Frighteningly fast trail conditions made it almost no effort at all to finish in 11:34. I felt amazing! But this was the only year I didn't "podium" as the fourth woman. I blamed ITI legs. </p><p>2015. Decided to complete the course on foot. I lost all of my gear to the U.S. Postal Service before the race and had to buy a bunch of stuff last-minute at Goldstream Sports, including shoes. Beat wanted to join and "paced" me self-supported, but I ended up dropping him (poor guy, he'd had an unbelievably tough year at the ITI.) I just barely skirted under 30 hours in 29:54, the third woman on foot.</p><p>2017. Thyroid disease prevented me from racing anything that winter, so I volunteered for the aid station at checkpoint one. It was a frigid year and we had to stand outside for five hours. All of the soda froze solid and we ran out of water, so I had to melt snow on a propane cooker. </p><p>2018. Returned to race on foot as a true glutton for punishment, having finished the ITI 350 on foot just two weeks earlier. I was finally starting to understand the depth of strain that sled dragging puts on my body, but not in time to start a 100-mile ultramarathon without some of the worst leg pain I've experienced. 33 hours and 59 minutes of pure hurt. And no, it never went numb. But the incredible Northern Lights display made everything worth it. Alaska runners Teri Buck and Laura McDonough once again put me to shame at a distant third.</p><p>2019. This was to be my year. The White Mountains 100 was my A race. I wanted to crush my 100-mile PR — 27 hours? 26? Not outside the realm of possibility! I trained hard all winter, spending a month in Nome where practically all I did was train and pretend to write. Trail conditions were superb and I made it to the halfway point, Cache Mountain Divide, with daylight to spare in 13 hours. But then it started to snow. It snowed eight inches overnight. And everything fell apart. I was again the third woman on foot, finishing in 31 hours and 22 minutes. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkXJwvdQ36cVjmou6n98ckinnxFeg242dBKlO5pMBwCdtAWNkjnNKJ_ec8x_IdLnXFq9FSgNRwVQIVx1Dw9QVIaJflHr69pD1bxLfclvgbkgwAkVX_skPlWAsciuFRsGs5Y4GSbpCnb-HuxaZg0VCtPFYSz5bwgaWcGaJWJD2kGP0LAg7KKA/s1280/P3240010.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkXJwvdQ36cVjmou6n98ckinnxFeg242dBKlO5pMBwCdtAWNkjnNKJ_ec8x_IdLnXFq9FSgNRwVQIVx1Dw9QVIaJflHr69pD1bxLfclvgbkgwAkVX_skPlWAsciuFRsGs5Y4GSbpCnb-HuxaZg0VCtPFYSz5bwgaWcGaJWJD2kGP0LAg7KKA/w640-h480/P3240010.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>For so many years, I showed up at the White Mountains with my life or body or spirits in some sort of shambles, and the White Mountains never failed to provide triumph and revival. (Except for 2019. That year can go to hell.) I was grateful to Corrine and Eric for making this tour possible, and to Tyson for the generous offer to lend a fat bike to a stranger. Since nearly all of our Christmas trips have been on foot, it's been a hot minute since I've ridden a bike in the Whites. So fast! So fun! <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnhn_suMeA_hFusLsKzNSzzbGu3Un2KZveQZZGmLpPJA1b_dSxqlRAJhD6siKHYO-wpSXppHihzDRRs08F-5xxtSVFQm0-qAwr1Q5rf9jJoduEf1Cz0VsIqLyQScSFDUf8S-5dMb9_AaESj3aoHYYE6TWPR8y1CXfmEeUkUmz_iX0psD4WhA/s4080/PXL_20230324_203145945.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnhn_suMeA_hFusLsKzNSzzbGu3Un2KZveQZZGmLpPJA1b_dSxqlRAJhD6siKHYO-wpSXppHihzDRRs08F-5xxtSVFQm0-qAwr1Q5rf9jJoduEf1Cz0VsIqLyQScSFDUf8S-5dMb9_AaESj3aoHYYE6TWPR8y1CXfmEeUkUmz_iX0psD4WhA/w640-h482/PXL_20230324_203145945.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Skies were overcast with light flurries and occasional breaks of sunlight. There was about an inch of fresh powder over the trail base, which had firmed up considerably since I hiked this way two weeks earlier. It took us about an hour and a half of leisurely pedaling to reach the mile 11 trail shelter, where I reminisced about the five-hour battle I'd endured to reach this point on March 10. <div><br /></div><div>"Bikes sort of feel like cheating," I mused to Corrine.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjbimyKza_-izq4e9mAZNpfl8hB_S1p4quqBEs7EAd-RiIlwn4X4baHkgHbctNgBSSar14ZlGPSnbzOCMYUkt3Pm61CVA4QAYEJnJ7QiChtNZKODJb20ZI2ztlZzQPc0AMR9E1JawjDZ4Glm8wtkAHCEVCYEpBE5jDD_EP5AHoTOqHbJ6rGA/s4080/PXL_20230324_205930728.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjbimyKza_-izq4e9mAZNpfl8hB_S1p4quqBEs7EAd-RiIlwn4X4baHkgHbctNgBSSar14ZlGPSnbzOCMYUkt3Pm61CVA4QAYEJnJ7QiChtNZKODJb20ZI2ztlZzQPc0AMR9E1JawjDZ4Glm8wtkAHCEVCYEpBE5jDD_EP5AHoTOqHbJ6rGA/w640-h482/PXL_20230324_205930728.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>The light was flat and featureless, making for more difficult navigation because the trail base was never obvious. We started using the term "Braille Trail" for lines we had to feel out with our wheels, moving as slowly as necessary to gauge the path. Corrine likes to surge ahead but eventually became frustrated with doing all of the navigation, so we took turns leading. </div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9g5S6d9F4C_CI60Z2p_sXNzB-Mw5JIduSOL5z0FMSalHiLkRZQkgC-FpxGXB_zu0TJCvbj8S18nYyQ3NnWog_cu_Ir6K0iQUv2Sn10LS-efAuW8lmgX6HIn4q7ljIlXzTtn8ha73M4DSBAtFhghvzygaYqu0wikKwWiY7W0gjhUalXd-dug/s1280/P3240034.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9g5S6d9F4C_CI60Z2p_sXNzB-Mw5JIduSOL5z0FMSalHiLkRZQkgC-FpxGXB_zu0TJCvbj8S18nYyQ3NnWog_cu_Ir6K0iQUv2Sn10LS-efAuW8lmgX6HIn4q7ljIlXzTtn8ha73M4DSBAtFhghvzygaYqu0wikKwWiY7W0gjhUalXd-dug/w640-h480/P3240034.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div>There was one brief section of overflow at the Wickersham Creek crossing. I became more alarmed than necessary — one of my first indicators that anxiety, though meaningfully diminished, was still with me. In my defense, I'd seen overflow here two weeks earlier and the fact the area was still wet meant there could be rotten ice. We could even see flowing water through a couple of holes in the ice. Of course, this is a small creek and even breaking through to the bottom was likely to be thigh-deep at worst, and there was a cabin nearby, and the air temperature wasn't all that cold. Still, I trembled as I pulled on my waders while Corrine bravely scouted the crossing. <br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh3-fCcg47PK7jSfZbXUSJweXpjJdjiyJnHWrxKO4AeAXx_b2mNbzKUKI6e-9VSzAaJzB8p0QK4gVw94ng_hWZUSrRyGy3Lw9TIV0jxFJHP_j6JKej0vF2_SYjmGXJnKwzAVnwQYs94RfFCcNIbV0wOjaXADKdHF9pVfK10uAyYGXCRr-YgQ/s4080/PXL_20230325_003121052.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh3-fCcg47PK7jSfZbXUSJweXpjJdjiyJnHWrxKO4AeAXx_b2mNbzKUKI6e-9VSzAaJzB8p0QK4gVw94ng_hWZUSrRyGy3Lw9TIV0jxFJHP_j6JKej0vF2_SYjmGXJnKwzAVnwQYs94RfFCcNIbV0wOjaXADKdHF9pVfK10uAyYGXCRr-YgQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230325_003121052.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>A leisurely lunch at Borealis cabin, a few more pedal strokes, and suddenly we were at Caribou Bluff — the cabin I'd failed to make two weeks earlier because I was so shattered after walking 19 miles in 9 hours. This time, we reached the mile 28 cabin with energy and daylight to spare. I hiked to the ridge to take photos of Eric and Betsy approaching the cabin. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxPk1iSF3DlCQ2s3d9RBTsEvX7MD-1Y71ul1kUlyeJd4FDyLOG2dQ8myW7R0869DWuMzHDU1eU5IcLdUFPqkVkBf-xD6IU-BmMaAV_pmuS0ZPfexaa5B7kX1oiYyRo9lwVvTubbu_ld-BP2uMSm_0fhPtIkbLJpjIrtajSx0p8aylpOW0vsw/s3787/PXL_20230325_013830923.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2664" data-original-width="3787" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxPk1iSF3DlCQ2s3d9RBTsEvX7MD-1Y71ul1kUlyeJd4FDyLOG2dQ8myW7R0869DWuMzHDU1eU5IcLdUFPqkVkBf-xD6IU-BmMaAV_pmuS0ZPfexaa5B7kX1oiYyRo9lwVvTubbu_ld-BP2uMSm_0fhPtIkbLJpjIrtajSx0p8aylpOW0vsw/w640-h450/PXL_20230325_013830923.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Skies cleared and the sun came out for early evening libations (I was down to the last of the cinnamon tea that Mark donated to my hiking endeavor during my first White Mountains trip. I would have killed for an afternoon coffee, which I'm still depriving myself of on orders from my therapist.) <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQLjSfXtSmG3h4OAph07wS7E5fYgDji2bEf4eDlZyjicdK0mMxn6ZmZHI5foezZJs9aCp0yjS0jnJi2rd_OBuon3ZcypPFjMbZeyWVtnBM0hVhyQXJT9vH1A8uv-a9rwNjOKfIqrwX25XTY6LMvMj9An0jttnzhfB_rvtq5z_imcE_KPe3uw/s1280/IMG_8116.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQLjSfXtSmG3h4OAph07wS7E5fYgDji2bEf4eDlZyjicdK0mMxn6ZmZHI5foezZJs9aCp0yjS0jnJi2rd_OBuon3ZcypPFjMbZeyWVtnBM0hVhyQXJT9vH1A8uv-a9rwNjOKfIqrwX25XTY6LMvMj9An0jttnzhfB_rvtq5z_imcE_KPe3uw/w640-h480/IMG_8116.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>Eric seemed somewhat indifferent to the biking part of this trip (he admitted that he doesn't love long sloggy rides) but relished in the cabin chores. These chores include gathering, sawing, and stacking an impressive haul of firewood. I tend to be lazy when it comes to this tedious labor and will opt to spend long hours on the trail and then wear my puffy suit inside cabins just to minimize the need for indoor heat. Eric, on the other hand, carries snowshoes and a hand saw on his bike and will gleefully stomp into the woods to find the best stashes of "standing dead" black spruce trees. I felt some obligation to help him out and did enjoy the hauling part of firewood collection — the best part. These trees don't look so large, but they're heavy, and hoisting them through thigh-deep snow without snowshoes made me feel like a badass. <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAmH67Zk09OeeTcd08dChvpRpegmmr3zPdvmgUG5dBgon6Y3GdoiM_iMa8LAsrinfVaXekUeeipc3SHdBPjnK3XVxd6lBtyAzmRf7slvXRjEtPSHmkKZyqmDtN5zLjgcYa_mU-zpi0UrFyc1M4CCeLT-UbUV9Eaqkg3xw1kFD0UjtRWdpwTQ/s4080/PXL_20230325_040910882.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAmH67Zk09OeeTcd08dChvpRpegmmr3zPdvmgUG5dBgon6Y3GdoiM_iMa8LAsrinfVaXekUeeipc3SHdBPjnK3XVxd6lBtyAzmRf7slvXRjEtPSHmkKZyqmDtN5zLjgcYa_mU-zpi0UrFyc1M4CCeLT-UbUV9Eaqkg3xw1kFD0UjtRWdpwTQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230325_040910882.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>The sunset was subtle but lovely. As skies cleared, temperatures began to plummet. It was 5 below by the time darkness fell. The four of us squeezed into the tiny cabin, not much larger than a typical walk-in closet. <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ4Lri_yZOW6mZ46oJ8tUTf3WgXVC7vz43ZQNlvW5cnLmLGOiL5qt8OXU_tXM1KOWyi8LZO9_1y_euXTr0FUB2A5ULzEPBVGBH4h_w06T_afg41dqYM_ja_Dt8rgI8qLHv3Xb3KyivuCaxI2hCr-qdLnLS6h7BfgP-PMZb0Iwt_aGNG7DJ-w/s4080/PXL_20230325_091238863.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ4Lri_yZOW6mZ46oJ8tUTf3WgXVC7vz43ZQNlvW5cnLmLGOiL5qt8OXU_tXM1KOWyi8LZO9_1y_euXTr0FUB2A5ULzEPBVGBH4h_w06T_afg41dqYM_ja_Dt8rgI8qLHv3Xb3KyivuCaxI2hCr-qdLnLS6h7BfgP-PMZb0Iwt_aGNG7DJ-w/w640-h482/PXL_20230325_091238863.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Top bunks don't treat me well, and I tossed and turned through a lousy night of sleep. But the benefit of insomnia in Alaska is more opportunities to catch the elusive Aurora Borealis. This display erupted suddenly when I was already outside and walking along the trail to burn off some insomnia jitters without disturbing the others in the tiny cabin. I wasn't quite dressed well enough for an extended stay in the 15-below night without mittens or a hat, but I tucked my hands into my coat to warm them enough for a few phone photos. <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiji2N24eOiXGuS2kdlhPm0Skb6GXm6vM5FPasXL0EyRoVqvG89e75u9ZB_vo4fdHd9P88hJwWyKKTneQ4zjEKQzdlIOVBgCA3hdXhj9yjfFKiYsq05O6ucLGEiFNQGkWu6Qf6jqYZ4m-Thdruw2umcgtc6jAsXSzA1ZwX9jvzgA-B5KAPw0Q/s4080/PXL_20230325_084841358.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiji2N24eOiXGuS2kdlhPm0Skb6GXm6vM5FPasXL0EyRoVqvG89e75u9ZB_vo4fdHd9P88hJwWyKKTneQ4zjEKQzdlIOVBgCA3hdXhj9yjfFKiYsq05O6ucLGEiFNQGkWu6Qf6jqYZ4m-Thdruw2umcgtc6jAsXSzA1ZwX9jvzgA-B5KAPw0Q/w640-h482/PXL_20230325_084841358.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>Witnessing the lights dance over these jagged limestone summits is a spiritual experience. My brain sent out subtle warnings that my hands and feet were in trouble (I was also sockless in my hiking boots, having failed to locate my socks in the dark.) But in my mind, there was a powerful urge overriding these signals, a drive to sprint toward the northern horizon and throw my arms into the air to release the bursts of joy that demanded to be freed. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCLTQId7psg7Yxy1AhLz_PKM-6JT_3nz3bWiyDzyfJF5nKVXRW96msyTBPyKDxpZBkTF6zyo1WOqUSeDV2eM1xxY8sHnAllPDJ-Ui3Fesk5oLPDmG2FQXC6kKGwZOARLS0sNbYLTM2hwrnrZlv4xTMk9m5QrSYThpliWCOfFanGMctpc404w/s4080/PXL_20230325_090053111.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCLTQId7psg7Yxy1AhLz_PKM-6JT_3nz3bWiyDzyfJF5nKVXRW96msyTBPyKDxpZBkTF6zyo1WOqUSeDV2eM1xxY8sHnAllPDJ-Ui3Fesk5oLPDmG2FQXC6kKGwZOARLS0sNbYLTM2hwrnrZlv4xTMk9m5QrSYThpliWCOfFanGMctpc404w/w640-h482/PXL_20230325_090053111.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Corrine and Betsy had expressed a desire to be woken up if the lights were out. I regret not doing so, but in my defense, I was reluctant to disturb anyone's precious rest when sleep had been so elusive for me. By the time I made my way back to the cabin — shooting one last photo before my fingers stopped working entirely — the aurora faded as quickly as it began. My friends, rising to use the outhouse at other hours of the night, reported that the lights didn't seem to come out again. <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGiFJe1EbBSU7sDn95eJ5S6uQcs4nx4ZRoiFnWh4Zkmstz0b1OBKyIFXcDiYAOldsndxvxGXSjd8sjCnvWM_8qV_Y1UKxBVSxhNMRLfwFo6DcPj_SbnxLmHcgHKrA47KlxqSiije7R_pHHVuJGBTLHdUtTzXHccwnyDpTXp0_Wqk1087lWmw/s3648/PXL_20230325_174912765.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGiFJe1EbBSU7sDn95eJ5S6uQcs4nx4ZRoiFnWh4Zkmstz0b1OBKyIFXcDiYAOldsndxvxGXSjd8sjCnvWM_8qV_Y1UKxBVSxhNMRLfwFo6DcPj_SbnxLmHcgHKrA47KlxqSiije7R_pHHVuJGBTLHdUtTzXHccwnyDpTXp0_Wqk1087lWmw/w640-h480/PXL_20230325_174912765.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>Even lacking sleep, it had been a beautiful night and I felt revived the next morning. It was a short 10 miles to our next cabin, and I was already scheming bonus miles (maybe to avoid those tedious cabin chores. You'll never prove it, Eric!) Temperatures hovered around 10 below as I pedaled up Fossil Creek. I know it's a good morning when the individual hairs on my nose freeze.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65blAtq__CtZIQL20UP8kI2gedrmwLC4IypiZCwTYUYIH4luhobveRlL1NneKlL4aZDFEEOgu0DKWa3XwcABvneYEzo3IhyTC4Wf9wSRHBDWxphd1j8pxDuvc6D7g15s3UHs1il6mzkCXWaCDB6yCdobMvkdJ7ncwPKnYgni5bKqk5YFgpQ/s4080/PXL_20230325_175109620.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65blAtq__CtZIQL20UP8kI2gedrmwLC4IypiZCwTYUYIH4luhobveRlL1NneKlL4aZDFEEOgu0DKWa3XwcABvneYEzo3IhyTC4Wf9wSRHBDWxphd1j8pxDuvc6D7g15s3UHs1il6mzkCXWaCDB6yCdobMvkdJ7ncwPKnYgni5bKqk5YFgpQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230325_175109620.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>The Fossil Gap Trail was a new-to-me route, one of the few connectors in the White Mountains Recreation Area that I had yet to travel. It was fun to explore new territory, so I used the excuse of bagging other new-to-me trails to extend the day's ride — the Colorado Creek Trail, and if I had time, the Big Bend climb all the way to the point on the ridge where I gave up and turned around during a day ride back in 2013. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiunlj-S7DyN2bioUrIy9g-gbzuY3LQFVkRQzi8cF9M9flNDDLEikKICdHIkW4ocMNQ1ocdLKOBewB7RI7zZMiQEPvseyNmBgn2uFloo4aSyd5Kp78eA3O8CAF1a6AdN2nWYrDQRTJdc0wgjB-Xg932c40P8qgBn3T0A32hlJxBk5t1wVEe4Q/s4080/PXL_20230325_185005114.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiunlj-S7DyN2bioUrIy9g-gbzuY3LQFVkRQzi8cF9M9flNDDLEikKICdHIkW4ocMNQ1ocdLKOBewB7RI7zZMiQEPvseyNmBgn2uFloo4aSyd5Kp78eA3O8CAF1a6AdN2nWYrDQRTJdc0wgjB-Xg932c40P8qgBn3T0A32hlJxBk5t1wVEe4Q/w640-h482/PXL_20230325_185005114.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>It was such a lovely day, and the trail conditions were superb. I knocked out the 9 miles to the junction in just over an hour. The temperature had risen to 0 degrees. In the high March sunlight, it felt oddly warm, even hot. <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIehWZCkkZUx8aurYbuu8ZTHI1QfBaKD0crU1QFFO9mgU1uQ-uuZ15UCM5CzoLsQ-SVSLqaKsG-t1kXvZ9DlGAOxe_eHr8btWx0XrZhJRhJv1NsMOcfqba09w1Fj0jA1CDiOJrMAd-HUWxF7XOPW6CtXbiFVhlf7qZbzIFDrQU9I554GP1rQ/s4080/PXL_20230325_203714926.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIehWZCkkZUx8aurYbuu8ZTHI1QfBaKD0crU1QFFO9mgU1uQ-uuZ15UCM5CzoLsQ-SVSLqaKsG-t1kXvZ9DlGAOxe_eHr8btWx0XrZhJRhJv1NsMOcfqba09w1Fj0jA1CDiOJrMAd-HUWxF7XOPW6CtXbiFVhlf7qZbzIFDrQU9I554GP1rQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230325_203714926.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>I continued another 12 miles, starting with the gradual climb along Colorado Creek. This broad valley is windswept and desolate with only a few patches of stunted spruce trees to break up a daunting expanse of white. Lacking wind protection, the faint trail is rippled with sastrugi. I don't think the Big Bend Trail sees much use and is probably almost always buried in drifts. A soft base with endless collapsing speed bumps makes for strenuous pedaling. I was feeling strong and determined to stay in the saddle as long as possible, so I queued up a 10-minute-long song by Metric, "Doomscroller," which includes a fast-paced repetition of the line "Don't give up."</div><div><br /></div><div><i>I'm a true doomscroller</i></div><div><i>I can't seem to shut it down</i></div><div><i>Until the worst is over</i></div><div><i>And it's never over ...</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH6VdbUUfDBLGP2xirYJW582fLq1Jif_6bsnZfd_O-VDXFVHNB7CX7vu9-s5H0F98-oBJ9_Ivi6CvV0DST32gXUeu4imJ4ahJrUuZrJK6RAM8NCWvlHvFeumFyXCOm9cM_JKvN8q2ngVMpYRnQHJGlSwnRxn2phljnXSXyivrnYPD8mpHWjw/s4080/PXL_20230325_214552125.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH6VdbUUfDBLGP2xirYJW582fLq1Jif_6bsnZfd_O-VDXFVHNB7CX7vu9-s5H0F98-oBJ9_Ivi6CvV0DST32gXUeu4imJ4ahJrUuZrJK6RAM8NCWvlHvFeumFyXCOm9cM_JKvN8q2ngVMpYRnQHJGlSwnRxn2phljnXSXyivrnYPD8mpHWjw/w640-h482/PXL_20230325_214552125.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>A couple of miles past Colorado Creek cabin, the route makes a sharp left turn to take the direct route over a ridge dividing Colorado Creek and Beaver Creek. In two miles the trail gains nearly 1,000 feet of altitude, topping out with impressive views of a wilderness that stretches a hundred miles to the Yukon River and beyond. I had burned most of my energy matches battling the wind drifts, but was still determined to reach the summit, so I left Doomscroller on repeat. For a song that starts so mean and despondent, it segues beautifully into a soft, hopeful redemption. As I marched, I breathed out the lyrics that I'd come to hear as a reflection of my own mental health recovery.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Take this for the heartache</i></div><div><i>Not some cure to negate it</i></div><div><i>More like a magnification mirror, full-size</i></div><div><i>Inner reverberation happens outside.</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbMrwVCpqV0tWM54qdMm7Sw0orhxAHkHy-_Su8pKkn9-6acu8TzE9oU3ZIL2fae8PU0QdvkCuwUzXcwbZHdw6YfqdFIsDIMgKo8pRZaIrRdA_8DUgjx-WpOEwjt8bJenHgJQzRpkvfnCSAt0r2uAvR9zb1eEoyxlZS7yuZ8XcUjJCk8-Eu8w/s4080/PXL_20230325_215230916.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbMrwVCpqV0tWM54qdMm7Sw0orhxAHkHy-_Su8pKkn9-6acu8TzE9oU3ZIL2fae8PU0QdvkCuwUzXcwbZHdw6YfqdFIsDIMgKo8pRZaIrRdA_8DUgjx-WpOEwjt8bJenHgJQzRpkvfnCSAt0r2uAvR9zb1eEoyxlZS7yuZ8XcUjJCk8-Eu8w/w640-h482/PXL_20230325_215230916.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>I left the bike at the last tripod on the hillside. There, the trail steepened to a veritable headwall, and I thought I might need my hands free to crawl up it. Finally, I gained the ridge and continued hiking along the broad spine to the high point, a place where I remember turning around during a 70-mile day ride in 2013, having determined that this trail was ridiculous. Strange that another ten years passed and I still hadn't attempted to link it together. Or perhaps it's strange that I'm still here, walking this remote and foreboding ridgeline, ten years past a point of no return.</div><div><br /></div><div>A Snicker's bar restored my energy (I was still trying to choke down my two-week-old trail mix with limited success, but I did bring some candy this time.) When Metric revved up the tempo, I started running, punching deep boot holes in the barely-there trail. When the song neared its refrain, I surprised myself by bubbling over with emotion, dropping to my knees, and releasing an ugly, snot-soaked cry that I now recognize as sudden grief.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Whatever you do,</i></div><div><i>Either way, we're gonna love you,.</i></div><div><i>Never mattered,</i></div><div><i>Either way, we're gonna love you,</i></div><div><i>Never mattered,</i></div><div><i>How many or how much more you've been through. </i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6DVkfBXpbnesRE7Od62HcPpAPqqtzXtaPsKhGmyqUIDbGeGK2hm2TVWdk0lm_WXwrg7Lnf5OOlMv-pT7Rr56OfJCLRkztkGzRIONMV_vX4o4ANb-luykk_Rjv1gKmZBYwbH1K8uERJZhaoGSabvzfbbIiS79U6jC1RbbXfpR30YhgJcymJQ/s4080/PXL_20230325_233256017.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6DVkfBXpbnesRE7Od62HcPpAPqqtzXtaPsKhGmyqUIDbGeGK2hm2TVWdk0lm_WXwrg7Lnf5OOlMv-pT7Rr56OfJCLRkztkGzRIONMV_vX4o4ANb-luykk_Rjv1gKmZBYwbH1K8uERJZhaoGSabvzfbbIiS79U6jC1RbbXfpR30YhgJcymJQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230325_233256017.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>It struck me that the love I feel in these wild, frozen, foreboding spaces is the dream of universal love, a love that stretches beyond embodiment, beyond time, beyond even the great and unknowable ... beyond. For all of our striving, isn't this all any of us want — to feel a love we know can't be lost, and to feel worthy of such love? Strangely, out here in a place so inhospitable to life including my own, I understand that I have this love, that I've always had this love, that I am this love. </div><div><br /></div><div>When grief finds me, I understand this love all too well. It is pain as much as it is joy, because embodiment means accepting that everything is impermanent. It was all so intense that I felt weak in every muscle, briefly wondering if I'd find the strength to stand. The intensity of emotion washed over me and I mustered the final steps to the high point. Up there, I experienced a clarity of mind and vision so different from the brain fog that still hangs heavy over my memories of this winter. It was as though I'd been splashed with cold water and was finally waking up. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU1kJ9-P-YwOJHaABzGBLjnbkeNZ5g0m3SRPVfE-aoqOHIskDJ5lDvYCdWwCYppDJuhlfVC662sLuAu04Fmha22SVFGb6-NXWM9JRUwfApIotavoHTkTuYajda_s1Qd32eFGID-aQmEBonkJXP5bazbDWl3TTpSDCt83FeIn4TNEPMjyGtFA/s4080/PXL_20230326_034342823.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU1kJ9-P-YwOJHaABzGBLjnbkeNZ5g0m3SRPVfE-aoqOHIskDJ5lDvYCdWwCYppDJuhlfVC662sLuAu04Fmha22SVFGb6-NXWM9JRUwfApIotavoHTkTuYajda_s1Qd32eFGID-aQmEBonkJXP5bazbDWl3TTpSDCt83FeIn4TNEPMjyGtFA/w640-h482/PXL_20230326_034342823.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>The ride back to Wolf Run cabin was nearly all downhill with a tailwind, and I was feeling triumphant after the emotional cleansing. It was somewhat difficult to switch back from "seeking the wisdom of the mountains" mode to social mode, so I spent a bit more solo time sitting outside on the porch with my stove, melting snow. Wolf Run was in a gorgeous setting and I wished I could move here and live out my days in a tiny cabin, melting snow or collecting water from creeks, subsisting on berries and rice and lentils, collecting downed trees, and chopping wood. I don't love chopping wood but I would learn to love it just to spend my life with these wise mountains. </div><div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN4a-h5kacs99X5b4T8u2oOJoqGPSmoUIt6X-Us2j-cKA_A93irCwm5MZoLfQ05ZkgRt7QNQ4_ZP1GowivDwidVCwJWRgncpJR_tBHwiGzPxGesxGBwOkk77ycC5w0GAZywlcUgcjvFRtYzVKbFwMmKN4ItrLMwRaJ94Tvwc_G9bHNkBaeYA/s4080/PXL_20230326_162840315.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN4a-h5kacs99X5b4T8u2oOJoqGPSmoUIt6X-Us2j-cKA_A93irCwm5MZoLfQ05ZkgRt7QNQ4_ZP1GowivDwidVCwJWRgncpJR_tBHwiGzPxGesxGBwOkk77ycC5w0GAZywlcUgcjvFRtYzVKbFwMmKN4ItrLMwRaJ94Tvwc_G9bHNkBaeYA/w640-h482/PXL_20230326_162840315.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>It was fun to return to the warm indoors and have lighthearted conversations with my friends. Day three was to be a long day — 45 miles with 4,000 feet of climbing — so everyone was motivated to go to bed early. I finally got a good night of sleep, with just one trip to the outhouse to scan the sky for Aurora. There were subtle hints of green light to the north, but most of the sky was already obscured by high clouds. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRtc18-fy40-lbK0L7Hq0IXFV5tuC-djroS7S1JraN5-UMZz7KDFocQXREiSoxM0dS3xyv3-yZCx0L5zjMlDpz9wKy24EvqWdjpRx_2w1AzfI_xtZEaQLdOzyuuGRblSYq9xZjfUjEvNT__YPmNyIAI6xHg5ZkVew21LG8mrlBDry8uY13Ig/s4080/PXL_20230326_180039182.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRtc18-fy40-lbK0L7Hq0IXFV5tuC-djroS7S1JraN5-UMZz7KDFocQXREiSoxM0dS3xyv3-yZCx0L5zjMlDpz9wKy24EvqWdjpRx_2w1AzfI_xtZEaQLdOzyuuGRblSYq9xZjfUjEvNT__YPmNyIAI6xHg5ZkVew21LG8mrlBDry8uY13Ig/w640-h482/PXL_20230326_180039182.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>In the morning, we started out on another new-to-me trail, Windy Creek. This trail is gorgeous, climbing through a narrow valley beneath forested hills and jagged limestone spires. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNAOe0jHdz8fS5u8yuk1HWap1QV3Y3sdtYPNLRIjzjwsxUbz_cb1l3kEgncu8Z_xZUMZIBXbmf2GTUqDkms5pRc_MdYp3pxjGJa8ISETX0DakuhNeOXFbnHDiu8HxnFkl6zCRauyNJ6hu9M_g2KpkmAgPpqjX47gM90Vj0rb-NCJaL4BMXeA/s4080/PXL_20230326_180730105.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNAOe0jHdz8fS5u8yuk1HWap1QV3Y3sdtYPNLRIjzjwsxUbz_cb1l3kEgncu8Z_xZUMZIBXbmf2GTUqDkms5pRc_MdYp3pxjGJa8ISETX0DakuhNeOXFbnHDiu8HxnFkl6zCRauyNJ6hu9M_g2KpkmAgPpqjX47gM90Vj0rb-NCJaL4BMXeA/w640-h482/PXL_20230326_180730105.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>The trail skirts over a saddle at Windy Gap before descending to connect with Fossil Creek Trail and the classic White Mountains loop. The race had started earlier that morning, and we expected to see our first racers soon. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiND5oZkXIvVmPzj9OOzaysr271w92oD5so1B0UzcM-RqocmK8oNTE4R6MyYn-lH90evaBk-cbAgTQLwDyMPm7xEhfIhz_zxYBQ0_IPH7-CkXi4nDv0s1ef-p_555d5z8S-PQDbVTI8uRwenaTY6etqfsHvN09Iw-Xzi4x8jbTaxFc92tHdBg/s4080/PXL_20230326_183652464.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiND5oZkXIvVmPzj9OOzaysr271w92oD5so1B0UzcM-RqocmK8oNTE4R6MyYn-lH90evaBk-cbAgTQLwDyMPm7xEhfIhz_zxYBQ0_IPH7-CkXi4nDv0s1ef-p_555d5z8S-PQDbVTI8uRwenaTY6etqfsHvN09Iw-Xzi4x8jbTaxFc92tHdBg/w640-h482/PXL_20230326_183652464.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>Our group was a little more staggered on this day, with Betsy setting out first and Corrine and Eric determined to photograph every one of the 80-something racers on the course. I was a little nervous about navigating such "crowds," but 80 people and a few volunteers on snowmobiles are not actually all that many people when stretched out over 30-something miles. It was still a quiet ride and a lovely day despite the gray skies. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrMeCQW5oJ9OSGKC7TbJCVwRJ3h8Fc-j7z2MGIKB_6Qgq_W2pLG1bs_Wur75JFRNP0-Iw3aDZEcDiciwj9tTcwttR9ruFKrlmeLwNsMempk2XL2uz3hq2lcuMC5J5g463VtjZTRD8iWHGjhow6v2SdyyMFswjbKNjA6mYzLP4U-EDcVWQrRg/s4080/PXL_20230326_200130388.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrMeCQW5oJ9OSGKC7TbJCVwRJ3h8Fc-j7z2MGIKB_6Qgq_W2pLG1bs_Wur75JFRNP0-Iw3aDZEcDiciwj9tTcwttR9ruFKrlmeLwNsMempk2XL2uz3hq2lcuMC5J5g463VtjZTRD8iWHGjhow6v2SdyyMFswjbKNjA6mYzLP4U-EDcVWQrRg/w640-h482/PXL_20230326_200130388.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>When high noon sunlight finally did break through the clouds, the colors were subtle but surreal. In this photo, I was battling my way across the "Ice Lakes," which had drifted with shin-deep snow. A strong headwind swept down the valley, stirring up more powder. Two snowmachines passed and within minutes their tracks disappeared. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ysScSLOUZfUt3vefeC4popVD_ZH5hf59CWXpsoyfmhO0Ance7izK6WslejqtkQrNec4EfFPGVNs5qZwTm81R0lvlHdD64SWi-_trsnB73y1meSg86HWf5_dB-zKhL14kWP8Y1EepeEjQY4MkhRvY2RLMuP-Kb9heilcXg5AMz5s3henFYQ/s4080/PXL_20230326_213255255.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ysScSLOUZfUt3vefeC4popVD_ZH5hf59CWXpsoyfmhO0Ance7izK6WslejqtkQrNec4EfFPGVNs5qZwTm81R0lvlHdD64SWi-_trsnB73y1meSg86HWf5_dB-zKhL14kWP8Y1EepeEjQY4MkhRvY2RLMuP-Kb9heilcXg5AMz5s3henFYQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230326_213255255.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>The difficulty eased as the trail pitched upward toward Cache Mountain Divide. I spent about a half hour on the summit, snacking on crackers and waving at racers as they passed. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXwtOV52M2jD5atNcpc4cWCJP8gT7JN-Sug4NA1kNICR6QesmUrgBJ8_eCB_pKqu5rR3_kEl5Vu72XFbg-sMuvM7_7VMq7QLv0f1TSTIAO_dQz8F_i3E4LvEL-nUmE2L0i9yfikVwd30Y1X7kbIcn5MFF2wzGdlTRDKLDWjSr1gzAHg_PY1w/s4080/PXL_20230326_213707790.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXwtOV52M2jD5atNcpc4cWCJP8gT7JN-Sug4NA1kNICR6QesmUrgBJ8_eCB_pKqu5rR3_kEl5Vu72XFbg-sMuvM7_7VMq7QLv0f1TSTIAO_dQz8F_i3E4LvEL-nUmE2L0i9yfikVwd30Y1X7kbIcn5MFF2wzGdlTRDKLDWjSr1gzAHg_PY1w/w640-h482/PXL_20230326_213707790.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>Corrine approached and we started the descent together. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP2Hqxe7CewuQEvPff1reQPvhshyiGd1PbBGy8q9VReV4CtJYh4PuJ-IlSrB7EhgJP8BxFH3b5JP7YfoFT42ZdhqtGEVNe_Wfzgi625HPDq45SCL3fwN2Ps04h2wO_svfdwQkQ2J3LA2vJva8GiNxmkjyIIFdE0HvorAQC1kywzmM1HN15yA/s4080/PXL_20230326_214418376.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP2Hqxe7CewuQEvPff1reQPvhshyiGd1PbBGy8q9VReV4CtJYh4PuJ-IlSrB7EhgJP8BxFH3b5JP7YfoFT42ZdhqtGEVNe_Wfzgi625HPDq45SCL3fwN2Ps04h2wO_svfdwQkQ2J3LA2vJva8GiNxmkjyIIFdE0HvorAQC1kywzmM1HN15yA/w640-h482/PXL_20230326_214418376.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>We pulled over for dozens of racers. This is the lead woman Ana, who was the only biker I saw running while pushing her bike up the steep and soft final pitch to the Divide. Impressive. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcHvogEs2X_3CXmiCwdTFnRE5XuXJ4ljorsNVWavm1cx3G1traYIx3aI0aey2aqUFf49OABYRaYdvdeOer6YOH_lHnNrXKqgamp-WpfBe0MscVvt8WslyCLmpOEVzE-z7GzHsI5Dj_c7G8FOKHAY1Mqe0qS_lWvPC007EIeNyq7zHNUOGQ4w/s3648/PXL_20230326_221728253.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcHvogEs2X_3CXmiCwdTFnRE5XuXJ4ljorsNVWavm1cx3G1traYIx3aI0aey2aqUFf49OABYRaYdvdeOer6YOH_lHnNrXKqgamp-WpfBe0MscVvt8WslyCLmpOEVzE-z7GzHsI5Dj_c7G8FOKHAY1Mqe0qS_lWvPC007EIeNyq7zHNUOGQ4w/w640-h480/PXL_20230326_221728253.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>A few miles down the trail, I stopped for a biker I didn't recognize until she said, "Oh, hey, Jill." I was surprised to realize it was Missy Schwarz, who is one of the few women to have finished the 1,000-mile Iditarod Trail on a bike. I asked her how she was doing and she said, "I've never been in so much pain in all of my life."</div><div><br /></div><div>This, too, was a surprising statement from someone who has ridden a bike to Nome, so I scrunched my forehead in confusion. "What? Why?"</div><div><br /></div><div>She pointed to a jagged wound on her cheek, crossed with fresh stitches. "Stabbed myself in the face two days ago. Fuck it hurts."</div><div><br /></div><div>Despite the fact she was racing, she stopped for 10 minutes to tell me the long story about how she was using her knife as a tire lever while tuning up her bike, how she felt it slip and watched the blade fly toward her face, how she missed her only good eye by inches, and fun fact, her other eye is nearly blind from a past bout with a virus. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Damn, that could have been life-changing," she mused, laughing about nearly becoming fully blind as she pulled out an eight-pack of mini powdered donuts and proceeded to eat all of them.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm really bonking but it hurts to chew," she mumbled as white powder puffed out of her mouth like snow. "This was a dumb thing to do; why do we do such dumb things to ourselves?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I shrugged. I was admittedly feeling envious. Not about the facial wound or terrible pain, but I was starting to wish I was a racer moving toward the long night. But I love Missy. The fun encounter made my day, and apparently, the powdered donuts made hers.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I felt a lot better after that," she told me later. She'd go on to finish strong in less than 15 hours. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcBe-ubPqwg5Wub75R0qf4xGz-8N3gCP2Y2D81fpJlzzp6K991KR6emB2mSZ13P_Yd2Kp1FtIB1dsLbR6CPiZi1woR_fdUxM5XYuwtg8IY-Bf9eJVcpKwQgQG_Cvj-tCRe3TFz_Jv7iKoFWKJIYqrCJQUKPaZv-HSD_4SyKMXwhd3T04b0wg/s4080/PXL_20230327_004012572.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcBe-ubPqwg5Wub75R0qf4xGz-8N3gCP2Y2D81fpJlzzp6K991KR6emB2mSZ13P_Yd2Kp1FtIB1dsLbR6CPiZi1woR_fdUxM5XYuwtg8IY-Bf9eJVcpKwQgQG_Cvj-tCRe3TFz_Jv7iKoFWKJIYqrCJQUKPaZv-HSD_4SyKMXwhd3T04b0wg/w640-h482/PXL_20230327_004012572.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>The fun racer encounters continued, especially when I got to the runners, who were generally more than ready for a break at mile 30-something and willing to stop and chat for several minutes. I was feeling genuine FOMO for the White Mountains 100, which is such a fun scene. I do hope I have the opportunity to return again. I am going to find that perfect run, mark my words! <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMFy5ZgLn6dH9Gh0q-3Y7qkIe7PdLhRKHa7qwhlRXha3bkTmAcmDo8OxpAEdZ6qCmvy0wf20rpWqHKrKvttRz5N5e1EM0e15MvAcwxT5iLIhPyMJXb0R92-fj13eB0hgARoEV--LMpgzlb5l8FkfaUsDoGKMMh9GD2boTlBhxTm8Xslyg4jg/s4080/PXL_20230327_155424988.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMFy5ZgLn6dH9Gh0q-3Y7qkIe7PdLhRKHa7qwhlRXha3bkTmAcmDo8OxpAEdZ6qCmvy0wf20rpWqHKrKvttRz5N5e1EM0e15MvAcwxT5iLIhPyMJXb0R92-fj13eB0hgARoEV--LMpgzlb5l8FkfaUsDoGKMMh9GD2boTlBhxTm8Xslyg4jg/w640-h482/PXL_20230327_155424988.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Our last cabin was Crowberry, which is at the top of a bluff nearly a thousand feet higher than the crossing at Beaver Creek, with a fair number of rolling hills in six miles. Corrine, ever the optimist, had told Betsy that the ride was "all downhill" from the Divide. I'm not sure I got my warning out that the route is absolutely not all downhill from there, but since I know and already love this part of the trail, I didn't mind the climb. I had a nice chat with the sweeper for the race, who was napping in the cabin when I arrived. He was wearing a WM100 hat from 2012 and told me he used to work the 80-mile aid station, where he was always flabbergasted at the horrible condition of the runners who stumbled in and languished at the cabin. I have been a part of all of that scene, from the 2012 race to being a sad runner at Borealis, so I was a little bit hurt when he didn't remember me at all. <div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFz6qzhMCCA29wGi5nbsqHk_BPXpVAaGYbt_RNA-I-dCQsbBuHmw-MMxLnN4F5XX_EUCc5U5_tMYpXCXuQdLbqWT25HVqX36GafZz2NTRg0T8-pKT1wQoSMXxoeeGvQq5qNs-T6gqwk2K0aogWz4Ay0o8Mxbc3JGiGIrxPbLpvEkT8JLbFLQ/s4080/PXL_20230327_170038923.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFz6qzhMCCA29wGi5nbsqHk_BPXpVAaGYbt_RNA-I-dCQsbBuHmw-MMxLnN4F5XX_EUCc5U5_tMYpXCXuQdLbqWT25HVqX36GafZz2NTRg0T8-pKT1wQoSMXxoeeGvQq5qNs-T6gqwk2K0aogWz4Ay0o8Mxbc3JGiGIrxPbLpvEkT8JLbFLQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230327_170038923.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>That evening, everyone trickled in slowly, with Eric arriving more than two hours later. I moved as much wood as I could into the cabin, started a fire, and melted a pot of water for the group to use for dinner. Betsy arrived with wet base layers and a somewhat shell-shocked demeanor but seemed to perk up as soon as she got out of her wet clothes and had something to eat. Just as the gray sky faded to dark gray, flurries started to fly. I checked the weather on my InReach and saw that the forecast for the region was calling for 3-5 inches of snow on Monday. I didn't tell my companions because while some information is good — like knowing about the thousand-foot climb at the end of the day — some is just going to wreck a night of sleep. If it snowed, it snowed, and there wasn't much we could do about it now. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgptyQY7p-EQS5Go12j6guYf45HnZnkwO6TmG-2saCTK10VETAnl-7-_OjxC19Y_ANAJ2c2hLDTz12ydn0c45IUTg74SOT0JoMcnnVwW2vQX2vHao70qJQmhkveAwAPA8XBMC3jR4udIlFpdzR9RR-682ag06Z1xTUPiKr9iFy3ATr90hk5Bg/s4080/PXL_20230327_173618767.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgptyQY7p-EQS5Go12j6guYf45HnZnkwO6TmG-2saCTK10VETAnl-7-_OjxC19Y_ANAJ2c2hLDTz12ydn0c45IUTg74SOT0JoMcnnVwW2vQX2vHao70qJQmhkveAwAPA8XBMC3jR4udIlFpdzR9RR-682ag06Z1xTUPiKr9iFy3ATr90hk5Bg/w640-h482/PXL_20230327_173618767.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>Indeed, we woke up to about two inches of fresh powder in the morning, covering up a trail that had considerably softened in warm temperatures and heavy traffic the previous day. Betsy was stressed. We had 26 miles to ride back to the trailhead, and she was convinced we'd push our bikes the entire way and she'd miss her midnight flight, which was also when I was flying out. Her worry was understandable, but it wasn't exactly my dilemma (missing my flight would be a hassle but not that bad. I missed Beat, who had been home for several days after returning from his seventh successful walk to Nome. But there was nothing pressing on my schedule, and I certainly don't mind walking 26 miles. I'd have probably come here with my sled if I thought I could make the mileage.) </div><div><br /></div><div>Still, because Betsty was so worried, my own anxiety seemed to absorb the negative energy. Suddenly I felt jittery and nervous. I even began trembling. It's so strange to experience something like this — to tell yourself that you're actually not scared, that it doesn't matter, but have your body reject this truth and launch the panic response anyway. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHYfnuViZIOqC9SqYfBd9uWsS6gZ8aVDz_OOQMr4Uqgkp5kzVRGX3_Ybd6Ebhs7a2-ZeHvT7zvvSHezRMmDXFiWCiWaHhfVge-i0I0DBXgynR7Nd6OnwtIO1aTNAjhD4AzRW79FMBhv4lRRKPMPCCVXXq9hyCz0CTLj7cLw78WDIVWefD6uA/s4080/PXL_20230327_193839189.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHYfnuViZIOqC9SqYfBd9uWsS6gZ8aVDz_OOQMr4Uqgkp5kzVRGX3_Ybd6Ebhs7a2-ZeHvT7zvvSHezRMmDXFiWCiWaHhfVge-i0I0DBXgynR7Nd6OnwtIO1aTNAjhD4AzRW79FMBhv4lRRKPMPCCVXXq9hyCz0CTLj7cLw78WDIVWefD6uA/w640-h482/PXL_20230327_193839189.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>Everyone perked up after we left the cabin and discovered that the trail was still reasonably rideable. Drifting snow meant we had to hike most of the climbs, and the trail was often impossible to pick out of a blank expanse of white — true Braille trail. We traded the lead for a while, but after a long descent, I ended up in front. I found navigation to be a rewarding game — puzzling out my line in the powder, sometimes choosing poorly and toppling over, but more often feeling like I was zipping through the clouds, dipping and weaving along an invisible path. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrdV6UPn2koa9ks6XBL3V5KvxbGEc8ZnxgPKoWsGNw0GvjGqbfLmKOLevuUZrreHC4LMOCZSg4L6tcsxcvUQ4Q0Qr8yvQsSXpKoLZxR6MYiBPKZ8lczB8QxQuYkh4jAscWfLSEP6rTsmEkK0Vbz5Sk_82A5EctEZOQbyBtLXv-LgGfLAhjNw/s3648/PXL_20230327_211124492.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrdV6UPn2koa9ks6XBL3V5KvxbGEc8ZnxgPKoWsGNw0GvjGqbfLmKOLevuUZrreHC4LMOCZSg4L6tcsxcvUQ4Q0Qr8yvQsSXpKoLZxR6MYiBPKZ8lczB8QxQuYkh4jAscWfLSEP6rTsmEkK0Vbz5Sk_82A5EctEZOQbyBtLXv-LgGfLAhjNw/w640-h480/PXL_20230327_211124492.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>By the time I finished the last long climb to the intersection with the Wickersham Wall, I was in a great mood. It had been a fun day, and now the snow was coming down hard and that was exciting. This Monday of the White Mountains 100 was so much like my Monday in 2019, with the unexpected dump of fresh powder and Braille trail that upended my race. But now I had no animosity, and it felt like redemption in its own way. That year can still go to hell ... yet, isn't this what we seek from these wintry landscapes? We can prepare and plan and train to the heights of our human ability, but nature has the final say. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXTqxEmRdZLtH3r5YcVGAYtoZClwIk_x03bJ23PgMYlGnlbTm0RsZxOYgEryYBR8htjiM-ERX7tPKEza1tuxCf7DyFiamoTbqyf1gUlViZuKYTZJUzREZKvJOLf1OaZoP0rCpESv58AG7MJuWaFhA5VCeeGBh8hhkHpESP5O_wxRLIkw-yhA/s4080/PXL_20230327_215904291.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXTqxEmRdZLtH3r5YcVGAYtoZClwIk_x03bJ23PgMYlGnlbTm0RsZxOYgEryYBR8htjiM-ERX7tPKEza1tuxCf7DyFiamoTbqyf1gUlViZuKYTZJUzREZKvJOLf1OaZoP0rCpESv58AG7MJuWaFhA5VCeeGBh8hhkHpESP5O_wxRLIkw-yhA/w640-h482/PXL_20230327_215904291.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>From what I gathered later, Betsy did not feel the same way and was ready to be done with the "most miserable day ever." I admit that I worked for years to reach this level of Zen. There's little left in the White Mountains to surprise me, and thus little left that can break me ... except for overflow, for which I retain an irrational fear. But it was empowering to realize this — a foreboding winter landscape can't break me. So why do I let my anxiety break me? It's a difficult lesson to hold onto when the sea monster has wrapped its tentacles around me, but it's true. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqbSq_uzg0El3xL2w7l1ukx-LKu5iu5TnRq4iz6dB7Zx70ScTvWgsUfooqzlXvyhKM8DiEJkJodAq_VZ-URCGvnsWgvbDFGyfCOsUZtn5IJWdbgT1UQanB29g82GXq1kNZdzg3BCY9NNd3bY-SYM5QsVg2nh-pQ0fbkWd-8EN3E8z7pKGoag/s4080/PXL_20230327_222323534.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqbSq_uzg0El3xL2w7l1ukx-LKu5iu5TnRq4iz6dB7Zx70ScTvWgsUfooqzlXvyhKM8DiEJkJodAq_VZ-URCGvnsWgvbDFGyfCOsUZtn5IJWdbgT1UQanB29g82GXq1kNZdzg3BCY9NNd3bY-SYM5QsVg2nh-pQ0fbkWd-8EN3E8z7pKGoag/w640-h482/PXL_20230327_222323534.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>Just over a mile from the finish, I had my second encounter with my friend Tom, who was running his first-ever 100-mile ultramarathon in order to complete the White Mountains "trifecta" (finishing the race by ski, bike, and foot.) The Monday snow had upended his race as well. He was behind his hoped-for pace and "in so much pain." I regarded him with the deepest empathy — I have been there, standing right there, in this exact spot, and at nearly the exact same time of day, feeling something very much like what he seemed to be feeling. There is also great freedom in running a hundred miles. It hurts — <i>so damn much</i> — but it too doesn't break you. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieSRR5GkQQs60lkxVc32ZewbBW8Zg-ilAiYf7rJ_tlz_COnfIJO8M9P6M1BTEAgQIRy8Q4vhUlMHo798ThodFOtUHl8B_EmvJx5DeHV05aXso_0F3o1tJNTlrzS0WyxwcXgIrfXPtBtD7ejgeUdnyDopaLGEAkqUDjBglZCiX78W64az-DJw/s1280/P3270284.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieSRR5GkQQs60lkxVc32ZewbBW8Zg-ilAiYf7rJ_tlz_COnfIJO8M9P6M1BTEAgQIRy8Q4vhUlMHo798ThodFOtUHl8B_EmvJx5DeHV05aXso_0F3o1tJNTlrzS0WyxwcXgIrfXPtBtD7ejgeUdnyDopaLGEAkqUDjBglZCiX78W64az-DJw/w640-h480/P3270284.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Ultimately it took about six and a half hours to ride the 26 miles out. Thick, wet snowflakes came down hard for the final hour, absolutely soaking everything I was wearing. These warm storms can be so deceiving because once you're wet, 32 degrees with a light breeze will feel like the coldest weather ever. I arrived at the trailhead about an hour before my friends. Even after stripping everything off and pulling my puffy suit over my naked body, I was still freezing. But I enjoyed waddling around and chatting with volunteers at the finish line.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9vNfYLULDDRSCbkBEvwhSyHwsJfVsNyqGxfBb3xvvPbOgRvC_dmJNFoC6d8Szxlt3s3XUrZvdNfsJ94QkLCU9jQykqXo_vwFWK5HK0GC5tHokquzAKlJ53yjOQXZaBKIscw36wP3x5JGAthFJCEjIy84QP7bJQZvwBHxkbTA7TF_AqR0c2Q/s1280/P3270355.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9vNfYLULDDRSCbkBEvwhSyHwsJfVsNyqGxfBb3xvvPbOgRvC_dmJNFoC6d8Szxlt3s3XUrZvdNfsJ94QkLCU9jQykqXo_vwFWK5HK0GC5tHokquzAKlJ53yjOQXZaBKIscw36wP3x5JGAthFJCEjIy84QP7bJQZvwBHxkbTA7TF_AqR0c2Q/w640-h480/P3270355.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>This long, meandering blog post doesn't have a moral. Writing it was mainly an excuse to relive this trip, which was so rewarding with the perfect mixture of fun bike riding with friends, cabin relaxing, introspective slogging, and reminiscing about my favorite race. I am so grateful to Corrine, Eric, Betsy, and Tyson for giving me this gift. I may not be cured of mental strife, but I feel better than I have in a long time. </div>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-14619285561850541642023-04-06T21:59:00.003-06:002023-04-06T22:02:54.805-06:00Waking up every day just a little bit changed<p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEvGh0cHyQzm8bEeJoAj8F_XPnLpVPO3l6WCGkoMD6KTEIbCTIw2aG848wEsG5JBpajsXFJCLGLjuc2KaODFFTFRHvUXZXacXFiaWjRzLM1bNpO_N9Vo1eq2mlEEN46Ju0XAysV5Enl60_YDdCJwbMI5e3sZya2WDkFVrJgUcdlNT5kITamw/s4080/PXL_20230324_063303386.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEvGh0cHyQzm8bEeJoAj8F_XPnLpVPO3l6WCGkoMD6KTEIbCTIw2aG848wEsG5JBpajsXFJCLGLjuc2KaODFFTFRHvUXZXacXFiaWjRzLM1bNpO_N9Vo1eq2mlEEN46Ju0XAysV5Enl60_YDdCJwbMI5e3sZya2WDkFVrJgUcdlNT5kITamw/w640-h482/PXL_20230324_063303386.jpg" width="640" /></a>Something about March 15 seems to flip a switch in Alaska, and suddenly it's spring. Daylight Savings Time stretched the evening twilight to nearly 9 p.m. Overnight, temperatures swung from consistently below zero to considerably above zero. When I bought a last-minute plane ticket out of Colorado, I scheduled my return flight for a week after my sled trip ... because if you're going to fly all the way to Alaska, you might as well make it count. I also hoped to invite myself on Corrine and Eric's weekend trip to Tolovana Hot Springs, a magical land I haven't had an opportunity to visit in six years. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwjIwOuriQjFZ3ucAqAU00qXE8G0N0ldgVdSOTlYheLl6NQSI7vEbs_zT5Cp5s3qZwCbut3vbJvPcT7Iw3QSKDwVarsB1vYJZ8_DsorSH4PaxV5fM-4l68jAPPEZ_8kU4vlLyWrpBCxpJcuacTPQv6wPXI5hD2WibuK_56buxVOGaXxw4Vgg/s3648/PXL_20230316_190645544.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwjIwOuriQjFZ3ucAqAU00qXE8G0N0ldgVdSOTlYheLl6NQSI7vEbs_zT5Cp5s3qZwCbut3vbJvPcT7Iw3QSKDwVarsB1vYJZ8_DsorSH4PaxV5fM-4l68jAPPEZ_8kU4vlLyWrpBCxpJcuacTPQv6wPXI5hD2WibuK_56buxVOGaXxw4Vgg/w640-h480/PXL_20230316_190645544.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>I worked all week, which meant my day-to-day in Fairbanks wasn't all that different from my boring routine at home. Only when I went outside, the air was sharp and clear, and it would hit me that <i>I'm in Alaska —</i> a thought that still evokes warm feelings after all these years. I had been enjoying the subzero weather and was openly disappointed when weather forecasts showed spikes into the 20s, much to the bewilderment of Alaska friends who have been languishing in the cold darkness since September. In a way, I had been languishing in the darkness since then, too. And I was only beginning to emerge amid this fierce Alaska version of spring, with its dense subzero air that brought peace and comfort. In the cold's echoing silence, I could hear all of the little sounds that remind me of the complexities in this world, the countless stories that are so easy to tune out. And in the cold's grasp, I could feel my life force surging through my body, battling to retain hard-won warmth — a reminder of the power it takes just to participate in this life. <div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOMOvV_5BXqxdt3lECK-KTvnB1d1xrBQDD5QQ0VbdIbLAq5QHK7_VVXK8dwC44oztHj1LfhDeGI9gktTjFlbsYsRc5bOrE1JNzrKbhesNy9Fw_z8YprMYiD3BEEFm6N6kHm2QLCL5EJTdvbuthkuZr-fMIgd9ZSPbms-Mp09ya5a7qsBHyEQ/s4080/PXL_20230318_204609720.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOMOvV_5BXqxdt3lECK-KTvnB1d1xrBQDD5QQ0VbdIbLAq5QHK7_VVXK8dwC44oztHj1LfhDeGI9gktTjFlbsYsRc5bOrE1JNzrKbhesNy9Fw_z8YprMYiD3BEEFm6N6kHm2QLCL5EJTdvbuthkuZr-fMIgd9ZSPbms-Mp09ya5a7qsBHyEQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230318_204609720.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And I did snag that invite to Tolovana Hot Springs. Beat and I used to visit Tolovana every Christmas. After 2017, the area exploded in popularity and price, so it became too difficult to reserve one of the three cabins. My experiences through the first half of the last decade convinced me that the trail over Tolovana Hot Springs Dome is in fact the worst place on Earth. The 10.1-mile track is buffeted by continuous 40 mph winds that feel like death fire in the continuous 25-below cold. There is an old water tank with a small hole cut on the leeward side, placed as a meager wind shelter on a particularly exposed part of the ridge. In the past, Beat and I have hidden in there out of genuine concern for our survival. I didn't know what to expect from Tolovana now that spring had turned on the overhead lights, but I figured anything even marginally better than the Worst Weather on Earth would feel like summer.</div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigh30H6zr6D1EDIa5-jPJLccuq9KpGjuACn114YgkyPGS5uaHLYHj_WLiA1VFn1ZralP3yCjz9BOd7VcJo32EaD0Yj64KRxgtTukHILM54bwS6MyuX72YA8ozAl7y7bZNv-MJtPINf84Hz7hfZjVe0qd6xIzQ1aWYq8yj7jCB5WcyebyfUoA/s4080/PXL_20230318_235040209.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigh30H6zr6D1EDIa5-jPJLccuq9KpGjuACn114YgkyPGS5uaHLYHj_WLiA1VFn1ZralP3yCjz9BOd7VcJo32EaD0Yj64KRxgtTukHILM54bwS6MyuX72YA8ozAl7y7bZNv-MJtPINf84Hz7hfZjVe0qd6xIzQ1aWYq8yj7jCB5WcyebyfUoA/w640-h482/PXL_20230318_235040209.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>Indeed, March weather allowed an easy trek over the Dome. My friends with bikes would probably disagree, as the trail was predictably drifted and very rough in spots. Some drifts were waist-high and uneven, requiring dance-like maneuvers to keep my sled from flipping over. But temperatures were warm-ish and the current wind was blowing at barely a whisper, although it was still breezy enough to necessitate a face covering on the Dome. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCto6BiiomPefRbvZY7dlIMva5Qc7ZKjQkqaZsngA1L0ts6-63B64Ue9YYNHVFBGTP6Uu89lp_hxFc4t-aoysxAekRfYltu8BynDXHN_Mahiof0QGsmS2LqQSWLPsu8gF85oNWS_ib-qwjxMDeHhzK27AH5CwhILoydGMr2AzKvnG-TdXjOA/s4080/PXL_20230318_235103258.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCto6BiiomPefRbvZY7dlIMva5Qc7ZKjQkqaZsngA1L0ts6-63B64Ue9YYNHVFBGTP6Uu89lp_hxFc4t-aoysxAekRfYltu8BynDXHN_Mahiof0QGsmS2LqQSWLPsu8gF85oNWS_ib-qwjxMDeHhzK27AH5CwhILoydGMr2AzKvnG-TdXjOA/w640-h482/PXL_20230318_235103258.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>The sled-dragging was much easier than it had been through the cold powder of the White Mountains one week earlier. I listened to "The Sweet Spot," a book about the psychology behind why humans purposefully seek out emotional turmoil and physical pain. I had mixed feelings about this book, mainly because parts of it held out a mirror I wasn't quite ready to gaze into. But it was well-researched and interesting. <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi141n0rHa92BC0t9XdOKYYc_7xYCn0EOL4JM5iJG8zCCSxyH63-hbVIXp_oGvacL1boVZ7x61okjhtwv4l4qC8I9pgz98bC3xkzActaQj86yadue5t1KfDJ-gfyhnQLgMmn2l4vmHBV5ao-xnIFgAtrjsDsTIHKgUmz3b144lOz8oP2PAvYw/s4080/PXL_20230319_005044272.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi141n0rHa92BC0t9XdOKYYc_7xYCn0EOL4JM5iJG8zCCSxyH63-hbVIXp_oGvacL1boVZ7x61okjhtwv4l4qC8I9pgz98bC3xkzActaQj86yadue5t1KfDJ-gfyhnQLgMmn2l4vmHBV5ao-xnIFgAtrjsDsTIHKgUmz3b144lOz8oP2PAvYw/w640-h482/PXL_20230319_005044272.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>After four hours I arrived at the cute little Frame Cabin, apparently not far behind my friends who had to do a lot of bike pushing over the rough trails. <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5pLp7lzrJklX8SeZmenySfA6-WL3lUitm9ABeFQHUpPGHQNjaDzCmgaTkdhnRFkGz_00UJQjARWWXrBCFHEZqv15kW1b6n6DFz2Es2WaJqc-dBE0Y1hiGko5WHoWiFtAXONKPReMOGOsv-AmHt7TO8sRlEOo0ZFqrD1q9DIE0PVB0JCSWBw/s1620/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-06%20at%205.09.43%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1182" data-original-width="1620" height="466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5pLp7lzrJklX8SeZmenySfA6-WL3lUitm9ABeFQHUpPGHQNjaDzCmgaTkdhnRFkGz_00UJQjARWWXrBCFHEZqv15kW1b6n6DFz2Es2WaJqc-dBE0Y1hiGko5WHoWiFtAXONKPReMOGOsv-AmHt7TO8sRlEOo0ZFqrD1q9DIE0PVB0JCSWBw/w640-h466/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-06%20at%205.09.43%20PM.png" width="640" /></a></div>We enjoyed a leisurely dinner and went to soak in the spring when it was still light out. Such abundance! Such luxury! I do love this place, but I will admit, much of its mystique lies in the foreboding approach and also the dim but magical light cast by the low-angle sun around Winter Solstice. I hope we can make it back next Christmas. <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVAKR5bjBeP77s2BqpXQ7F6Bz-Her-jBBGNyL0cW934yJicSqylOvFhANYnqAejcHd1972cmevRu2VwHAwMfl7ThYHY89UGunv6d1roZVuzD_tel06C1rPv9u7mZpQ2VXGSG-hIDvDiDjy7Zu-6H1kw3ab17blLFQXY69VoWftLeOf5iUgMg/s1636/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-06%20at%205.08.29%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1188" data-original-width="1636" height="464" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVAKR5bjBeP77s2BqpXQ7F6Bz-Her-jBBGNyL0cW934yJicSqylOvFhANYnqAejcHd1972cmevRu2VwHAwMfl7ThYHY89UGunv6d1roZVuzD_tel06C1rPv9u7mZpQ2VXGSG-hIDvDiDjy7Zu-6H1kw3ab17blLFQXY69VoWftLeOf5iUgMg/w640-h464/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-06%20at%205.08.29%20PM.png" width="640" /></a></div>Eric captured this photo of me leaving the following morning. I had a fairly rough night in the cute little cabin, which was quite small, necessitating me squeezing onto a narrow top bunk (since I did invite myself, I'm grateful to Corrine and Eric for squeezing themselves into the lower bunk so I could join.) Even though we only left the stove burning for a few hours, it felt like it was 100 degrees inside for much of the night. I was lying in a puddle of sweat on top of my sleeping bag. (As an aside, for the folks who are curious about my experience with Lexapro, this is one of the side effects. Night sweats. It happens even in my cool bedroom, so I am dreading this coming summer. This isn't a deal-breaker, nor is the nausea I still experience after taking the medication, but it's good to be aware of these lesser annoying details.)<br /><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I eventually wandered outside in just a bra, underwear, and down booties. At that point, the wind was howling (a reason why I opted out of moving my sleeping bag outside) and it was 25 degrees. The windchill itself probably registered in that near-zero range, and it was exhilerating to skip through the snow, feeling free of the clutches of oppressive heat and yet impervious to the cold. This lasted maybe 10 minutes, and then finally my core temperature dipped low enough to sprint back inside and grab a few hours of sleep. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMjulaFM6P6lyV-DXk8I0T5QZY2HjTv7mVmZDs9_Vks2MaMmmEyDkx41Gsd1V2qJ3MNYukLFDn09gaqu57Y_7YL1SpjdeJWJJCAv_7JdBB8Pdz-vsFxIl9XleUtF4ArVKsEXcqUJTM_Jtrmy-1JZdKzHkssHHDCa_70kTUDfnclufudutg1w/s3648/PXL_20230319_203138977.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMjulaFM6P6lyV-DXk8I0T5QZY2HjTv7mVmZDs9_Vks2MaMmmEyDkx41Gsd1V2qJ3MNYukLFDn09gaqu57Y_7YL1SpjdeJWJJCAv_7JdBB8Pdz-vsFxIl9XleUtF4ArVKsEXcqUJTM_Jtrmy-1JZdKzHkssHHDCa_70kTUDfnclufudutg1w/w640-h480/PXL_20230319_203138977.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>The hike out was warm and lovely and felt even more comfortable despite the two big hills that rack up something near 3,000 feet of climbing. It didn't take much longer than the hike in, about 4:20, and I'd left an hour before Corrine and Eric to try to coordinate the finish. But there was still a lot of hike-a-bike on the way out, and Eric was dealing with a missing bolt in his rear axle that meant every hard pedal stroke risked dropping his back wheel. I'm sure he still bombed down these hills because he's crazy like that. (I'm too much of a coward to even try riding my sled. But I did do some jogging. I felt great.) <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh22uKDFjSi6bHGbEddogf7ANEPvOyJ-FIfkWZPSV1bq8nQZtAK_aSjWXrvtKk-XOJ9adDD5EVGANLTYYzzVJ6QCjfoxRq4bEVcrrPylRxo_wTLkLF6XUS_sUPdM2jBO7LrKDU-8o1EIFGvUBASbzjr0ucgwT-AxJF9MVtouFdXVzrK6uj-OQ/s4080/PXL_20230319_211735839.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh22uKDFjSi6bHGbEddogf7ANEPvOyJ-FIfkWZPSV1bq8nQZtAK_aSjWXrvtKk-XOJ9adDD5EVGANLTYYzzVJ6QCjfoxRq4bEVcrrPylRxo_wTLkLF6XUS_sUPdM2jBO7LrKDU-8o1EIFGvUBASbzjr0ucgwT-AxJF9MVtouFdXVzrK6uj-OQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230319_211735839.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Waiting for Corrine and Eric to arrive afforded an extra hour to hike along the nearly abandoned road and take in big views. I could have spent the whole day out here! <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuSYpjOn436X-SciLmFuJ-6fRx0kIMQRhtC6gXCPUWgHpa2c1gwmaW-mHi2QOnMmi4431MPGl6arYakrG7DlCVdgWL2uAPK1N_rtMZEcbSWwF_Xv2E0PYdqII0_WBEo_sJeE5tnp87oX5JiRzrB27dWGvxp6A6E3_xSaM-xCokHBN48atJhQ/s4080/PXL_20230322_184724895.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuSYpjOn436X-SciLmFuJ-6fRx0kIMQRhtC6gXCPUWgHpa2c1gwmaW-mHi2QOnMmi4431MPGl6arYakrG7DlCVdgWL2uAPK1N_rtMZEcbSWwF_Xv2E0PYdqII0_WBEo_sJeE5tnp87oX5JiRzrB27dWGvxp6A6E3_xSaM-xCokHBN48atJhQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230322_184724895.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>I had planned to fly home to Colorado late that night. But even before Tolovana, I felt reluctant to leave this place where life felt so light and joy overflowed after such a long drought. Corrine invited me to stay one more week and join them on their three-night cabin trip in the Whites. I pointed out that their itinerary was even more ridiculous for a person on foot than the one I'd already attempted and failed. Corrine said it would be no problem, they already had a solution from local speedster and nice guy Tyson, whose wife had a fat bike I could borrow. Such luxury! Such abundance! I've already forgotten the model, but it was a light and comfortable rig with the perfect setup for my gear — as long as I left the luxuries at home. (For the most part, I did, but I still brought my puffy suit.) <div><br /></div><div>I had a lot of fun test the bike on local trails before my workdays. I had to pull a few strings to extend the stay, but ended up saving money by changing my plane ticket. Corrine and Eric were so generous to let me crash at their place for the better part of three weeks. I recognize how intrusive house guests can be and tried to stay out of their hair. I was so grateful for the opportunity. <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiytB60V8qZcmzG3yxrk1_dAPuY2oXQx5n7B4o2CmKG1jPrjeWZSOJLP9jfco546PFga22oaB-RICUh0FMR9RRGf7hzKMB774dZLj6Bf-bOvCVEIlFTsxBObufQuXCl2iBQj9qrrPAqc-IMdZmCcO9xqm4TPBNh_FVbrQVmu-P_SBpQ9IMj1g/s4080/PXL_20230322_083336349.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiytB60V8qZcmzG3yxrk1_dAPuY2oXQx5n7B4o2CmKG1jPrjeWZSOJLP9jfco546PFga22oaB-RICUh0FMR9RRGf7hzKMB774dZLj6Bf-bOvCVEIlFTsxBObufQuXCl2iBQj9qrrPAqc-IMdZmCcO9xqm4TPBNh_FVbrQVmu-P_SBpQ9IMj1g/w640-h482/PXL_20230322_083336349.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Another perk of staying so long was the many opportunities to view the Northern Lights. The sun has entered a particularly active period, so light displays have been more frequent and far-reaching. Fairbanks is one of the best places in the world to see the lights, due to its location under the "Aurora Oval," as well as its frequently clear skies and long, dark nights. In spite of this, sightings are still rare and take a degree of dedication, as the lights are rarely out for more than a few minutes at a time and can only be loosely predicted based on solar activity. </div><div><br /></div><div>On this particular night, March 21 — the first full day of spring — the geomagnetic field was expected to be quiet (level 2), and yet, just as I was settling in for another try at sleeping around 12:30 a.m., I caught this streak of light outside my window. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLWhNxXc8byvCMA7TvwIgNVrwlDr1H2EU4oQZBb2g7iYM-8E8aRHhwDToGqr0pX7VGzxPpt0Q2Fj5I8XGBsuVpv_nkx03RVTmC1OTqLcorBlb3-prEHjwlJk4khC_UVeVD3bqQt1bbd5SbvL2JAknUmF5UOfiHHl8T83hCNHFH2yxLhKBX2Q/s3648/PXL_20230322_083558765.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLWhNxXc8byvCMA7TvwIgNVrwlDr1H2EU4oQZBb2g7iYM-8E8aRHhwDToGqr0pX7VGzxPpt0Q2Fj5I8XGBsuVpv_nkx03RVTmC1OTqLcorBlb3-prEHjwlJk4khC_UVeVD3bqQt1bbd5SbvL2JAknUmF5UOfiHHl8T83hCNHFH2yxLhKBX2Q/w640-h480/PXL_20230322_083558765.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>I wish I brought better photo equipment, or at least tried to utilize my point-and-shoot, which requires finicky manual settings and a steady surface to set up for low-light images. But when the sky is dancing like this, photography feels particularly intrusive. A few blurry phone photos to remember the occasion are good enough. <div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJnBzySqJ7AkTLBdqFeBCTgliuq31kF_h4veHETm7OknVJBCaFMfDpU6bgqlFrLzMJm4PhS67tcM--WdJdW_9Xinz8u1sE9wei6DLnmNPsoO2YQ0F1hVOoPgpfkpH-OXIX6gdYr2jp83iYkDRONjMB7Kof8CuMqKlFNBS1hjyJ_YWyVu72Hg/s4080/PXL_20230322_083854129.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJnBzySqJ7AkTLBdqFeBCTgliuq31kF_h4veHETm7OknVJBCaFMfDpU6bgqlFrLzMJm4PhS67tcM--WdJdW_9Xinz8u1sE9wei6DLnmNPsoO2YQ0F1hVOoPgpfkpH-OXIX6gdYr2jp83iYkDRONjMB7Kof8CuMqKlFNBS1hjyJ_YWyVu72Hg/w640-h482/PXL_20230322_083854129.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>For nearly an hour, I walked up and down the street, marveling. The aurora borealis is, by far, the most intensely beautiful phenomenon I've experienced. No photograph or video can recreate the experience of standing as an infinitesimal being in an insignificant world and witnessing the universe come alive. The lights shimmer and dance and flow across the horizon, although all words are inadequate to describe how the Aurora Borealis moves. I feel like I've been given a glimpse into the beginning of time, the young universe expanding with unimaginable force. <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLNzgjOTQ9QMzW-bY2RTJVKFqIV9DwD6b8tklSS9pau9QmJq2BsHE86y4IkBs7Eeh9ASBn52LD5vHV3VaVdQUlcssOZ_ixP7mMR8pXhZM1tanJG-_zsyr32yIu9PKBeA3626pk6SGxtEsNZc8CWtQPY6URxxjQljlwH1672okMEQ2sCZwVGQ/s4080/PXL_20230323_035218232.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLNzgjOTQ9QMzW-bY2RTJVKFqIV9DwD6b8tklSS9pau9QmJq2BsHE86y4IkBs7Eeh9ASBn52LD5vHV3VaVdQUlcssOZ_ixP7mMR8pXhZM1tanJG-_zsyr32yIu9PKBeA3626pk6SGxtEsNZc8CWtQPY6URxxjQljlwH1672okMEQ2sCZwVGQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230323_035218232.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>The following day was Corrine's birthday. Our friend Betsy arrived from Colorado for the cabin trip that they had been planning for months. We were all busy during the day but found time for a lovely sunset ride out Corrine's backyard trail. <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqsLHRqO7roC8k4OILlTCrJEVXzW_9qRdfHC5hSMurCBNLDlEM1YAzpsgehhVs8J8UUMgmyLHSFcsa1sjBExLyWvq3MHyodqQWfqBm3tdMGkJ0Y2KpjzvNLXFxfOjiHNyUuz_f-1NugdPsPqiGYmqc5Maz-MScwmQ_hhyvYSLsMlSWlGF3Tw/s3648/PXL_20230323_035328744.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqsLHRqO7roC8k4OILlTCrJEVXzW_9qRdfHC5hSMurCBNLDlEM1YAzpsgehhVs8J8UUMgmyLHSFcsa1sjBExLyWvq3MHyodqQWfqBm3tdMGkJ0Y2KpjzvNLXFxfOjiHNyUuz_f-1NugdPsPqiGYmqc5Maz-MScwmQ_hhyvYSLsMlSWlGF3Tw/w640-h480/PXL_20230323_035328744.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Happiness is ... friends and bikes and sunsets. <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnRUfYUJRqpsAePcbQbVMIY86DPTnqg_NlJDTBaRnTD5AhRdgWEQJw1OlqUYYExV8jxCyLnBNU4Ss60vO-YFcxK_yktx5riGQ90iuSrLMQw1a1SrnOVbCDKahi9f4CyKHfopcGhMljWHr_qXoOhBJcat41NMNDgTlk_R08aOcYmP_nsnaYjg/s4080/PXL_20230324_062926938.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnRUfYUJRqpsAePcbQbVMIY86DPTnqg_NlJDTBaRnTD5AhRdgWEQJw1OlqUYYExV8jxCyLnBNU4Ss60vO-YFcxK_yktx5riGQ90iuSrLMQw1a1SrnOVbCDKahi9f4CyKHfopcGhMljWHr_qXoOhBJcat41NMNDgTlk_R08aOcYmP_nsnaYjg/w640-h482/PXL_20230324_062926938.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>If that wasn't enough, the night of March 23 brought an unanticipated and brilliant geomagnetic storm. Shortly after dinner, I caught social media posts from friends in Minnesota and Michigan, even Wyoming and Colorado, who were able to see the lights. It was still at least two hours from being fully dark in Alaska, but I tried to keep an eye on the sky. I had just about given up when Corrine texted me because she and Betsy had caught hints of the waning light show and were walking outside. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMeeYbwV7fA2tDA0I_70KbUahOxY7pvSU6HkHYN1wlSTN5SB8vXt2VAI1WU_K1O4Ox28kqA6X5YUW_Ar8LeSKUwtIuzBay0c0iBiGiTqoMPKzt_G-T_rr4cCWHlZBoD3c_A6KRalr0_nHwl3g8c7ICEgDN-oiV9S-atLYN4gv0o8El2o2gBw/s4080/PXL_20230324_061155596.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMeeYbwV7fA2tDA0I_70KbUahOxY7pvSU6HkHYN1wlSTN5SB8vXt2VAI1WU_K1O4Ox28kqA6X5YUW_Ar8LeSKUwtIuzBay0c0iBiGiTqoMPKzt_G-T_rr4cCWHlZBoD3c_A6KRalr0_nHwl3g8c7ICEgDN-oiV9S-atLYN4gv0o8El2o2gBw/w640-h482/PXL_20230324_061155596.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>By the time I geared up to join them, the lights were winding down, but it was still a nice display. They had just about faded entirely when Betsy and Corrine decided to go back inside. I decided to continue walking up the road, just in case. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsh0cNMNT8Z-nvEJ6WnjWI0SFLV29ZoixApUS1Ev2jbGOhRCtBRmbIIsUrlysPkeib9QG_trxCCy2ASeG7zY7nAFOa_Br_UUiMAV1okGgLPk-nx6qVg4urMKUZLHeLb94ZvMOeQr_eqaaAp-IzFxL90S1RNv0rGb3v84y1BhsUZG5Av3NUtQ/s4080/PXL_20230324_063227332.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsh0cNMNT8Z-nvEJ6WnjWI0SFLV29ZoixApUS1Ev2jbGOhRCtBRmbIIsUrlysPkeib9QG_trxCCy2ASeG7zY7nAFOa_Br_UUiMAV1okGgLPk-nx6qVg4urMKUZLHeLb94ZvMOeQr_eqaaAp-IzFxL90S1RNv0rGb3v84y1BhsUZG5Av3NUtQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230324_063227332.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>What happened next was astonishing — an explosion of light and color filled the sky. Scientists will tell you that the Aurora Borealis makes no sound, that it's impossible, but most viewers hear some sort of melody. To me, the Northern Lights sound like chanting Gregorian monks, a low-pitched rumble that increases in volume until I'm fully overwhelmed, ready to drop to my knees and repent for my insignificant human weakness in the presence of such grandeur. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="515" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/rwrl90hUnIc" width="619" youtube-src-id="rwrl90hUnIc"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This is the low-quality phone video I shot for a few seconds before my fingers froze. It shows the way the lights dance. (You can hear a bit of sound as well, but I'm pretty sure that's the wind.) </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbvnmZaZNiadIUaQx5URvn2S8iCs_dSAf4FWnb1fGJ0wRiW6nwU-aB0C_V8N-QCnUnPnlVZaDPLIJVzINT096XhES7dWVlLlnOXJEmMFLArbYzC-e8_a3PDkooAieJPXrUkksi3M3edSa1kYzR2BFXr5RFnMY011HgWBZum0P4nMlltkQEvQ/s4080/PXL_20230324_063525761.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbvnmZaZNiadIUaQx5URvn2S8iCs_dSAf4FWnb1fGJ0wRiW6nwU-aB0C_V8N-QCnUnPnlVZaDPLIJVzINT096XhES7dWVlLlnOXJEmMFLArbYzC-e8_a3PDkooAieJPXrUkksi3M3edSa1kYzR2BFXr5RFnMY011HgWBZum0P4nMlltkQEvQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230324_063525761.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>The expansive awe allowed me to fully step outside of myself, moving without a headlamp through the night until I ran out of road on which to walk. The dead end jolted me back to human awareness and I fell back into my body, which was already beginning to shiver in the cold. Searching for the links in the mind-body connection is such an interesting experiment. The intrigue is what drew me to endurance racing all those years ago. It's also what pushed me away when those mind-body connections seemed to sever and my brain turned on itself. I couldn't breach the barrier no matter what I tried. My brain tortured me with irrational fears and nonexistent terrors. It shoved me underwater. I couldn't fight back. I couldn't escape. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-nT5BLHeQuHl1BzN9XFB2oiIa2N1qK5MU76Z3pK0UFbP4ki2M9g8KffMzYuoTPOo37lYEDDkCXqRtUtUkg9v_r6Ce0uT9tDaQMWs1UotMcLEE1PFetHLrDQIeNgPz6yQ76aaMC7lZVFrUvI5IgBcPks6YGj3GjR7tPAt-W75Wi9y6hAnUpg/s4080/PXL_20230324_064107736.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-nT5BLHeQuHl1BzN9XFB2oiIa2N1qK5MU76Z3pK0UFbP4ki2M9g8KffMzYuoTPOo37lYEDDkCXqRtUtUkg9v_r6Ce0uT9tDaQMWs1UotMcLEE1PFetHLrDQIeNgPz6yQ76aaMC7lZVFrUvI5IgBcPks6YGj3GjR7tPAt-W75Wi9y6hAnUpg/w640-h482/PXL_20230324_064107736.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>But then I found something to lift my head above the water. With renewed clarity of thought, I was able to regain some control, to re-link a few of those broken connections. That something was medication, yes, but also — Alaska. Those expansive landscapes of the Far North, windswept and snowbound, wich always come to me in my best dreams. It's the darkness that reveals the most astonishing light. </div><br />Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-25674600078495224222023-04-02T23:23:00.001-06:002023-04-02T23:23:08.034-06:00The body remembers what the mind forgets<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSjAah5QM-GIgSu5WuTVn34c1okxQOk7sCcxp7Mw6H700l_1i_bXj5wkHgf7Q2UN4RVkbgQWIDIaicG0lnqasLJ8JlmaCSJtD2reZHR_VzaC8k4xDYuP8oh775qRMqfdyaZMF9I5ntjAyL5yrKsKiOvIYe7NToqm4DNNBgPTfj2qreNNpa1w/s4080/PXL_20230311_175015911.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSjAah5QM-GIgSu5WuTVn34c1okxQOk7sCcxp7Mw6H700l_1i_bXj5wkHgf7Q2UN4RVkbgQWIDIaicG0lnqasLJ8JlmaCSJtD2reZHR_VzaC8k4xDYuP8oh775qRMqfdyaZMF9I5ntjAyL5yrKsKiOvIYe7NToqm4DNNBgPTfj2qreNNpa1w/w640-h482/PXL_20230311_175015911.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On February 25, I was sure I would never feel happy or healthy again. A heavy despondency sat on my chest, keeping me anchored in bed long after the alarm I'd set because I knew I had to boost myself outside today. Finally, I rose to an empty house. Filtered sunlight cast strange shadows on the hardwood floor. Beat was in Alaska, set to start the Iditarod Trail Invitational the following day. It was a stressful few days after his flight was canceled, followed by high winds and a storm that meant he only escaped Colorado by the skin of his teeth. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'd been in survival mode since I drove home from Kanab on February 20. It was my second week on Lexapro. My doctor urged me to double the dose, which only seemed to double the terrible side effects — constant nausea, feeling so dizzy I had difficulty jogging, and some of the worst anxiety I'd experienced. My sleep was continuously interrupted by nightmares about mass shooters, and where did that even come from? That's not part of my trauma. Oh, brain. I want to be done with you. But there's no way to break up with your own brain. You can only kill it, which honestly (and I promise, I am fine now), starts to become a comforting daydream. These thoughts are as terrifying as they are darkly comforting — especially when I'm just starting an antidepressant, for which suicidal thoughts are a big red flag. I was eager for an appointment with my therapist on Monday. But since it was only Saturday, I rallied all of my energy to visit my grumpy emotional support mountain, Niwot Ridge. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg71kuB2_3A7-0NMYLKTsMBcjoJ_2W_qtloGdnyD7sQBDZdXhhajp0Mh9IvFn5cnHsRrb0_m1JqXrj5z571AmW3SVSu-xLYlaYiBzTvRRMunj9WsSkFw64Tu1ZzJUtnRgkxDQbuFbQ5CaObhGpx9IgN384xT37jO4yUxJxax3VE1MQu9FlvvQ/s4080/PXL_20230225_210136060.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg71kuB2_3A7-0NMYLKTsMBcjoJ_2W_qtloGdnyD7sQBDZdXhhajp0Mh9IvFn5cnHsRrb0_m1JqXrj5z571AmW3SVSu-xLYlaYiBzTvRRMunj9WsSkFw64Tu1ZzJUtnRgkxDQbuFbQ5CaObhGpx9IgN384xT37jO4yUxJxax3VE1MQu9FlvvQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230225_210136060.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>I love Niwot Ridge because as a mountain it's hard to love. Bland yet steep approach on a jeep road, a broad, almost featureless spine, littered with scientific equipment, and raked by constant, brutal winds. A light breeze on Niwot is 40 mph. Hurricane-force gales are common. Whiteouts, sastrugi, sketchy wind crust, exposed tussocks — there isn't a friendly step to be had. I used to feel terrorized by Niwot Ridge, but now that I know what to expect, I've come to find comfort in its raw, indifferent power. I imagine a Simon & Garfunkel lyric, set to the white noise of this video I shot in January: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="482" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/O0GrDEk78uY" width="640" youtube-src-id="O0GrDEk78uY"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: left;"><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i style="text-align: left;">Hello, Niwot, my old friend</i></div><i>I've come to walk with you again<br />Into a wind that always blows<br />Toward a love that no one knows</i><div><i>Only to press deeper into your cold heart</i></div><div><i>Still apart</i></div><div><i>In a roar of silence.</i></div><div><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim0ZCpIAl0fi_C31XSwvsvqAAzMTQw271z75MepyuA_Eqi3O-H9GGH_6BI5rznzf4hzGP4sSoeAe8wZ8OVMiHZrhoxJjkwXrtxSOp8Us6bFAkMCy-7L-c8h3MipYGvcGxoR-vcYrSvtOgWRcGCP_3By1H1Z5jN18RrKhYO3UR0ZOjMgbvF_A/s3648/PXL_20230225_211155985.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim0ZCpIAl0fi_C31XSwvsvqAAzMTQw271z75MepyuA_Eqi3O-H9GGH_6BI5rznzf4hzGP4sSoeAe8wZ8OVMiHZrhoxJjkwXrtxSOp8Us6bFAkMCy-7L-c8h3MipYGvcGxoR-vcYrSvtOgWRcGCP_3By1H1Z5jN18RrKhYO3UR0ZOjMgbvF_A/w640-h480/PXL_20230225_211155985.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p>I trudged to the end of the ridge, or at least to the point where the featureless plain narrows to a serrated knife with exposure that would be actual suicide for the likes of me. It's nearly seven miles one way and took me more than three hours. I hadn't noticed the time pass at all. I walked and breathed and felt the gift of being alive ... at least I told myself this is what alive felt like. </p><p>"Life is easy when I am walking," I thought. "All I need to do is keep walking." </p><p>I took this selfie in that happy moment of discovery. It's interesting to look at it now and see all of the pain reflected in my expression. I've come to think of this photo as "Healing process — selfie number one."</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiUT7Ady1LzS8qte52sbtk_SdrdXqOLvqa11oyw6kkB0McaVzzWITLguF8e4cSZeKvDYm2EjSUOLc0aWKMekDZxLStPA2M_5JWuYU5XdFpdOPjtAjcxWRR6TUU-ZZTVI6B4-hZWd34WnaZfM-jOwS0qEfqB0I4A7JlBN5Q8uZuMgYvNmNvQ/s4080/PXL_20230311_013534909.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiUT7Ady1LzS8qte52sbtk_SdrdXqOLvqa11oyw6kkB0McaVzzWITLguF8e4cSZeKvDYm2EjSUOLc0aWKMekDZxLStPA2M_5JWuYU5XdFpdOPjtAjcxWRR6TUU-ZZTVI6B4-hZWd34WnaZfM-jOwS0qEfqB0I4A7JlBN5Q8uZuMgYvNmNvQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230311_013534909.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p>The week progressed. Beat's race started on February 26. His first night in Alaska was absolutely brutal, with temperatures swinging from 20 above to 35 below and more than a dozen cases of illness or frostbite — one severe — among racers. Beat had his own rough start with wet base layers amid the danger cold, but he's experienced enough at this point to cope with almost any challenge. He knows how much I fret about him when he's out there, and was great about keeping in touch via his satellite phone. </p><p>As Beat continued along the Iditarod Trail, I settled into my days at home — up in the morning, breakfast, my one allowed cup of coffee that I cherish immensely, chores, some sort of exercise, work, dinner, reading, sleep. The nightmares were beginning to lessen. It was a boring routine and I was grateful for it. Predictability is one of the best coping mechanisms for anxiety. Yet I resented my brain for withholding so much joy. </p><p>The following Friday, my friend Danni from Montana flew to Denver for a Rotary conference, so we made arrangements to meet up for breakfast and a run. I invited our friend Betsy to join us since she lives nearby. Betsy was in the midst of preparing for her first trip to Fairbanks. She and our mutual friends Corrine and Eric planned a three-night cabin trip in the White Mountains at the end of the month. Corrine had been trying to coax me to join, but I was reluctant. Travel has been so hard for me. Most of my recent mental health meltdowns were accompanied by travel. I couldn't commit.</p><p>And yet, Alaska's White Mountains are my favorite place in the world. That's probably not an exaggeration. I've put in well over a thousand miles — likely closer to 2,000 — winter hiking and biking in those shrubby, low-lying hills. It's a lot for a place I've never lived — a level of dedication I've shown to no other place save for the Iditarod Trail. On February 10, when I was nearly at the lowest point in my mental health, Corrine mentioned applying for cabins. I thought, "March 10 ... that would be a realistic weekend to fly out to Alaska." </p><p>The online reservation system requires people to reserve cabins up to 30 days ahead of time — no more. They're usually snapped up the minute they become available. Of course, I'd forgotten that February only has 28 days, so by the time I looked on February 10, March 12 was already open. I impulsively reserved what was left on March 10 and 11. The itinerary was not really doable in the mode I wanted to travel, which was walking — 28 miles on day one, 45 miles on day two, zero miles on day three, and 26 miles on day four. (I had to reserve the same cabin twice. It was the only one still available, and they were both too far away for a comfortable overnight.) At my usual 2-2.5 mph sled-dragging pace with no prior training, it was a ridiculous ask.</p><p>"It's okay because I'm not going to fly to Alaska anyway," I thought and closed the browser on my phone. </p><p>But then Danni and I had such a nice visit, talking about the trials of midlife and how I thought my medication was finally starting to work, and Betsy contributed her own Alaska stoke. On Friday, March 3, I started having second thoughts. </p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTZNv5z5OU4osoUUQEcmwl4Z-wKD2LvAHVsc2ip6_H6BJZ7loM0RQcqF_JdKcmksnypbCw1EA4YHVGKflRqYXEVZ8S_flT_zf51Qg6klbJpBmVPlCuHRraXOHYwu7lJfiroGMpNc-rm1i9V_O2Mz8hbIOVtZ9e6Rxc3j4C94wIqMTA5vAUVQ/s4080/PXL_20230310_165139873.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTZNv5z5OU4osoUUQEcmwl4Z-wKD2LvAHVsc2ip6_H6BJZ7loM0RQcqF_JdKcmksnypbCw1EA4YHVGKflRqYXEVZ8S_flT_zf51Qg6klbJpBmVPlCuHRraXOHYwu7lJfiroGMpNc-rm1i9V_O2Mz8hbIOVtZ9e6Rxc3j4C94wIqMTA5vAUVQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230310_165139873.jpg" width="640" /></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">That's the long version of how I came to message Corrine on Monday, bought a plane ticket on Tuesday, and by Wednesday was jetting over the Inside Passage with my sled in cargo. Thursday brought daylong snowfall as I put my gear together and purchased way too much food. By Thursday night, there were four to five inches of fresh powder on the driveway. I walked into the frigid 10-below air to brush off my rental car twice. This was cold powder — the harsh, abrasive snow that acts like sandpaper under cumbersome sleds. My itinerary was hardly achievable in the best of trail conditions and now ... where did I even think I was going to go? Corrine thought for sure I was going to cancel my trip, but I could only shrug. I fear my inner monsters so much that I hardly have emotion left for the possibility of a bivy out at 20 or 30 below. Anxiety is strange like that. Being afraid of everything also means, in a way, I'm afraid of nothing. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrb7_sQ_8x_rx309ExrJNTIxbNJwQgRQlSwOALRb9EOf6HIL5ILhYHH4nCgXeNmgQSO2BI1GKjWlJSxlROcyqgFw8JHm4RKTUTfmUcAdc8NdR9BHyMflSmAgND6oupKSxXqK0DW1h2K39EndmWJS3E1K6I6M88Txyi0eBKpkQ5kxJEP6FJhQ/s4080/PXL_20230310_191353069.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrb7_sQ_8x_rx309ExrJNTIxbNJwQgRQlSwOALRb9EOf6HIL5ILhYHH4nCgXeNmgQSO2BI1GKjWlJSxlROcyqgFw8JHm4RKTUTfmUcAdc8NdR9BHyMflSmAgND6oupKSxXqK0DW1h2K39EndmWJS3E1K6I6M88Txyi0eBKpkQ5kxJEP6FJhQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230310_191353069.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Indeed, almost no one had been out since the Thursday snowfall. There was the faint track of a person pushing a bike and even fainter tracks of recent snowmachines — mostly erased by a brisk wind that was still blowing. Temperatures at the trailhead were 3 below zero. I knew that was the warmest I was going to see all day. I strapped on my snowshoes and started trudging. My sled felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. Honestly, it was probably at least 60 pounds. I packed all of my fears. Tons of fuel — enough that I accidentally spilled almost half of it in my fuel bag (whoops) and still had enough for four days. I had enough trail mix that I continued to snack on it almost exclusively for the next three weeks. Every stitch of clothing I brought to Alaska. And of course camping gear. I was going to need it. I'd be lucky if I covered five miles today.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVENA9cpbjFb8kJfUg_c828863hPEXERC5lACipdzGgS7PspMYm84JlxjliOTS6gOmujj_0MG4J80SAG23sHLBNOu_llrTz7G9Rphv7VLDC2JeU7qoNfZZHxObF6PbPMs1Fa-TkeLV8TXcyrtomNe7tF8HOmOhkPVxN1gus69M_7d5v1FeUQ/s4080/PXL_20230310_193444736.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVENA9cpbjFb8kJfUg_c828863hPEXERC5lACipdzGgS7PspMYm84JlxjliOTS6gOmujj_0MG4J80SAG23sHLBNOu_llrTz7G9Rphv7VLDC2JeU7qoNfZZHxObF6PbPMs1Fa-TkeLV8TXcyrtomNe7tF8HOmOhkPVxN1gus69M_7d5v1FeUQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230310_193444736.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was the trudgiest of trudges. My hamstrings burned. I continued to follow the solo bike track until I encountered two skiers who told me they were returning to the trailhead after a ten-day trip. Ten days! Out here! I eyed their now-empty-looking sleds with envy. I wish I could spend ten days out here. Snow shimmered and the sky reflected an almost otherworldly shade of sapphire blue. "This is what alive feels like," I thought. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSGFznBjsF_8t3iJB2z3D66RRkPNg_Nbp6ocjHRFwxNe8bWf2TV_TeFPbnZGaFwbWoria_kmBz3eUdk9QsgINK8mTC6Ld0TrZb4ZZ6iX36rHVC29N5d0TFdT8YtJVOOTCInh4wvseb3m0WWhM8KNfInyec9aGyiuzsSG6l28jNs8atof3wLg/s4080/PXL_20230310_230921118.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSGFznBjsF_8t3iJB2z3D66RRkPNg_Nbp6ocjHRFwxNe8bWf2TV_TeFPbnZGaFwbWoria_kmBz3eUdk9QsgINK8mTC6Ld0TrZb4ZZ6iX36rHVC29N5d0TFdT8YtJVOOTCInh4wvseb3m0WWhM8KNfInyec9aGyiuzsSG6l28jNs8atof3wLg/w640-h482/PXL_20230310_230921118.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The trail almost entirely disappeared across wind-driven swamps. I was grateful for the solo biker; without their faint tracks, I may not have found the trail at all. Whenever one snowshoe left the trail base, I punched into loose powder up to my hips. Losing the trail was not an option. Time passed in the strange way it does now when I'm walking, where minutes become hours and vice versa. I looked at my watch and suddenly it was 4 p.m. I was nowhere near Caribou Bluff, my destination for the night. I did some math. "15 miles in 8 hours ... 13 more to go ... midnight?" </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3c_jrz8C8IDmAkdyt7TIPUjTdpHqohCuLCeMuW4NVeW_ota5OGAEmG6GSLM7BI3m3VRzd9VgGNgh1w-AJPB7CoGczlQr2zE3qpIMbduA_ZRI453Ef_2z1V--rfHm4oBTZObh62OoGgB_wwxaeyEn_Xa8OQRYErR3FHPMLdWf0kGbCc9-xjA/s4080/PXL_20230311_004643107.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3c_jrz8C8IDmAkdyt7TIPUjTdpHqohCuLCeMuW4NVeW_ota5OGAEmG6GSLM7BI3m3VRzd9VgGNgh1w-AJPB7CoGczlQr2zE3qpIMbduA_ZRI453Ef_2z1V--rfHm4oBTZObh62OoGgB_wwxaeyEn_Xa8OQRYErR3FHPMLdWf0kGbCc9-xjA/w640-h482/PXL_20230311_004643107.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Midnight honestly wouldn't be so bad if I didn't already feel so shattered. My legs were downright numb ... I know this feeling well now that I've been spending more time at the gym. This is what it feels like when I push my reps to the point of muscle failure. I was losing power and had to take more breaks just to catch my breath. Midnight was probably an overly optimistic guestimate. And where did I think I would go from there? My next day was supposed to take me 45 miles over the Cache Mountain Divide, which was almost certainly drifted in and likely unnavigable. My best bet for making it to my next cabin was to go back the way I came. Which meant camping tonight. The low in Fairbanks was forecast to be -5F to -10F. Anyone familiar with the White Mountains knows this means -30F easily in these valleys. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTA3MpJKjm4mN0q5SAabS0yVzbNBhNjRgf2m9fo6DnxTm7aIgEjPF2JGVRpuTnVlF66AiAPwRBHDp7Og3URbEOyFmt_oNk9OxpT57ktKU4d0ZrfeBEOXWA-W-Ftjo4G8Gl6Lh1U0G3ne6gN_3Soks3CAU1D39Eo0C4jlJyiDMzOb4Zdb_xHw/s4080/PXL_20230311_191330902.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTA3MpJKjm4mN0q5SAabS0yVzbNBhNjRgf2m9fo6DnxTm7aIgEjPF2JGVRpuTnVlF66AiAPwRBHDp7Og3URbEOyFmt_oNk9OxpT57ktKU4d0ZrfeBEOXWA-W-Ftjo4G8Gl6Lh1U0G3ne6gN_3Soks3CAU1D39Eo0C4jlJyiDMzOb4Zdb_xHw/w640-h482/PXL_20230311_191330902.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I still felt okay with the prospect and marched down to Beaver Creek to find a good spot (even though camping higher is advised on cold nights, the wind was still blowing and I felt more secure in the wind-protected forests than up on these sparsely vegetated hills. Also, I was feeling strangely bold. 30 below? Ain't no thing.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There was a good spot close to Borealis Cabin. Since I'd seen no other sign of life besides the skiers all day, I decided to check out the cabin. At the very least, I could melt water on the porch, where it's easier to manage my stove than in the snow. And if no one showed up by sunset, perhaps I could poach the cabin. If anyone showed up after dark and caught me, I could feign tears. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had just pulled out my stove when a biker rode up to the porch. He said he'd come from Wolf Run, some 20 miles up the trail. I told him about my camping plan and why I was sitting outside his cabin. He shrugged, said "okay," and without another word walked off to find firewood. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Bummer. I admit I was hoping for an invite. Clearly, this man wanted his privacy. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicZ6VQsc6yj4uPUrOheh5oZrgILOK3RZXWzOwYLLnj6gTuH1ece60HhnvjAvnRRdOgNboWPfRQzeMB1txHvHU_pXzCPfljEwG5wwBOApNM0-5IzgbKNwiWJffkzlfXJkGC7Jqk5bYhWTjT470HT85tBoifmhxXJLu486L6eRhIzQ-HAvbdsA/s3648/PXL_20230311_191318437.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicZ6VQsc6yj4uPUrOheh5oZrgILOK3RZXWzOwYLLnj6gTuH1ece60HhnvjAvnRRdOgNboWPfRQzeMB1txHvHU_pXzCPfljEwG5wwBOApNM0-5IzgbKNwiWJffkzlfXJkGC7Jqk5bYhWTjT470HT85tBoifmhxXJLu486L6eRhIzQ-HAvbdsA/w640-h480/PXL_20230311_191318437.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Still, I remained on the porch to finish melting three liters of water and cook a hot dinner and tea. He was gone the entire time, probably close to a half hour, and returned with only a few meager sticks of black spruce deadfall. I was packing up when he said, "You can stay here tonight if you want." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I may or may not have put on my saddest puppy dog face before he said that. But I was extremely grateful for the prospect of shelter for the night. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Mark turned out to be friendly and generous. An ER doctor from Fairbanks, he was a former White Mountains 100 volunteer and also a friend of Corrine's. We had a great night. He shared the charcuterie spread he'd brought for his final night on the trail — local sausage, crackers, Babybel cheese, and a delicious cinnamon tea. I lamented that I had nothing tasty to share, only my terrible trail mix. I had at least 10 pounds of it. Did he want some? Mark shook his head with a fervent no. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOCADa86f0DT_0SxmM6iLT7oq_A9W22CkUKhQ5ZwBovGZv3pepQYBdg9OFwGM8JAvEhQDGTFeZHuttW9C6dR7pVWLuMJBpvh_NnyifOvM7X4QBBbVcXoY9-bxx42J8yPYkSPsVuslNgZ7fVSyoTnuR47185d_4mrn1oGaQ5u6P2In8pR09PQ/s4080/PXL_20230311_163419571.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4080" data-original-width="3072" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOCADa86f0DT_0SxmM6iLT7oq_A9W22CkUKhQ5ZwBovGZv3pepQYBdg9OFwGM8JAvEhQDGTFeZHuttW9C6dR7pVWLuMJBpvh_NnyifOvM7X4QBBbVcXoY9-bxx42J8yPYkSPsVuslNgZ7fVSyoTnuR47185d_4mrn1oGaQ5u6P2In8pR09PQ/w301-h400/PXL_20230311_163419571.jpg" width="301" /></a></div>It was, indeed, a very cold night. I got up a few times to use the outhouse (thanks, cinnamon tea), and each time my butt and thighs quickly went numb as my hands turned to claws. I remembered that yes, in fact, 30 below is very much a thing. Mark's firewood didn't go very far. I should have gone out to gather more, but I don't love to fuss about wood when I have a perfectly good 40-below bag to keep me comfy. Still, it was the least I could have done for Mark's generosity, as he only had a 32-above summer bag and as it turned out, forgot his sleeping mat. Mark's sticks burned out before we went to sleep. At one point in the night, I realized the interior of the cabin had dipped well below 32 degrees and pulled my drinking water into my sleeping bag to keep it from freezing solid. When I woke up in the morning, Mark was sitting up on the bunk, huddled in all of his coats and sleeping bag, nursing a thermos. But he seemed cheerful and said his sleep wasn't too bad. Fairbanksians are so tough. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJFk3FUiGqTkIVdJQBG44zL1QaTlY3ReKkou0AnlNzXkhzwk5isVXWy7-u8KnO8K1ZfQTqS_IsMG6srGXzFuHUjwgs8YKae1uU66J5iIPXt9T2DXg0vWYYUiNJd8QFGGdfhVCBr7HtkUES1Y8q105mJ7xv5vgmmUxSzRhL7X1L4au_2vx8Qg/s3648/PXL_20230311_180556578.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJFk3FUiGqTkIVdJQBG44zL1QaTlY3ReKkou0AnlNzXkhzwk5isVXWy7-u8KnO8K1ZfQTqS_IsMG6srGXzFuHUjwgs8YKae1uU66J5iIPXt9T2DXg0vWYYUiNJd8QFGGdfhVCBr7HtkUES1Y8q105mJ7xv5vgmmUxSzRhL7X1L4au_2vx8Qg/w640-h480/PXL_20230311_180556578.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Hiking out in the morning when temperatures were still near 30 below. I think of this as "Healing process ... selfie number two." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX5O6E8ePV9HLWYPRUquLg9rRxB6wcT6wnMPc0L0sR09iW4-IKEAOTJzRbPbq4fR1QiEnWYXj9B9RT6SEzKMGWj7DInqTPQ87ML50o3qU4rxDPDjT212Axf8dcTurzc3-60nF6St8jGwve5JJj3p-Z6HzoSJtZ5mzsiNOZN0_TIn8JWU-dgg/s4080/PXL_20230311_222436735.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX5O6E8ePV9HLWYPRUquLg9rRxB6wcT6wnMPc0L0sR09iW4-IKEAOTJzRbPbq4fR1QiEnWYXj9B9RT6SEzKMGWj7DInqTPQ87ML50o3qU4rxDPDjT212Axf8dcTurzc3-60nF6St8jGwve5JJj3p-Z6HzoSJtZ5mzsiNOZN0_TIn8JWU-dgg/w640-h482/PXL_20230311_222436735.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>March 11 — a beautiful bluebird Saturday — was more of the same ol' drag with no traffic to help me break through the cold powder snow. Reaching Crowberry Cabin would require 27 miles of hiking and that's if I took the shortcut — called the Moose Creek connector, it doesn't see a whole lot of use. But at least the first part had been recently broken, so I gave it a go. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9kACad5giPur2Gk9G1NddqgbOYSlposHqWLiZAkSKSXY7nIfDNqMEVTxR_ryqbSXScVkthrk5m2fwKb64lwcWNjiqOE4lV7v_PbcrJiH6xf9sKpsDgoY5-22tR_UEC2vzPymhda15B7o_-c457L5tvASMRPS2oroJQO_nBZ7L0njoDxTKZw/s4080/PXL_20230312_004755074.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9kACad5giPur2Gk9G1NddqgbOYSlposHqWLiZAkSKSXY7nIfDNqMEVTxR_ryqbSXScVkthrk5m2fwKb64lwcWNjiqOE4lV7v_PbcrJiH6xf9sKpsDgoY5-22tR_UEC2vzPymhda15B7o_-c457L5tvASMRPS2oroJQO_nBZ7L0njoDxTKZw/w640-h482/PXL_20230312_004755074.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The snowmachine turned around after three miles. With six more miles to go, I was fully breaking trail over the faintest hints of a trail base. Often I couldn't see anything at all. I tried to feel out the base with my poles, which were sharp enough that they poked through everything easily, so I had to just take steps of faith with my snowshoes. Plenty of these steps failed and I flailed. One mile took close to an hour. I was just about to give up and turn around when I encountered the strangest sight — people! And not just people, but a skier, a walker, and two bikers all breaking trail along this wide-open expanse of a hillside. They told me they were out training for the White Mountains 100. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"We did not expect to see anyone out here," they exclaimed. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Nor did I," I replied.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4QAf-9tv-AbuVJJsBtDNbM8DuEludT8UCoBvhk4bbPYw3o8nWcwgNLVIRzbq-J2AJlPogInf-VIC3rRuTA2WVg_FO59JBGutZjeuBEFpJZ9yIdZJ7tU4Anklx2bl5g2-HoidP1d22DKrTpTEE-g3JUXo6Dq_yual902L1SwGNXh_-3VUN0A/s4080/PXL_20230312_001744104.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4QAf-9tv-AbuVJJsBtDNbM8DuEludT8UCoBvhk4bbPYw3o8nWcwgNLVIRzbq-J2AJlPogInf-VIC3rRuTA2WVg_FO59JBGutZjeuBEFpJZ9yIdZJ7tU4Anklx2bl5g2-HoidP1d22DKrTpTEE-g3JUXo6Dq_yual902L1SwGNXh_-3VUN0A/w640-h482/PXL_20230312_001744104.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This is their trail. It isn't great, but it is a trail. I was especially grateful for it in the more open areas, where I could still see no other indication of the trail base. How did they find it? No matter ... it is gratifying to see how the universe provides for our needs, even simple needs like shelter and trails. How had I so recently experienced the world as such a sinister place? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmxqboDSNrImG6OzAuyQxMus5LD5xwAv_cKbxplU8h2QDyXA75a0h3oL-m6QeBkt_lUaRCivpLGUtdQB7jbl9K-hHKiE2Pgdc7csRToir_427FEAmvl1I1ZjeD5IkePEEFVuLC0IfgPMcBEC2oaDHwz086VdypO8GFJRkkYD3G5zLq40i3PA/s4080/PXL_20230312_030327180.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmxqboDSNrImG6OzAuyQxMus5LD5xwAv_cKbxplU8h2QDyXA75a0h3oL-m6QeBkt_lUaRCivpLGUtdQB7jbl9K-hHKiE2Pgdc7csRToir_427FEAmvl1I1ZjeD5IkePEEFVuLC0IfgPMcBEC2oaDHwz086VdypO8GFJRkkYD3G5zLq40i3PA/w640-h482/PXL_20230312_030327180.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's difficult to describe the love I feel in these places that I love, even when I know they have no capacity to love me back. But what I've come to realize is that love is not necessarily limited to human experience. The sun began to set as I trudged to the end of the connector trail, still some 11 miles and likely six hours from my destination. My leg muscles were again going numb, my glutes screaming in protest, my back stiff and painful with every jerking tug of the thousand-pound sled. The human experience, I decided, is not the end-all. With all of these aging parts and misfiring emotions, it can even feel like an injustice. This is why I seek out big, empty expanses, and why I love to look at the sky. The more insignificant I become, the more I feel at peace with the inevitabilities of living — death, pain, the unknowable universe. I take comfort in the infinite beauty that will go on long after my broken self shucks off this mortal injustice. In its paradoxical way, this makes me feel immensely grateful for life.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHt3-GAfVMSBfI63U6u25WLuFRM3Z-vDEeavTpWEB0xuDUacB4GCjOHjv5VkqE1zcwfT0ib9Bvyj4OQF04DW-t78Nb2gLEG-MIJwDailwbe07yBhN7v0hKpxJ1EIhyYI1o39-KVMFAdz0khX5gb4exoTRBgkq8WXjEERgcprez908z1iqgpw/s4080/PXL_20230312_080612352.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHt3-GAfVMSBfI63U6u25WLuFRM3Z-vDEeavTpWEB0xuDUacB4GCjOHjv5VkqE1zcwfT0ib9Bvyj4OQF04DW-t78Nb2gLEG-MIJwDailwbe07yBhN7v0hKpxJ1EIhyYI1o39-KVMFAdz0khX5gb4exoTRBgkq8WXjEERgcprez908z1iqgpw/w640-h482/PXL_20230312_080612352.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Darkness fell. My legs weakened more. The route climbed onto a minor ridge where the trail was heavily drifted. Some drifts were knee-deep even with snowshoes. I was so sleepy; so hungry. I could not stomach any more of this trail mix. Just when I thought I might keel over, the universe opened up. Hints of green light reflected on the snow so I turned off my headlamp. I would no longer need it for the final five miles to Crowberry Cabin. Suddenly walking felt effortless, and there was nothing to do but walk, head craned skyward, marveling at the unknowable universe that was dancing, actually dancing, just for me. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPFbJpudqYvW8jUdmB-UlteVHHyCnFEfOVmss-xEiGMfWySa6Q2UpqCg6WhZy1pBhkfUyNM38Sz8gDBZW3cGJ3UfH17W8lF3LeOb21yjnovOItiFJLCag9pWZ4P8o-uCUUCFAp-Q5eA5qdWL6eEXAqOHzxh35OIiYlxPoZ6RMdJYUK2s5gJg/s4080/PXL_20230312_081443378.PORTRAIT.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPFbJpudqYvW8jUdmB-UlteVHHyCnFEfOVmss-xEiGMfWySa6Q2UpqCg6WhZy1pBhkfUyNM38Sz8gDBZW3cGJ3UfH17W8lF3LeOb21yjnovOItiFJLCag9pWZ4P8o-uCUUCFAp-Q5eA5qdWL6eEXAqOHzxh35OIiYlxPoZ6RMdJYUK2s5gJg/w640-h482/PXL_20230312_081443378.PORTRAIT.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I did not try to capture many photos. It was still very cold and my fingers froze whenever I took out my phone for more than a minute, so these are just a few phone photos I grabbed while walking. That's how spectacular the Aurora Borealis was on this night. It did not demand stillness. It almost seemed to respond to motion. As I pushed myself to walk faster to warm my frozen extremities, streaks of emerald and white light spread out like waves across every horizon. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCl6QTH2Ikv1AuzbX_fOiwJEgojWOlXkpE7F_7x3GPuVGo8gDdzZxFBGisBxGkZhZ5Lj4OeGHiTPh9E21klcf-yO9_lSw8yE1TRt8gMJMVrt5LNlHky0wNQJeIdqfgRttPy8UomSSzAKPtpqZ5lIZpvZCE9r4-IOo-UOORRhgfP8mWF-aLPw/s4080/PXL_20230312_082216448.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCl6QTH2Ikv1AuzbX_fOiwJEgojWOlXkpE7F_7x3GPuVGo8gDdzZxFBGisBxGkZhZ5Lj4OeGHiTPh9E21klcf-yO9_lSw8yE1TRt8gMJMVrt5LNlHky0wNQJeIdqfgRttPy8UomSSzAKPtpqZ5lIZpvZCE9r4-IOo-UOORRhgfP8mWF-aLPw/w640-h482/PXL_20230312_082216448.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I felt very, very lucky. And not even a hint of fear. I finally pulled into my cabin after 1 a.m. I started a small fire to dry my ice-encrusted gear and heated water on my stove. By the time I crawled into my sleeping bag my watch read 3:30 a.m. I felt disconcerted about how so much time passed without noticing, forgetting that 2 a.m. brought Daylight Savings Time and I was literally experiencing a lost hour. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipWmgYNIrn0cQpyptitGyfyFZjvmb_610PUyUsjUmSUQJixyADlQW32ky5yxbO_HeqdgmWb8FQVPRTjCccYtz8-QzFIRI7w3PdLnhqtW6upvp4GMXWHVdyTySWxttBTRttBOnDAoDzH94gYfqbgRAm0cObUZ8Fnl6Hd1aewBShaJpV406jug/s4080/PXL_20230313_002105399.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipWmgYNIrn0cQpyptitGyfyFZjvmb_610PUyUsjUmSUQJixyADlQW32ky5yxbO_HeqdgmWb8FQVPRTjCccYtz8-QzFIRI7w3PdLnhqtW6upvp4GMXWHVdyTySWxttBTRttBOnDAoDzH94gYfqbgRAm0cObUZ8Fnl6Hd1aewBShaJpV406jug/w640-h482/PXL_20230313_002105399.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The following morning I awoke to much warmer temperatures — 10 above — and light flurries that seemed to accumulate another inch or two of powder overnight. I'd let myself sleep in as I'd managed to grab another cabin at the last minute — Moose Creek, which was 10 miles away. It was still going to take me five arduous hours to hike there, but all in all, an easy day. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3THluAF3-O4WhVc4TFni2oUF5xDc2z4HeycLwP5VImg0gFBVYbiJR7Myve7GEZL_wQllpbwd8FMLy98iArl_mertE_es4s3RKgFY4RBw4uLvZu402CbBejh403wOo4vVAgzAuLL1Evb2qeqR4xi6r3_ejStHrU4rYqXn3VZH3chCGyXi7Kw/s3648/PXL_20230313_002609407.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3THluAF3-O4WhVc4TFni2oUF5xDc2z4HeycLwP5VImg0gFBVYbiJR7Myve7GEZL_wQllpbwd8FMLy98iArl_mertE_es4s3RKgFY4RBw4uLvZu402CbBejh403wOo4vVAgzAuLL1Evb2qeqR4xi6r3_ejStHrU4rYqXn3VZH3chCGyXi7Kw/w640-h480/PXL_20230313_002609407.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I was fatigued and a little puffy from the muscle strain of the 47,679 deadlifts I'd done since Friday. But personally, I can see a little more light in these eyes. "Healing process — selfie number three."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzq1PY3Kz2E4QDdwMTuZLGjCImnjHIXXbk_sg5yEao8C_Su-0OtVNVWbJgkENoNL6RU_-EeaKQQCNXRFtENh1IE0xg5ELQGG79Khr80MCyRowrqrBffmTXb-z9F1bVEatojTMPgfxdWhfAuj7mmeVgbLnMnG-nThs3mS6cJUCvkJ0dqwXcFw/s4080/PXL_20230313_014821847.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzq1PY3Kz2E4QDdwMTuZLGjCImnjHIXXbk_sg5yEao8C_Su-0OtVNVWbJgkENoNL6RU_-EeaKQQCNXRFtENh1IE0xg5ELQGG79Khr80MCyRowrqrBffmTXb-z9F1bVEatojTMPgfxdWhfAuj7mmeVgbLnMnG-nThs3mS6cJUCvkJ0dqwXcFw/w640-h482/PXL_20230313_014821847.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Moose Creek cabin might be my favorite cabin. It's in a rather unassuming spot compared to the big-mountain views of other cabins, but it sits perched on a hillside wit h a lovely overlook and big sky views. It has a comfortable interior and a lot of nearby "standing dead" spruce trees to make firewood collection easy. I finally did some wood collecting and sawing here, as I finally had the time and just a hint of energy. It seemed appropriate to "appease the cabin gods" as my friend Eric would say. What's funny is that after all of that work, I ended up just burning one of four bundles of grocery store firewood left behind by past users. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdbW0iAKh0IjEHOXNE5gILxr4ihpsvZSGeZcB0QUREN3y1KTfLSBOYzBImGcfRCLFvRC4PHxCwdFJo0ywWEjPsiFERt_IU_sUBbvqDDm2oaKvkZUtkKSzxcLbquz1ZOP5ddeom0fYAAjCh-x2uj3UN9N1CFslipSWRpac5O-hZX9KycNtknw/s4080/PXL_20230313_014724413.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdbW0iAKh0IjEHOXNE5gILxr4ihpsvZSGeZcB0QUREN3y1KTfLSBOYzBImGcfRCLFvRC4PHxCwdFJo0ywWEjPsiFERt_IU_sUBbvqDDm2oaKvkZUtkKSzxcLbquz1ZOP5ddeom0fYAAjCh-x2uj3UN9N1CFslipSWRpac5O-hZX9KycNtknw/w640-h482/PXL_20230313_014724413.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The past cabin dwellers also left behind a single bottle of Smartwater, unopened, sitting on a shelf. Based on the lack of fresh snowmachine tracks, I guessed that no one had been there last night, so the bottle had likely been sitting there for at least 24 hours. And it had not been warm — already plunging to 2 degrees before sunset. Yet the Smartwater was clear and unfrozen. I stood a minute scrutinizing it, wondering if someone had filled it with alcohol. But when I grabbed the bottle, it instantly erupted in a swirl of ice crystals forming before my eyes. I've witnessed this phenomenon before — supercooled electrolyte-infused liquid not actually turning to ice until it's disturbed. I forget the chemical explanation for this, but it's mesmerizing. I placed the bottle, now nearly solid with ice, near the stove until it had thawed enough to be the most delicious, clear, cold water I have ever had the privilege of enjoying. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCrco48Q2ULsTiB2mxHZOso8NMtinROz3SZ8RgPDHpQ38lRUiwswYJMfd8rtKeE9D3nUnJaVEoyk11IUcc_VJlKyyRAfpUwEejmKtMDk4vDB0oP5DzIqZdoeU9nUCdRnbZx8sikusUuLUWIt52BhLjs8K3wjZ-RvnQYfC1zC9Rhrw236naFQ/s4080/PXL_20230313_173136019.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCrco48Q2ULsTiB2mxHZOso8NMtinROz3SZ8RgPDHpQ38lRUiwswYJMfd8rtKeE9D3nUnJaVEoyk11IUcc_VJlKyyRAfpUwEejmKtMDk4vDB0oP5DzIqZdoeU9nUCdRnbZx8sikusUuLUWIt52BhLjs8K3wjZ-RvnQYfC1zC9Rhrw236naFQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230313_173136019.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The following day, I had a fairly easy 16 miles to hike out on a lightly dusted but broken trail with only a few deep drifts remaining along high points. I spent the day listening to "The Molecule of More" about how dopamine controls nearly every aspect of our lives. Brain chemistry is fascinating and endlessly complex. It's also both humbling and empowering to realize that so much of what I think of as "me" arises from these chemicals. I took medication to increase the availability of serotonin in my brain, and now mornings are bright and beautiful again. Dopamine drove me to seek more, more, more in the form of racing, but now I'm not so sure that drives me anymore. I'm not sure if anything drives me anymore. Living, I suppose. I think living should be enough. When you go any amount of time feeling like you're dying, living is more than enough. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioKeSjeigdCF_8s13ZTgn3y5Z6nfdgcuHOZZTDqKkyPiNLN96GEBqfvMv2ajUX7pbzcboh5qnX0aj_40QAKaq41AzZzxiBoDC7GL4hZptF7xRONpb8jidZE_HaUIG-d5qq4spWHu4vHidmEgTT7NLAmm-XwjhfgIEFvTOlohDQnrsdCaCpGA/s3648/PXL_20230313_181715693.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioKeSjeigdCF_8s13ZTgn3y5Z6nfdgcuHOZZTDqKkyPiNLN96GEBqfvMv2ajUX7pbzcboh5qnX0aj_40QAKaq41AzZzxiBoDC7GL4hZptF7xRONpb8jidZE_HaUIG-d5qq4spWHu4vHidmEgTT7NLAmm-XwjhfgIEFvTOlohDQnrsdCaCpGA/w640-h480/PXL_20230313_181715693.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Damn, it was a beautiful Monday morning. I think it was cold and it's likely my legs hurt, but all I could think is, damn, it feels good to be alive. "Healing process — selfie number four."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2nQjKUj2ckb5Ghnm0aszkHDT0PDGcsppH8JRwGI4uJ1Mqs0huHHDCCD9abpCgNRpdZg-W0C5RWoAMgigDk7FlCCk5wxiGPIKiaMyCHUveJlsTJS3wm3V70_uUItbD0URo6JESHrECmtkcUNPIBOyp3l19KgDzHBJ0ynkmJWTJky5QWIip9g/s4080/PXL_20230313_232507349.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2nQjKUj2ckb5Ghnm0aszkHDT0PDGcsppH8JRwGI4uJ1Mqs0huHHDCCD9abpCgNRpdZg-W0C5RWoAMgigDk7FlCCk5wxiGPIKiaMyCHUveJlsTJS3wm3V70_uUItbD0URo6JESHrECmtkcUNPIBOyp3l19KgDzHBJ0ynkmJWTJky5QWIip9g/w640-h482/PXL_20230313_232507349.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Anxiety has been such a humbling, horrifying, and yet strangely humanizing experience. I know my battle with anxiety is far from over ... like the other injuries and scars I've accumulated, the body remembers. It remembers the traumas. Even the little ones. It remembers the abuse — all of the demands I made in search of more. But it also remembers grace and beauty, the expansive love that reaches far beyond my flawed human capacity to understand love. </div><div><br /></div><div>For now, this is what I remember first when I wake up in the morning. Beauty and love. I'm grateful.<p></p></div>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-43875661807990316342023-03-06T12:46:00.361-07:002023-03-31T08:54:30.102-06:00Snow in the desert<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicMkopAjiWqMyHnsyM1O2k-wtuwh3N1eRF_6gsSyduesqmIiMATsieMt-foWHDmapQD_tA372PRtXMENrfgf1dPc79YKpA8mz6v3rqY4-RkLKuZfBxMQ29m4nyFV7vttUoa2k-gRqugUVeeFrLY7qjLBUuGs49dfGDnpt1o5c82JiId4XqlA/s4080/PXL_20230216_193302795.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicMkopAjiWqMyHnsyM1O2k-wtuwh3N1eRF_6gsSyduesqmIiMATsieMt-foWHDmapQD_tA372PRtXMENrfgf1dPc79YKpA8mz6v3rqY4-RkLKuZfBxMQ29m4nyFV7vttUoa2k-gRqugUVeeFrLY7qjLBUuGs49dfGDnpt1o5c82JiId4XqlA/w640-h482/PXL_20230216_193302795.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><i>"You think you're avoiding triggers, but what you start to do is avoid life</i>." — My sister<p></p><p>When I was a teenager, I decided that if heaven was everything it claimed to be, then we should be able to choose its form. An eternity of drifting lazily on a cloud? No thank you. My heaven would look like Moab in the winter, a sandstone maze brushed with snow under a cloudless blue sky. At the time I had only experienced southern Utah during the spring and summer and didn't think it was possible for the place to be anything but parched and hot. But in the heaven I could choose, cold air and tranquil silence would linger forever. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO_la-3jBxAoc0IxjHmv7t6uQVpLUcAjmMkDOmI2fA-XH3I2gsbCoIK2A1Kjt6HGSr65QQF5Aw9CWD2jkDlEdkuSz2PJPmYPVJ4wE7kFKEL7UWXGpISgf_2Av4IX7vo1Qc8BAK-qa_lZJ0Exh54lECiCXJPS8EKQD2vTrukfFLvhe3iaGSiQ/s4080/PXL_20230216_214604394.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO_la-3jBxAoc0IxjHmv7t6uQVpLUcAjmMkDOmI2fA-XH3I2gsbCoIK2A1Kjt6HGSr65QQF5Aw9CWD2jkDlEdkuSz2PJPmYPVJ4wE7kFKEL7UWXGpISgf_2Av4IX7vo1Qc8BAK-qa_lZJ0Exh54lECiCXJPS8EKQD2vTrukfFLvhe3iaGSiQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230216_214604394.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>I tried to remind myself of youthful daydreams as I drove through Monument Valley, a place I'm ashamed to say I'd never seen before. It was a little out of the way, and I was already running behind, but I needed a distraction. Anything to calm my pinched breaths and slow my heart rate. <div><br /></div><div>"Snow in the desert. Snow in the desert," I chanted out loud. "It's so beautiful." </div><div><br /></div><div>For an entire day, I'd been embroiled in a slow-rolling anxiety attack. I wondered if I had the fortitude to endure this trip. There was nothing about the trip's reality to fear, but I had long since lost hold of my tenuous grip on reality. There was no way not to feel fear, so I reminded myself that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to hike The Wave with my mom and sisters. </div><div><br /></div><div>"The Wave" is a unique sandstone feature on the Utah-Arizona border, a geologic anomaly so aesthetically pleasing that it's become an immensely popular destination despite its remote location. Think about art enthusiasts seeking out the Mona Lisa — that's how many desert enthusiasts feel about The Wave. As such, the BLM issues limited permits that people have about a 1-in-100 chance of scoring. So when my youngest sister — the one who I would have voted "least likely to ever love the outdoors" when we were younger — scored a permit for Feb. 17, we knew we had to take the leap. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMZ4KDUXhCpqzKWbAkidlI76ANsMfpClsIXZz5gKqVzx34CcBCSG0OGTKtw2B-KgihHj8iL1adIIwhCKvIxEb5QBor7dqH7jhsxZzRkUrScDPuzWAeLE2_QAbtWeSo_vSzxIBiMZLMbGo9B0NO52mwVGMBlALRnbxU27WES9J9wCvcnf8X-w/s4080/PXL_20230216_212810142.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMZ4KDUXhCpqzKWbAkidlI76ANsMfpClsIXZz5gKqVzx34CcBCSG0OGTKtw2B-KgihHj8iL1adIIwhCKvIxEb5QBor7dqH7jhsxZzRkUrScDPuzWAeLE2_QAbtWeSo_vSzxIBiMZLMbGo9B0NO52mwVGMBlALRnbxU27WES9J9wCvcnf8X-w/w640-h482/PXL_20230216_212810142.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>In hindsight, the week she scored that permit was right around the time I slipped into what I think of as "the big anxiety spiral" in mid-October. I've suffered from anxiety for years, but usually the low points last a week or two, and then I start to emerge. After this particular plunge, months passed. I made some improvements while physically injured in November and December, but looking back, I wonder if the physical pain was just a mask — a distraction — from emotional turmoil. After our annual Alaska trip fell apart in December, I plunged right back into the depths. Since January it was difficult to enjoy or look forward to anything. I just wanted to hide in my house, even though I didn't feel safe in the house. </div><div><br /></div><div>I forced myself into activities because therapists like to say that "actions become emotions." And I dabbled with recommended lifestyle changes such as yoga and limiting caffeine. But my emotional state wasn't improving and the pain was starting to manifest in my body — tremors, pounding head, severe insomnia, and muscle cramps. Every morning was filled with so much unfocused doom that I'd hide under the covers for long minutes until the rational side of my brain could spur me to action. I felt as though I was drowning. The anxiety that I'd long imagined as a fiery red sea monster was finally pulling me under. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHZHsp7lFOZifr-N_TOGEqh2zqFYcENGd4sET2PmWKEaYqz4Th6Hq9HFSgyzTyxagrXPD2xDsHvdhcfHuvJCkAzBkZW0qWu9sp1AukoYKGPJ6hglxywVPOVvp-2iM-tC3OS67MbbmARnikBZiZKvxvTwNLnETCVe-3AobDCeM2dpkTJU1Ojw/s4080/PXL_20230216_220729705.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHZHsp7lFOZifr-N_TOGEqh2zqFYcENGd4sET2PmWKEaYqz4Th6Hq9HFSgyzTyxagrXPD2xDsHvdhcfHuvJCkAzBkZW0qWu9sp1AukoYKGPJ6hglxywVPOVvp-2iM-tC3OS67MbbmARnikBZiZKvxvTwNLnETCVe-3AobDCeM2dpkTJU1Ojw/w640-h482/PXL_20230216_220729705.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Friends have been urging me to try antidepressants for years. I resisted because the side effects sounded worse than anxiety, which I'd always been able to manage well enough. Also, I bristled at the notion of "better living by chemistry." But who am I kidding? I've been medicated since my 30s — thyroid medication, asthma inhalers, antihistamines, CBD, just about every supplement the thyroid forum led me to believe could possibly help. Drawing a line at SSRIs seemed arbitrary. </div><div><br /></div><div>And now I wasn't sleeping at night, I was drowning, and I would have grabbed anything offered as a liferaft. Heroin? Yes, please! So I made an appointment with my primary care doctor. By the time I was able to get in, it was February 13, just days before this trip. My doctor started me on a small dose of Lexapro, warning that the initial adjustment period could include dizziness, nausea, and increased anxiety. Increased anxiety? Really? I asked if I could wait to start medication until after my trip, be she encouraged me to start right away. Spoiler from many weeks later: I'm glad I started this med, but I wish I'd waited that extra week. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuaSBpA4WXbOjjoLD11-NnoyDe_NRaS4ddtD1hQoOlekVOYzqHeAdA7w38W9uxHV9ox3hnS8yNlJ5jfPKXfI9hBFCN-m_wd2y0bQW-FB5f2223GDH3E5ypmfL5VNRt_kObGo3gvh3ap9_u5jbp3CvBEC3shxLsmi7zBr92uaxHR07ZHrJj5A/s4080/PXL_20230217_195513505.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuaSBpA4WXbOjjoLD11-NnoyDe_NRaS4ddtD1hQoOlekVOYzqHeAdA7w38W9uxHV9ox3hnS8yNlJ5jfPKXfI9hBFCN-m_wd2y0bQW-FB5f2223GDH3E5ypmfL5VNRt_kObGo3gvh3ap9_u5jbp3CvBEC3shxLsmi7zBr92uaxHR07ZHrJj5A/w640-h482/PXL_20230217_195513505.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Everyone's experience with anxiety is different and they're all difficult to describe. For me, generalized anxiety is like being a passive spectator in a horror movie version of my life — I know the killer is in the house, and I can feel the suspense when they're about to strike, but I can't do anything about it. Even though I know the killer isn't real, I can't ignore the terror. </div><div><div><br /></div><div>This is how it felt when I woke up to my 4:30 a.m. alarm for what would turn out to be a 14-hour drive on icy highways to Kanab, Utah, via Page, Arizona. During our planning, we realized that my Subaru Outback wasn't going to cut it for the primitive road into the Wave in muddy conditions, so I reserved a Jeep rental in Page. Kanab had been slammed by a blizzard with six inches of snow on Tuesday. The same raging storm dumped a foot of snow on my house and much of the Front Range on Wednesday. In the predawn darkness on Thursday morning, I crept along a snow-packed I-70 at 35 mph as temperatures dipped to 15 below zero. I could almost hear the ominous soundtrack playing in the background. </div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2k4SxHH0ZmHIlWZ5p9M5Ae5z8bsW-nkIIBKt9ky7jZq7tBk67AaEidXhX5EwILtvVImZXvO46P6s3AH0sKxT7Wh4j_CAoGgYJlKxWJ0IPnD0NLsPMQXd0IIXt_v8krWk-U8i107GChV9HZG2cdtuSjCBYZHrjkBp6dnFKEta9MlsN2bzJ0w/s4080/PXL_20230217_003139444.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2k4SxHH0ZmHIlWZ5p9M5Ae5z8bsW-nkIIBKt9ky7jZq7tBk67AaEidXhX5EwILtvVImZXvO46P6s3AH0sKxT7Wh4j_CAoGgYJlKxWJ0IPnD0NLsPMQXd0IIXt_v8krWk-U8i107GChV9HZG2cdtuSjCBYZHrjkBp6dnFKEta9MlsN2bzJ0w/w640-h482/PXL_20230217_003139444.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>The stress was so pronounced that I had to concentrate on steady breathing. There was no more bandwidth for eating or drinking. As I passed through Grand Junction, I felt the urge to drive up to a hotel and hide under the covers while I called my family to apologize for my absence from this once-in-a-lifetime and not-especially-arduous adventure because my brain had stopped functioning, I'm so sorry. </div><div><br /></div><div>But then, what would that make me? A fully dysfunctional person? A person who once endured the Alaska wilderness alone and now could no longer even endure a fun family trip? A person who needed hospitalization? I wondered.</div><div><br /></div><div>My jitters and breathing improved as I crossed into Utah, familiar territory and so lovely under a blanket of snow. But as I neared Arizona and the prospect of driving an unfamiliar jeep on a slippery, muddy, rutted road, I wilted again. I arrived in Page about an hour before my arranged pickup time, so I decided to walk out to Horseshoe Bend, another iconic landmark I hadn't yet visited. The parking lot was packed as sunset approached, and I was put off by the crowds of tourists. Of course, I should have expected this tourist attraction would be crowded. But I wished for a place I could be alone. I hiked out to the viewpoint, took this one terrible phone photo with the sun glare screaming at me, and checked my phone for current road conditions. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wish I hadn't. I mean, it was necessary to understand what to expect, but I did not anticipate what was coming. Regarding the dirt road to The Wave, a guide had posted that it was in some of the worst shape she'd seen, with flowing mud and wheel-swallowing ruts, and only "The T-Rex of 4x4s" could handle it. I'm a timid driver in the best of circumstances. I'd just spent six hours navigating a terrifying slip-and-slide across Colorado. I imagined steering the jeep into a mud hole, plunging into icy water, and my entire family freezing in the cold desert. With that image imprinted in my brain, I lost it. </div><div><br /></div><div>So there I was, frozen in terror in a large crowd at Horseshoe Bend, gulping down an intense panic attack. I started shuffling up the pathway, stiffly jogging as though I was a zombie, gasping desperately. I pulled on my sunglasses and jacket hood so the other tourists wouldn't see tears flowing down my face. I hoped they'd just assume I was a severely out-of-shape jogger. I felt so ashamed. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHE9VIw32jrQkSJZ6YhBNvSVVb7aoc75xhdu6lRvIZC3syJmLfpySY1J5P_NqCsDWnn-Mf7-QOLtriJgrFs1DTlKcwPohQf2Q-sDAaxyd7DCKaSlfUnmbnnL44A4H9ZUnoxr6kYFMB_VIj0PUbzNx5CJCMWbl03IQVHEbcaxRD_0jgftww6w/s4080/PXL_20230217_172538314.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHE9VIw32jrQkSJZ6YhBNvSVVb7aoc75xhdu6lRvIZC3syJmLfpySY1J5P_NqCsDWnn-Mf7-QOLtriJgrFs1DTlKcwPohQf2Q-sDAaxyd7DCKaSlfUnmbnnL44A4H9ZUnoxr6kYFMB_VIj0PUbzNx5CJCMWbl03IQVHEbcaxRD_0jgftww6w/w640-h482/PXL_20230217_172538314.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>I sat in my car for ten minutes, focusing on breathing and calm thoughts. Once my breathing had slowed sufficiently, I called my sister to tell her about my concerns. I thought I could rationally explain the situation, but as soon as I heard her voice, I lost it all over again. For the next 45 to 60 minutes — which felt like three minutes to me — Lisa spoke calmly and urged me to stay on the phone as she and my mom scrambled for a solution. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Let's hire a guide," I heard my mom say, which I recognized as the most loving thing to suggest. It's not in my family's thrifty and can-do nature to spare no expense on a wilderness guide. The odds seemed grim at 6 p.m. the night before our trip, but they found someone at Dreamland Safari — as it turns out, the guiding company co-owned by Iditarod Trail Invitational athletes who completed the event on bikes this year, Sunny Stroeer and her husband Paul Gagner. In what felt like three minutes, the sky shifted from blue to violet to black, and suddenly we had a solution that didn't require my dysfunctional self to drive or navigate the hike. I felt relief, love, and an enormous amount of shame.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFCuighmx0D3l2xemEw80T3MPGeRYezESMFV0ME2NEas06prGnLXUsg9hASd4NR6MN5t-cmiVch3FqM8v0ojuxC5uiV0ab3khamqb8NXsd9PlTe2knVjmHyMIPuBYd-H692i3yYejEQ3yErIRFSAKSJXssp3DY0iJsCo5xgJas0v5UbpuGUw/s4080/PXL_20230217_170952441.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFCuighmx0D3l2xemEw80T3MPGeRYezESMFV0ME2NEas06prGnLXUsg9hASd4NR6MN5t-cmiVch3FqM8v0ojuxC5uiV0ab3khamqb8NXsd9PlTe2knVjmHyMIPuBYd-H692i3yYejEQ3yErIRFSAKSJXssp3DY0iJsCo5xgJas0v5UbpuGUw/w640-h482/PXL_20230217_170952441.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>What have I become? I drove to the jeep rental place, shaking profusely. I tried to calm down and collect myself enough to approach the person with the clipboard and tell her I no longer needed the rental. I didn't know whether they'd only deduct the deposit or the entire cost and I didn't care. I would have paid $10,000 not to feel this way. Heroin? Yes, please! </div><div><br /></div><div>Then I finally drove myself to a gas station and shakily wandered the aisles, feeling more out of sorts and exhausted than I would if I'd ridden a bike from Colorado. I bought a small sandwich and a mealy apple, then sat in my car and forced down the only meal I'd eaten all day. I hoped I'd find the wherewithal to drive the final hour to Kanab. It was an extremely difficult hour that I don't remember much about, besides losing control of my breathing and again succumbing to tears and hyperventilation. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6xznWt537PrrgPWJGgkGw-N0zw-rAtpnsjye5Wqf6n131EohGItd43FBR0NnftD7LLDqTHYxzv7WGeqsoGPwaYiNSVVAsPKA1H-vMbvbNczBYmzNPmkZtO3gDmhd3dcSca70p_uA1mdX7mED6COUHU-wvVN7d4nWOPSSmAtviIA6i7BtRRQ/s4080/PXL_20230217_170221167.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6xznWt537PrrgPWJGgkGw-N0zw-rAtpnsjye5Wqf6n131EohGItd43FBR0NnftD7LLDqTHYxzv7WGeqsoGPwaYiNSVVAsPKA1H-vMbvbNczBYmzNPmkZtO3gDmhd3dcSca70p_uA1mdX7mED6COUHU-wvVN7d4nWOPSSmAtviIA6i7BtRRQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230217_170221167.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>My sisters and Mom were immensely loving and understanding when I arrived in Kanab, and I was relieved that they could see me at my worst, my most vulnerable, because that meant I no longer had to hide this from them. As the oldest daughter in a family now missing our father, I've felt the need to remain stoic and strong, and I absolutely put that pressure on myself. As the most experienced outdoors person in the group, I felt obligated to take up the logistics and navigation of the hike — which truly is not harder than hundreds of outings I've done for fun. But this is what happens when you're drowning. You can't even save yourself, let alone manage anything above the surface. It was a relief to admit this to myself and the people who love me. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9CkXiIC-fcFZGPkeleD6FKzMS7Pz9BO0VHaEExO0C4YCzVr6idHqp8t0QEkGmFhGvOev6R32vj9ufRHoQE2eXZsBgCyLDrI1A3iKD4D8Rz9I8sAknqGTPcvX2SCPYlK57Ty8PZXGo-Q-AF9znmSy_8yh6nJDTaPMAyyyQHS8resOBxpE8vQ/s4080/PXL_20230217_172210429.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9CkXiIC-fcFZGPkeleD6FKzMS7Pz9BO0VHaEExO0C4YCzVr6idHqp8t0QEkGmFhGvOev6R32vj9ufRHoQE2eXZsBgCyLDrI1A3iKD4D8Rz9I8sAknqGTPcvX2SCPYlK57Ty8PZXGo-Q-AF9znmSy_8yh6nJDTaPMAyyyQHS8resOBxpE8vQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230217_172210429.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>The night after my panic attack was awful. I don't think I slept at all. My heart continued to pound, adrenaline surged through my blood, and I couldn't calm my breathing no matter what I tried. But I was safe, and in a way, it felt like I had eluded my imaginary killer. My body was amped up, but my mind could rest for now. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4lhHzY4KNUiGybh0kCJkSy_bG4RiJ7f2cl-jeWm1RQU2ycYQ_9S7UvUwFgYaepzp31Ba0GwRXlj9rLKxCJ9KfrnUQBtxn5K7XofhrYSHaL74VNDEnQXwN9Coj9lKXDnd5Nw_w5Nc0oo4VRYYUHPrr4v91X8ueuKx8Mg6sisglFlojs60K7w/s4080/PXL_20230217_175520100.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4lhHzY4KNUiGybh0kCJkSy_bG4RiJ7f2cl-jeWm1RQU2ycYQ_9S7UvUwFgYaepzp31Ba0GwRXlj9rLKxCJ9KfrnUQBtxn5K7XofhrYSHaL74VNDEnQXwN9Coj9lKXDnd5Nw_w5Nc0oo4VRYYUHPrr4v91X8ueuKx8Mg6sisglFlojs60K7w/w640-h482/PXL_20230217_175520100.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Looking back on those snowy, sunny days in mid-February, my perspective looks utterly ridiculous — as though I was actually languishing under murky water and failing to make sense of muddled reflections above the surface. I was in a beautiful place with the people I love, and I was still lost in the fog. On Friday, February 17, at 8 a.m. sharp, we were greeted by our guide for the day. Mel, I learned, was a young ultrarunner who recently relocated to the desert from the rainforests of the Pacific Northwest. She is strong and fast and aspires to audacious expeditions, and perhaps a few successful runs in traditional races. We had a lot in common. She was friendly and knowledgeable without being overbearing in her guide role. <div><br /></div><div>Driving out on what was indeed a horrifically muddy, rutted, and partially flooded road, she put everyone in my family at ease even as wheels skidded and mud chunks flew. I would have hyperventilated and shivered the entire way out if I'd been behind the wheel. This is not an exaggeration. While I remained ashamed of this truth, I was deeply grateful for Mel. Removing myself from that role would have been a bargain at twice the price.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_dtP7ojl4vKuRhNIRAuqSRRjlItWbo0Lq0rSW_6Sn6QyQJGa-UuRo-hQ2Pt0WKLweMncqON1UEHiyFgmKB9taZ7WUyssiUNx43xgq7AKMeQFuRqfrhKRhJz3_xIvKackBZkC68gAb5VxbaDv6Xw_skY_we2sHyKkZ99Q5DnK-2mAZ9noVBA/s4080/PXL_20230217_180812172.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_dtP7ojl4vKuRhNIRAuqSRRjlItWbo0Lq0rSW_6Sn6QyQJGa-UuRo-hQ2Pt0WKLweMncqON1UEHiyFgmKB9taZ7WUyssiUNx43xgq7AKMeQFuRqfrhKRhJz3_xIvKackBZkC68gAb5VxbaDv6Xw_skY_we2sHyKkZ99Q5DnK-2mAZ9noVBA/w640-h482/PXL_20230217_180812172.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>The hike out was lovely and relatively uneventful. The sky was mostly cloudy and temperatures remained cool — in the 30s — with a harsh headwind sweeping down from the plateau. My body's thermostat was weirdly not working well and I had to put on all of my layers, including several I brought as backups for my mom and sisters. But just the act of walking — walking and breathing and only focusing on the next step — was wonderfully calming. When I'm walking, I'm at peace, which is why I sometimes daydream about a life in which I do nothing else. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ6xCShVEPCG7jczMJNk_V8s6npVJMCzw4qogNVj4ll0_qnjjaJd4IVSNCG3wVxEo3ydwaGuSDD0cVSTmQKMzcV6TkLh_r7R9GUqI4_24_jFSk_GfmXwPhX-DsFoYvtrR2Y88mhltj8ffIabxQTZno8COfTT_xLzZNLKoDachs-8RqBNwK5g/s4080/PXL_20230217_190336430.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ6xCShVEPCG7jczMJNk_V8s6npVJMCzw4qogNVj4ll0_qnjjaJd4IVSNCG3wVxEo3ydwaGuSDD0cVSTmQKMzcV6TkLh_r7R9GUqI4_24_jFSk_GfmXwPhX-DsFoYvtrR2Y88mhltj8ffIabxQTZno8COfTT_xLzZNLKoDachs-8RqBNwK5g/w640-h482/PXL_20230217_190336430.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>And then, there we were — the premier photographic destination in the Southwest, a place people often wait years to land a permit to visit. The rippling streaks of sandstone are unique even in a region full of unique rock formations. Millennia of slow wind and rain erosion calcified layers of sand until it hardened to rock — a petrified sand dune. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHFtb-ENtp3SW2FHAMbexUtRZoScW8-t6hdGawHO1D7DcwHgbZ8vh_UQbhY_Q7UP6KmKi9Qyec__1iETSvgCif-3bnO7BS8vuH7jqAEQTjJlEPwqyoJz339n_MAITGAlvoocvl6gZ9alo4wjD2p5iPHzGgMjJWntPhK32OLoGfykq3SONkpA/s4080/PXL_20230217_181024299.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHFtb-ENtp3SW2FHAMbexUtRZoScW8-t6hdGawHO1D7DcwHgbZ8vh_UQbhY_Q7UP6KmKi9Qyec__1iETSvgCif-3bnO7BS8vuH7jqAEQTjJlEPwqyoJz339n_MAITGAlvoocvl6gZ9alo4wjD2p5iPHzGgMjJWntPhK32OLoGfykq3SONkpA/w640-h482/PXL_20230217_181024299.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When Sara first landed her permit, I was excited about the opportunity — I too tried and failed to land a permit way back in 2002. But I was also admittedly skeptical — was this going to be another one of those overhyped tourist traps? Reader, I was wrong. It is truly awe-inspiring to stand in the midst of The Wave, sculpted by nature with an artistic precision that humans have yet to match. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsKXMIm4XsEFW9A6-GOMt0N3gf7OsH-O_bH_uZoj9ZMQq8qRZLA4gM5WL2YvWK7hyYqP2EX2d3qGZn6HzfLxDVcOp01AI7HoHSB6t-qec-CimWuiMKT0TioQkh_z8S8HL9VzvGNfELAG8oU-N03mUyUMdZh06tNDRnzGPXRihDmaiBDF8K9g/s4080/PXL_20230217_181617477.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsKXMIm4XsEFW9A6-GOMt0N3gf7OsH-O_bH_uZoj9ZMQq8qRZLA4gM5WL2YvWK7hyYqP2EX2d3qGZn6HzfLxDVcOp01AI7HoHSB6t-qec-CimWuiMKT0TioQkh_z8S8HL9VzvGNfELAG8oU-N03mUyUMdZh06tNDRnzGPXRihDmaiBDF8K9g/w640-h482/PXL_20230217_181617477.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>These rock formations are also impossible to photograph — not that I gave it much of a go with the flat mid-afternoon light and guide urging us to pose for photos once we were in photo-taking mode. But for 20 minutes before all that, we stood with reverent stillness in this cathedral and marveled. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQzQzHNQ8XLEORds-EveXtr6fBNenu1quzXr5m4yZd6MAWxfDSiTg3d0vytp4L1fcFxKOXOwkL2Y0KJ_rA0RuJrZZmjWJlJL_Bow9q76FnLHsL4W5kyPM0-loOdZV_wRCU4KQQjsQGVW8Z6gvi5RnHPmON3CKub3Nwc_4hqH5f5if75uO2sA/s4080/PXL_20230217_190534609.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQzQzHNQ8XLEORds-EveXtr6fBNenu1quzXr5m4yZd6MAWxfDSiTg3d0vytp4L1fcFxKOXOwkL2Y0KJ_rA0RuJrZZmjWJlJL_Bow9q76FnLHsL4W5kyPM0-loOdZV_wRCU4KQQjsQGVW8Z6gvi5RnHPmON3CKub3Nwc_4hqH5f5if75uO2sA/w640-h482/PXL_20230217_190534609.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The posed photos were fun, too.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXzg1Fi3q26VPe61UItL_UmwL-Lh_FQPEbgHEsjNbI8WIktxlq8HFmpDLhEMttstv4gaX-JtHZnEJqAm2hkfUGnDH18psTkgyNtPxP38dHtaXoQfMAH-Qx6fQ3cBLXMg4U_61jsUITLtHq4CiIx7-ETPxEujqQPwgyQeU8arFQV9nRELNijQ/s4080/PXL_20230217_191323293.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXzg1Fi3q26VPe61UItL_UmwL-Lh_FQPEbgHEsjNbI8WIktxlq8HFmpDLhEMttstv4gaX-JtHZnEJqAm2hkfUGnDH18psTkgyNtPxP38dHtaXoQfMAH-Qx6fQ3cBLXMg4U_61jsUITLtHq4CiIx7-ETPxEujqQPwgyQeU8arFQV9nRELNijQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230217_191323293.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>My favorite — nothing but pure joy. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1m966UMabT45Wi5ldHbn0pmF15kqdZGOcxBLDTDo5Mw9wKI45NTqPo0B_imj9x4hj8ayx1vKyGRYsleZLRO3xfgkSN3H58EBgCcR5lz6hucCu_FrvV45pMBEcpuTC7yYmXsirQ-Uoh9T16s-ZjmM9Fulp-XFf6o_7QOLxomy_2W5mNggEjQ/s4080/PXL_20230218_154328955.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1m966UMabT45Wi5ldHbn0pmF15kqdZGOcxBLDTDo5Mw9wKI45NTqPo0B_imj9x4hj8ayx1vKyGRYsleZLRO3xfgkSN3H58EBgCcR5lz6hucCu_FrvV45pMBEcpuTC7yYmXsirQ-Uoh9T16s-ZjmM9Fulp-XFf6o_7QOLxomy_2W5mNggEjQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230218_154328955.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>The remainder of our trip was enjoyable as well, coinciding with a hot-air balloon festival. Sara and I headed out early Saturday morning to view the spectacle. The balloons did struggle to launch in this decidedly cold air, but it was bright and colorful fun. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1cs2TASsOgQnMhyE4dLt2nVkirh0ZKI9ExHYtHbJwzHIRjDf6Bzy_1h46ujC1rh7kkHDtM48AZ0zP6NabtLrozThfjhzVaLpuniInw-NK-WmAwVZwgvZZIP-eLv5CQHZSyBiYxX00lFcTop1MuABx4fr9lOxVcftwmaGKWefM4hd04fh28A/s4080/PXL_20230218_182729458.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1cs2TASsOgQnMhyE4dLt2nVkirh0ZKI9ExHYtHbJwzHIRjDf6Bzy_1h46ujC1rh7kkHDtM48AZ0zP6NabtLrozThfjhzVaLpuniInw-NK-WmAwVZwgvZZIP-eLv5CQHZSyBiYxX00lFcTop1MuABx4fr9lOxVcftwmaGKWefM4hd04fh28A/w640-h482/PXL_20230218_182729458.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>Later Saturday morning, I coaxed my sisters out for a hike on the "Kanab City Trails," which, given their name, seemed like they should be relatively straightforward and family-friendly. Lisa was an especially hard sell, as she languished through the worst day of a bad cold virus that her entire family passed around, but that somehow eluded Mom, Sara, and me. But it was a beautiful day, and I was feeling recovered enough to grasp some shaky confidence about leading my sisters along this unknown route. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf-7kl4rCKN2cVxS_JtplMLwzM37micQS_X7ec5r74fPPevnqd_VA7u3PNWhlhYGaCrfYwuONWfocjRRpu6WMSj9HGe7uLqCqOdaocbRsASA7PKl8tGH0HvwtXHNQv4XHWlZwBAk1Nl5f15sSAo4rivToqwxMwfBoPTCEeN-O6zWCMtVnmlw/s4080/PXL_20230218_184921177.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf-7kl4rCKN2cVxS_JtplMLwzM37micQS_X7ec5r74fPPevnqd_VA7u3PNWhlhYGaCrfYwuONWfocjRRpu6WMSj9HGe7uLqCqOdaocbRsASA7PKl8tGH0HvwtXHNQv4XHWlZwBAk1Nl5f15sSAo4rivToqwxMwfBoPTCEeN-O6zWCMtVnmlw/w640-h482/PXL_20230218_184921177.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>Unsurprisingly, the trail from the start was nothing but mud, mud, and more of that awful sticky bentonite clay mud that accumulates until each shoe weighs 10 pounds. The sisters were unenthused but determined to at least reach the top of the ridge — even as I behaved like an anti-Mel type of guide and spouted continually discouraging information. "It's going to be more slippery going down than up." "It's not going to get better." "My watch just buzzed a 47-minute-mile, good job team!" (I was also moving as fast as I physically could. The mud was relentless.) </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Bud-uE73tFgQVN1fSIPF3InJ-PUOQcs0u7VyvGaMnZ5fEz_tFg8NXbBIVAX9wQqGGMh2S6BZFmdvj0S4ekNXr3MlTnO831rF5Qu1bAxk-vSvpN1ec_8uu5X5x46pGZUotXKUSD66KMwhYlWwOx3bAOXw4DCiYNoe7WcoCxNTZ0G6DLANkw/s4080/PXL_20230218_192631472.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Bud-uE73tFgQVN1fSIPF3InJ-PUOQcs0u7VyvGaMnZ5fEz_tFg8NXbBIVAX9wQqGGMh2S6BZFmdvj0S4ekNXr3MlTnO831rF5Qu1bAxk-vSvpN1ec_8uu5X5x46pGZUotXKUSD66KMwhYlWwOx3bAOXw4DCiYNoe7WcoCxNTZ0G6DLANkw/w640-h482/PXL_20230218_192631472.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>The views from the ridge — stretching for dozens of miles all the way to the top of Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument — were quite spectacular. Sara felt more secure in her footing after I gave her my trekking poles, and Lisa seemed resigned to the pain she'd be experiencing whether she was in bed or here. The snow was deeper and mud seemed less prevalent along the ridge, so we collectively decided to try for the original 7-mile loop we'd planned. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMNVCY5S4uU4JxoLkrEeyBPdAx0qZFF_8ncYbeO8qFnwHU5HgmWzg06dIXffcMNFsvIeHthUhvVExoncRcViGqsrRzHSrT4Hdxy63P9BnKtScW8YkxFnvZFIahje9GWT-1oHW__rrzwmsWRau2LhBVdUC2RqLJksBO04YgE3VadRxM6j7Juw/s4080/PXL_20230218_195511533.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMNVCY5S4uU4JxoLkrEeyBPdAx0qZFF_8ncYbeO8qFnwHU5HgmWzg06dIXffcMNFsvIeHthUhvVExoncRcViGqsrRzHSrT4Hdxy63P9BnKtScW8YkxFnvZFIahje9GWT-1oHW__rrzwmsWRau2LhBVdUC2RqLJksBO04YgE3VadRxM6j7Juw/w640-h482/PXL_20230218_195511533.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>Sara, my California-based sister who wasn't outdoorsy when she lived in Utah, had never before hiked in the snow. It was, for the most part, four to six inches of sticky slush that turned to ice underfoot, so not great for hiking. We trudged along for another mile before she admitted that the struggle was a lot for her, and that's when I remembered the three pairs of microspikes I was carrying in my pack. Once we put those on, everything improved ... for another mile or so. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicOFKI7kNK1GIEVB_jnu5F3y7TwGwCg8ZnLqea-xOXPutSmVfPumPZ7cVvok2DNXSHEdJhy8a0Y_VD0wgH0pzZaaXckfx10YynAHnpSY8HufB9gMnhcDm7USke8k62VIu73EiVQSlSWTtofJvqUzS9LQjeA42tKtl7EB_83rj8swJS3ESymg/s3648/PXL_20230218_205333976.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicOFKI7kNK1GIEVB_jnu5F3y7TwGwCg8ZnLqea-xOXPutSmVfPumPZ7cVvok2DNXSHEdJhy8a0Y_VD0wgH0pzZaaXckfx10YynAHnpSY8HufB9gMnhcDm7USke8k62VIu73EiVQSlSWTtofJvqUzS9LQjeA42tKtl7EB_83rj8swJS3ESymg/w640-h480/PXL_20230218_205333976.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>The three sisters on what is apparently a "city" trail, overlooking the "city" of Kanab. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFNFuwLCp-Gtf5GXao_er7Y4aCN4fPH5CHGOwmBWgp3PUx6KDGGn7KDgeOmiY00BUiv-usbBe3HspApMszaTjkjfBlRVU8mxowWVYRZWshcSEso6W6HcI-Zm3j8Z5y4KdHbPDgTsSp945adgVOkIynI2nL0jY2qP4wGpRnbWgVpnlRhFRpRw/s4080/PXL_20230218_213400785.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFNFuwLCp-Gtf5GXao_er7Y4aCN4fPH5CHGOwmBWgp3PUx6KDGGn7KDgeOmiY00BUiv-usbBe3HspApMszaTjkjfBlRVU8mxowWVYRZWshcSEso6W6HcI-Zm3j8Z5y4KdHbPDgTsSp945adgVOkIynI2nL0jY2qP4wGpRnbWgVpnlRhFRpRw/w640-h482/PXL_20230218_213400785.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>We followed four-wheeler trails until I realized that we'd gotten off track. The four-wheeler trails continued another 20-something miles to the east. If we wanted to hike off this ridge, we had to find something called the "Cliffs Trail." I should have realized that this trail would be aptly named. The initial drop-off had been erased by a rockslide last autumn (I read about it later on AllTrails) and it took us ages to find the route. First, we climbed down from an overlook trampled in a flurry of mountain lion tracks, only to be cliffed out. I had to give my sisters the classic "butt boost," which I assured them was a legitimate climbing maneuver. Finally, I zoomed in to 80-foot scale on my GPS and traced the track exactly, which was still quite cliffy and almost impossible to feel out the best footing under the snow. What had I gotten my sisters into? </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicZKfrUUCpK_IWI519lbmLzlPgSGNqjbyyBGFHtHHokDBCQap_5cZmFUhBl_kPDP6VT9SEoyh5nA0A_wHqNf9VJqg9t-Cu0m0B4N1KuwMXWHvxa9ofirD4yk6tqBru-_Xde2i1zuixPvW2QithUpdzZzxu029GA1MzfMPx_maMG0tQZqJIbQ/s3720/PXL_20230218_213743788.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2836" data-original-width="3720" height="488" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicZKfrUUCpK_IWI519lbmLzlPgSGNqjbyyBGFHtHHokDBCQap_5cZmFUhBl_kPDP6VT9SEoyh5nA0A_wHqNf9VJqg9t-Cu0m0B4N1KuwMXWHvxa9ofirD4yk6tqBru-_Xde2i1zuixPvW2QithUpdzZzxu029GA1MzfMPx_maMG0tQZqJIbQ/w640-h488/PXL_20230218_213743788.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>This. This is what the Cliff Trails becomes — a narrow scramble along rocks and mud with a cliff overhead and a precipitous dropoff below. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmo0qVOIaF3mRj6YABatlnDh4MrZU2qksMGGq88D5ePlqDTq9KKhuRmaofes_SjL-edG9eZxj443czMm_x0oV2cs2LJlrlsbH-7flxt_3nik7jNpFfIqD6_7B4t38HG5s_F4atTkMcz4Q-lW2kFKkynVQVn2akOq8vqrBicOiRLbrUftk7UQ/s4080/PXL_20230218_213939489.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmo0qVOIaF3mRj6YABatlnDh4MrZU2qksMGGq88D5ePlqDTq9KKhuRmaofes_SjL-edG9eZxj443czMm_x0oV2cs2LJlrlsbH-7flxt_3nik7jNpFfIqD6_7B4t38HG5s_F4atTkMcz4Q-lW2kFKkynVQVn2akOq8vqrBicOiRLbrUftk7UQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230218_213939489.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>Luckily, I possess the worst vertigo of anyone in my family, so my sisters weren't too bothered by the heights. And I was too focused on not sliding off a cliff to ruminate in my usual anxiety, which probably sounds strange to anyone who doesn't suffer from an anxiety disorder. I will take real terror over imaginary terror any day. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF-pvpZVJomYVs1DezDQcUqRxMyUD2dx6rzL1Ncn8YnpymIIBTOyW8ynynp7MazXrj9xHfBI9rnY9whbEpfeljozGQYTBFwqjOLQk4cnYlp_BAHB4FG62OVGkCLi1lOEpU0c3OHac4_mcJVBR812DDS1KUA3faPQ2pmVLHlFNYRrkrWkEdOg/s4080/PXL_20230218_220853572.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF-pvpZVJomYVs1DezDQcUqRxMyUD2dx6rzL1Ncn8YnpymIIBTOyW8ynynp7MazXrj9xHfBI9rnY9whbEpfeljozGQYTBFwqjOLQk4cnYlp_BAHB4FG62OVGkCLi1lOEpU0c3OHac4_mcJVBR812DDS1KUA3faPQ2pmVLHlFNYRrkrWkEdOg/w640-h482/PXL_20230218_220853572.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Mud, rocks, mud, rocks.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ZEUYBp18rzXb9sQeAPJJ1A-qFNCIkbF0tOYDlnrwRpRTJk7RlM6ilqV2crTm8T0N9ec8oIHUesU8r7gQy3hxrTQCnW6Z6nP2WzfkXKfi3qjV60t5CuKbfplxqVT6S7Eov7q0FEJy3cfnJTcNSdDj--gGBpHHsewZiMCpvSsL8Sj4rA37iw/s4080/PXL_20230218_224946303.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ZEUYBp18rzXb9sQeAPJJ1A-qFNCIkbF0tOYDlnrwRpRTJk7RlM6ilqV2crTm8T0N9ec8oIHUesU8r7gQy3hxrTQCnW6Z6nP2WzfkXKfi3qjV60t5CuKbfplxqVT6S7Eov7q0FEJy3cfnJTcNSdDj--gGBpHHsewZiMCpvSsL8Sj4rA37iw/w640-h482/PXL_20230218_224946303.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>We eventually got entirely too tired of the mud and cut over from the "city" trail into a subdivision and called our mother to pick us up. We'd spent five arduous hours walking seven miles and the sisters weren't interested in walking the road back to town, which I understand. But for me, it was a fun little adventure. I'm impressed with how well my sisters did with some of the most heinous trail conditions possible. <div><br /></div><div>"How did Dad deal with mud?" they asked me.</div><div><br /></div><div>"To be honest, I don't think Dad and I ever had to hike through a lot of mud together. It was something he generally avoided."</div><div><br /></div><div>(This is now the third absolutely heinous mud hike I've dragged my sisters on, after two in Oregon last June. I will be surprised if they agree to hike an unknown trail with me again.)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJdb34UqgaJ29Tzz2fZWuwT9_hzmY-I3roCDe5wEKxRvUmo-I6Ov7N5jTtsy0qpk-PlsY5G4g2o_0Y9jQVYyT5oJtakPGwl_z0ix_6HfglcSfj9N6R8mVlZ3Ozud8FZLkU3mhJ6iTqR-ASNU3dETWgqZZGWKHZX2876DAXJ-Hyi-MtviALww/s4080/PXL_20230219_155046191.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJdb34UqgaJ29Tzz2fZWuwT9_hzmY-I3roCDe5wEKxRvUmo-I6Ov7N5jTtsy0qpk-PlsY5G4g2o_0Y9jQVYyT5oJtakPGwl_z0ix_6HfglcSfj9N6R8mVlZ3Ozud8FZLkU3mhJ6iTqR-ASNU3dETWgqZZGWKHZX2876DAXJ-Hyi-MtviALww/w640-h482/PXL_20230219_155046191.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Ultimately it was such a nice weekend, even if it wasn't the vacation from my head I'd been hoping for. It took me weeks to write about it because I was so ashamed of my Thursday night panic and how I nearly spoiled the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for my family. Only now, in a better headspace, can I look back and acknowledge that this is part of my life experience right now. I live in the grip of a sea monster I don't understand. I don't know where it came from. I don't know why it drags me to such depths. I don't know how to vanquish it. But with help from friends, family, medication, therapy, and the simple and pure magic of walking in nature — in my personalized versions of heaven — I am learning how to live with my monster. I'm grateful. </div><div><div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div></div>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-57007279175754762962023-02-11T23:10:00.001-07:002023-02-11T23:10:55.175-07:00In this trembling moment<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjreCjD41IxdaHGwqfwijvLScEgGHGZcspKA05QylxdvQTtSv-0OahzqwPi20UNqvIHkS0xoFKgs0QZM24HCVAxv8vd1nG3SsOf0FhspTa_q_CJ4wYL_PRgo40rUM_fenlOKGZ2QwEzQDypBg-exLc7EVHpYM1w6hDMG8kG-UI5iIjYiTZ7dg/s4080/PXL_20230203_152955985.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjreCjD41IxdaHGwqfwijvLScEgGHGZcspKA05QylxdvQTtSv-0OahzqwPi20UNqvIHkS0xoFKgs0QZM24HCVAxv8vd1nG3SsOf0FhspTa_q_CJ4wYL_PRgo40rUM_fenlOKGZ2QwEzQDypBg-exLc7EVHpYM1w6hDMG8kG-UI5iIjYiTZ7dg/w640-h482/PXL_20230203_152955985.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><i>“In this trembling moment ... is it still possible to face the gathering darkness and say to the physical earth, and to all its creatures, including ourselves, fiercely and without embarrassment, I love you, and to embrace fearlessly the burning world?”</i><div style="text-align: right;">— Barry Lopez</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm still not sure what I want to do with this old blog, but I still feel compelled to check in from time to time if only to record my slow descent into madness. Friends have asked me if I'm doing better, and the truth is, I'm not. Insomnia and anxiety have been a major battle, and don't know which one leads to the other or whether it even matters. Each morning arrives after a fair to poor night of sleep, and I immediately feel overwhelmed with irrational but powerful negative emotions that I must wrestle with to get through each day. I believe I'm still succeeding on a functional level. But I am so very tired, and it's becoming harder not to, say, burst into tears during Saturday morning yoga class. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A physical comparison I could make is that it feels like I am at mile 10 of a difficult 100-mile ultramarathon and my legs are already screaming at me. I am still able to effectively say "shut up legs," but it's almost impossible to conceive how I'm going to push through this pain all the way to the end. Similarly, it's difficult to conceive how I'm going to remain fully functional through the end of this year unless I can turn things around. I don't want to be overdramatic, but this is genuinely how I feel, and I want to convey as well as I can that no, I'm not okay. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I have been working on myself. The beginning of 2023 spurred changes to my wellness routine including twice-weekly weight training and once-weekly restorative yoga (I love yoga. I'm about 6% competent but I love it and wish I could make room for more in-person classes.) I've been meeting online with a therapist who prompted me to cut my caffeine intake to one cup of coffee per day (about a third to a quarter of what I was taking in before) and do a nightly muscle relaxation exercise, which generally works better for me than sedentary meditation. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">She also encouraged me to start wearing my Garmin watch all of the time to better track my body metrics. I've only been doing this for a week, and while many metrics are not surprising (yes, I believe I'm starting each day with my body battery at 30% and yes, I would rate that sleep as "poor"), it did show a sharp drop in my oxygen saturation while I'm sleeping — sometimes as low as 83%. While I don't know how accurate this is, now I have sleep apnea or another form of sleep hypoxemia as another concern. It's another question I intend to bring to my doctor when I finally see her for all of the 15 minutes I'll probably get after waiting for an appointment for three weeks. Also on that list of questions are perimenopause, subclinical hypothyroidism, and antidepressants. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm dreading this conversation more than I can convey and almost wish I could just ask for a medically induced coma to get me through my 40s. This daydream leads to admonishing myself for wishing away my one wild and precious life. But when you can't sleep, when you really can't sleep ... there's nothing in the world you wish for more. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit5wOAR2n4yQYdZZpZIlvhVNWJdbOY33UNHMgWKGf5g_YVv5clozRhWMy7T0ZFpczfDffFHL6Pfpj_0N-fRdqernq96aPGolF6LHL1zRYyl1Rmkgoaqf1Xcikc7Vb0VtJjeg7U53j5CLlbQ8u6xVjxdqIkBtiXlKEfiTiG59GkKhQHIDWwTw/s4080/PXL_20230203_155611821.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit5wOAR2n4yQYdZZpZIlvhVNWJdbOY33UNHMgWKGf5g_YVv5clozRhWMy7T0ZFpczfDffFHL6Pfpj_0N-fRdqernq96aPGolF6LHL1zRYyl1Rmkgoaqf1Xcikc7Vb0VtJjeg7U53j5CLlbQ8u6xVjxdqIkBtiXlKEfiTiG59GkKhQHIDWwTw/w640-h482/PXL_20230203_155611821.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I have been leaning a little hard on exercise; physical activity is still the one state in which I feel mostly "normal." I'm not spending more time exercising than I was back when I was training for things, but I am already so very tired and admit that I am not fully listening to my body when it tells me I should dial back the intensity of my efforts. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A couple of weeks ago, there were rumors of stellar trail conditions in the local mountains, so I excitedly packed up my fat bike and set an early alarm. My total amount of sleep was about two hours when the alarm went off, so I turned it off and instead snoozed several hours of morning daylight away. Waking up, I was filled with loathing and dread and couldn't bear the thought of driving into the mountains. But I also needed something to cope, so I used the excuse of a hard-to-get Zwift "badge" to spend the entire day riding my bike trainer. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I logged 110 "miles" of mindless spinning. It was great. I felt a lot better. But does this sort of thing come with a price? Undoubtedly it does. But don't worry about me just yet; there aren't many days that I can find the time and energy for such exhaustive efforts. My watch still records my training status as "productive." But when another sleepless night passes into a depleted-battery morning, I'm right back where I started. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2v-N-Nf67WAR1VYq3Md3OjPi_PNSLQ64NcVVDULL1zcpZGs8bk0ZlEg_R8drQembu9iU7BOWW-i8XnQku-Xqc04nk10UAI0_fUJ1GCOy3vAf1a0PAg-2ITSsxLiUXaVJjKBAh5FX_7ZhoapnmpDrOgvxLPEACrEj8jrCwJJbrFu3Uwn4uCw/s4080/PXL_20230203_143412490.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2v-N-Nf67WAR1VYq3Md3OjPi_PNSLQ64NcVVDULL1zcpZGs8bk0ZlEg_R8drQembu9iU7BOWW-i8XnQku-Xqc04nk10UAI0_fUJ1GCOy3vAf1a0PAg-2ITSsxLiUXaVJjKBAh5FX_7ZhoapnmpDrOgvxLPEACrEj8jrCwJJbrFu3Uwn4uCw/w640-h482/PXL_20230203_143412490.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>One week later, I successfully boosted myself out the door for an excursion in Rocky Mountain National Park. Morning sunlight saturated the mountain skyline as I drove through Estes Park. Just past the park boundary, I caught a glimpse of a bald white slope speckled with blackened stumps — remnants of the 2020 East Troublesome Fire. Seeing this burn scar sent a shudder of sadness down my spine. I was deeply affected by that fire even though it didn't touch me at all. But I was paying attention on the October night when a wind-driven flare scorched 100,000 acres in fewer than 12 hours and jumped two miles of treeless tundra across the Continental Divide. Countless people assure me that wildfire is natural, but these late-fall megafires are anything but natural. There is growing evidence that Colorado's warming climate will not allow burned forests to return to their previous state — at least at mid-range altitudes. I live in the midst of hillsides that burned in 2000 — 23 years ago — where the trees haven't even begun to grow back. I'm just not a person who can cling to hope without evidence. The evidence points to a landscape that is rapidly and permanently changing. <div><br /></div><div>Stung with unexpected sadness, I continued toward Bear Lake. The gravelly voice of my anxiety whispered that this was too much and I should just turn around and go home. My stormy mind was deep in rumination when a dog darted out of the snow bank and galloped beside my car. As I slowed, the animal veered in front of me and I realized it was a coyote. What was it doing? I slowed some more to allow it to veer back into the woods, but it also slowed its pace and looked back. As I sped up again to capture this photo with my phone, it also picked up the pace but held steady on the double yellow line. We continued in this push and pull for more than a mile before the coyote veered off to the left and I was able to safely pass. Was it playing chase with my car? I'll never know, but the interaction did bring my head back to center. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6hfv3diQSR-zdF1SfYVhSf4SD60EHJixJWo-zoy06LVGZgIhYET37sUS1gYG9TI_oDaZPLg4mb9UfBOyxj9vgzMqpIIsrZ0EwO7XNtux6ee-hOPUTxKR1g2RxKRZL1Wyln7wrP_yLwBL6trRYOvS6Dyu4wLBkvLkNXTi03ZeSBu1H7o1bw/s4080/PXL_20230203_180423198.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6hfv3diQSR-zdF1SfYVhSf4SD60EHJixJWo-zoy06LVGZgIhYET37sUS1gYG9TI_oDaZPLg4mb9UfBOyxj9vgzMqpIIsrZ0EwO7XNtux6ee-hOPUTxKR1g2RxKRZL1Wyln7wrP_yLwBL6trRYOvS6Dyu4wLBkvLkNXTi03ZeSBu1H7o1bw/w640-h482/PXL_20230203_180423198.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><i>"Existential loneliness and a sense that one's life is inconsequential, both of which are hallmarks of modern civilizations, seem to me to derive in part from our abandoning a belief in the therapeutic dimensions of a relationship with place."</i></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;">— Barry Lopez</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Sometimes I feel ashamed over the depth of sadness I feel when I see a wildfire scar or images of Juneau's Mendenhall Glacier, shockingly diminished from photos I captured myself in the recent-seeming year of 2007. After all, this is the nature of things. All is impermanent, and grief only arises from our unwillingness to accept change. Still, I feel these losses as though I've lost a piece of myself. I feel it in the way I feel my own time slipping away. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Acceptance, I know, is the only path to peace, and yet it's so hard to find. But in searching for acceptance, I have come to better understand how my difficulties with my mental health are anchored in grief — for the people in my life who I have loved and lost, for myself, and for the land. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAziJeXwZqu6Ti14lm1n4n6S6WfgI3ePwDWmcmXPxxOAStG1zMt138uSs10-pWXRbL_LcGJtJz_ipWtXIoqbRe1MExVGaCMFDm0BleeYIaoWhMpo9cRr2mZX_67xgEK9Z7VdBT6XIwMXhL-kwU2eSSPhC4qjjX0SEjvqprGk8E5L-luRWGqQ/s4080/PXL_20230203_175824408.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAziJeXwZqu6Ti14lm1n4n6S6WfgI3ePwDWmcmXPxxOAStG1zMt138uSs10-pWXRbL_LcGJtJz_ipWtXIoqbRe1MExVGaCMFDm0BleeYIaoWhMpo9cRr2mZX_67xgEK9Z7VdBT6XIwMXhL-kwU2eSSPhC4qjjX0SEjvqprGk8E5L-luRWGqQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230203_175824408.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I stepped out of my car into the hard wind that nearly always rakes these canyons on the sharp edge of the Continental Divide. The wind is such a constant that even lake ice freezes in a rippled pattern. It's such a constant that if you spent all of your time here, you'd eventually stop noticing the wind. It would become its own comfort, and calm would feel eerie and strange. I sometimes wonder — if I had to choose a single, small place to spend the rest of my life, where that might be. I fall in love with nearly every place I visit, so it seems impossible to choose, but Rocky Mountain National Park might be near the top of the list. It — like any place really — could offer a lifetime of exploring and still yield countless discoveries. The weather is fearsome year-round, the terrain steep and frightening, and it's difficult to imagine ever feeling fully comfortable here. And yet if all I had was time, I can imagine becoming burned into this land. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I strapped on snowshoes and started an audiobook. I had just finished "Arctic Dreams" by Barry Lopez, which I first read as a college freshman and remembered loving. The landscape, culture, and history of the Arctic were so alien to me at the time. Lopez's observations were enthralling. I wondered how I'd feel about the book as a jaded adult who had forged my own impressions of the Far North. I still loved the lyrical prose, but the book did leave me feeling more sad than enthralled. Perhaps it's just my current mental state, but there's also an element of "Arctic Dreams" — published in 1986 — that reads as a eulogy to a time and place already gone. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Still, I enjoyed listening to "Arctic Dreams," so I purchased another book of essays by Lopez, published posthumously last year — "Embrace Fearlessly the Burning World." The title alone told me exactly what I wanted to hear, so I looked forward to diving in. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuMiM1bH1wMWpr54UKLch1qVmdtwEeUb9zWeaMNXxxYluGi3AJiYDVgvxQXb_LI2l-gx093CEYnClBfWEwkIqZHlJr86Je13qTsSM8orgGdPzB-QjrexqBh-g8Cr-3cAs8y9Pgj18wOpl4yyrZV5hdIEL2flYdBjacSdItQen8UFG00Uod8Q/s4080/PXL_20230203_184133773.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuMiM1bH1wMWpr54UKLch1qVmdtwEeUb9zWeaMNXxxYluGi3AJiYDVgvxQXb_LI2l-gx093CEYnClBfWEwkIqZHlJr86Je13qTsSM8orgGdPzB-QjrexqBh-g8Cr-3cAs8y9Pgj18wOpl4yyrZV5hdIEL2flYdBjacSdItQen8UFG00Uod8Q/w640-h482/PXL_20230203_184133773.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"Evidence of the failure to love is everywhere around us. To contemplate what it is to love today brings us up against reefs of darkness and walls of despair. If we are to manage the havoc — ocean acidification, corporate malfeasance and government corruption, endless war — we have to reimagine what it means to live lives that matter, or we will only continue to push on with the unwarranted hope that things will work out."</i></div><div style="text-align: right;">— Barry Lopez</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Life is easy when I am walking. Even when a cold wind sweeps down the mountainside, even when my snowshoe-laden feet bog down in stiff powder, even when hours pass and I run low on water and need to sprawl atop a precarious snowbank to dip my bottle beneath the ice of a swirling creek. All I had to do on this Friday was walk, listen to Lopez's soothing words, and believe they were written for me — a person who is trembling beneath the weight of life's uncertainties, who already feels crushed by grief while knowing so much more lies ahead, who can't take comfort in unwarranted hope. Lopez knew he was dying from prostate cancer when he wrote several of the essays in this book. The Covid-19 pandemic was already underway and the landscapes he explored in "Arctic Dreams" already drastically altered by climate change. His words read as those of a wisened elder exiting a breaking world — but also an optimist who is straining with all of his remaining energy to find the light shining through the cracks. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">While punching a trail toward a hanging lake called Sky Pond, I ventured too far up a steep slope and realized later than ideal that this was not a good idea. I had resolved not to hike into potential avalanche terrain or any slope that would require crampons and an ice ax. This was just such a slope. Normally my fear response would alert me sooner, but I am not receiving my usual signals right now. Feeling afraid of everything also means, in a way, I am afraid of nothing. Dangers and non-dangers alike fire the same synapses. Suddenly aware and humbled, I carefully picked my way back down the slope. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsUBNgE9dRV3TA8wSqb03IyD1fovyQCbeBD2hdoBkcEMY2O97mcJ4lpe3-P03VOl_TE27si95RGEDwaGG2GICc4C_XWMvZ5OFwSP31tT4oEmgd-bw7LWUXL6J9bT3rDPf59jnT6Dfh_cPnJCNS-yfp9uxr1jcdqTIVk2PgYKpyNrzJhTiOyw/s3648/PXL_20230203_202456066.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsUBNgE9dRV3TA8wSqb03IyD1fovyQCbeBD2hdoBkcEMY2O97mcJ4lpe3-P03VOl_TE27si95RGEDwaGG2GICc4C_XWMvZ5OFwSP31tT4oEmgd-bw7LWUXL6J9bT3rDPf59jnT6Dfh_cPnJCNS-yfp9uxr1jcdqTIVk2PgYKpyNrzJhTiOyw/w640-h480/PXL_20230203_202456066.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><i>"To survive what's headed our way — global climate disruption, a new pandemic, additional authoritarian governments — and to endure, we will have to stretch our imaginations. We will need to trust each other, because today, it's as if every safe place has melted into the sameness of water. We are searching for the boats we forgot to build."</i></div><div style="text-align: right;">— Barry Lopez</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As real fatigue set in, my ability to concentrate flagged so I switched off the audiobook player. The roar of the wind returned — at first jarring, but soon it too faded to white noise.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"We can become accustomed to anything," I thought. "I need to keep that in mind." </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I descended the gorge below Loch Vale and veered up Glacier Gorge proper to tag Mills Lake and Black Lake. His Majesty, Longs Peak, loomed overhead. I find great comfort in mountains — visible reminders of what will remain long after our human machinations have flared and faded. But mountains are not eternal; even they are constantly changing. In a paradoxical way, I take comfort in this too. Everything is impermanent, forever in flux. This is the way of things, and that's okay.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkWAfuw51zvlglJkrge3PS5fiuK2wtfBbG29fMdI3EPTI-4b1MbTJMMvbsO6yDASEgKPo2KkOllbigRwn8OeMUJykzTnzCguNhNfXvNtFqTMSfrU_IeDgt4OmHEIiPMubwGjBfyWjD0xviPWgNWxqwXrKnkdUKRd2mmNyFyS5fP4IfHvoKtQ/s4080/PXL_20230210_171546617.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkWAfuw51zvlglJkrge3PS5fiuK2wtfBbG29fMdI3EPTI-4b1MbTJMMvbsO6yDASEgKPo2KkOllbigRwn8OeMUJykzTnzCguNhNfXvNtFqTMSfrU_IeDgt4OmHEIiPMubwGjBfyWjD0xviPWgNWxqwXrKnkdUKRd2mmNyFyS5fP4IfHvoKtQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230210_171546617.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><i>“The central project of my adult life as a writer is to know and love what we have been given, and to urge others to do the same.</i>”</div><div style="text-align: right;">— Barry Lopez</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I put Lopez's book away for another week of busyness and anxiety, but Friday rolled around and I again craved his gentle urging to pay attention and respect the places I love, which are all of the places. The forecast also called for a clear day with mild temperatures and light winds, which inspired me to finally take my fat bike for that ride I couldn't get out of bed for two weeks earlier. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv7vFpr_7X3G-zguLWTNmmiqmsV3OglnBpkj0WK7bIV-_7IX4HFJUdCYYX9fvHk_vUfgWAJjvht5P0jI3mFRLw_LN5sT9mBckgEIdFjYOkmXchpBawFsx-9Sdpq1VuvkhA3jmBy19Bq1gcZdWWP-eqW2HnauIaeBOaoUa2etqAZL0TITKSYw/s4080/PXL_20230210_182854514.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv7vFpr_7X3G-zguLWTNmmiqmsV3OglnBpkj0WK7bIV-_7IX4HFJUdCYYX9fvHk_vUfgWAJjvht5P0jI3mFRLw_LN5sT9mBckgEIdFjYOkmXchpBawFsx-9Sdpq1VuvkhA3jmBy19Bq1gcZdWWP-eqW2HnauIaeBOaoUa2etqAZL0TITKSYw/w640-h482/PXL_20230210_182854514.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">While gorgeous and fun, riding a fat bike around the trails at Brainard Lake and Peaceful Valley is an endeavor I can muster the mental energy for only once or twice a year. Nothing comes for free here, absolutely nothing. The trails are ungroomed, ski-packed, narrow, and technical. Roots and rocks will catch you unaware in wind-scoured open areas. In the woods, a shimmy of the handlebars might leave you neck-deep in a tree well. I accepted long ago that I'm not a "mountain biker." I far prefer grinding the pedals on a mindless gravel climb over wrestling with my bike along a technical descent. Still, I do enjoy this activity in small doses. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Brainard was a somewhat odd choice to make when I am battling so much brain fog and desperate to avoid stress. Still, I took advantage of the relative fearlessness of flatlined anxiety to rally for the twisting descent of South St. Vrain. A jolt of electricity buzzed in my veins. Is this adrenaline? Joy? It feels like it has been so long. I was beginning to worry I'd lost the capacity for such highs. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOaELTifKzEYB7O2Dm303XFhHe1nfOaRo7wjS02ZJQ3BEk-S4BVC5MPdZmgErMfoDk5w5KvnE7tG1RtsT0ZdayIyIB04JIxUMCHTLGYUfZXHbBrDxXJgGCwFKY5aMQSQLrB0nkoPkQ9Shw9QJSfj7-J1WQmuf_U97Y-MYPam0BIC5yeM6Erg/s4080/PXL_20230210_203048411.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOaELTifKzEYB7O2Dm303XFhHe1nfOaRo7wjS02ZJQ3BEk-S4BVC5MPdZmgErMfoDk5w5KvnE7tG1RtsT0ZdayIyIB04JIxUMCHTLGYUfZXHbBrDxXJgGCwFKY5aMQSQLrB0nkoPkQ9Shw9QJSfj7-J1WQmuf_U97Y-MYPam0BIC5yeM6Erg/w640-h482/PXL_20230210_203048411.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The exhilerating descent and unfathomably blue day inspired another long climb to the edge of the wilderness boundary at Coney Flats. Really, it's only 1,500 feet of climbing in five miles, which my Zwift-addled brain tells me should take about 30 minutes. The reality of riding atop barely consolidated, narrow snow with < 3 psi in each tire was more than two hours, and I was expending far more calories than I realized. Despite temperatures near freezing with an afternoon breeze spiking to 20 mph, I had stripped to my base layer and was still dripping sweat onto my pogies. I loved losing myself in this demanding climb, but all things have their price. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-iotRLpGJhu9P8RVHOZgE6pOtdvIM1DRt2z9QaygGgZWW6Rxd78olg3WKO5JRsInZo56RedHEaJNanQ4PaZuFfCJjiOGOOFI8T78eTnvzdqg6BkaYyX8MCywmibXMOuTB_xnHFANBiWD38cYIWsYS42YtOtCdskU1lM1FfSj2DLPGnM9KyQ/s4080/PXL_20230210_222131666.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-iotRLpGJhu9P8RVHOZgE6pOtdvIM1DRt2z9QaygGgZWW6Rxd78olg3WKO5JRsInZo56RedHEaJNanQ4PaZuFfCJjiOGOOFI8T78eTnvzdqg6BkaYyX8MCywmibXMOuTB_xnHFANBiWD38cYIWsYS42YtOtCdskU1lM1FfSj2DLPGnM9KyQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230210_222131666.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>“Perhaps the first rule of everything we endeavor to do is to pay attention.”</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><i>— Barry Lopez</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The fat bike made fast work of the descent, and then it was time to climb back to Brainard on the Sourdough Trail. A mere 1,000 feet of climbing in seven miles. Easy peasy. So imagine my confusion when, after a brief descent about two miles into the climb, I began to feel disoriented, dizzy, and nauseated. I stopped pedaling and took a few sips of water, but the woods continued spinning. What ... is happening? Is this a bonk? An actual bonk? It's been so long since this happened. Admittedly my base of endurance runs so deep that I didn't even think it was possible for me to truly bonk anymore — my central governor is very reliable and my body knows where to find the energy. But here I was, five miles from my car, utterly out of gas. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I was too nauseated to eat much, but I did have energy chews in my frame bag and I was able to get most of them down. Still, the damage was done. I stumbled along dizzily, pressed against my bike as though this reasonably graded trail was a sheer wall. I took long breaks to gasp for air. I drank the rest of my water. Nothing was working. After several hours that my GPS told me was in reality just one mile, I threw both body and bike into the snow like the overtired toddler I had become and indulged in an absolute meltdown.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Yelling, swearing, crying. The works. But I got it all out and afterward, I felt an odd, peaceful sort of clarity. The day's light had grown rich, the shadows long. Was it already late afternoon? Was this 24-mile ride really going to take seven hours? Yes, yes it was. And I still had a long way to go. Four miles. An eternity. But that's okay. As in all things, we keep pushing forward because there's no other choice. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had long since turned off my audiobook when it became apparent that I needed all of my bandwidth to focus on the trail. But now that I was walking at a very slow pace, I took Lopez's advice to pay attention. I looked for tracks in the snow — rabbit and what appeared to be a fox or perhaps a bobcat. I listened to gusts of wind, rippling through the forest like sharp exhalations. I studied needles still holding onto flecks of snow despite days of wind and sun. This place is so very beautiful, and I was so lucky to be there, right there, experiencing this burst of life between dust and fire.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Just months before his death, Lopez watched as 170,000 acres of the land where he lived for half a century burned in The McKenzie Fire in Oregon.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"<i>The land around us as far as we can see looks flayed,</i>" he wrote in a Facebook post on Nov. 5, 2020. "<i>For 10 miles in both directions along the river from us, all that stands where a whole community once lived are bare chimneys. The devastation for some is catastrophic and irreparabl</i>e."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was the last post to appear on his public page.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtD6XFeqibln4UBO0pK-8wI74-qeBtKJjtzVopRgdFn4SMYYTTLWI6M5Xok-qWA7Ck9O56Q9WbkbWrWzjM7TmW0CpYrwF6fsxmNhjYt2MtQxR4_hV0y1YTu2EnKDtfYAaWGvkKMkzlUf9dkSxKaAvYprFFoSRnF-WAxs0hOX29ttgnAz29kQ/s4080/PXL_20230203_221152806.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtD6XFeqibln4UBO0pK-8wI74-qeBtKJjtzVopRgdFn4SMYYTTLWI6M5Xok-qWA7Ck9O56Q9WbkbWrWzjM7TmW0CpYrwF6fsxmNhjYt2MtQxR4_hV0y1YTu2EnKDtfYAaWGvkKMkzlUf9dkSxKaAvYprFFoSRnF-WAxs0hOX29ttgnAz29kQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230203_221152806.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><i> "It is more important to live for the possibilities that lie ahead than to die in despair over what has been lost."</i><div style="text-align: right;">— Barry Lopez, 1945-2020</div>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-56205133250741238092023-01-16T22:47:00.000-07:002023-01-16T22:47:26.311-07:00When we cease to have nice things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH8qTd83TO-fTBJQt_DUMsaqLV8jWca9Y7LP-Lz_MyN36_utxEN1YpYZVU8lHL5X3ywebF2TWAGPtCCscrtR2yWbhycmqXLlueo1TFcRieQ77zAYdLU1iExtHgkNRyyk5v7_KxnRO1XyGNTmC2AypabuJ1eGlT72IMTpWGJJQxY_Xi9uEVnw/s4080/PXL_20230103_230432209.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH8qTd83TO-fTBJQt_DUMsaqLV8jWca9Y7LP-Lz_MyN36_utxEN1YpYZVU8lHL5X3ywebF2TWAGPtCCscrtR2yWbhycmqXLlueo1TFcRieQ77zAYdLU1iExtHgkNRyyk5v7_KxnRO1XyGNTmC2AypabuJ1eGlT72IMTpWGJJQxY_Xi9uEVnw/w640-h482/PXL_20230103_230432209.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Winter Solstice dealt a hard moment of self-awareness: I have a stunning lack of resilience. </div><div><br /></div><div>For two decades I’ve cultivated toughness, but toughness and resilience are not the same. In the past, I would have defined their differences as subtle, but now I see that they are stark. What helped me realize this was losing the tough thing I’d planned to do over the holidays and falling apart because I lacked the resilience to let go. </div><div><br /></div><div>Winter Solstice was the day we were set to leave for Alaska. Amid my mental health struggles in October and November, I clung to comforting daydreams about dragging my sled through the frozen stillness, with a silence so clear and deep that one can hear the faint wing beats of nearby chickadees. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of these tiny birds foraging through the snow — the only animal moving when it’s 40 below. When I see a chickadee, I’m always struck with reverence … and envy. What a life, to remain in constant motion just to survive. They forage all day and shiver all night. In the face of slim odds, they thrive. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJHPG7JXsKQaDxNvAiHY1BUC481Ri7hkcdtdhu38kNLKvKjxUFI8muhqyMgWUBwjo9H9gz0xVb_EwJSslEe3gvqiW9NU1edBoTqoe2BQqGKD_YuRZDU24IxqABmjosn682aoI47kA0tkCI1lxShlPj7OIO9XeWo9ZZYvlPXVpUtKLHrPDtiQ/s4080/PXL_20230103_152153462.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJHPG7JXsKQaDxNvAiHY1BUC481Ri7hkcdtdhu38kNLKvKjxUFI8muhqyMgWUBwjo9H9gz0xVb_EwJSslEe3gvqiW9NU1edBoTqoe2BQqGKD_YuRZDU24IxqABmjosn682aoI47kA0tkCI1lxShlPj7OIO9XeWo9ZZYvlPXVpUtKLHrPDtiQ/w640-h482/PXL_20230103_152153462.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>As the trip drew closer and the forecast called for colder and windier conditions, I only grew more excited. There was a good chance it was going to be 30 below with 25 mph winds. In such weather, the most any animal can achieve is to survive. Out there, all of my midlife crisis bullshit wouldn’t matter. I wouldn't have to endure my regular life of slogging through day after tedious day with a growing base of self-loathing and fading convictions about passions and purpose. Out in the roaring white silence, I would simply be a warm animal, one whose only job was to stay warm. I would wrap my body in a shield of its own heat and work hard to keep the furnace burning. I wouldn’t do this because I am tough; I would do it because I am soft and frightened. I am too tired for the life of a human being; I would like to be a black-capped chickadee. </div><div><br /></div><div> Just a couple of hours before we were set to leave, Beat called out that Alaska Air had canceled our flight. You may remember the Arctic Blast that hit most of the Lower 48 just before Christmas. Seattle was buried in several inches of snow. The cold air was barreling toward Denver. There wasn’t another flight available for three days. We’d have to cancel our first cabin trip, and did we really want to battle backed-up air travel on Christmas Eve? What if our return trip was equally affected? Conceding to the nightmare that travel has become in recent years, we canceled the entire trip. </div><div><br /></div><div>“Doesn’t it seem like, since 2020, we can no longer have nice things?” I lamented to a friend. </div><div><br /></div><div>And yes, I realize that I have many, many nice things in my life. This is what I mean about lacking resilience. A resilient person would say, okay, we’ll postpone the trip and make the most of this vacation time we already scheduled. It’s Christmas! Let’s spend time with family. I said all of these things out loud, but the unmanageable part of my brain that controls my emotions was despondent. The mental house of cards that I’d so carefully reconstructed in recent weeks collapsed. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeXCDO5hHCu45L6LvcUtZXuZziUlkDUC0VxS6lXBY0j5MpNOwErvFKk7I2OE94Qr0MwHfzqGkwB2J03MKKflGuJ1fY4avL8FLgopBxlqKChENint0Sxhwwezw3pogQcqBsngjrbKG7cMLVaxlO5yYsahkeEtTXLeXrjzoYCt4lvchUBSSC6g/s4080/PXL_20221222_223327140.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeXCDO5hHCu45L6LvcUtZXuZziUlkDUC0VxS6lXBY0j5MpNOwErvFKk7I2OE94Qr0MwHfzqGkwB2J03MKKflGuJ1fY4avL8FLgopBxlqKChENint0Sxhwwezw3pogQcqBsngjrbKG7cMLVaxlO5yYsahkeEtTXLeXrjzoYCt4lvchUBSSC6g/w640-h482/PXL_20221222_223327140.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>My reaction was so strange. It’s not as though what I’d lost was all that important or irreplaceable. Intellectually I knew this, but my still mind plunged into a pit of unfocused grief. The brain fog was pronounced. Time contracted and expanded. Little made sense. Where am I? What day is this? Why am I pushing a cart through Safeway? Oh yes, we now need provisions for our empty fridge. The grocery store was overcrowded with shoppers in a pre-Christmas, pre-Arctic Blast frenzy. As I reached for an apple, a lady who had been blocking the narrow produce aisle for seeming hours turned and screamed at me, full-on screamed, to wait my turn. Did I time-travel back to March 2020? What year is this? I rushed to the checkout line with only half of the items I’d planned to buy and then rushed to my car while gulping down sobs. What is wrong with me? Am I actually losing my mind? </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq0aznUtXV5eiVQ50-cH_rjvz7biOZcTtk5UPt7fYMCT8LgeL0cWue2I8BB4ITDItgZFvPSZDmsYCQxWwGEGbLQQirZDnHGrnD0949oBkZslEuCmOk7_6hfxJpXuw9IUvum3Z1k67lWNXAJFNlxXiYAlMTslWNApRV5HJFlSVDdqctQy34lw/s4080/PXL_20221222_223515455.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq0aznUtXV5eiVQ50-cH_rjvz7biOZcTtk5UPt7fYMCT8LgeL0cWue2I8BB4ITDItgZFvPSZDmsYCQxWwGEGbLQQirZDnHGrnD0949oBkZslEuCmOk7_6hfxJpXuw9IUvum3Z1k67lWNXAJFNlxXiYAlMTslWNApRV5HJFlSVDdqctQy34lw/w640-h482/PXL_20221222_223515455.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>The next few days did little to temper my fear that, actually, I might be losing my mind. The Arctic Blast arrived early on Dec. 22. The temperature at our house plunged to 23 below zero — by far the coldest we’ve seen in seven years in Colorado. I pulled the Alaska layers out of my suitcase and trudged two miles to South Boulder Creek, to what I’ve come to think of as my “mental health bench." I go there when I need to just cope; it's a lovely place to sit and listen to water flow effortlessly by. Only the water doesn’t flow so effortlessly at 10 below. The trickle under a thick layer of ice wasn’t audible. It was too cold to sit on the bench for long. It wasn’t Alaska, and it wasn't the same, it just wasn’t the same. </div><div><br /></div><div>Early the following morning, I left to drive to Utah. It was still 10 below and roads were snow-packed and icy. In spite of this, I-70 flowed surprisingly well. Brain fog softened my usual driving anxiety. But in more ways, the stupor was upsetting. For example, I managed to leave home without my laptop, which I needed for work. But I did bring my mountain bike, which — for a trip to snowbound Salt Lake City in late December — wasn’t all that practical. Several times I wavered on the edge of awareness while admonishing myself to pay attention to the road. </div><div><br /></div><div>“Maybe I should not be driving.”</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxF2v6NVf0lui3JMYRZFnUjUDAQXukheepDGhirih50YUaRB_nO4Y09CqRjJwmo-BaZygeMCrwy8iD7Ss5yIw433u0jRT8OtZRKyziI93zMzpbClGYnIJUF08qQ5NclM78yCqy-VUI5AADMluWTTza31Vw7jF7CcS-5LMMdZD6bXlFLN_hyA/s3648/PXL_20221223_201638756%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxF2v6NVf0lui3JMYRZFnUjUDAQXukheepDGhirih50YUaRB_nO4Y09CqRjJwmo-BaZygeMCrwy8iD7Ss5yIw433u0jRT8OtZRKyziI93zMzpbClGYnIJUF08qQ5NclM78yCqy-VUI5AADMluWTTza31Vw7jF7CcS-5LMMdZD6bXlFLN_hyA/w640-h480/PXL_20221223_201638756%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>I needed a break. Since I had the mountain bike, I decided to pull off the highway into an empty expanse of desert just west of the state line. My plan was to ride whatever random road headed north toward the Book Cliffs. There wasn’t an obvious place to pull my car off the narrow dirt road, so I kept driving — back and forth, back and forth. Without even realizing it, a full 45 minutes passed. I looked down at the clock and thought, “Wait? It’s already 11:54? Wasn’t it 11:10 just five minutes ago?”</div><div><br /></div><div>This realization was, honestly, terrifying. Where was my mind? I immediately veered into a random strip of sand parallel to the road and pulled the bike out of the car. Having not exactly planned the ride, I didn’t have the best provisions in my backpack — just a light jacket, some water, and a few other items. Temperatures were no longer in the Arctic Blast danger cold range, but they were in the 20s. A stiff breeze blew from the west. I began pedaling toward the “Harley Dome Road” I’d pinpointed on the car’s navigation map and was now looking for on my Garmin. I was surprised to discover the junction was a full three miles from the point where I’d parked my car. How did I end up so far away? Where was my mind? Am I safe? Should I really just be riding alone into this remote and icy desert? At least I’d turned on my tracker so Beat would know where to locate my frozen body if it came to that. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuQDktvt1_cgKU074SseSILjRwEeUq0F8VDqPJCVD4lzo6CM9JfNffB0xarFohIELe1J2XSFeBmCmCd0rf-D4vl0zy3CDgmZP9G333iMS43ZFUnP-cPn9H6yKom0cmRAt3Ue69rxDznQLzksi_K8THcmx1s2P4F5gyAi5-QpHj937inx8HvA/s4080/PXL_20221223_203749829.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuQDktvt1_cgKU074SseSILjRwEeUq0F8VDqPJCVD4lzo6CM9JfNffB0xarFohIELe1J2XSFeBmCmCd0rf-D4vl0zy3CDgmZP9G333iMS43ZFUnP-cPn9H6yKom0cmRAt3Ue69rxDznQLzksi_K8THcmx1s2P4F5gyAi5-QpHj937inx8HvA/w640-h482/PXL_20221223_203749829.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>The west wind needled through thin tights into the soft flesh of my thighs. I wished for shell pants and a warmer pair of mittens. Why didn’t I bring those? It is winter. Should I turn around? I felt weirdly terrified and yet incapable of making decisions. Similar to when I was driving aimlessly while searching for a “parking space,” my awareness of the present pulsed and flickered. Time contracted and expanded. I just kept pedaling north as emotions gurgled to the surface. Tears began to flow. I was so scared. Why was I so scared? The only thing I could think to do was send a plea to the universe — to my dad — for help. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Please, please, help me,” I whimpered to the wind. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl6HWpU3yj0jL8j5oqZgp2UdbuygfzCIgGAuAvBMQOAhP5EsrMMswikqSWaZkXFQnv1xdFf22zc2oZJuQ-8zaH_2H8pVM_B9ePv8wTIKZCdvhX_jkbP8iil7NKf7SYZZxfFz_D729-DfhIPpB5cK4oSV6juzjfd4HP-lJbBpJ8pJisdwVwvA/s4080/PXL_20221223_205229484.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl6HWpU3yj0jL8j5oqZgp2UdbuygfzCIgGAuAvBMQOAhP5EsrMMswikqSWaZkXFQnv1xdFf22zc2oZJuQ-8zaH_2H8pVM_B9ePv8wTIKZCdvhX_jkbP8iil7NKf7SYZZxfFz_D729-DfhIPpB5cK4oSV6juzjfd4HP-lJbBpJ8pJisdwVwvA/w640-h482/PXL_20221223_205229484.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elk!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>As I cried, I heard a high-pitched whine, punctuated by wind gusts. The sound wasn’t unlike the “dee dee dee” song of a chickadee. I jerked my head around. There was nothing for miles but sand and sage. Confused, I looked up. Directly over me, not more than 100 feet off the ground, was a small red airplane that I hadn’t noticed before. It had approached from the east where headwinds masked the sound. As the plane passed overhead, the pilot tipped one wing toward me — that unmistakable friendly maneuver. I waved back in awe. Where did this airplane even come from? We weren’t all that far from airstrips in Fruita or Moab, but in my fragile mental state, I felt like a marooned astronaut on Mars interacting with a spacecraft from Earth. </div><div><br /></div><div> “Dad loved flying over the desert in small planes,” I thought. This image filled me with intense relief and joy. It doesn’t really matter what I believe about spirits or an afterlife; just telling myself this story helped me feel immediately better. Buoyed away from my slow-rolling panic attack, I continued pedaling north with purpose. </div><div><br /></div><div> The bike ride didn’t cure me, though. Not by a long shot. I continued to make inexplicable choices. In a fluster of frustration after learning I’d forgotten my laptop, I didn’t end up buying anything for breakfast in Colorado and neglected to eat during my 32-mile ride in eastern Utah. Suddenly it was 5 p.m. and I felt alarmingly dizzy while driving down Spanish Fork Canyon. Just a half hour from my mom’s house, I pulled into an overwhelmingly crowded shopping center to buy a Subway sandwich. After ordering, I tried to ask for a napkin but forgot the word for napkin. It didn’t come to me in time. I finally just mumbled “never mind” and walked out the door in a fluster of shame. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPDiJJva7zD--ri8bQVoZ0XwMfEG30ASusGz_ykdw1hBYgrCcXDLi-d8_DEQkVmBcqmcN1AqM8nSCxlI_pbcBKEOm85juFmRSpf-zWlKBlV-pPEP8IK9yWrK8VPBB6m8oeG0rcGLKUCPYx9DJnRn3hkTJPgmaDTHKJFkReQGGPV4Lqkf62ZQ/s4080/PXL_20221225_053136085.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPDiJJva7zD--ri8bQVoZ0XwMfEG30ASusGz_ykdw1hBYgrCcXDLi-d8_DEQkVmBcqmcN1AqM8nSCxlI_pbcBKEOm85juFmRSpf-zWlKBlV-pPEP8IK9yWrK8VPBB6m8oeG0rcGLKUCPYx9DJnRn3hkTJPgmaDTHKJFkReQGGPV4Lqkf62ZQ/w640-h482/PXL_20221225_053136085.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What I wouldn't give for this sort of focus.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Christmas with my family was good but hard. Holidays are hard. My mom wasn’t in a great place to celebrate, and I don’t blame her. My sister whipped up a fantastic fondue dinner. It was fun to be around the excitement of four children on Christmas Eve. We stayed up past midnight completing a puzzle; I mostly just stared off into space while my mom and sister furiously worked. My sister put me up in my 4-year-old nephew’s room, a warm and dark space with a miniature bed and a Jesus night light. There I collapsed into my best sleep in weeks, before or since. I slept through Christmas morning, which I regret, but also … I needed that sleep. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgH6-kPzHdAnqxZBdx1nL0zTkTY-SZWZIvPVpZTaCg6HJL6c-jGqSr72qr7zwFDCpdCdbbY_tNYUE6il-YGuO_LAgY-OwiVCQXIiRD3jdVvb-mmQhYbP_0x4gC8WY9Ry_GRpE7bq8SlKYTuiVjY2tZaYVMbcCmQISFexB0DLb50I1AZMxT2Q/s3648/PXL_20221226_202338615.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgH6-kPzHdAnqxZBdx1nL0zTkTY-SZWZIvPVpZTaCg6HJL6c-jGqSr72qr7zwFDCpdCdbbY_tNYUE6il-YGuO_LAgY-OwiVCQXIiRD3jdVvb-mmQhYbP_0x4gC8WY9Ry_GRpE7bq8SlKYTuiVjY2tZaYVMbcCmQISFexB0DLb50I1AZMxT2Q/w640-h480/PXL_20221226_202338615.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My sister and I did hike to the top of Grandeur Peak on Dec. 26, which was really nice.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>The sleep didn’t cure me, though. Not by a long shot. I realize weeks have passed since Christmas and I am still struggling. I have been taking steps to address my tenuous mental state. I reached out to a telehealth counselor and scheduled my first sessions (I had been holding out for a local therapist that I could visit in person, but it has become clear that no one is available now or anytime soon.) I joined a gym so I can work on my mind-body connection through strength training and yoga. I make time for at least some meditation and stretching during the day. I’m open to trying new things. I need to try new things.</div><div><br /></div><div>Specifically, I need to work on building my resilience. I need better ways to weather life’s disappointments and losses. I need to let go of my reliance on novelty and excitement. I need to move away from using physical exhaustion as my best coping mechanism, and embrace more sustainable practices — gratitude, presence, and acceptance. I can’t bear to exist in a universe that has no purpose or meaning; the only way to muffle the siren call of nihilism is to create purpose and meaning for myself. </div><div><br /></div><div> I don’t know what that is. If it were easy it would be … endurance racing. But this is life. There’s no straightforward beginning or end, no immutable achievements or consequence-free failures. It’s challenging and bewildering and painful and there’s no reward in the end … just an end. It’s accepting that the little joys are enough. It’s realizing that life is incredible and life is enough. I still have a long way to go to get there. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj874N0vGt5DTnupUGrBUiUK181jELU1I2f949PL-H4HIX2DP5U0o3-YVa3KAxAzbYOwdyjNZPoSgNwLd4riVo9LHEsIR4CrojzrnG60_-1cW7pHjL3Fff3vjQQ9eJudmsbYEkciOa-dWvhy6ZhBJ2iLQCFZ6Uq2liVYNQT2yQ250ZmZjIXrw/s4080/PXL_20221229_150156692.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj874N0vGt5DTnupUGrBUiUK181jELU1I2f949PL-H4HIX2DP5U0o3-YVa3KAxAzbYOwdyjNZPoSgNwLd4riVo9LHEsIR4CrojzrnG60_-1cW7pHjL3Fff3vjQQ9eJudmsbYEkciOa-dWvhy6ZhBJ2iLQCFZ6Uq2liVYNQT2yQ250ZmZjIXrw/w640-h482/PXL_20221229_150156692.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>I see why I imagine myself as a tiny bird, my dad as a tiny plane, bound to everything and nothing, soaring through the sky. It’s something beyond life to take comfort in. Sometimes it feels like the comforting things I once took for granted have gone away. I can imagine the perfect silence in Alaska but I can no longer rely on an airline to take me there. I can visit my family in Utah but can’t avoid an anxiety meltdown when I-70 closures trap me in standstill traffic. I can cultivate gratitude for the present but can't muster faith in a better future. I can resolve to fix my life but no longer trust my brain. I can’t even trust my brain to remember the word for napkin. I can ask my dad for help, but …</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWKl1odNPYRC8KB61z5j_YxL9WWk32OdnaM9-uAIxgUhm3EuM_c2cbLr-m00aVJSv1mmmCzOkzF0cmJpzQbWH0ZPc6Hl7A2eGh7PdrBI82RZpmNivkKEd-Zg2P7pbtsQfk-lKJHMkYOqSavRYsJLI-c8vyCOhu7gUiuPvFAfKbmbT0oov8Zw/s4080/PXL_20230113_201909678.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWKl1odNPYRC8KB61z5j_YxL9WWk32OdnaM9-uAIxgUhm3EuM_c2cbLr-m00aVJSv1mmmCzOkzF0cmJpzQbWH0ZPc6Hl7A2eGh7PdrBI82RZpmNivkKEd-Zg2P7pbtsQfk-lKJHMkYOqSavRYsJLI-c8vyCOhu7gUiuPvFAfKbmbT0oov8Zw/w640-h482/PXL_20230113_201909678.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>My dad’s birthday was Friday the 13th. He would have turned 70 years old. I was having a really hard day. I barely slept. My anxiety had spiked to the point that morning dread made it almost impossible to get out of bed. But I needed to get my monthly allergy shot. I hate allergy shot day. The shots make me feel lousy on my best days. I usually try to self-soothe with something. On this day, a hike seemed appropriate. </div><div><br /></div><div> I pulled up to the tiny Cragmoor trailhead and stepped into a blaze of sunshine. It had been overcast for much of the morning, but the sun emerged nearly in line with the strike of noon. It was 54 degrees. Despite days of melting heat, the trail was still a friendly mixture of dry dirt along the mesa and packed snow in Fern Canyon. The type of conditions where one can strap microspikes to their shoes and fly. But I felt too heavy and sad to fly. I tried to focus on my favorite memories but found myself mostly just missing my dad. </div><div><br /></div><div>For a while my brain shut down as I trudged upward through the woods — slogging is my best coping mechanism. Suddenly I emerged in the sunlight on top of Bear Peak. There wasn’t a breath of wind. It was so warm. Dad would have loved this January day. The sound of his laugh came to me: A visceral memory from the evening Beat and I were married on Bear Peak in September 2020. Dad was dealing with a painful back injury for which he had surgery just two weeks later. I didn’t know the extent of his pain because I hadn’t seen him in nearly a year. He could barely walk. But he pulled himself all the way up this mountain just for me, so I could have the mountaintop wedding I’d dreamed of. He never showed a hint of pain … just an abundance of happiness. The memory of his smile evoked a sense of peace I hadn’t felt since that little plane over Harley Dome.</div><div><br /></div><div>Two hours later, a nurse injected my arms with poisons I have been intentionally taking for more than six years. I sat in the waiting room for the mandatory half-hour it takes to ensure I wasn’t going to lapse into anaphylactic shock. While dizzying serum coursed through my blood, I wrote up a stilted Facebook caption on my phone so I could share my photo of Bear Peak with loved ones. I still can’t do a better job to describe the experience, so I’ll record it here: </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQGM1NZ8XcNgnK6MMZTKQGGzrXmNj0XfIoSsHfvXYQRa0G1w2vD-OkcQn8InmWbkWHRE9nv7z6t0ejklVs7EJGv9KYzuclfDKCCxdwfVUpGuepUuG_HmUZZPfuKOHd30D1UIKiWa9USybeTvXAnCD7MfLlXczcsK1da6oRtDf8wUd9D5v7VQ/s3648/PXL_20230113_203653323.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQGM1NZ8XcNgnK6MMZTKQGGzrXmNj0XfIoSsHfvXYQRa0G1w2vD-OkcQn8InmWbkWHRE9nv7z6t0ejklVs7EJGv9KYzuclfDKCCxdwfVUpGuepUuG_HmUZZPfuKOHd30D1UIKiWa9USybeTvXAnCD7MfLlXczcsK1da6oRtDf8wUd9D5v7VQ/w640-h480/PXL_20230113_203653323.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>You would have turned 70 today. </div><div>I carried your memory up Bear Peak. </div><div>That heaviness on my chest,
a weight so familiar now. </div><div>50 degrees and sunny. </div><div>You would have loved this day. </div><div>Just like that day in September 2020. </div><div>We were together again after so many months of resolve to stay apart.
It was my wedding day. </div><div>You were hurt; you were in so much pain. </div><div>You didn't tell me. </div><div>You wouldn't let us change our plans. </div><div>You dragged yourself up this mountain. </div><div>Sunset that night was stunning.
The clearest evening in weeks. </div><div>You looked so happy, so proud, your smile shining through the fading light, through all of your pain. </div><div>I fear with each passing day I forget something else, but I will never forget that moment. </div><div>We were together and full of hope. </div><div>Now on your birthday I'm here alone. </div><div>With all of life in front of me. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_eFyjpJCFL8zrpuT6YAX5jQ_VC_R_g-7_vZCXkpKBS12joqOxiJaF5B9VwSk1xc9uNp0G1ED-CTGTznpGwqWsV2G4nzLksxlZslHOlfo_JEBqe7giPtOUTecGuCXFtkIBdFCGjdSYawPImH_1WmaGiBmd8BMsPNMBGGVO02uc6Vn8FYeSNA/s3648/PXL_20230107_221018770.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_eFyjpJCFL8zrpuT6YAX5jQ_VC_R_g-7_vZCXkpKBS12joqOxiJaF5B9VwSk1xc9uNp0G1ED-CTGTznpGwqWsV2G4nzLksxlZslHOlfo_JEBqe7giPtOUTecGuCXFtkIBdFCGjdSYawPImH_1WmaGiBmd8BMsPNMBGGVO02uc6Vn8FYeSNA/w640-h480/PXL_20230107_221018770.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Niwot Ridge — like Alaska, a place so harsh that it becomes comforting in its simplicity.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Maybe I’m past my charmed years, when nice things seemed to come more easily, and my greatest source of comfort was alive and climbing mountains for me. But it’s not over. There's still life in front of me.</div>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-69308585119761615272022-12-13T23:10:00.000-07:002022-12-13T23:10:14.348-07:00Anxiety and endurance-racing platitudes<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN2NWEGRgL-QsXl1RsijrYzLc3Q-2usnA69luWLjlUQARo5VCxA4diN8x46VNGPH3bsJ-c6BVt8kvWWh5C0RlOFYqa61AV58NzUsydtst6tXt4tJ3n_WvkrUFbT7I-QFH_WhzPqnQw1HlLfNPz6nutvT2CNSAyAUl1JOdQMW1_yE7ElR_V_Q/s4080/PXL_20221210_194501888.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN2NWEGRgL-QsXl1RsijrYzLc3Q-2usnA69luWLjlUQARo5VCxA4diN8x46VNGPH3bsJ-c6BVt8kvWWh5C0RlOFYqa61AV58NzUsydtst6tXt4tJ3n_WvkrUFbT7I-QFH_WhzPqnQw1HlLfNPz6nutvT2CNSAyAUl1JOdQMW1_yE7ElR_V_Q/w640-h482/PXL_20221210_194501888.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Niwot Ridge, Dec. 11, 2022</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><i>Thank you to everyone who commented on my last post. It means a lot to me that you’re still around. My hope is to continue using this medium to connect with people, which is the motivation for this post. Mental health is a difficult and complex subject. But I gain comfort and insight from the stories of others willing to share their struggles, so here it goes. </i></div><div><br /></div><div>I want to talk about anxiety and depression. Although mental health is nearly everywhere in public discourse right now, it still seems a somewhat taboo subject in endurance racing and outdoor adventure circles. After all, <i>you can do anything you set your mind to</i> and <i>you can choose to be brave and strong</i> and <i>endorphins make you happy</i> and <i>nature is my antidepressant</i>. End discussion. </div><div><br /></div><div>I want to talk about anxiety and depression because I used to buy into all of those ideas until anxiety came for me. It’s difficult to draw a clear origin because truthfully I’ve always struggled with some level of anxiety. As a young child, I had terrible separation anxiety. I was still in grade school when I started obsessively ruminating about the grief of the world (I still have nightmares about images I saw on the news after the 1989 San Fransisco earthquake, and television was the only way I experienced that disaster.) Young adulthood brought all of this to a head (strange fears at benign moments triggered panic attacks.) Then my mid-20s brought a lengthy reprieve that coincided with big life changes, leading me to conclude that confronting my fears was “the way.” </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2M4qkvavmDvtaVUSnrOwsdf1JbSM45V0KnDngYYCYIjGcP2gqXuulevMNenbLFHTh6ANJoMu1-TIHw02I3orMxduzcsvrklAokFIeR1TQK2AzQQn7imUMyPkJU7qYTV1bgwCJ7nmys1tv5LHVN9liQVyapXcQFrV2aOqHtwtSZK1JQtAj0A/s4080/PXL_20221210_191504324.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2M4qkvavmDvtaVUSnrOwsdf1JbSM45V0KnDngYYCYIjGcP2gqXuulevMNenbLFHTh6ANJoMu1-TIHw02I3orMxduzcsvrklAokFIeR1TQK2AzQQn7imUMyPkJU7qYTV1bgwCJ7nmys1tv5LHVN9liQVyapXcQFrV2aOqHtwtSZK1JQtAj0A/w640-h482/PXL_20221210_191504324.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>These leaps of faith launched incredible life experiences that I may never have pursued if my brain had been in a worse spot. But they did not conquer anxiety. I understand this now. Anxiety isn’t something one can wish away or vanquish with the power of positive thinking. Endurance racers are too prone to magical thinking. Telling yourself your swollen knee isn’t a big deal and it’s only 50 kilometers and you’re going to finish the race because you’re brave and strong and can do anything you set your mind to … that isn’t going to stop a torn MCL from sidelining you for weeks afterward (ask me because I’ve been there.) We’re beholden to the same biological and physical laws as everything else, and yet we’re determined to feel special and powerful by feeding ourselves bullshit to the bitter end. </div><div><br /></div><div>I’m not immune to magical thinking, and I can’t resist a steady diet of shame: </div><div>“You’ve crossed Alaska on your bike in the winter, why are you so scared to leave the house?” </div><div>“No one cares if you do this or don’t, why are you so stressed?” </div><div>“Today was a good day, why are you crying?” </div><div>“You have it so good, what is your problem?” </div><div><br /></div><div>Indeed, this last question irks me the most. I am incredibly privileged. There are no big traumas in my past that I can blame. I was essentially born anxious but had an idyllic childhood and maintain positive and meaningful relationships with my family. I’ve looked into trauma therapies such as EMDR, but where could I even focus on said trauma? Here’s what I consider the top five traumatic events of my adult life, in chronological order: </div><div><br /></div><div>• A rock-bottom blackout during a brief stint with alcoholism, July 2005. This experience was the catalyst that led to “pulling my life together” and moving to Alaska to live happily ever after with no problems ever again. </div><div>• My long-time boyfriend, Geoff, ended our relationship abruptly and unexpectedly one day before we were set to leave on a summer-long vacation, April 2009. </div><div> • A “psychotic break” after 96 sleep-deprived hours of navigating dangerous mountain terrain and team discord during an endurance foot race called Petite Trotte a Leon, August 2013. </div><div>• The weeks leading up to my Graves Disease diagnosis, when I was quite sick and very much in denial (see endurance racers and magical thinking), February 2017. </div><div>• Losing my father suddenly when he died in a hiking accident, June 2021. </div><div><br /></div><div> There are other, more broad experiences I’d include, such as the 2016 election that burst the bubble around my understanding of the world, or when the Covid pandemic broke open in March 2020 — events that affected almost everyone and affected me relatively little (see, privilege) but that I still absorbed deeply. My point is that I believe my anxiety has no grounding, no justification. Lots of people go through phases of substance abuse, chronic illness, losing relationships, losing parents. Nearly everyone, when you put it that way. So what’s wrong with me? </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUn7I6Al58TyVibQIkRZwXBARrXBI7wGznM1M97kDqzCzoy31HuNMSgz_U9SnfdoqEko1b260bZeO52Wv0k1XyS0uR0ppBdWUaW9yAIt2RojjqwmjqGL0TMAmlNWk_VeOv-yCVPhE-2o1M4ow7pZLlkJDKwwaXnc9wgTdr6-l7evcvnKkI8g/s4080/PXL_20221210_195953985.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUn7I6Al58TyVibQIkRZwXBARrXBI7wGznM1M97kDqzCzoy31HuNMSgz_U9SnfdoqEko1b260bZeO52Wv0k1XyS0uR0ppBdWUaW9yAIt2RojjqwmjqGL0TMAmlNWk_VeOv-yCVPhE-2o1M4ow7pZLlkJDKwwaXnc9wgTdr6-l7evcvnKkI8g/w640-h482/PXL_20221210_195953985.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Though there were isolated incidents before then, I believe my anxiety waited until 2018 to move into the “generalized” category. It was a strange time to meet this monster. After a tough 18 months of adjustments, my thyroid disease was under control. I was again dreaming about big endurance racing goals after emotionally letting everything go during my health struggles. The political landscape was bad, but geez, I had no idea what was coming — in hindsight, the world was still somewhat sane. From a rational perspective, life was good. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was staying with a friend in Geneva after a stressful week of supporting Beat in a week-long mountain race called the Swiss Peaks 360. And the week was packed with stress — driving along precipitous mountain roads, meeting Beat at remote aid stations at all hours of the night, sleeping in the car, hunting for open grocery stores in tiny mountain towns because Swiss sandwiches were all Beat could stomach, and still hiking five to seven hours at a stretch because I’m not giving up that. </div><div><br /></div><div>Crewing Swiss Peaks was stressful, but not in a way that could remotely justify what happened when I left to meet Beat at his race finish more than an hour away — of course, in the middle of the night. I tried to use a code to get into the parking garage that held my rental car. When it didn’t work, I began hyperventilating. Then the tears burst out and I inexplicably started running. Round and round a city block in central Geneva, racing at a full sprint, stopping only to rattle locked doors and gasp, “Please!” </div><div><br /></div><div> I felt as terrified as I would if being chased by a monster. My chest throbbed with a crushing pain that I thought might be a real heart attack. What was I so panicked about? Missing Beat’s finish? While my head spun, I wasn’t even thinking about the reasons I wanted to be inside that parking garage. There was nothing else, just anxiety, the red-eyed sea monster rising out of the depths, draping itself over everything with no discernible beginning or end. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes I think about the security cameras that inevitably caught my parking garage panic attack and laugh at the ridiculousness they must have portrayed. Some minutes or even hours lapsed after I collapsed on the sidewalk, but I did get my head together and figure out how to access the garage. Then I drove for an hour around Lake Geneva, reaching the race finish line well after Beat had arrived. He was understandably irked and I couldn’t explain myself. I was deeply exhausted. Anxiety exhaustion, I’ve come to understand, falls far beyond any endurance-racing exhaustion I’ve known. It cuts even deeper than walking for 96 hours essentially without sleep, although in hindsight, my PTL “psychotic break” was actually an intense panic attack. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq551TJDzBrZ1QQueOSRNYQ6Rc1ToW7lc3HSCNWIq3vNmbzG4gAr_i5THW0uCE0w6-bZNGtpCfVlFGpPi-Yee9v6FazA8_0vQHcy0bHi3CmV5Be9nmfD23ITxjZCTFNHOzoHUTH0nx0gF9_V6XUD-p-DwaWWJlqf1WTR7oyeUefJmsh2_-wQ/s4080/PXL_20221210_200054479.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq551TJDzBrZ1QQueOSRNYQ6Rc1ToW7lc3HSCNWIq3vNmbzG4gAr_i5THW0uCE0w6-bZNGtpCfVlFGpPi-Yee9v6FazA8_0vQHcy0bHi3CmV5Be9nmfD23ITxjZCTFNHOzoHUTH0nx0gF9_V6XUD-p-DwaWWJlqf1WTR7oyeUefJmsh2_-wQ/w640-h482/PXL_20221210_200054479.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>The sea monster has lurked beneath my life ever since. Sometimes it’s just below the surface, and sometimes it's well below the surface, but it always seems to burst out when I least anticipate it. This happened two months ago. There had been flickers of shadows — usual life stress, really, but there were at least hints that the monster was surfacing. Then one night, I secured a Brainard Lake parking permit and went to sleep excited about the long mountain excursion I had planned for the following day. But when I woke up in the morning, I couldn’t face it. Leaving the house felt impossibly hard. So I didn’t go. Then I didn’t go anywhere the next weekend or the next. I’d lost all interest. </div><div><br /></div><div>A few friends reached out during this time, and I replied that I was feeling “a little bit depressed.” I realize depression is not anxiety, but mental health is complex and these issues seem to be two sides of the same coin. I lamented my “mid-life crisis” and “unquenchable thirst for some sort of meaning.” These issues are a big part of my thought cycle right now, but truthfully they also have little to do with my acute state of mental health. </div><div><br /></div><div>Some days, I feel an overwhelming zeal for life and can’t wait to go for a 25-mile hike in the mountains. On these days, it’s not as though I’ve stopped ruminating about climate change and nihilism and the grief of the world. I’m just … normal me, unhindered me, not smothered by invisible sea monsters, and thus free to think about how amazing it is just to be alive on this fresh morning in this broken world. (Yes, I did steal that line from Mary Oliver.) </div><div><br /></div><div>The days when I think little about the broken world are my bad days. My emotional capacity has collapsed and there’s no longer space for engaging ruminations. I’ll actually spend less time with social media, stop reading the news (although I currently keep up with the news because it’s my job) and stop writing. I’ll listen to Tom Rosenthal’s “There is a Dark Place” for two hours on repeat while running my fastest-yet times on Green Mountain or Walker Ranch while caring little about success or scenery. I’m merely grateful for those two hours of relief from my exhaustion. Literal running is a great way to escape the sea monster, but it isn’t sustainable and it never lasts past the final step. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWglLK-30Y4sfdciJP7nXHtHOjkXJise70HSX6HQhEIWJ3aG9Tdt1iOzyidAwVpRWWX2vnXbeWOp09SA4gvt-CgQ86_d5O4Bj1TzN6egBMJOchr5Qq3W6oHSpIslS_v6ogbACOZbs-6Z4Q4mUKWrNClojS4GQaaxPftoF25Fg6eTTYdvGfdg/s4080/PXL_20221210_192139349.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWglLK-30Y4sfdciJP7nXHtHOjkXJise70HSX6HQhEIWJ3aG9Tdt1iOzyidAwVpRWWX2vnXbeWOp09SA4gvt-CgQ86_d5O4Bj1TzN6egBMJOchr5Qq3W6oHSpIslS_v6ogbACOZbs-6Z4Q4mUKWrNClojS4GQaaxPftoF25Fg6eTTYdvGfdg/w640-h482/PXL_20221210_192139349.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>I don’t know what to do. I have been in therapy before but left because therapy became another thing I couldn’t deal with after my dad died. Now I am struggling to find a way back in. I’m open to various strategies but also skeptical and even leery of talk therapy after my last experience, which ended badly. Even so, I submitted what amount to "I feel this level of bad" assessments and got myself on a few waiting lists. Availability is low right now. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have not yet tried medication beyond my favorite supplements (CBD capsules), which I believe do help but aren’t a cure-all. I’m open to medication, but admittedly also skeptical and leery of this sort of intervention. Either way, it seems moot if I can’t even find a therapist who could do the prescribing. Since I’m not in crisis, I’d rather try other time-tested techniques. My New Year's resolutions include participating in yoga classes, working daily on at least some type of writing, lavender tea, improving my diet, and committing to adventures — but maintaining a step back from racing. </div><div><br /></div><div> Understanding that mental health is complex, I can’t help but speculate that my anxiety is just a chronic and likely hereditary twinge, not unlike the Achilles tendonitis that flares up from time to time. There’s not a lot I can do for my Achilles either, beyond strengthening the muscles around it and simply waiting for the flares to subside. I’m great about sticking with my physical therapy exercises when I’m in pain and less so when I’m not. But I've accepted that my Achilles tendonitis is always there, another scar on a meat sack that has the audacity to grow old. Are brains different? Yes, but perhaps also no?</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRNcwukxtvI01eZyrX-FUzAuWV5oAeZYGS1eRhE324zFyispTzzGIc8aONNHkePE0Ib3LK4Ch9ZnS7QvhmqWu_YqAf69yt11oeKD9xAevfFM_ISz8a-CDalOfPWjvc7EbaLlQwKDcducttxhS-Uz_ekQonDsZ59TdHuULCkoZnG8V8FX9X4Q/s1600/DSC00851.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1063" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRNcwukxtvI01eZyrX-FUzAuWV5oAeZYGS1eRhE324zFyispTzzGIc8aONNHkePE0Ib3LK4Ch9ZnS7QvhmqWu_YqAf69yt11oeKD9xAevfFM_ISz8a-CDalOfPWjvc7EbaLlQwKDcducttxhS-Uz_ekQonDsZ59TdHuULCkoZnG8V8FX9X4Q/w640-h426/DSC00851.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beat in the Ventana Wilderness, July 2013</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Remember the sentence about tearing my MCL in a fall while running a 50K race? That happened in June 2013. One month later, I was still limping painfully and worried that I wouldn’t be able to participate in the big adventures I had planned for the summer: A 250-kilometer stage race in Iceland and the ill-fated PTL. Beat and I decided to embark on a weekend backpacking trip in the Ventana Wilderness, a rugged coastal range above Big Sur, California. For the first three miles, I dragged myself up an unbelievably steep slope, barely able to bend my knee and cursing my hubris. We descended the other side of the mountain through a recent burn. The dirt was soft and loose. The foot beneath my good knee slid forward and I fell onto my butt with the other foot wedged in place, forcing the bad knee to a full, high-impact bend. The burst of pain was excruciating, some of the worst I’ve experienced. For several seconds my vision blacked out and I was convinced I’d need a complicated helicopter rescue. After several minutes I attempted to stand. After several more, I tried shifting my weight to my bad knee. It held. When I attempted to walk, the pain dissipated. It did not return. I walked for two days through the wilderness without another issue. My knee was cured. </div><div><br /></div><div>A week later, I recounted the miracle cure to my massage therapist. He nodded knowingly. “You broke up the scar tissue,” he speculated. “Physical therapists sometimes try this when injuries aren’t healing. Hurts like hell.” </div><div><br /></div><div>I think about this experience frequently. My traumas are small, but they add up. Perhaps my brain is, in the proverbial sense, riddled with scar tissue. What if I could just get in and break it all up? Perhaps through meditation? Or meaningful suffering? Then I realize that I’m thinking about endurance racing again. No! This is not what I want! This is not the way. I need calm. I need peace. I need to quiet my mind, not inflict further trauma. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwJ-UUOnLgxMjl6q7SHNBPgyRuzxBNSecpTTqZb-Y0zDSkP8rZA_rDG2QAP5gglobfmfwTIa3d3MEP7LojMxGRtPJGImqw6SD2REBZ91pBY1aBR3QaKGcfwa8_YTt9DvqSVeeqckdt2cjFMAJ5V7TpTcDpFl7rfaLixPjarWZOvjuuHdWA9Q/s4080/PXL_20221210_202120870.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwJ-UUOnLgxMjl6q7SHNBPgyRuzxBNSecpTTqZb-Y0zDSkP8rZA_rDG2QAP5gglobfmfwTIa3d3MEP7LojMxGRtPJGImqw6SD2REBZ91pBY1aBR3QaKGcfwa8_YTt9DvqSVeeqckdt2cjFMAJ5V7TpTcDpFl7rfaLixPjarWZOvjuuHdWA9Q/w640-h482/PXL_20221210_202120870.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>It was interesting, though, how the rather awful running fall I took on Nov. 9 started to turn things around. Suddenly I didn’t have my best emotional outlet — exercise — and I was dealing with a decent amount of physical pain. I may have even asked Beat for a “mercy killing.” In my old, endurance-racing-focused mindset, my sternum and rib injuries would have been a big setback, worthy of having a big cry over. Instead, the fog over my mind began to lift. The sea monster slowly sank back into the depths. The view outside my window became clearer, more beautiful. It’s astonishing, really, the beauty in this view outside my window. And it’s astonishing how sometimes I don’t see it, can’t see it, for reasons I don’t understand. </div><div><br /></div><div> This past weekend, I returned to the Indian Peaks Wilderness for my first mountain adventure in months. Beat and I are again planning to travel to Fairbanks over Christmas, and I wanted to ensure that my healing but still-painful torso could manage a sled. During the October slump, I thought about asking Beat to cancel the trip, but now I’m excited again. So I loaded up our smallest sled with an admittedly negligible amount of weight and headed toward a place that has been a reliable test of fortitude — Niwot Ridge. </div><div><br /></div><div> I wasn’t interested in testing my fortitude, but I was interested in avoiding the considerable avalanche risk in these mountains right now. Niwot rises on a steep-for-feet but gentle-for-snow incline toward a veritable wind tunnel beneath the Continental Divide. The slopes are alternately covered in rock-solid sastrugi and nearly-bare tundra. The West Wind blows constantly and nothing that could slide stays for long. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgel9EVTjB590MXG4Xi8YaIAn7g_xpH8HisalGEZIYskofvTDTeeCrZKWPDES-lT7eDWZmEhfYI61HnAPpRA3xRW6VBMbvuy_ixIXlPvHAX4dt1u28Btfygp5_mkcE8Ao_peJtZ9UPxyDnb06oRB2ueXnKFwpAS-ESi9UnVZmf8nYYKsAoejg/s4080/PXL_20221210_200106792.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgel9EVTjB590MXG4Xi8YaIAn7g_xpH8HisalGEZIYskofvTDTeeCrZKWPDES-lT7eDWZmEhfYI61HnAPpRA3xRW6VBMbvuy_ixIXlPvHAX4dt1u28Btfygp5_mkcE8Ao_peJtZ9UPxyDnb06oRB2ueXnKFwpAS-ESi9UnVZmf8nYYKsAoejg/w640-h482/PXL_20221210_200106792.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>The wind is what makes Niwot so fearsome. It can be a calm, warm day in Denver and the wind will be gusting to 60mph on Niwot Ridge, which is what it was doing on Saturday. I schlepped the sled five miles and 3,000 feet to our usual high point, scraping my “rock snowshoes” on tussocks and boulders. Occasionally the sled caught on alder branches and the harness yanked my tender rib, provoking involuntary yelps. Despite not being a terribly cold winter day — +15F — the windchill felt like daggers through my clothing. The sled was full of poor choices on this first-of-the-season adventure. I forgot to bring goggles. My eyebrows burned. In every logical way, my body was in pain, but I didn’t really care. I was not in danger, and admittedly this felt amazing — these exhilarating sensations after two months of flatness. This pain I could choose. </div><div><br /></div><div> For this reason, I kept going, pressing deeper into the wind as gusts grew increasingly menacing. After another mile of squinting into the ground blizzard, I caught a snowshoe on hidden branches and nearly toppled over. This was what it took to turn me around — I was never going to forgive myself if I re-broke a rib or anything else up here. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilbQ4drSiE7E-Wrvhjsq6ohgee2K_pIbbUBAoSiRyugNjC0sj7vkHoXtjvkNC8q4s-IBD6gdXM_XGD2Lzl9x8FZnOq7v_2o0lzq4AIPo3KAtfw1Cr_gPG1QZ5Js-2DW2YQFUo_F7e7rj5KOIG8v4JfsWBfFbz-pTSSvyGUutOEwR_fUptmOw/s3648/PXL_20221210_200012372.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilbQ4drSiE7E-Wrvhjsq6ohgee2K_pIbbUBAoSiRyugNjC0sj7vkHoXtjvkNC8q4s-IBD6gdXM_XGD2Lzl9x8FZnOq7v_2o0lzq4AIPo3KAtfw1Cr_gPG1QZ5Js-2DW2YQFUo_F7e7rj5KOIG8v4JfsWBfFbz-pTSSvyGUutOEwR_fUptmOw/w640-h480/PXL_20221210_200012372.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>The tailwind ushered me along, the only human in seeming miles, surrounded by an amphitheater of astonishing peaks. Spindrift raced toward the foothills, and beyond that, the Great Plains sprawled out seemingly forever. Niwot Ridge, my cantankerous old friend, seemed to embrace me with its hard-pressing gale. “Everything starts here and flows from here. Didn’t you miss this?”</div><div><br /></div><div>I did miss it, and didn’t want to leave as I meandered back to the forest and the deep snow it protected. I didn’t even feel tired as I retraced my snowshoe tracks beneath evergreens drenched in the most gorgeous winter afternoon light. It’s rather astonishing how simple this is, how just walking and breathing in such a place lets me feel so intensely alive. This is the way anxiety lies to me: That these places don’t exist anymore. The crushing darkness is all that remains. Why bother leaving if there’s nowhere else to go?</div><div><br /></div><div> I’m under no delusion that the sea monster left forever, but at least it’s gone for now. I also have no idea what I did to convince it to leave. But perhaps the takeaway is as simple as an endurance racing platitude: If you’re going through Hell, keep going.</div>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-47760416856821493522022-12-07T22:27:00.000-07:002022-12-07T22:27:19.305-07:00Should've known I gotta get this off my chest<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5elVydnHM2aYmn2FyuH4ayXVQgCfYh7nftX-MnCUHDU7ArhoY3E9VbJW0X2ESdeYnZJj3Fkw6Ji_Lp-Si1eveY2ghbWVXWJa-X9zomAXILoC95xuWMdp5ZmAaVlRiIyrM2xO2UI6cVzf8Tttywxqf2abu0nWRN2maOW9qTnJ3fLTFgKWYA/s3648/PXL_20221104_164033927.PORTRAIT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5elVydnHM2aYmn2FyuH4ayXVQgCfYh7nftX-MnCUHDU7ArhoY3E9VbJW0X2ESdeYnZJj3Fkw6Ji_Lp-Si1eveY2ghbWVXWJa-X9zomAXILoC95xuWMdp5ZmAaVlRiIyrM2xO2UI6cVzf8Tttywxqf2abu0nWRN2maOW9qTnJ3fLTFgKWYA/w640-h480/PXL_20221104_164033927.PORTRAIT.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friday, Nov. 4, 2022. On my way to Bear Peak</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>On Nov. 3, 2022, this blog turned a staggering and somewhat embarrassing 17 years old. I distinctly remember the day I launched it, from a desktop PC wedged into the corner of our cabin loft in the bluffs above Homer, Alaska. It was a blustery November evening, a Thursday, and I was still thawing out from an evening flail through the darkness on cross-country skis — a sport I was never going to mesh with. My then-boyfriend had taken a gorgeous photo with our shared 2.1-megapixel digital camera, that showed fresh snow coating the forested hills behind our house with the sunlit Kenai Mountains glistening in the background. I wanted to share the photo, but my strategy of mass e-mailing everyone in my address book had recently been blasted by an acquaintance who admonished me to stop “bragging all of the time about your great new life in Alaska.” </div><div><br /></div><div>But that was exactly what I wanted to do. And 2005 offered the most perfect social media platform ever created, before or since. After 10 minutes of online searching, I landed on Blogger.com, and within 30 minutes had a brand new Web site, “Arctic Glass” — my own misinterpretation of a Modest Mouse lyric that I’d grown to love for its simple evocation of beauty. </div><div><br /></div><div><i> “So this is my new online journal about moving to Homer, Alaska — a place where it snows in October, where moose traipse through my backyard, and where everyone can spell my last name but if you can’t spell “Xtratuf,” well, so help you God.” </i></div><div><br /></div><div> I’d been an Alaska resident for all of two months and was already certain I’d live there forever. My life was going to be amazing, full of summer’s endless sunlight, autumn snow, coaxing my underpowered sedan along snow-packed roads, weekend adventures, and moonlit skis … although I still hoped to find a winter sport that was better balanced between the tedium and terror of skiing. Fat bikes weren’t yet a gleam in my eye, nor was endurance racing, the Iditarod Trail, the Tour Divide, ultrarunning, Montana, California, Colorado. Launching this blog, in many ways, launched all of that. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6PNyUnHQkSQF9FxXwBBjJGAVltOpbKBVIXdgBqmbcd6W_GYskaR8ggf6q7Fc0F4re4ezTK772BVCm53QBN_sHDBuL9mHZ6Dnlfa_nIKsH0R61yIJMySRGZEwp_5iixFMNS21TaXvjkjWPmrZlleP3hcsvxZKWs7fHWh4-cD-_2x36MOyLGA/s4080/PXL_20221118_212352750.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6PNyUnHQkSQF9FxXwBBjJGAVltOpbKBVIXdgBqmbcd6W_GYskaR8ggf6q7Fc0F4re4ezTK772BVCm53QBN_sHDBuL9mHZ6Dnlfa_nIKsH0R61yIJMySRGZEwp_5iixFMNS21TaXvjkjWPmrZlleP3hcsvxZKWs7fHWh4-cD-_2x36MOyLGA/w640-h482/PXL_20221118_212352750.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friday, Nov. 18, 2022. Ethereal November snow returns. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Exactly 17 years later, I was sprawled under a weighted blanket on the floor of my current loft in the foothills above Boulder, Colorado. It was a cloudy November dawn, a Thursday, and I’d been awake for sleepless hours searching online for therapists in the region. The prospect is bleak right now — so many people are in crisis and no one is available to help. The weighted blanket was a paradoxically comforting embodiment of the way I was feeling — pinned down, flat, vaguely anxious about nothing and everything all at once, and tired of myself. So tired. Bone tired. I wondered how anyone can aspire to live forever when I couldn’t even make it 43 years without daydreaming about a future when my molecules will become rocks or trees or rabbits or anything else. </div><div><br /></div><div>A poet I admire, Elisa Gabbert, recently wrote on Twitter — the worst social media platform ever created — “<i>I think writing gets harder as you get older for the simple reason that you’re sick of yourself</i>.” </div><div><br /></div><div> This. So much this. There’s no rule that anyone has to write *about* themselves, but I think writers are in denial if they believe they’re not projecting self into any genre they pursue. Still, what am I if not a writer? It’s the one identity I’ve always held. Even before I could read, I’d grasp Richard Scarry books and see myself in their pages. I could quit anything else in my life — cycling, ultrarunning, adventuring — and still be myself. But without writing, without a narrative thread to weave through the chaos of life, I may as well just be a rock or a tree or a rabbit. Therein lies the intrigue. </div><div><br /></div><div>Elisa tweeted, “<i>I may fantasize about quitting writing (a kind of self-indulgent death wish), but what I really want to do is quit striving. I want to try not giving a shit</i>.” </div><div><br /></div><div> I hovered over a button on the neglected and decaying UI of Blogger.com. It read, simply, “Delete blog.” That’s all it would take. One click. Seventeen years. Poof. The thought was so enticing that I felt a dopamine rush, one of my first in a while. Sure, I’ve written much more than just blog posts in the past 17 years, but here in one place is my core, my history, my sanctuary. Thousands of hours of work. Removing it all would be a step into the unknown, an acknowledgment of a fresh start, not unlike dropping everything in my life to move to Alaska. But I couldn’t do it. I chickened out. I scrolled to a different button and changed the blog’s settings to “private” as a way to temporarily step back. </div><div><br /></div><div>Unsurprisingly, few people noticed that I knocked my blog offline. Since Nov. 3, I’ve received about three dozen messages, some personal and touching, mostly from people I’ve never met. After 17 years on a blog that once received upwards of 10,000 hits a day, the hiatus showed just how few readers remain. Even friends and family don’t check in anymore. But as I said, this was not surprising. No one reads blogs these days. All of that time, all of the tears, all of the joy and sadness — everything could be distilled into an unreadable string of hashtags over a pixelated image destined to disappear from Instagram Stories and no one would notice or care. </div><div><br /></div><div> This is also a frequent source of angst for me, because seriously, why do writers bother? Any of us? There are a few who scrape income from their writing but the vast majority don’t. Even Elisa, a published essayist and poet who writes reviews for the New York Times, doesn’t think writing is really worth it. Writing is a compulsion. A sad one. But what choice do we have? </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTx53xQGcDo2pgLW-fTQnOZU5JPc67bfKj29ACvnUfM9c0eSBy7_rRCPAGVGQLxwW3W18RO4KUvmsD6xhUTUT-RiBnXZx1qjc4ZXutoIAymg9q0J1NECRvh96DlBNWqI6I1bce7SYN-g23ztV0UfhGhsHrrxU0a1sryt7MPBo1_GhYkPtNHg/s3648/PXL_20221109_180159128.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTx53xQGcDo2pgLW-fTQnOZU5JPc67bfKj29ACvnUfM9c0eSBy7_rRCPAGVGQLxwW3W18RO4KUvmsD6xhUTUT-RiBnXZx1qjc4ZXutoIAymg9q0J1NECRvh96DlBNWqI6I1bce7SYN-g23ztV0UfhGhsHrrxU0a1sryt7MPBo1_GhYkPtNHg/w640-h480/PXL_20221109_180159128.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wednesday, Nov. 9, 2022. Not my best moment.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>On Nov. 9, 2022, I laced up my favorite pair of trail runners and bounded out the door. It was a bright November morning, a Wednesday, moving into my favorite time of year. Daylight is short but gorgeous, saturated with rich color even in the middle of the day. The cool air is refreshing, the cold air invigorating. There’s no more pollen, no wildfire smoke. I can draw deep breaths into my lungs and luxuriate in this wealth of energy. </div><div><br /></div><div>Despite the inexplicably poor mental health that clouded most of the past month, I’d been running increasingly well.
Waking up each morning to awful anxiety combined with a suffocating schedule — thrice-weekly allergy shots, medical and car appointments, chores, and an afternoon work shift — meant I had almost zero motivation to run. But I knew I needed it, so I created a routine. On Mondays, I ran Green Mountain. Fridays, SoBo or Bear. On weekends I usually rode my bike trainer, which yes — judge me because it doesn’t fit the narrative I’ve created for myself, but I needed the physical release without the mental stress of planning and executing a real adventure. </div><div><br /></div><div>Wednesday was swiftly becoming my favorite day of the week. On Wednesday, I ran Walker Ranch.
My Wednesday Walker follows a 10-mile lollipop loop along a trail that I consider “mid-tech.” It’s entirely runnable but it’s not a stroller ramp; there are steep grades, tight switchbacks, and like any trail in Colorado, a whole lot of rocks. This makes it the perfect mental health run — I can’t fixate on daydreams or ruminations; I need to be present for all of the obstacles. As I push my pace, I slip into flow, each step finding its place until there’s nothing else. </div><div><br /></div><div> “It takes concentration and a quiet mind to run well without any splats,” I wrote in a Nov. 2 description on Strava. “I had a few close calls so I was slower and more tentative this week, but still, a worthwhile two hours of meditation.” </div><div><br /></div><div>The following week, I decided I could earn a new PR. I’ve been running this loop for seven years, but it was within my grasp. I just needed to not think at all. I fired up my Shuffle. Recently I’ve been listening to a lot of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sO5y4PWpx88" target="_blank">Tom Rosenthal</a> during my runs, which is funny because his own daughter once told him that his music made it sound like “everyone in the world had died.” Honestly, sad or contemplative music when you’re a little bit depressed can become hopeful and inspiring. Still, PR runs require something more upbeat, so I started the new album from the Silversun Pickups — a band I discovered while living in Homer.
By mile four, I was in perfect flow — unencumbered molecules in motion — and vibing to “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmzyhXm6vEU" target="_blank">Empty Nest</a>.” </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Did you notice, did you notice, I’m feeling uninspired? </i></div><div><i>I think I’m crossing wires. </i></div><div><i>How’d we get here? How’d we get here? Did we get here on our own? </i></div><div><i>The seeds are overgrown. </i></div><div><br /></div><div>There’s a strange rhythm in this song, a skipped beat. I’m not sure I can blame the music, but I noticed these blips. One moment, my feet were dancing over the rocks as I rocketed through the universe. The next thing I noticed was the rough surface of a boulder, mere inches from my eyes. </div><div><br /></div><div>I must have tripped. I don’t remember catching my foot or losing my balance. I don’t remember the Superman launch through the air that must have happened to put me in this position. My arms were still at my side. Mere moments had lapsed, but these were important moments. Blissful flow instantly collapsed into “oh shit” terror, and then I smacked down, chin first. My chest slammed into the rounded side of the rock. A weird combination of my right elbow and left knee took the rest of the impact. </div><div><br /></div><div>Flooded with shock and humiliation, I scrambled to my feet and crawled up the hillside. I couldn’t risk anyone finding me in this crumpled, embarrassing state. Nausea swirled in my gut and I staggered wildly, punchdrunk from the hard uppercut. My jaw throbbed and I couldn’t draw a breath. It felt as though my chest had been crushed, though I understood this to mean that the wind was knocked out of me. I supposed it could have been something more serious than that, but my initial instinct was to fear a broken jaw, not a collapsed lung. </div><div><br /></div><div>I lay in the dry grass for some time, drawing thin, high-pitched breaths through clenched teeth. Finally, my chest relaxed and I could draw enough air to sit up. Blood had splattered all over my favorite shoes.
There was a mile of climbing to the nearest trailhead, but this part of the hike wasn’t that hard. With the exception of a shallow scrape on one knee, my legs were fine. My arm was drenched in blood. I tried to hide this from the two hikers who passed along the trail. A quick phone selfie assured me that my chin didn’t look that bad. It is humorous that my first concerns were appearances and dignity. I felt like a deer after a car collision, shambling into the woods to die. </div><div><br /></div><div>Another way I felt like road kill was complete bewilderment about what hit me. Yes, I know it’s easy to trip and fall while running. Yes, I know I do this a lot. But this time was particularly strange, a total lapse in consciousness before I left the ground. I complain about balance and proprioception, joke about how I don’t know how to use my body, and haha I’m such a klutz. But I admit that underneath all of this, I fear something more sinister. Something that can’t necessarily be fixed by yoga or dance classes or anything I could control. I remember my father describing strange episodes, skipped beats while we hiked together. I remember when he was rushed to the emergency room after inexplicably falling off the trail on Mount Olympus. I remember how he died. </div><div><br /></div><div> I called Beat from the trailhead, but he didn’t hear his phone ring. I left a message, knowing I wouldn’t have cell reception for the next 2.5 miles. I started the limp home. Endorphin-suppressed pain cracked open as I walked, encompassing my body like a dark cloud. I decided I hadn’t broken my jaw, but damn, things weren’t right. I staggered and gasped, drawing into myself, focusing on each shallow breath until I found peace beyond the pain. Just like running — a return to a quiet mind. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgUG9ivsBI9Ae4GoR3VQuYxwSpPl9QbvOOCVdofTw9ysRqSAYI15lVDQpCrMykTrUZK6wjSqTmfphWVyUbwNthfPU7evrxoYi8p4sTUC6D8gRk4n5o1rwWB7AY5jBQPk04x3pdP3AK4b-zDkN3FP-CYr106BwKf15NxAJSR5MbXF6ZWc0LKg/s3648/PXL_20221114_201606847.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgUG9ivsBI9Ae4GoR3VQuYxwSpPl9QbvOOCVdofTw9ysRqSAYI15lVDQpCrMykTrUZK6wjSqTmfphWVyUbwNthfPU7evrxoYi8p4sTUC6D8gRk4n5o1rwWB7AY5jBQPk04x3pdP3AK4b-zDkN3FP-CYr106BwKf15NxAJSR5MbXF6ZWc0LKg/w640-h480/PXL_20221114_201606847.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monday, Nov. 14, 2022. Trying my best to smile while walking to a physical therapy appointment.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Wednesday afternoon was a work day. I didn’t want to deal with the embarrassment of calling in sick because of a splat, so I dissuaded Beat from taking me to urgent care. A couple of days later, my mother begged me to visit a doctor. My clinic couldn’t squeeze me in until 15 minutes before closing time on Friday afternoon. The doctor seemed rushed but assured me that my jaw wasn’t broken, brushed off my chest bruising, and made me feel like the hypochondriac I was. Beat, wonderful husband that he is, bought 15 different kinds of soup and reminded me regularly to ice my injuries. I visited a friend who had been injured much more seriously in a head-on car collision. Sitting next to her in her wheelchair, I felt silly, sad, grateful, angry, lucky, all of the emotions that arise after yet another realization that life can change swiftly and permanently with the skip of a beat. </div><div><br /></div><div>For the next month, I did no running or writing, even the regular writing practices I’d committed to — my gratitude journal and sorting through the contents of my childhood trunk (that trunk is a whole other can of worms that I probably should not have opened.) I continued to languish in pain, struggling to sleep and do daily tasks, and lacking an exercise outlet beyond slow hobble-walking and upright spinning on the bike trainer. My jaw is still bruised. I probably broke a rib or two. And seriously, what is going on with my sternum, am I having a slow-rolling heart attack? </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQ-CGPfS9ut6Xlgdfnq3pndo83E6iwSpM-UVqjcsqs_1U2pTKWLcO7OTD7T3oKSzSXkTDZ7MJYRf0qf72hVQrAtrt-D7in8Vq56dgc9deIQyrSz2SPFDkHDnTeNt4j2XuxMyjmVgNqulrjI0CI5_Mkx7Ft4WgUPMd0JrY0k_HGKXx71tp0A/s3648/PXL_20221201_173003879.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQ-CGPfS9ut6Xlgdfnq3pndo83E6iwSpM-UVqjcsqs_1U2pTKWLcO7OTD7T3oKSzSXkTDZ7MJYRf0qf72hVQrAtrt-D7in8Vq56dgc9deIQyrSz2SPFDkHDnTeNt4j2XuxMyjmVgNqulrjI0CI5_Mkx7Ft4WgUPMd0JrY0k_HGKXx71tp0A/w640-h480/PXL_20221201_173003879.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thursday, Dec. 1, 2022, at South Boulder Creek with Danni. Chin is looking better, no?</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Inexplicably, my mental health continued to improve. I no longer woke up feeling like the world was collapsing in on itself, even after terrible nights of sleep. I no longer felt sick of everything about myself, maybe just sick of my usual bullshit (why can’t I stop thinking about signing up for races?) I spend less time ruminating about the unknowable future, the skipped beats. </div><div><br /></div><div> I resolved to start the New Year with yoga classes and regular strength training at a gym that I have yet to join (I’m going to be one of those people, because there’s almost no chance I’ll be up for lifting weights before Jan. 1.) Beat and I drove home to Utah for Thanksgiving; it was lovely. The following week my friend Danni flew out from Montana for a mellow visit of hobble-walking and laughing. (She reached out in November when she knew I was struggling and offered to plan an adventure. True to form, the very next day I fell on my face.) </div><div><br /></div><div>December arrived. It’s my favorite month. The light is beautiful. The promise of Alaska awaits. I have no races on the calendar. I’ve let go of my fitness. I am free. </div><div><br /></div><div> So I decided to open up my slowly decaying blog once again. I wanted to explain where it went for a month, and true to form, vomited out a 2,500-word post in two hours after struggling for weeks to tap out even simple social media posts. No one wants to read all of this, no one cares, but that — at least until the next time I have an anxiety “flare-up” — doesn’t matter to me. I am free. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Should've known I gotta get this off my chest </i></div><div><i>I'm allowed to keep around this empty nest </i></div><div><i>It's so much to clean up a clever mess </i></div><div><i>Should've known, should've known</i></div>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com51tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-81492867708216188012022-10-29T22:24:00.000-06:002022-10-29T22:24:15.283-06:00Losing my religion<div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTwMBxnWeJplyOoZDapKCSPixKb-zjBgoCDYiVv3D6F5wuG9OiOeRZrSWWrfX_M3DLDP9xx2QMa5gay2upUJCLX3XUpknYJsqE7fp0j3wQJQoU52vfTK_yd8NBhV12whaLmQSDYr__thlN4Vpqmc44QVW3ShbENMDPOcDb4maSuPNEVa5bxQ/s4032/PXL_20221015_202654082.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTwMBxnWeJplyOoZDapKCSPixKb-zjBgoCDYiVv3D6F5wuG9OiOeRZrSWWrfX_M3DLDP9xx2QMa5gay2upUJCLX3XUpknYJsqE7fp0j3wQJQoU52vfTK_yd8NBhV12whaLmQSDYr__thlN4Vpqmc44QVW3ShbENMDPOcDb4maSuPNEVa5bxQ/w640-h480/PXL_20221015_202654082.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The summit of Blue Sky (Mount Evans) on Oct. 15 — honestly my only October activity that I could label an "adventure," and it was a pretty mild one.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><i><br /></i></div><div><i>"Whereas positive self-help encourages you to create ambitious goals, to reach for the stars, to "follow your dreams"— *vomits*— negative self-help reminds you that your fucking dreams are probably narcissistic delusions (or just burrito cravings) and you should probably just shut the fuck up and get to work on something meaningful."</i></div><div style="text-align: right;">— Mark Manson </div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>I have been in such a funk this month. A few days ago, I decided to embrace the superstition that it’s an October thing, a cursed month, and the light will start to return when November arrives. I realize this is objectively far from true — the end of DST and 4:30 p.m sunsets and all. Also, election season is an awful time of the year. I turned in my ballot yesterday but beyond that, I can’t even think about it without becoming upset. Still, I needed something to anticipate. “Soon it will be Nov. 1, and the clouds will begin to lift, and then … what?” </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzysuouc9asg_K2_2Nfx9FxqzReIUENF3KFwWlwGRIVMh2W4-r2AKqVdVCzqsOCSCc24N27NJ9GxxascdnwDniro_WTiGJngmPkLiDU-BgezhODWngaQ-KgWXt52VZRSG2XLGTILH7SFHcEfY7702llxoTTezFYu_JhdNCybr7Vl74V4OIYA/s4032/PXL_20221024_161151875.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzysuouc9asg_K2_2Nfx9FxqzReIUENF3KFwWlwGRIVMh2W4-r2AKqVdVCzqsOCSCc24N27NJ9GxxascdnwDniro_WTiGJngmPkLiDU-BgezhODWngaQ-KgWXt52VZRSG2XLGTILH7SFHcEfY7702llxoTTezFYu_JhdNCybr7Vl74V4OIYA/w640-h480/PXL_20221024_161151875.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fall was particularly gorgeous this year, hanging on for weeks. So why was I so ... meh?</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>I don’t have a race on my calendar. That’s a first for me since I stumbled into this hobby 17 years ago. Even when everything fell apart in 2020, I clung to homemade challenges and virtual racing. I organized a 160-mile Winter Solstice challenge with a women’s group on Facebook and a 200K “Fat Pursuit” fat bike ride in Leadville with friends. 2020-2021 hardly counted as a break from racing. Still, even when I was aggressively powering through the setbacks posed by the pandemic, I could feel my spiritual tides shifting. The turning point really happened earlier, during the 2020 Iditarod, when I had a “big dream” crushed and gained a more clear-eyed view of the complex issues that would prevent me from ever surmounting that challenge. </div><div><br /></div><div>After my dad died in 2021, I tried to power through two different endurance events. Both raised the even more devastating question of “what purpose did this ever serve?” I was in such deep emotional pain during the 2021 Utah Mixed Epic and there’s no doubt in my mind that I’m worse off for having tried it than not. I went back to the 2022 Iditarod with my fat bike and a plan to simply “joy ride” the short route but … I was miserable. The experience had its moments, but none of the soaring joys I’d come to depend on during these adventures. I suppose the best way I can succinctly describe my current feelings about endurance racing is that the suffering used to mean something, but now it doesn’t. This is its own loss, its own source of grief. </div><div><br /></div><div> Earlier this week, the ITI organization released the list of participants for the 2023 race. Beat is on this list, of course. Most of the names are familiar. Many of the same people return year after year. In the past, when asked about why this is, I’d reply along the lines of, “Every race offers a unique and intense experience that’s worth the sacrifices.” But this week, going over the list, I thought, “Those poor souls. They’re still trapped.” I immediately laughed at myself for having this thought because it made the Iditarod sound like some kind of cult that I'd escaped. But then a more sober realization struck … maybe that is the way I’m thinking about this now. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0bQGy78NQOBRq3JqC3TSov6LNu5zUfU3rdvEiyAv_3BENDoSE5Ec9BrPi_BRmH1nsl-_SC_UHJ5KnyrAoZ89UxLuPoNfw0hFcnB9yILG0Y0xJ1H8LEQnMBkMX80XzKxDlC6NU1BhsjYz6XEx4YNlSBoYcJQ1uIpP48UbcZVZATtJ0LlIvXA/s4032/PXL_20221012_181814455.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0bQGy78NQOBRq3JqC3TSov6LNu5zUfU3rdvEiyAv_3BENDoSE5Ec9BrPi_BRmH1nsl-_SC_UHJ5KnyrAoZ89UxLuPoNfw0hFcnB9yILG0Y0xJ1H8LEQnMBkMX80XzKxDlC6NU1BhsjYz6XEx4YNlSBoYcJQ1uIpP48UbcZVZATtJ0LlIvXA/w640-h480/PXL_20221012_181814455.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I knocked out several fast runs around the Walker Ranch loop this month. Normally I'd be more excited about that.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Racing provided meaningful structure in my life. It was a destination, an exciting future, something to push me out the door in the wind and rain. Training for races created colorful threads that I could weave into the mundanity of everyday routine. I never believed I needed the anticipation of a goal to boost these micro-adventures. But then October — typically the start of my winter season — rolled around, and my interest in adventure fell off a cliff.
I had a lot going on this month, with a long build of biweekly immunotherapy shots to treat my worsening asthma, car issues, physical therapy appointments, and a remote copy editing job that pins me to tight deadlines four days a week. Still, I had time to get out, the weather has been good, and the air quality has been superb. Even my fitness has been above average. Usually when I’m in a “slump,” it’s because I’m struggling physically. But I’ve been running well, setting PRs on routes I’ve frequented for nearly seven years, and improving my downhill technique. And yet … I’m just not feeling it. It feels like I’m running on autopilot, going through the motions. I feel little emotion about the beauty around me and little interest in my successes. I feel “meh,” which is alarming and unlike me, in every aspect of myself I’ve come to understand. So who am I? What am I even doing? </div><div><br /></div><div> Another issue with October is that I’ve been deeply frustrated about my health. A physical on Sept. 23 revealed alarmingly high cholesterol (honestly, it’s alarming) and mildly high TSH, both indicators of hypothyroidism. The mildly high TSH is key; I don’t meet the clinical standard for treatment. (For those who are familiar with thyroid stuff and who are curious, my TSH is 5.25 uIU/mL; the clinical range is considered 0.4-4.5. There’s a lot of good evidence that most people, especially those of us with autoimmune thyroid disease, feel best below 2.5, but doctors typically don’t recommend treatment until TSH is over 10.) My primary care doctor recommended a wait-and-see approach, which is perfectly reasonable. But in the meantime, I’ve got this cholesterol issue that I must try to address with diet, meaning I had to give up ice cream and chocolate and other comfort foods that admittedly help boost me out of the depths. I’ve been on a diet for a month and this does not bring me joy. My mental health, meanwhile, is precariously perched on a terrible tightrope. I’ve experienced some debilitating lows, often at strange times — like while I’m running outdoors. Other times bring awful anxiety spikes, where I’m extremely on edge and even trembling, again at strange times — like while sitting in the waiting room at my allergy clinic. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JMO_Ow7jNKglLUYYV-S4L1oQrTq5laageJrSjpsEY--NUJYIVotj_Y8PgLG-cNMstS61QNKyI9Qm3U-R93Q_XRM2DepyE62mfqNmRmIq7Y4Q83ZCr-A4oqwUkmPbtahQokIgsTiu0O8EZHw0CzEIYpjYRW0qH3r-wSa85ptF6TKVRvn0yw/s3264/PXL_20221024_172054804.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JMO_Ow7jNKglLUYYV-S4L1oQrTq5laageJrSjpsEY--NUJYIVotj_Y8PgLG-cNMstS61QNKyI9Qm3U-R93Q_XRM2DepyE62mfqNmRmIq7Y4Q83ZCr-A4oqwUkmPbtahQokIgsTiu0O8EZHw0CzEIYpjYRW0qH3r-wSa85ptF6TKVRvn0yw/w640-h480/PXL_20221024_172054804.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Running on Green Mountain earlier this week. I had been crying just seconds earlier but wasn't trying to depict a strangely volatile emotional state. I wanted my usual Strava selfie with the marginal dusting of the season's first snow. There's a lot to unpack about all of that ...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div> I’m just not loving life right now, and there doesn't seem to be an obvious solution. Friends have recommended seeking medication for anxiety/depression, but I have a lot of concerns about this route. I can’t shake the thought that treating my thyroid health — before it again becomes a dangerous problem like it did in 2017 — might be a better place to start. After all, I had significant cognitive symptoms when I was hyperthyroid. On Friday, I paid out of pocket for further testing and learned that while my TPOAb (the antibodies typically present in Hashimoto’s Disease) are very high, my thyroid hormones fall in the normal range. My thyroid is stressed but it’s doing its job, which is probably why I’m not experiencing more obvious symptoms — such as a decline in fitness. So I have to concede — the wait-and-see approach makes the most sense. But I’d rather wait and see about my thyroid before I head down the SSRI road, which may mean straddling this mental health tightrope for the foreseeable future. </div><div><br /></div><div>Phew, I did not mean to take this tangent, but it feels good to write it all out. Another mental-health strategy I’ve been pondering is going back to therapy, which is obviously the first step on the SSRI road. I’ve not given therapy a lot of effort but had an extremely mixed experience with a therapist that I started seeing via Zoom at the beginning of the pandemic. She showed me useful coping mechanisms and helped me sort through my fears in 2020. But things were starting to fall apart even before my father died, and her stunning lack of empathy in the aftermath was traumatizing. I recognize that finding the right therapist is its own battle, but it’s just so daunting. I don’t want to endure more trauma while trying to “fix” my mental health. Face-to-face interaction, in general, is already so difficult and stressful for me (yes, even on Zoom.) If I’m going to invest the high amount of energy required for talk therapy, I want real solutions. I do not need someone to tell me to kind to myself or remind me to practice self-care. I need someone who can guide me in the pursuit of truth and living a purposeful life in a broken civilization on a dying planet. I suppose what I really need is philosophy … or religion. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwdxoG6vWWX1bRGlmCP_fXKqFXbBRfHgj67s7KYtm-_AaGE28rkc0tRubRApz2lF1P0wzwYXlXe4tElGB5DeHKVSHAn4pjPK10edjITviQ0qJR8FTr5xc41zh-0mv6LQ25tZ1faHQApQSygjgktcKR7d_5OYZkA91tFhSorUs8TSoAbx1VZg/s4032/PXL_20221027_163816680.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwdxoG6vWWX1bRGlmCP_fXKqFXbBRfHgj67s7KYtm-_AaGE28rkc0tRubRApz2lF1P0wzwYXlXe4tElGB5DeHKVSHAn4pjPK10edjITviQ0qJR8FTr5xc41zh-0mv6LQ25tZ1faHQApQSygjgktcKR7d_5OYZkA91tFhSorUs8TSoAbx1VZg/w640-h480/PXL_20221027_163816680.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We finally got some real snow on Thursday. It was short-lived and I knew it would be, but I was still surprised to not be more stoked that snow season has arrived. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>The recent shake-up on Twitter has bummed me out. My first thought about everyone leaving now that Elon is at the helm is, “Oh no, my ex-Mo friends.” I have, weirdly, recently latched onto a community of former members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, a religion I left in my late teens. Most of my family members are still active in this religion. I have a desire to better understand them, and a few rather innocuous search terms are likely how these algorithms landed on my feed. Still, it’s been helpful to read about the experiences of people who are processing the loss of deeply-held faith. I’ve wondered if this is because I feel a similar loss in endurance racing … a soaring form of worship in its own right. My community and many of my relationships are tied up in outdoor adventure. The Twitter ex-Mos — who are helping me process the religious issues I never did when I was 19 years old — are also offering outside perspective into what might come next, if the spiritual fire does indeed go out. </div><div><br /></div><div> When I think about a purposeful life, I envision some idyllic version of Mary Oliver — taking my messy and discontented self for daily walks in the woods to commune with nature and emerge with beautiful poetry that I send out into the world so others can feel less alone as we all walk into a messy and frightening future. However, I am not nearly the artist that Mary Oliver was, and I’m not so enlightened that I can be content with walks in the woods. I still need novelty and excitement, ego-driven “achievements” and lazy comforts. I couldn’t even give up ice cream without being grumpy about it; it’s unlikely I’ll ever shed my extensive vices. </div><div><br /></div><div> Still, putting my energy toward something — anything — that feels meaningful in a positive way is a necessary pursuit. I don’t know exactly what this thing is, or if it even needs to be tangible … maybe striving to be a good person is enough. Maybe love is enough. Maybe going into the woods, mostly alone but sometimes with someone who I love very much, in the backyard of this place I am extremely lucky to live … is enough. The universe is infinite and indifferent and I’ll never understand even an infinitesimal fraction of the truth in a lifetime of searching — but I understand that beauty and light go on. Maybe that’s enough. </div><div><br /></div><div> Longevity might not be on my side — objectively, the odds aren't in my favor. Every day is a gift. If there’s one positive self-help platitude I can embrace, it’s making every day count.</div>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-27088746312493142772022-10-22T00:16:00.000-06:002022-10-22T00:16:07.027-06:00Carrying the Tradition<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFyhPjb7cUOeTvScl8zneNjDgQUMXue0kC5R0heG1cTj0550G-fHF1_8JPEK4jv0dcW7fARmsWv-qbd8DA6zpZGsDzYIKAhxlBCIEMrwzk3xAKSIMWG1cSGk-aIiiMHogUDnCCqmIGmbs9id5qv3rbolX9SfkwMcJovA23OIV7HuKoOEbIxQ/s4032/GC_00.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFyhPjb7cUOeTvScl8zneNjDgQUMXue0kC5R0heG1cTj0550G-fHF1_8JPEK4jv0dcW7fARmsWv-qbd8DA6zpZGsDzYIKAhxlBCIEMrwzk3xAKSIMWG1cSGk-aIiiMHogUDnCCqmIGmbs9id5qv3rbolX9SfkwMcJovA23OIV7HuKoOEbIxQ/w640-h480/GC_00.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>"Your first time only happens once," I repeated to each sister. I wanted to assure them that the training, preparation, and possible emotional turmoil would be worth it. The Grand Canyon is a wholly unique place on Earth, heart-rending in its scope and grandeur, and we finally going to cross it together. </p><p>Their first Rim-to-Rim had been in the works for years. Our dad would light-heartedly bring it up in the early years of what was becoming our annual tradition, when I was still flying down from Alaska just for this. My sisters weren't all that into hiking and didn't take the invitation seriously. Then Sara took up running half marathons, boosting her interest and confidence in endurance sports. Lisa first expressed genuine interest five years ago, but then became pregnant with her youngest son. Life continued to happen: infants, jobs, Covid. Finally, in 2021, we were going to make it happen. Both sisters were training for the Grand Canyon when our father died in June, and everything shattered. </p><p>Still in shock, I pleaded with my sisters to keep the tradition going, but quickly let go of this delusion. There would be no Grand Canyon in 2021. I wondered if I'd ever return.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjygwJSqf-S1F4BOSKlSLQgjD6PJqoZVZBiYDE1xRvV1vFf77MsKgsMphcJuvsVbjG-8Eq-Drvky8Pr6zkMeXjnHp7WxEYHnMInBn6D6P5nZqqRuqCtXPD6QmErsMRLXbm5WtqKawqXRHrcW0R3buvMBOxnOKfKNQ54t9kvemqK7EnC4Kpeag/s4032/GC_14.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjygwJSqf-S1F4BOSKlSLQgjD6PJqoZVZBiYDE1xRvV1vFf77MsKgsMphcJuvsVbjG-8Eq-Drvky8Pr6zkMeXjnHp7WxEYHnMInBn6D6P5nZqqRuqCtXPD6QmErsMRLXbm5WtqKawqXRHrcW0R3buvMBOxnOKfKNQ54t9kvemqK7EnC4Kpeag/w640-h480/GC_14.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p>The Tradition started in 2004 when Dad made plans to join a group of friends for his second rim-to-rim and invited me. Hiking had been a passion we shared since I first joined him on a Wasatch Peak called Mount Aire a decade earlier, but our adventures together had tapered off in recent years. Like many young adults, I was absorbed in my own life, and I'd also developed a zeal for cycling that took up much of my free time. Hiking miles had become increasingly scarce. I was mired in relationship drama, interviewing for jobs out of state as my solution for said relationship drama, and otherwise not taking the time to do the proper training for a 24-mile hike with all of the difficulty in the back half. But I wasn't worried about my fitness — I was 25 years old and still invincible in that way. I also was intrigued because my grade school nemesis, who used to bully me for being terrible at sports, was part of the group. I'd show him!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqswc_bH98cUzOY3x10Izl2GMltHANNIhCBcVXxUIEs4fTnZLfLFMKbRpuNONr1P0HpIVbcr8ddRGm_HIhEaW4TaRYqxTOwPUz-AKtJ3kWEGzGBTjaDBcuR4c6yDKIWDCGoXSSS3QcELZZUNg_ZLEjo5ryCay1Cn7X_DZ1snb9KA64H_o6ag/s1600/DSCF0022.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqswc_bH98cUzOY3x10Izl2GMltHANNIhCBcVXxUIEs4fTnZLfLFMKbRpuNONr1P0HpIVbcr8ddRGm_HIhEaW4TaRYqxTOwPUz-AKtJ3kWEGzGBTjaDBcuR4c6yDKIWDCGoXSSS3QcELZZUNg_ZLEjo5ryCay1Cn7X_DZ1snb9KA64H_o6ag/w640-h480/DSCF0022.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Standing with Dad at the Colorado River in October 2005</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Rim-to-Rim 2004 was magical and grueling and memorable. "Your first time only happens once." We embarked from the North Rim well before dawn. Half of our group ditched us before we even started down the trail, racing to be the first to the South Rim. "Where's the fire?" my grade-school nemesis cried indignantly. But then he too raced ahead, and I had an incredible realization that I didn't care. I didn't need to prove myself to a childhood bully. I was just happy to be there, hiking with Dad, descending into a beautiful furnace. </div><div><br /></div><div>Temperatures topped 110 degrees. The other folks in our back-of-the-pack group struggled with heat exhaustion and bleeding nipples. Meanwhile, Dad showed me how to stay strong: refilling my water at regular intervals, eating a snack once an hour, resting in the shade, and taping the blisters on my heels. Slogging up the endless switchbacks of the Bright Angel Trail, I felt fantastic — one of my first realizations about my propensity for long-haul endurance. My first Rim-to-Rim was, and still is, one of my greatest accomplishments. </div><div><br /></div><div>The following year, after I surprised even myself by up and moving to Alaska in September, I still purchased a last-minute plane ticket so I could join Dad in the Grand Canyon. Rim-to-Rim became a yearly tradition from that point on. By 2019, I'd completed 13 crossings of the Grand Canyon with Dad. 2019 was a most magical year, with beautiful light, perfect temperatures, and our steps dialed in like clockwork. Dad was 67 years old and as strong as ever. I still held onto the assumption that we'd continue this tradition for many years. I never could have imagined it would be our last. </div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHDAJTyNSI3WNAcdiMjosTV7oHNhO008P4YOQSQHKEVYo22bWIfypyDXoH-vyhHV8_AfkAgfSPeTCgNSFk1PyYeso__7fYjchI7gevkWLtJca-1tjR_XL_CNTZl2isy4HVZDATGdFpb_il9rJmx_1m9_J0TCNZeYSrn5gt4n1DgZJqqC71UQ/s4032/GC_01.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHDAJTyNSI3WNAcdiMjosTV7oHNhO008P4YOQSQHKEVYo22bWIfypyDXoH-vyhHV8_AfkAgfSPeTCgNSFk1PyYeso__7fYjchI7gevkWLtJca-1tjR_XL_CNTZl2isy4HVZDATGdFpb_il9rJmx_1m9_J0TCNZeYSrn5gt4n1DgZJqqC71UQ/w640-h480/GC_01.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>In October 2021, over the weekend that we were all supposed to be in the Grand Canyon, my sisters and I met up in California for a relaxing vacation that (perhaps because of nudges from me) turned to daily hiking in the hills above Laguna Beach. There, Lisa and Sara recommitted to the Grand Canyon in 2022. I wasn't entirely convinced they'd be up for all of the necessary preparations without our Dad encouraging them along, but I excitedly went through the process of booking rooms on the South Rim. Our mom, as she had done nearly every year since 2004, agreed to drive the long shuttle around the canyon and meet us on the other side. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheUYPtRa9O8Px6Zpj8in1q3ZlKkskPSYMn7nxQWcrZiohaFQTkG2liSIwSs_s2yjWAjbMcoAJzgkpQMyEENaz0uLztQthPcLWjxvguHXzmHOPtom91kAFEHp5dpw_zXhkuh974O3sK3Zf2xfoAYA6BeOWGliVGE2oukViXQd6jo7IpKTZWnQ/s4032/GC_02.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheUYPtRa9O8Px6Zpj8in1q3ZlKkskPSYMn7nxQWcrZiohaFQTkG2liSIwSs_s2yjWAjbMcoAJzgkpQMyEENaz0uLztQthPcLWjxvguHXzmHOPtom91kAFEHp5dpw_zXhkuh974O3sK3Zf2xfoAYA6BeOWGliVGE2oukViXQd6jo7IpKTZWnQ/w640-h480/GC_02.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>Lisa and Sara stepped up in a big way, taking time away from their busy lives and families — Sara has three young children and Lisa has four — to embark on training hikes and hit the gym. Sara — my baby sister who I still think of as a fastidious 12-year-old who abhors outdoor slogs and discomfort and dirt — downright shocked me when she embarked on three repeats of a steep six-mile loop during a 90-degree day in Orange County. Repeats! One needs a hefty dose of mental game to return to the inferno. </div><div><br /></div><div>For Lisa's long hike, we summited Mount Timpanogos in the Wasatch Mountains — this 14-mile route has 4,500 feet of climbing and was our Dad's specific measure for whether or not a person has what it takes to cross the Grand Canyon. Lisa and I did this on a 90-degree day over Labor Day weekend. It was rough. Lisa performed admirably, keeping a steady pace both up and down the mountain. I was admittedly a little surprised — and incredibly moved. The Grand Canyon meant enough to my sisters that they did the work, and it showed. </div><div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOaoag9thG3UPhCNzE6f-OVAX63PnExuIbUE8KCHo92qoR_ZKYzTelAEbPCEmifpzHisqom-wcSFBXwZh5w-lq2jnvOQfS3rgW7T5d62dD47-CxB6WA-G6HINW7QvdMdc2fTxlsritBr3ZyWxwQ0XfgElyaMoew6PyRd42gMw1JnCl3b-kBw/s4032/GC_03.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOaoag9thG3UPhCNzE6f-OVAX63PnExuIbUE8KCHo92qoR_ZKYzTelAEbPCEmifpzHisqom-wcSFBXwZh5w-lq2jnvOQfS3rgW7T5d62dD47-CxB6WA-G6HINW7QvdMdc2fTxlsritBr3ZyWxwQ0XfgElyaMoew6PyRd42gMw1JnCl3b-kBw/w640-h480/GC_03.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>Amid final preparations, I sent them a 1,600-word e-mail with every detail I could think of, from our accommodations to the elevation profile to specific items I thought they should pack. I did want to let them make their own decisions and have their own experiences, but I also really wanted everything to go well. Against the wishes of my physical therapist, who is still helping me work through back pain, I loaded a 45-liter backpack with anything that could remotely aid our comfort and success — an extensive first-aid kit, cooling towels, extra layers, extra snacks, a water filter, a wag bag (just in case!), and 20 pounds of ice in an insulated bag. To be clear, my sisters had both already planned their gear and carried everything they actually needed, but I was doing my best to be a worrywart big sister. </p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd-A7Y-BdSulgdXA4zWNEEbxCAUTkK5JFJ3D4E445g23sf-L1ZeAzpi4YZW6gMzA4fmp8-QasRnp0X9vukqnFUZpFWZ-p9uQ0ttn87LO7LswOJijQjE-SxZL9LPn-56-D1FZcr4OXsjY7sL8kXWwGE2pbjicejIL-QpUGXJZcxS6ilq981-Q/s4032/GC_046.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd-A7Y-BdSulgdXA4zWNEEbxCAUTkK5JFJ3D4E445g23sf-L1ZeAzpi4YZW6gMzA4fmp8-QasRnp0X9vukqnFUZpFWZ-p9uQ0ttn87LO7LswOJijQjE-SxZL9LPn-56-D1FZcr4OXsjY7sL8kXWwGE2pbjicejIL-QpUGXJZcxS6ilq981-Q/w640-h480/GC_046.jpg" width="640" /></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I set a start time of an hour before sunrise, 5:30 a.m. To everyone's credit, we managed to hit the South Kaibab Trail by 5:45. It was a gorgeous morning — nice light, just a slight breeze, but already quite warm at dawn. The forecast high for Phantom Ranch was 95 degrees, so I was a little anxious about the coming heat. Still, everyone was in good spirits. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEWlijLYuiMUn9HE1HfMJE2q9gASJ9UOclAV8O-iklzpia0eCoiVpM2ukk0iwnNIS-CUwrrwjuOmYJnbpmRlIihDLRaaanJphdvpjSLgj3NepQ1JNvRo36ChO3eCN1w7nEVna49UZzHzkBg7Sh02z3u5MxQCSbn64gVAKqQLdUciy0nam5DQ/s4032/GC_04.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEWlijLYuiMUn9HE1HfMJE2q9gASJ9UOclAV8O-iklzpia0eCoiVpM2ukk0iwnNIS-CUwrrwjuOmYJnbpmRlIihDLRaaanJphdvpjSLgj3NepQ1JNvRo36ChO3eCN1w7nEVna49UZzHzkBg7Sh02z3u5MxQCSbn64gVAKqQLdUciy0nam5DQ/w640-h480/GC_04.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>One of the early viewpoints on the South Kaibab Trail. The street where we grew up and where our mom still lives is called Cedar Ridge Road, so we had to get a photo. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpWg3HB7esThW6nhSKYxTt9ufElZBd2TD-nL8QlOBfQ6KSXELZ2ZWQdP3_chewfZRrX2NUzWyr2w8Nqb5MQQcfhZnFbusI-K5JWV41gY0PMWqGVZ_dXH-fxc7FwLfDxQisdP4DSaQpRitNUcQFuEiZZLHoT_muPM_y3Zk0TpCRL_ue_VBjUw/s4032/GC_05.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpWg3HB7esThW6nhSKYxTt9ufElZBd2TD-nL8QlOBfQ6KSXELZ2ZWQdP3_chewfZRrX2NUzWyr2w8Nqb5MQQcfhZnFbusI-K5JWV41gY0PMWqGVZ_dXH-fxc7FwLfDxQisdP4DSaQpRitNUcQFuEiZZLHoT_muPM_y3Zk0TpCRL_ue_VBjUw/w640-h480/GC_05.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>The switchbacking descent toward the Colorado River. I had forgotten about the hundreds of big step-downs on this trail. This compounded the already-difficult 5,000-foot descent for Lisa, who struggles with knee pain (likely osteoarthritis) from a high school knee injury. Her knee brace wasn't quite cutting it and her joint was starting to ache. I fished two Aleve and two Tylenol from my industrial-sized first aid kit, along with lidocaine patches that I insisted she try. We took several rest breaks as the sun climbed higher in the sky. I could tell Lisa was in pain, but she hid any distress she might have been feeling. I tried to hide the distress that I was admittedly feeling. Was I leading her into a death march? In the Grand Canyon, descending is optional but climbing is mandatory. The hard part had yet to begin.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5fcNx6ro3tmZVqCiKfmwkhlD_8NCz9dRIcHZPE8a3FTC2E_EmsONfObdEhKkkbGkrfNMLU4z5v3USltr8L5z4wiRkdatUiDuO6-MQ9asS8K91EEwzaP9lrFE-UF4MCdu1EFRqCpyHIjfYrl2RZu9Nau1GYGV4ZcJ2B85N4LUs796jJZbQRQ/s4032/GC_06.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5fcNx6ro3tmZVqCiKfmwkhlD_8NCz9dRIcHZPE8a3FTC2E_EmsONfObdEhKkkbGkrfNMLU4z5v3USltr8L5z4wiRkdatUiDuO6-MQ9asS8K91EEwzaP9lrFE-UF4MCdu1EFRqCpyHIjfYrl2RZu9Nau1GYGV4ZcJ2B85N4LUs796jJZbQRQ/w640-h480/GC_06.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>We made it to the Colorado River about two hours later than my best-case scenario, but it was still just 11 a.m., well within the range for a reasonable 14-hour pace. </div><div><br /></div><div>"The good news," I chirped as we crossed the footbridge, "is there's essentially no more downhill."</div><div><br /></div><div>We spent about an hour at Phantom Ranch, eating our sandwiches and enjoying the lemonade. The concession stand had changed a lot since my pre-pandemic hikes. Inflation hit the Grand Canyon and a small cup of lemonade is now $5.50 — used to be $1! They also sell ice now — at the same price for a 10-pound bag, it's by far the best deal in the canyon. This was admittedly not welcome news after I'd schlepped 20 extra pounds for four hours. And everything is sold from a walk-up window, including T-shirts and postcards. One particularly oblivious woman spent 15 minutes ordering many souvenirs and mulling over postcards while the lemonade line stacked up behind her. I eventually had to hand Lisa our cash and walk away because I was seconds away from losing the last strand of my social filter. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVeVEqDM0vlZYs3erBkbPl2BXfI9fHKs-ob9hhkkqZ6Jo4aDW3Ci4XgpmJDeL8vvFikd_bg9DFcWDVrvZ_rTo4c0-1uqhV5xhNl1J_JUedS5HHyQuuQFN8RbSaByaiqJBTDl1iqWA3BG8OL-h90b7ufTFpe3jYGkvDhYZ1p5MfkL-wV__M_g/s4032/GC_07.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVeVEqDM0vlZYs3erBkbPl2BXfI9fHKs-ob9hhkkqZ6Jo4aDW3Ci4XgpmJDeL8vvFikd_bg9DFcWDVrvZ_rTo4c0-1uqhV5xhNl1J_JUedS5HHyQuuQFN8RbSaByaiqJBTDl1iqWA3BG8OL-h90b7ufTFpe3jYGkvDhYZ1p5MfkL-wV__M_g/w640-h480/GC_07.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>We started up "The Box" just after noon. Both of my sisters had built up this section in their minds as a place to fear and loathe. Online forums cite it — accurately, I think — as the hottest place in the canyon. I'd warned them that if we didn't get through the narrow canyon before the morning shadow faded, the sun would turn it into a sandstone oven. Because of these warnings, both sisters expected to witness soul-crushing desolation while slogging through a sandy wash. "The Box" is actually a lovely canyon with a spring-fed creek and a lush riparian zone wending beneath the sandstone cliffs. Pessimism pays off; it was a pleasant surprise. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9aF7x4lWOBVM0GiEzqy7cTQ5zr9GN5dFRPAEdXGdSEt8bIW8BUYWk3k5Dc3eurTviQOit-RvGNUwHopjSlkwEhuyfuzkrRNOhBO6o78gWiKJMZwcjKdaTQ8ROVDahxYukCh_hHIKFQ4AgeD49p2ceN6UTNuL5QlW25ja_dFh21MU9Bwm09A/s3024/GC_08.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2687" data-original-width="3024" height="568" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9aF7x4lWOBVM0GiEzqy7cTQ5zr9GN5dFRPAEdXGdSEt8bIW8BUYWk3k5Dc3eurTviQOit-RvGNUwHopjSlkwEhuyfuzkrRNOhBO6o78gWiKJMZwcjKdaTQ8ROVDahxYukCh_hHIKFQ4AgeD49p2ceN6UTNuL5QlW25ja_dFh21MU9Bwm09A/w640-h568/GC_08.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>Once out of The Box, the going got tough again. We were well into the afternoon hours and now lacking any measure of shade. The high temperature at Phantom Ranch that day ended up being 99 degrees. Doubtlessly it was similar here. Sara is a regular at a hot yoga class in California and weathered the heat well. But Lisa again became quiet, and I was feeling the heat as well. We stopped at any reasonable access point to dip cooling towels and hats in Bright Angel Creek. The last of my 20 pounds of ice finally melted. We were nearing the end of my heat remedies as the hardest part of the climb neared. I continued to remind my sisters to eat their chewable electrolyte tabs — which they did, diligently, even though those things are disgusting. Everything was still going surprisingly well. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3BqzW425pLOC5DtUsTvRdjyt_OfHIUIl8j6HFlDNLCudMaCmSBERdILC2WvRYYDKUVQSApAk-zLHPkYx5I0ECjkkmayNkXw7Vawk_RSL42dJ30pMcs-IePHZvdqv2KZh3ma9xQ9v3RgMI3jN6srgYHtBH3d4QukR7x6yrPcZOfWp6md7FFg/s4032/GC_09.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3BqzW425pLOC5DtUsTvRdjyt_OfHIUIl8j6HFlDNLCudMaCmSBERdILC2WvRYYDKUVQSApAk-zLHPkYx5I0ECjkkmayNkXw7Vawk_RSL42dJ30pMcs-IePHZvdqv2KZh3ma9xQ9v3RgMI3jN6srgYHtBH3d4QukR7x6yrPcZOfWp6md7FFg/w480-h640/GC_09.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div>Then we came to the intersection for Ribbon Falls. There was once a bridge leading to this alcove, but it washed out in a flood in 2019 and has not been replaced. This means hikers must cross Bright Angel Creek. Depending on where one makes the crossing, it isn't trivial — the current is often knee-deep and fast-flowing. From there, one must follow a more primitive trail that adds about a mile to an already long hike. I told my sisters it would be fine to opt out of Ribbon Falls. But I also assured them it would be worth it.</div><div><br /></div><div>"This was Dad's favorite spot in the canyon." </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtCtjJNv-mt7b5mDJhXRWN7QRsHdum_nrGCtkiSwiiu2xulhVjy0DoS5Xsq_VX4yMa6-xPrQ68qs54eUyoK7XpR4C8PsMmlhGtrKZ1QuUkqhUfzwvZv-xKnt5cj10P1RrwPvbXWcuYVedW-G66KfLOzf1A2Gh9jkRaG9U1lQlVfD-nV3Okdg/s4032/GC_10.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtCtjJNv-mt7b5mDJhXRWN7QRsHdum_nrGCtkiSwiiu2xulhVjy0DoS5Xsq_VX4yMa6-xPrQ68qs54eUyoK7XpR4C8PsMmlhGtrKZ1QuUkqhUfzwvZv-xKnt5cj10P1RrwPvbXWcuYVedW-G66KfLOzf1A2Gh9jkRaG9U1lQlVfD-nV3Okdg/w640-h480/GC_10.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>The creek crossing was tricky. We walked up and down the shoreline looking for the best spot, and settled on a place where I thought we could rock-hop. It wasn't the best choice — the rocks were large and slippery; falling off one could have resulted in a real injury. Lisa still plunged into the creek near the far shore and was not happy about having wet shoes. The 2019 flood left a steep sandy ridge that we had to find our way around, bashing through tamarisk and hopping back and forth over a smaller creek. But we made it to Ribbon Falls, and it was gorgeous. Lisa and Sara were awestruck. </div><div><br /></div><div>"It's like Hawaii in the desert." </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGOPwaMNrtDde9YeXqgedsP80gILpRSUugDuiDR32NS7BjeXg6xOAsn16C6dAVVtzHiDy5pgd2xcN8qqweRmE8QadogJ8mXLYJ6u8MH2bytOB3E1UVNLYw_FBt4VaexEmxD8bwu7MAMO7simhDyh98Pq77ZHh84Z5iBgIYSQIJjYX2I0SLtg/s4032/GC_12.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGOPwaMNrtDde9YeXqgedsP80gILpRSUugDuiDR32NS7BjeXg6xOAsn16C6dAVVtzHiDy5pgd2xcN8qqweRmE8QadogJ8mXLYJ6u8MH2bytOB3E1UVNLYw_FBt4VaexEmxD8bwu7MAMO7simhDyh98Pq77ZHh84Z5iBgIYSQIJjYX2I0SLtg/w640-h480/GC_12.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>No one else was around. In all of the many years I've visited Ribbon Falls, I've never experienced anything but crowds. The waterfall is a beautiful, cool spot to take a break. In the past, nearly everyone who passed by would make a long stop, and the numbers often grew into the dozens. The missing bridge and bushwhacking approach must have been just enough to deter most hikers this year, or perhaps we were just incredibly lucky with our timing. Whatever the reason, for 45 minutes we had this paradise completely to ourselves. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaUIZjmOHo0wtYHWedm1VEI6lKfrq6ek8IcrZ5pJ1Cg8UxbVJP1BGZaXp7W1WbMrT9Sn3dwHJJsuyLbSybUzLrUlJBwKshjcqpX7B-SR0ynLQbRxEyo550agjKsEAlXqc4W1fqLg44c4uhlnsuqa-8V3j3LUARwLra6ylEN6OV4Zq3RULSaw/s4032/GC_11.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaUIZjmOHo0wtYHWedm1VEI6lKfrq6ek8IcrZ5pJ1Cg8UxbVJP1BGZaXp7W1WbMrT9Sn3dwHJJsuyLbSybUzLrUlJBwKshjcqpX7B-SR0ynLQbRxEyo550agjKsEAlXqc4W1fqLg44c4uhlnsuqa-8V3j3LUARwLra6ylEN6OV4Zq3RULSaw/w640-h480/GC_11.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Lisa and Sara both had a small amount of Dad's ashes left over from some jewelry they had made, and we agreed to spread them here. It was a serene, lovely moment, but it leveled me in a way I hadn't expected. Up until Ribbon Falls, everything about this year's Grand Canyon had been positive — just happy nostalgia and the excitement of sharing an incredible place with my sisters. Here, I realized how much I missed Dad, how I could never again share this with him, how alone we are in this world, tiny flickers of joy in the darkness. We sat and hugged and shared a big cry. Then we sat a while longer, listening to the peaceful melody of cascading water. </div><div><br /></div><div>Emotionally, I've been in a dark place since the Grand Canyon. I can't deny it. I went in expecting the joyful experience of new memories and traditions. But what I found is a finality, harsh and unyielding. It wasn't my first realization of the finality of death and it certainly won't be my last, but it has been the starkest of such moments. </div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7XzwYhEHGiueQx5AqjHjgs5vb62id4zeAf-F2uC6ltJd7R1kBADx6eHzPoRNQYbFlL8HBluTGlKs53hJpaytg-c_JSwn6PDTcZlKaRi0evkRKkI4zHTlVEhdeWsoB-xZ_jQLyMb0cBhhkiflrCIjvYy_0BjNbweQn-Nb8yTCkzh-06RW6YA/s4032/GC_13.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7XzwYhEHGiueQx5AqjHjgs5vb62id4zeAf-F2uC6ltJd7R1kBADx6eHzPoRNQYbFlL8HBluTGlKs53hJpaytg-c_JSwn6PDTcZlKaRi0evkRKkI4zHTlVEhdeWsoB-xZ_jQLyMb0cBhhkiflrCIjvYy_0BjNbweQn-Nb8yTCkzh-06RW6YA/w640-h480/GC_13.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Still, life goes on. After our beautiful but emotionally devastating memorial, Sara injected levity into the moment with yoga poses beneath the falls. Then we hiked on, moving with the relentless march of time toward the long night — or, for now, the long climb.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA8vXUHoX6hMlUJ2yPxzFzz5UBiuCXdQPSuQWxIRoAQEdm88vCawg34c0omXPTdf7mOHkzYbPLS8u-GmJUgG8Xu7ZLc1hh5hToxNeNAHyChX15w5NMSjLrczUrlSj1iXTuNmb7FUaIK9Z8EEcK7mUV9g6iAtJlInnNSVop6GVoAQ8Bj1gKHg/s4032/GC_145.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA8vXUHoX6hMlUJ2yPxzFzz5UBiuCXdQPSuQWxIRoAQEdm88vCawg34c0omXPTdf7mOHkzYbPLS8u-GmJUgG8Xu7ZLc1hh5hToxNeNAHyChX15w5NMSjLrczUrlSj1iXTuNmb7FUaIK9Z8EEcK7mUV9g6iAtJlInnNSVop6GVoAQ8Bj1gKHg/w640-h480/GC_145.jpg" width="640" /></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had warned my sisters that the final five miles are by far the hardest. We'd already covered 18 miles, both of their farthest hiking distances, and still had more than 3,600 feet to climb out of the canyon. These relentless switchbacks are usually what break first-timers. But the sisters had done well with self-care: eating and drinking at regular intervals, taking their salt tabs, and managing their feet. Sara was downright perky. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA7Crx2dknTjNtNBIi2eqS6ImkjWLZlwbXrXbLQ6CfpqT6RqwXvb2vKOlp2aK70m0zaDFD3Qjgg2CKiZaDk3wbrvQctDzA7xYRnd5myu04CntCpIU8hQZzmMKLxFjnRg5ECp-tkH5Mmyk1lv-bLjfbaiB62ITKQ9fcdptJAJzjHgeaxa4unA/s4032/GC_15.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA7Crx2dknTjNtNBIi2eqS6ImkjWLZlwbXrXbLQ6CfpqT6RqwXvb2vKOlp2aK70m0zaDFD3Qjgg2CKiZaDk3wbrvQctDzA7xYRnd5myu04CntCpIU8hQZzmMKLxFjnRg5ECp-tkH5Mmyk1lv-bLjfbaiB62ITKQ9fcdptJAJzjHgeaxa4unA/w640-h480/GC_15.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>We were lucky that, amid our long stop and Ribbon Falls and another at Cottonwood campground, it had become late enough in the day that the canyon had slipped into an afternoon shadow. While still warm, the unbearable sun finally relented. The sisters kept a steady pace but were starting to show signs of weariness. I'd warned them about scary drop-offs along this section but I don't think they noticed. </div><div><br /></div><div>We briefly connected with a large group from Minnesota, commiserating and encouraging one another. I looked at my watch and did some calculations, then sent Mom an ETA from my satellite messenger. We hoped to keep an 8 p.m. dinner reservation on the North Rim. I'd promised my sisters that we could take all the time they needed to hike out of the canyon and I wasn't going to push them — I brought my camp stove and mac n' cheese just in case we missed dinner — but tried to gently nudge them along when I realized the timing was going to be close. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir4ZXEt4j1EWWp99vQsBPXmaEb53Yv5AsnPX7k6xPOBzMXvyuXO1wHbOVZzOnTDsYyG_8Tff4E2WH83tg0gDT4bicP9sbDirGFPMpbVsiQ2NXVaYu5i7VKb48c65Y3xCxcUdYTQ2mU8-bKXarxGl2Axh3oJM4ff7BU2OkTtg2mTlYn5sRW_A/s4032/GC_16.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir4ZXEt4j1EWWp99vQsBPXmaEb53Yv5AsnPX7k6xPOBzMXvyuXO1wHbOVZzOnTDsYyG_8Tff4E2WH83tg0gDT4bicP9sbDirGFPMpbVsiQ2NXVaYu5i7VKb48c65Y3xCxcUdYTQ2mU8-bKXarxGl2Axh3oJM4ff7BU2OkTtg2mTlYn5sRW_A/w640-h480/GC_16.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>We reached Supai Tunnel just as the last hints of twilight slipped into darkness. I encouraged one more snack break. "I'm over eating," Lisa moaned as she forced down some candy — which I understood as "overeating" and vehemently disagreed. "You need all the calories you can get down!" </div><div><br /></div><div>We donned headlamps for the final 1.5 miles of relentless switchbacks with their big step-ups. It was my first time hiking out of the canyon in the dark, and I was thrilled by this new experience. I frequently stopped to turn off my headlamp and look down the canyon for a string of yellow lights — the hikers still below us. Amid the expansive darkness, they looked like angels ascending toward heaven.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lisa, for the first time all day, indulged in the mildest of whining. She accused me of gaslighting, of convincing her this was a climb with an end when in fact it had no end. </div><div><br /></div><div>"That is my mantra," I exclaimed. "It's how I get through the hard parts of my endurance races. I just tell myself this will never end. I've gone to Hell and this is my new eternity. Then I distract myself with the mental game of figuring out how I'm going to live like this forever. It works surprisingly well."</div><div><br /></div><div>As soon as I mentioned my "this will never end" mantra, I was again nudged toward my own inner darkness. This is where I am now. This is how life goes on. It's hard. But there's beauty in the marching. I can always look for flickers of light, for angels ascending. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXHr2M9puacYZfUJTPXNiqUsoCg7jJ50lGX-B7hydCtnDPXrCl_Q447aYtFYvGUaS-dbyNaIIPPX9E18RkF3TbihwdvY83bGl2mJCUn__02ORGgQZlFe0XeMaUGgEDCtGdBMDVknd4ZWm2soC5DSP0pKpH6KKX-OsCg_AEWEnHls5of6y9Kw/s4032/GC_17.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXHr2M9puacYZfUJTPXNiqUsoCg7jJ50lGX-B7hydCtnDPXrCl_Q447aYtFYvGUaS-dbyNaIIPPX9E18RkF3TbihwdvY83bGl2mJCUn__02ORGgQZlFe0XeMaUGgEDCtGdBMDVknd4ZWm2soC5DSP0pKpH6KKX-OsCg_AEWEnHls5of6y9Kw/w640-h480/GC_17.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>I had been tracing the climb on my GPS, so when we finally rounded the final switchback, I announced it as such. Ahead was only more darkness and quiet; Lisa did not believe this was the last one. Her head was still down when I first saw headlights from a car in the parking lot. Then we all heard our mother's laughter. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Mama?" Lisa called weakly into the darkness, sincere in her childlike plea. Her relief was palpable. It was over. Mama was here. We were going to be okay.</div><div><br /></div><div>The four of us tangled into a hug as Lisa and Sara wept and Mom and I laughed. I was brimming with big sister pride. We'd done it. We'd crossed the Grand Canyon, rim-to-rim. Two of the people I love most in this world — my sisters — had experienced the wonder and accomplishment that has been such a formative part of my life, that I'd come to take for granted, that I nearly lost. </div><div><br /></div><div>"This time next year?" I exclaimed as we hobbled toward the car. "You don't have to answer that yet. Don't answer that yet."</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkwaLcxoVz6nUFLU9AUJKY2IjH2Msp6kuYJmTpvduI8tmqLwGATn2iue2e4JviU6LIlB7IM3O2fo5GlLd2ystj59jwyN4k4_FpUSTAI96rc7fkHxlJSqSbwimUc7l-oZXycAUG0jUDUkMrErz3v2cPXU58pK6y9sZtneN_5FtsmXdwVqD_xg/s3280/GC_18.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3280" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkwaLcxoVz6nUFLU9AUJKY2IjH2Msp6kuYJmTpvduI8tmqLwGATn2iue2e4JviU6LIlB7IM3O2fo5GlLd2ystj59jwyN4k4_FpUSTAI96rc7fkHxlJSqSbwimUc7l-oZXycAUG0jUDUkMrErz3v2cPXU58pK6y9sZtneN_5FtsmXdwVqD_xg/w590-h640/GC_18.jpg" width="590" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We did make our dinner reservation, just barely, still smeared in red dust and sweat. The meal was delicious, though, and Sara experienced the pure joy of "the best rootbeer in the world" — taste sensations only possible after a long, hard day in the heat. Mom again provided impeccable support. Even though I'd been sending her ETA texts and warning her that we'd be out after dark, she still showed up early and waited for us at the trailhead for hours. The North Rim accommodations left a lot to be desired — really, it's like camping indoors, which is a hard sell to my sisters who are not campers. There were mice in the cabin, which yeah, I may not live that down. Still, what a wonderful weekend. Everything about it was nearly perfect. It's just ... Dad wasn't there. That's the part I haven't been able to get over. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Still, what are traditions but the rituals we create to hold onto memories, and the memories of our ancestors, long after they're gone? I can hold onto the hope that a new tradition has begun. </div><p></p></div>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-69806897106155815272022-10-09T21:26:00.000-06:002022-10-09T21:26:41.563-06:00Thyroid update 6<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQsEZ3NhM6PpOiEmgjgWHGJcvoodmLc95MMdbT8q72g90oL5-HqO68y6BqXkQv72q4bWA6goc8EqcJ6ULaESf1zK6r4k2DmfFP2_F_suLdjlWNKTmvAR7T8qX49zfn2QLPhzGy_Slj4_2Zat8rBNAjm9UH0qpx42PC5XsVQIXx3RSYAcvcVQ/s4032/PXL_20221008_224636167.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQsEZ3NhM6PpOiEmgjgWHGJcvoodmLc95MMdbT8q72g90oL5-HqO68y6BqXkQv72q4bWA6goc8EqcJ6ULaESf1zK6r4k2DmfFP2_F_suLdjlWNKTmvAR7T8qX49zfn2QLPhzGy_Slj4_2Zat8rBNAjm9UH0qpx42PC5XsVQIXx3RSYAcvcVQ/w640-h480/PXL_20221008_224636167.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>I’ve been feeling depressed this week, and of course, I don’t have a reason. Just last weekend I had a wonderful trip to the Grand Canyon with my sisters and mom. But then I drove home, and ever since it’s been tough to get out of bed. I go through the motions and feel exhausted with each passing minute — that is, until I boost myself into physical activity for an hour or two, wherein I feel inexplicably fine. I’m not … tired-tired. Just tired of myself. Low on motivation. Filled with existential dread. </div><div><br /></div><div>On Saturday I thought I’d overcome the ennui with a long bike ride, but I couldn’t motivate to prepare or boost myself out the door — not until mid-afternoon when it was just too late for anything long enough to slip into a flow state. Still, I pumped up the tires and wheeled my mountain bike outside. It was a gorgeous October day, 72 degrees under a fiercely blue sky. The aspens in our neighborhood are at peak gold right now. I pedaled along and felt uneasy and anxious. Finally, I realized … “The truck. This is what everything looked and felt like the day I was hit by that truck." </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLxW68GwkaiIRoL84j-kxGBBNuZFKhosKLqUTwMDOVHJ-X93qG6dIu2FnN0DPCakujoOJOxiXOxdGGHo9ZZkwf7q0WOVJ46wZxpXpDly7HVi4hpbmXg1nttDhIoPSFPmuRrArDozhdi0DRrQg1v_q9A3beONpktm449s9R_w_qhfYwVRYGIg/s3264/PXL_20211010_210327031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLxW68GwkaiIRoL84j-kxGBBNuZFKhosKLqUTwMDOVHJ-X93qG6dIu2FnN0DPCakujoOJOxiXOxdGGHo9ZZkwf7q0WOVJ46wZxpXpDly7HVi4hpbmXg1nttDhIoPSFPmuRrArDozhdi0DRrQg1v_q9A3beONpktm449s9R_w_qhfYwVRYGIg/w640-h480/PXL_20211010_210327031.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Magnolia Road, about an hour before "the incident" on Oct. 10, 2021</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>As far as feeling depressed, there are probably more emotions to unpack following my first trip to the Grand Canyon without my Dad, but feeling dread about this particular anniversary makes some sense. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oct. 10, 2021, was a beautiful Sunday afternoon. I’d returned recently from another cathartic visit with my sisters in California, not unlike last week's incredible adventure in the Grand Canyon. I headed out for a bike ride, later in the day than ideal, which left me pedaling west up the steepest pitch of Flagstaff Road as the late-afternoon sun began to set. Amid that blinding glare, a man driving a vintage Ford F250 struck me in the back with the passenger-side mirror. </div><div><br /></div><div> The impact was so strong that the mirror arm broke and swung around, shattering his window. I remember hearing the “thud” of impact more than feeling it, and thinking, “That asshole hit me, he really hit me." The left side of my body skimmed along the moving bed of the truck and toppled onto the pavement, bashing my left elbow. I thought the driver hit me on purpose. There was just no reason for him to pass so close when the right shoulder dropped off steeply and there was no oncoming traffic. The truck's brake lights engaged and skidded to a screeching stop. I looked up to see shattered glass sparkling on the pavement. The driver stepped out of his truck, leaving it parked in the middle of the road. His jeans and arms were smeared with blood, and he had blood on his face. He was bleeding from dozens of micro-cuts caused by shards of glass, but the sight was alarming. I wondered if the collision had been much worse than I realized. Was I dead? </div><div><br /></div><div>Instead, I stood up from the pavement and took a few steps back. I was frightened of this man, still believing he struck me deliberately, and now watching him approach me while covered in blood. He was clearly distraught. He didn’t see me, he gasped, not at all. He didn’t even know what he hit when his window broke; he thought it might be a deer. When he looked back and saw a cyclist on the road, he panicked. He was clearly a good guy who wanted to do the right thing, but I was in shock and couldn’t deal with this — not this, not now. Not in 2021, the worse year of all of the years. </div><div><br /></div><div>Since I could move all of my limbs — save for my left arm — without pain, and since my bike seemed undamaged, I insisted on calling an accident and accident and going our separate ways. I tried calling Beat, who was out of range, spent an hour sitting at a picnic table while reeling in the shock, and ended up pedaling most of the way home with my arm pressed against my torso. </div><div><br /></div><div>Do I regret not calling the cops? Maybe — physical therapy is not inexpensive. Still, seeking legal compensation would have achieved little but more pain for both the driver and me. At the time, I was thrilled to be simply alive — not just alive, but “uninjured.” But I wasn’t uninjured. Something happened to my back. Within days I felt a sharp, shooting pain near my lower thoracic spine. The muscles surrounding my spine were so tight that I couldn't bend over. Sitting became unbearable. I finally went in for X-rays but the doctor found no fractures — at least none that the X-rays could see. Still … it was a challenging injury. I sought out physical therapy. I’ve been in physical therapy ever since. </div><div><br /></div><div>Beat assures me back pain is normal for 40-somethings, but I didn't have a single problem with my back before this incident. Suddenly I couldn’t wear backpacks without pain. I bought a fanny pack. I couldn't drive long distances. I still can't, not without paying a price. I had to vacate the couch, perhaps forever. I still can't sit on soft surfaces without discomfort. While I realize that I’m still very lucky, the experience angers me. Health is so fragile; it can change in an instant. Scars accumulate, both physically and mentally. The privileged and carefree way I used to enjoy cycling up steep canyon roads — honestly still one of my favorite things — is forever tinged with these negative emotions, with resentment and fear. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguviKnHJ3amnofifvtsxW8f_JFeIy2y-vm1HPjNyIQqwMOwn6Mddg0m829WOXw_ifPb9EcghF60P8AoMYdomte6nqJRtyrh4j4ZuvyTb6_lUViE1c2gwEzufcY4gTLPYKyTAjTyLuT1Pz6XlEd6CXb_X-fH3JfT89pWIOVDj78p1E5vztEOg/s3264/PXL_20221008_223557985.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguviKnHJ3amnofifvtsxW8f_JFeIy2y-vm1HPjNyIQqwMOwn6Mddg0m829WOXw_ifPb9EcghF60P8AoMYdomte6nqJRtyrh4j4ZuvyTb6_lUViE1c2gwEzufcY4gTLPYKyTAjTyLuT1Pz6XlEd6CXb_X-fH3JfT89pWIOVDj78p1E5vztEOg/w640-h480/PXL_20221008_223557985.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Still riding a year later. No, I still haven't removed the silly headlamp from my helmet.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>This was all an unintentionally long exposition to lead into the thing I actually came here to write about, which is thyroid health. The last time I wrote one of these updates was in May 2019, when I was officially in remission from Graves Disease. I’d been battling the condition for more than two years, having been diagnosed in February 2017 with symptoms that were slowly killing me: tachycardia, high blood pressure, severe shortness of breath, fatigue, and most concerning of all: brain fog. I genuinely believed I was facing early-onset dementia at age 37. </div><div><br /></div><div>These are symptoms of hyperthyroidism, a common result when the autoantibodies associated with Graves Disease attack the thyroid gland, causing it to overproduce thyroid hormones.
For several months I had to take a high dose of methimazole — three pills, three times a day. The medication prevents the conversion of thyroid hormones in the liver and has a number of less-than-ideal side effects, but it worked. Within a year I’d mostly tapered from meds, took a low dose for another half year, and went off the drug in November 2018. If life were fair this would have been the end, but autoimmune disease is a life sentence. Even as my endocrinologist cut me from her schedule for being too healthy, she warned that the high number of Hashimoto’s antibodies in my system would doubtlessly activate someday, and I’d have to deal with it when the time came. But until then … live for today! </div><div><br /></div><div>It seems that time has come. What is Hashimoto’s thyroiditis? This more common presentation of autoimmune thyroid disease attacks the gland and causes it to produce too little hormone. It can have a lot of the same symptoms as hyperthyroidism: muscle weakness, brain fog, fatigue, and heart problems. Low thyroid hormone levels tend to impact metabolism, causing low energy, weight gain, and a buildup of bad cholesterol in the blood.
<a href="https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/17823263/" target="_blank">The link between Graves Disease and Hashimoto’s thyroiditis</a> is poorly understood, but it’s generally accepted that these diseases are two sides of the same coin. Just over two weeks ago, I went in for an annual physical. My bloodwork showed a concerning spike in my cholesterol — it’s nearly doubled since 2019. And my TSH has climbed above the official (much too broad in my opinion) “normal” range. I now meet the medical standard for hypothyroidism. </div><div><br /></div><div>My primary care doctor recommended waiting three months and testing again, but indicated that medication is likely in my future. In the meantime, for my cholesterol, she recommended adding “a handful of almonds” to my diet — which I find humorous. If I was 65 years old or in slightly poorer health, I’d probably be on cholesterol medication right now. But the alarm of high cholesterol is a good prompt to improve my diet, which was growing heavy on cheese and ice cream. Still, being on “a diet” isn’t a great mood booster, especially when it seems like an ineffective bandaid for a sluggish thyroid. </div><div><br /></div><div> What I feel is similar to how I feel about the truck collision. I’m happy to be alive. I’m glad it’s not worse. I don’t want to deal with it even though I probably should. I’m angry. I already have this allergic asthma thing that’s getting worse, and now-weekly treatments for that, along with the bad back that I don’t deserve. I hear from friends with long Covid, complications of concussions, more severe autoimmune diseases, cancer. I feel empathy and fear. This could easily be me. It could be any of us. Good health isn’t a moral reward; it’s mostly luck. </div><div><br /></div><div> And it’s true, I mostly came here to vent. But even though I have been much more sparse with my blog posting than I was in 2017, I’ll probably continue with these updates. If only for the angry eye-rolling from my future self who just didn’t realize how good she had it in 2022: </div><div><br /></div><div><b> The Archives: </b></div><div><a href="http://www.jilloutside.com/2017/04/thyroid-update.html" target="_blank"> Thyroid update: April 12, 2017</a></div><div><a href="http://www.jilloutside.com/2017/05/thyroid-update-2.html" target="_blank">Thyroid update 2: May 19, 2017</a></div><div><a href="http://www.jilloutside.com/2017/07/thyroid-update-3.html" target="_blank">Thyroid update 3: July 19, 2017</a></div><div><a href="http://www.jilloutside.com/2018/05/thyroid-update-4.html" target="_blank">Thyroid update 4: May 24, 2018</a></div><div><a href="http://www.jilloutside.com/2019/05/thyroid-update-5.html" target="_blank">Thyroid update 5: May 10, 2019</a></div>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-55430615211532900382022-09-16T22:44:00.000-06:002022-09-16T22:44:55.193-06:00One last summit with Dad<div class="separator"></div><div class="separator"></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvgHz8atA4U-oIJr8ueuuwGgCnq3ScFd9btASRwDHETaS7XRxClM6BNmHIpc5qaqTuuIxqZPhEfjWTd_i2bQWz2kiOHM7Q_MsRlRTAoHW1srR7YxnAQeID2sIBfpbWvMWNBFYCVhMC6hj044_FeZoo0SmPRk6jcpCyKgl_3IeKGAhsuNemhw/s4320/007.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3240" data-original-width="4320" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvgHz8atA4U-oIJr8ueuuwGgCnq3ScFd9btASRwDHETaS7XRxClM6BNmHIpc5qaqTuuIxqZPhEfjWTd_i2bQWz2kiOHM7Q_MsRlRTAoHW1srR7YxnAQeID2sIBfpbWvMWNBFYCVhMC6hj044_FeZoo0SmPRk6jcpCyKgl_3IeKGAhsuNemhw/w640-h480/007.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad and I stand on the summit of Lone Peak on July 27, 2011.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><i>Journal entry from August 27, 1999: </i><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Today I went hiking with my dad. Finally, finally, after two years of trying, I made it to the top of Lone Peak. We started up Jacob’s Ladder at 6:30 a.m. We were well up the serious incline when the sun rose. It’s such a grueling, unforgiving hike. When we made it to the valley at the base of the mountain, I was exhausted, but we kept going. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>It was beautiful — a vast meadow of grass and rocks at the cirque, before a long climb up the peak, scaling boulders where one slip would send me spinning down into oblivion. Thunderstorms were moving in but we kept climbing. The wind was blowing and the Salt Lake Valley was miles below. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>And then we made it, finally. Lone Peak is a tiny peak, just a point. Dad and I sat up there eating bagels and signed the guest registration — a Tupperware box bolted to a rock. All is beautiful at 11,250 feet: Scrawny trees winding down the mountain, the urban sprawl only a blur of lines. We watched lightning creeping into Sandy, so we had to book it down.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheV00T4sHF64OO-gcNLtXBTIAm-2DZdp_fBd22ZOL-8onXl6YLK8mtgtj8DZCqw8oMRJ9EP2kH0vFqoR9B6qH-d-fQ_ik-c3j_Iee8luT0Y-j6gixo6KLqYkxwAHMfTsY9ctF4VWDXmhf9XTMedZyv_miis8CuvXYFE-Xm_bK-d0ZsQDvoPw/s4320/001.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3240" data-original-width="4320" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheV00T4sHF64OO-gcNLtXBTIAm-2DZdp_fBd22ZOL-8onXl6YLK8mtgtj8DZCqw8oMRJ9EP2kH0vFqoR9B6qH-d-fQ_ik-c3j_Iee8luT0Y-j6gixo6KLqYkxwAHMfTsY9ctF4VWDXmhf9XTMedZyv_miis8CuvXYFE-Xm_bK-d0ZsQDvoPw/w640-h480/001.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad and I pose at the Jacob's Ladder trail junction on July 27, 2011.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Lone Peak was my dad's soul mountain, so I made it mine. He spoke of the summit with reverence, calling Lone "The hardest hike in the Wasatch and also the most beautiful." We made at least two unsuccessful attempts during the summers of 1997 and 1998, turned back by the threat of thunderstorms and heavy fog. Dad was always cautious, and I felt completely safe when I was with him. After we finally reached the summit in 1999, I was understated in my journal but gushed about the experience to my friends. </div><div><br /></div><div>On my first personal Web page, which I designed for a class at the University of Utah, I displayed Lone Peak prominently as "my favorite place in the world." I told friends that if I married at all, the ceremony was going to be on that summit. I remember mentioning this wedding plan offhand to my parents. My Mom scoffed and seemed somewhat scandalized, but Dad didn't seem to mind. Years later, while Dad and I were hiking and somehow landed on an offhand discussion about death, Dad said, "I'd like to have my ashes spread over Lone Peak." <br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd8eaoGIKx9UFwhvcXxku6MFMmGvtbGZXdao6NGA_dFG-wgvTHwkkw2qlxxejtA6nnmnr2CyfvowIpGn2tleJA6oD20j7ZvERe02rclIXZEg8v_MAkf6TUyjuABgyi5wnb3gpT6OI0bG4vMayUw7fSxQJKqaRveu8Z-OuP5bCcjX5crlE8ww/s1600/SAM_3048.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1029" data-original-width="1600" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd8eaoGIKx9UFwhvcXxku6MFMmGvtbGZXdao6NGA_dFG-wgvTHwkkw2qlxxejtA6nnmnr2CyfvowIpGn2tleJA6oD20j7ZvERe02rclIXZEg8v_MAkf6TUyjuABgyi5wnb3gpT6OI0bG4vMayUw7fSxQJKqaRveu8Z-OuP5bCcjX5crlE8ww/w640-h412/SAM_3048.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">August 20, 2017 — the last time I was on Lone Peak with Dad.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><i>Blog entry from August 20, 2017:</i><div><i><br />If I could choose anything in the world to do on my birthday, high on that list would be "climb Lone Peak with my dad." Lone Peak is an 11,253-foot summit in the Wasatch Mountains. I consider it my "home" mountain. I grew up in its morning shadow; the peak is less than five miles due east from my childhood home — and 7,000 feet higher. As a hike, it's considered by many to be the most difficult standard route to a summit in the Wasatch, rising 6,700 feet in six miles along a chunder-filled gully of a trail called Jacob's Ladder, followed by boulder-hopping in a granite cirque, and finally a class-3 to 4 scramble up a narrow ridge of vertically-stacked monzonite slabs. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I don't quite remember the first time my dad guided me to this peak. I believe it was the summer after I graduated from high school, 20 years ago. My early memories of Lone Peak's difficulty all surround the steep slog of Jacob's Ladder. There are fewer memories of the slabs that bother me today ... probably because I have 20 years of physical conditioning behind me now, and also two decades of risk and personal ability assessment, which have made me much warier of exposed scrambling. Much sharper than memories of difficulty are memories of amazement and joy — the quiet Alpine forest mere miles from my crowded suburban neighborhood, the sheer granite walls above the cirque, and standing on top of a peak barely as wide as I am tall, overlooking the entire Salt Lake Valley.</i></div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD-VrNy4EGkKKA6MwEHBj08d3_VHqvY0eJxLdUZLedKZO-kP4KZBDgwGFbdCkCADWbfTJIJNW4TwxqZ3MBZO1eiyYPAiW6ZR7mHRIb7_N1RbgJfAB55PwotI9kKOdrd_RVF_pInGyu_lHa9fWh7VhG7Qg2b7XsO-su8nHD7RAtLQDatIh8UQ/s1600/P8290015.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD-VrNy4EGkKKA6MwEHBj08d3_VHqvY0eJxLdUZLedKZO-kP4KZBDgwGFbdCkCADWbfTJIJNW4TwxqZ3MBZO1eiyYPAiW6ZR7mHRIb7_N1RbgJfAB55PwotI9kKOdrd_RVF_pInGyu_lHa9fWh7VhG7Qg2b7XsO-su8nHD7RAtLQDatIh8UQ/w640-h480/P8290015.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lost in a boulder field in the Lone Peak Cirque on August 29, 2010.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div>From 2000 to 2002, I managed two or three more summits with my Dad and one unsuccessful attempt with a friend who succumbed to altitude sickness. Then I upended my life in multiple ways: becoming a cyclist, moving away from Utah, moving to Alaska. Eight years passed before I made my next summit attempt. The circumstances were traumatic. My grandfather — my father's father — was dying. I drove down from Missoula to visit him, clasping his frail hand with the understanding that this would be the last time I'd ever see him. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'd lost my grandmother — my mother's mother — in 1996, when I was still a teenager. Losing Grandpa Homer was my deepest experience with grief as a fully formed adult, and I was reeling. I chose to visit my favorite place in the world, my soul mountain, as a way to honor him. It's interesting because I remember embarking on this climb after he died. But that wasn't the case — re-reading my blog entry, I realized I climbed Lone Peak the day following my final visit with Grandpa. It was August 29, one week before he died on September 4. Grandpa was still in this world when I scaled a summit to send my final goodbye. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'd never summited Lone Peak without my Dad. I lost my way from the start, bashed through the brush, wove aimlessly along the granite slabs, got terribly off route, crawled through a minefield of boulders across the Cirque, and scared myself senseless on the exposed summit ridge. I kept telling myself I had to do this for Grandpa and also for Dad, who was losing his Dad. It was so hard. I was frightened. I wasn't meant to be here without him.</div><div><br /></div><div>After briefly tagging the summit, I scooted back along the talus blocks, buffeted by a strong wind, barely keeping it together. When I reached the end of the scramble, I propped against a rock to collect myself and breathe. I wrote about this moment on my blog: <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEdFXkgfKVI_sVyK4VkGtx64fEKse99Rhk-iGPZm00za8nkGy3c1OpvYktOM5DMaxNMNK8-dK2DBhXxflMQOX_O6WeKOBo0266OaMg0xrSuFKzqXvUvikFr4tQSvOkW_TJCfDyiaZ85jr44-px8NjiKaBMXeKxtqBEeawWHz4SEEVMNUUCpQ/s1600/P8290031.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEdFXkgfKVI_sVyK4VkGtx64fEKse99Rhk-iGPZm00za8nkGy3c1OpvYktOM5DMaxNMNK8-dK2DBhXxflMQOX_O6WeKOBo0266OaMg0xrSuFKzqXvUvikFr4tQSvOkW_TJCfDyiaZ85jr44-px8NjiKaBMXeKxtqBEeawWHz4SEEVMNUUCpQ/w640-h480/P8290031.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bracing against the wind along the summit ridge on August 29, 2010.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><i>Blog entry from August 29, 2010:</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Tears fill my eyes. I know the worst is over, but I can't help myself. I never feel so lonely as I do when I'm alone and afraid. I just want to see somebody, anybody, just so I know I'm not the only person perched on this wind-blasted vertical moonscape. But it's 4 p.m. and no one is left on the peak. I haven't seen anybody for hours. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I think about the notepad in my backpack. I carry it with me sometimes to write down thoughts. I take it out and rip a corner off a sheet of paper. On the scrap, I write a note to my grandpa. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>"Dear Grandpa Homer, Thank you for your love, your example, and your kindness. Thank you for everything you've done for me. I love you."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I stick the pen in my mouth and in nervousness chew the end right off. Then I remember to add, "Please don't be afraid. Love, Jill." </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I muster up the courage to stand and face the full brunt of the wind. It roars in my face as I hold the note to my side and release it to the gale. I turn around quickly but I don't see it go.</i></div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Uerm_qFpdKNRnsgg6dLw8eT-xmm60jZAaiWrdaF30ikNg47HiANxZEHxVa9Yj348ixW5hvJIicPWPgZczbuhGMqj2myAF5xkUcY19eignY9vxaX1Y4jy1RMgFKKnCPcRk_40s5lhrw6hEkliwm8ToBDbbQQYSLJnu02VngclqXxfY9fhjA/s1600/245.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="902" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Uerm_qFpdKNRnsgg6dLw8eT-xmm60jZAaiWrdaF30ikNg47HiANxZEHxVa9Yj348ixW5hvJIicPWPgZczbuhGMqj2myAF5xkUcY19eignY9vxaX1Y4jy1RMgFKKnCPcRk_40s5lhrw6hEkliwm8ToBDbbQQYSLJnu02VngclqXxfY9fhjA/w640-h360/245.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad crosses the Jacob's Ladder meadow on July 27, 2011.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div>I didn't want to have to be the one to spread Dad's ashes over Lone Peak. That was the emotion I had about it, although it was difficult to determine why I felt this way. My experience surrounding my grandfather's death was more traumatic than I realized at the time: Exposing all of that unprocessed grief to ego-driven summit fever and fear. I had been to the summit three times since: in 2011, 2015, and 2017. But those were all excursions with my dad, who kept me safe on the mountain. I believed this unquestioningly, even when I was closing in on 40 and old enough to understand that this childlike comfort was more imagined than real. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wondered if this was the reason I was reluctant. Was I simply frightened of Lone Peak? But when I envisioned standing on the summit with dad's ashes, a prominent emotion I felt was anger. And when I probed this anger, I recognized its source. Dad died because he fell from the summit ridge of a well-loved Wasatch mountain. Could I really toss him off another?</div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3PBWOgqougnB1yXOgM2YqvNLc_Iwj2D8TiDFDaZYmLmn02lBxeD1-XMLdmLnSml91AQPLP-15_quygrWGxLT42RRlfcbEVj47_e4pDusVuiKIWPsz4ls-LVkUJmu2nzhqqSs3w-Vrnx22jVh22cnpyHwPkDAy_ymdJLZryOmiNw8aSYetBA/s4032/PXL_20220903_152955417.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3PBWOgqougnB1yXOgM2YqvNLc_Iwj2D8TiDFDaZYmLmn02lBxeD1-XMLdmLnSml91AQPLP-15_quygrWGxLT42RRlfcbEVj47_e4pDusVuiKIWPsz4ls-LVkUJmu2nzhqqSs3w-Vrnx22jVh22cnpyHwPkDAy_ymdJLZryOmiNw8aSYetBA/w640-h480/PXL_20220903_152955417.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Jacob's Ladder meadow on September 3, 2022. It was a little heartbreaking to see it so dry.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />This statement sounds callous, which is one reason I didn't bring up my conflicting emotions with my family. It was incredibly important to me to fulfill Dad's final wishes. He named three specific spots where he wished to have his ashes spread — two in Canyonlands National Park and the last on Lone Peak. He somehow had the prescience to point out the Canyonlands spots while hiking with Beat and me in April 2021, just two months before he died. Lone Peak had a longer-standing place on this list. I don't remember when exactly he brought it up to me, but he also discussed it with my mom. Lone Peak appears prominently on the mountain skyline east of her house. Whenever she steps out of her front door on a clear day, she can look up at the pyramidal summit and think of him. She said she took comfort in the idea that he'd be up there, looking back at her. <br /><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Pobd-Zg0Q57CJurLtkItpYK1mpy2s8EOW3uLhIDY4BE-iqrZ4TdhnKawWJGon7xH4JOEQs0nSWUc5unEhrboTYaOcco2vuFXCLRLfBIpJelhu-evutNf36WyKaHXlc4vdkyt2n8_mvW6upz_juqHYTCpiUJAiiP28s3k6U6cWHSaxdXgKw/s3648/253.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2056" data-original-width="3648" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Pobd-Zg0Q57CJurLtkItpYK1mpy2s8EOW3uLhIDY4BE-iqrZ4TdhnKawWJGon7xH4JOEQs0nSWUc5unEhrboTYaOcco2vuFXCLRLfBIpJelhu-evutNf36WyKaHXlc4vdkyt2n8_mvW6upz_juqHYTCpiUJAiiP28s3k6U6cWHSaxdXgKw/w640-h360/253.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad climbs toward the Lone Peak Cirque on July 27, 2011.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div>We spread Dad's ashes over his chosen spots in Canyonlands in April 2022. It was a beautiful experience that we all shared — mom, my sisters, and Beat. Lone Peak was different because the mountain is so difficult to access. As I described in the 2017 blog entry, there are nearly 7,000 feet of climbing in just 6 miles, and the upper section is technical and exposed. My mom wouldn't be able to join, and I felt my sisters weren't ready, either. Forcing it seemed likely to lead to an experience that would be more traumatic than peaceful, similar to my ordeal surrounding my grandfather's death in 2010. My sisters agreed, but it was difficult to not include them. </div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpAQclJakjLfDjU_LyK1F3b0NHhRGc9OW2xICpUgwMRUSg_age8KP8goLBWTRzHN6vOaodth4ak-OTw1HQsDjFbr_wYJ0zjKFT71Rewvnh-XND0Mf9zna6wgQYw2DF71OLTqHe-dFExKcTMp7Qekavj_RQ0RlkZGNUcvESUdIorjY8YNmCjg/s4032/PXL_20220903_155414291.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpAQclJakjLfDjU_LyK1F3b0NHhRGc9OW2xICpUgwMRUSg_age8KP8goLBWTRzHN6vOaodth4ak-OTw1HQsDjFbr_wYJ0zjKFT71Rewvnh-XND0Mf9zna6wgQYw2DF71OLTqHe-dFExKcTMp7Qekavj_RQ0RlkZGNUcvESUdIorjY8YNmCjg/w640-h480/PXL_20220903_155414291.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beat searches for the route along the granite slabs on September 3, 2022.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div>Thankfully, I had fantastic support from Beat — who flew out to Salt Lake just for this — and our friend Raj, a longtime hiking buddy of my dad. Raj also lost his father in 2021 and offered his support and empathy when I was reeling through the aftermath in Salt Lake City last summer. I also invited another longtime hiking buddy of my dad's, Tom. Tom was with my father in his final moments on Mount Raymond. He scrambled down a treacherous slope to reach Dad's body after he fell and spent hours awaiting a Search and Rescue helicopter. I'm endlessly grateful to Tom for his actions that day. Tom was unable to join us on Lone Peak but was with us in spirit. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcLUFOTIlpZxL8Oo_xyK83OLyRBJRPRvj-5TAfXTXh2fuLssLznw8Jo3rpFT0n4nf0KAoNDjKuCN6qE_YkbqPt1FII_YHHH98b2pyx88w2E_TxdlnIk2y4yeQDIsmRQt2YnSrLUVMHJSqneOtf_7D0cXM7It2Rkw7KWcuPYNh6Rgu5BYUPJw/s3648/259.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2056" data-original-width="3648" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcLUFOTIlpZxL8Oo_xyK83OLyRBJRPRvj-5TAfXTXh2fuLssLznw8Jo3rpFT0n4nf0KAoNDjKuCN6qE_YkbqPt1FII_YHHH98b2pyx88w2E_TxdlnIk2y4yeQDIsmRQt2YnSrLUVMHJSqneOtf_7D0cXM7It2Rkw7KWcuPYNh6Rgu5BYUPJw/w640-h360/259.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad points toward the summit ridge with Tom in the Lone Peak Cirque on July 27, 2011</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>I chose Labor Day weekend because I needed a reliable day after we returned from Europe that wasn't likely to be hampered by bad weather. There was also an element of continuity with the date. As I looked back through my old records, I realized that late summer was often the "time" for Lone Peak — my first attempts at the end of August in 1997 and 1998, finally reaching the summit on August 27, 1999, my Aug. 29 memorial climb in 2010, my 38th birthday ... </div><div><br /></div><div>What I couldn't plan for was the massive "heat dome" that settled over the Western U.S. during the first week of September. The bullseye of the high-pressure system sat directly over Salt Lake City. The temperature shot to 107 degrees on Thursday and nearly that on Friday. The forecast high for Saturday was 103 degrees. I read trail reviews online and learned there was no water, absolutely none, anywhere along the approach. It was a far cry from the Lone Peak climate I remembered — lush meadows, gurgling streams, and snowpack in late July. </div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJBUJcuHUTxs7ALa98vIbA_qUtJlamGt7mwxMpxrIU2nbbpF4XdPy107zPBX4pz_puZoNXewV8l884vEeuTiMLG5HJmzi5oEapviAS3gF1VmrM-wu716eFJStBFdotWzm8stw7GMvzB_z7sIgwe1z8ihJMH5HsSi5msWr_FmKgvpWEW9SxOg/s4032/PXL_20220903_163856531.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJBUJcuHUTxs7ALa98vIbA_qUtJlamGt7mwxMpxrIU2nbbpF4XdPy107zPBX4pz_puZoNXewV8l884vEeuTiMLG5HJmzi5oEapviAS3gF1VmrM-wu716eFJStBFdotWzm8stw7GMvzB_z7sIgwe1z8ihJMH5HsSi5msWr_FmKgvpWEW9SxOg/w640-h480/PXL_20220903_163856531.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beat points toward the summit ridge with Raj in a similar location on September 3, 2022.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />I set the date but I wasn't ready. During the week leading up to September 3, anxiety consumed my thoughts. I stayed indoors and rode my bike trainer because I felt uneasy about even going outside. Many nights, I woke up at 2 a.m., drenched in sweat and reeling from nightmares about people jumping from cliffs as I helplessly watched from a distance. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm currently spending most afternoons doing remote shift work for a newspaper. On Thursday, I had to wake up at 4:30 a.m. to carve out a window to drive to Salt Lake City. I essentially drove straight through without stopping, which gave me 90 minutes that I used to march up a brutally steep trail near my Mom's house. I hadn't planned to hike and only had a 16-ounce bottle of water to drink. It was 106 degrees. I angry-hiked up 1,500 feet of sandy trail in 40 minutes and had to blearily wobble-jog down, long out of fluid, still just days removed from hypothermia after being caught in a hailstorm during a long bike ride. Through a daze of early heat exhaustion, I wondered how I continued to make such terrible decisions, how I came to be so frightened of my soul mountain, how I came to feel so lost.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGKdGMItK-2a-DgNot35fp1Xl-8IyccdALnV6dJ5OL441ZUiw1SgMqU2ZWgJqMHcbyMgAkH2Kq0qUL3BeLaAjT2d1zuxWJIRD8gJ4OkEZzVsxmJ4N3f_qV8FLswRt8-DaqWhMVLU8xtlNyXr2k9p2T9OeDEjH51Z2miOyM-jn1Ye5L3kKizQ/s3264/PXL_20210806_164811564.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGKdGMItK-2a-DgNot35fp1Xl-8IyccdALnV6dJ5OL441ZUiw1SgMqU2ZWgJqMHcbyMgAkH2Kq0qUL3BeLaAjT2d1zuxWJIRD8gJ4OkEZzVsxmJ4N3f_qV8FLswRt8-DaqWhMVLU8xtlNyXr2k9p2T9OeDEjH51Z2miOyM-jn1Ye5L3kKizQ/w640-h480/PXL_20210806_164811564.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Caught in a haze of wildfire smoke at the top of Jacob's Ladder on August 6, 2021</td></tr></tbody></table><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Gratitude journal from August 6, 2021:</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I have nothing for today. I'm done looking for the good in this awful year. I still don't feel ready to climb Lone Peak, but I thought since I'm out here, I could climb to the meadow below the cirque. It is such a beautiful spot; it used to feel like this secret place that only Dad and I knew about. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>The morning started out lovely, but as I crested Enniss Peak, I looked back to see a massive wall of brown fog enveloping the Salt Lake Valley. The fog was a cold front moving in from the north like a freight train — a train carrying wildfire smoke from Oregon and Idaho. Within minutes the smoke moved over me, reducing visibility to a few feet while spiking the air quality index to an intolerable 350. I couldn't breathe. It happened so quickly. My KN95 mask and a dozen inhaler puffs did nothing. I was gasping, wheezing, choking. I've never had such a scary asthma attack, not anywhere, and I was alone in the wilderness 4,000 feet above the valley floor. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Breathing felt like sucking air through a straw, but if I focused on taking deep breaths and not hyperventilating, I could do it. In this moving meditation, I managed to pick my way down the mountain. Visibility was so low that I became lost and accidentally descended Jacob's Ladder when I intended to return via Cherry Canyon. For quite some time I had no idea where I was. Finally, I dropped onto the gravel road, still three miles from the trailhead, but at that point, I thought, "I'm going to make it!" And I was so happy. And I suppose ... I'm grateful for that. I'm grateful I'm alive, but also for feeling happy to be alive. It's maybe the first time I've felt this way in two months. </i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2_FhxEj-hNEx0wjWIryivCc-xBYy5EieN9T1xHrAgHk2sHLlYq0rIcvepdArY39MBFFELXzJ-G7d6IXhj7ubkHxuWCO4imnE62vj6WA4gJ_lA7CP1VWgW8qxXTswNUATlTzMLJJg5-RfpEhL1LsdtPjZBXfnm-a0WQKwmHrvUJlHCzvTaiw/s3648/261.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2056" data-original-width="3648" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2_FhxEj-hNEx0wjWIryivCc-xBYy5EieN9T1xHrAgHk2sHLlYq0rIcvepdArY39MBFFELXzJ-G7d6IXhj7ubkHxuWCO4imnE62vj6WA4gJ_lA7CP1VWgW8qxXTswNUATlTzMLJJg5-RfpEhL1LsdtPjZBXfnm-a0WQKwmHrvUJlHCzvTaiw/w640-h360/261.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad and Tom on the summit ridge on July 27, 2011.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>On Friday night, Beat rifled through my overstuffed pack and pulled out a green dry bag.</div><div><br /></div><div>"What's this?" he asked. </div><div><br /></div><div>"It's my puffy," I protested. "I need my puffy."</div><div><br /></div><div>"You do not need a puffy," he scolded. "When are you going to wear this?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"I don't know. Weather could turn. I just had hypothermia last week. It was one week ago!"</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's going to be 100 degrees! You do not need a puffy!"</div><div><br /></div><div>I grumpily tossed the jacket and other warm gear into a pile outside the pack. Beat is always looking out for me and my sore back, which still bothers me 11 months after the driver of an old F250 hit me with his side mirror while I was riding my bike home. Geez, 2021 was an awful year. Little by little, my back becomes stronger and my heart more resilient, but the increments are difficult to notice.</div><div><br /></div><div>Apparently, I wasn't going to be able to protect myself from surprise hailstorms, but I still carry an N95 mask in case of surprise smoke storms. At least now I'd have room for the six liters of water I'd actually need. While filling up my hydration bladders, I smiled at the memory of my dad's first time on Lone Peak. I was 14 years old and had already started joining him for shorter hikes, so I was enthralled as he described packing a plastic Coke bottle that he'd refilled with water, thinking two liters was a lot. It was so hot, he was so thirsty, and he thought the climb would never end. It sounded awful, but his eyes were wide and his smile stretched across his face as he described the view. I knew I'd climb that mountain with him someday. Someday. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFR9GtyLDJ_-ycV-IA71h18aKQfNFyxl3DIq5Wfa8rrddn1Q8l648S8a_YUh17tgT5SIe_b-o8VWnEu9SgMq0pOhe4na0SQxd3Un4wUF2e-5FPHmPU3z_OEoSEoG6sBcGafFnV8rXv8FzKqotofY7RcWyXY5871EhNZac4K6VAVgLOVkWP7A/s4032/PXL_20220903_170642780.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFR9GtyLDJ_-ycV-IA71h18aKQfNFyxl3DIq5Wfa8rrddn1Q8l648S8a_YUh17tgT5SIe_b-o8VWnEu9SgMq0pOhe4na0SQxd3Un4wUF2e-5FPHmPU3z_OEoSEoG6sBcGafFnV8rXv8FzKqotofY7RcWyXY5871EhNZac4K6VAVgLOVkWP7A/w640-h480/PXL_20220903_170642780.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beat and Raj on the summit ridge on September 3, 2022.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div>We met Raj in the parking lot of the Draper trailhead at 6:30 a.m. The Cherry Canyon Logging Trail instantly shoots upward, gaining the standard 1,000 feet per mile along a mostly bald west-facing slope. To the east, the sun rose behind the crest of Lone Peak, casting the mountain's long shadow across the valley. The morning was already warm. With each passing minute, the shadow grew shorter. Something — maybe the encroaching sunlight — spiked my anxiety, so I breathed in rhythm with the lyrics of "Sun" by The Naked and Famous.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>But it keeps on coming,</i></div><div><i>And I stop, </i></div><div><i>But it keeps on coming,</i></div><div><i>And I just stand still</i></div><div><i>But it keeps on coming,</i></div><div><i>It keeps on coming,</i></div><div><i>So I start running</i>.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzObU_UCWqpZJW4J0yGnaM5Kn1CrfW_aXbAz-veoS9jmqcEKiJoGEL21budKGVB4yp8fda5px2kSJOX7-fNa5h4VgGS3rCPZcYdF9rr-pJVnejNcRCKXkymS_KC5WDN4d0oMOPQMe0KO64u0DjSapHUmsmXn6-47d7s6IFkcMk9nJSUQF9Fg/s1600/264.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="902" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzObU_UCWqpZJW4J0yGnaM5Kn1CrfW_aXbAz-veoS9jmqcEKiJoGEL21budKGVB4yp8fda5px2kSJOX7-fNa5h4VgGS3rCPZcYdF9rr-pJVnejNcRCKXkymS_KC5WDN4d0oMOPQMe0KO64u0DjSapHUmsmXn6-47d7s6IFkcMk9nJSUQF9Fg/w640-h360/264.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad and Tom pick their way along the summit ridge on July 27, 2011.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />We made quick work of the 4,500 feet of vert to Enniss Peak and climbed onto the granite slabs as Raj regaled us with his tales from climbing the face of Lone Peak — meaning multi-pitch alpine rock climbing — earlier this summer. While descending from their base camp, Raj became terribly lost in the dark and had to bash his way into Suncrest after midnight.</div><div><br /></div><div>I felt slightly lost on the slabs. It's easy to do — it's a white, blank slate of a trail with cairns everywhere because hikers seem to like creating their own chaos. Dad always seemed to effortlessly find the way through here, although I reminded myself that he, too, had been terribly lost on this mountain before. Once, while aiming for Cherry Canyon, he managed to descend into a different drainage and bashed through the brush for hours before emerging from an obscure side canyon.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj34EqR8Vw3Iw3BfOKgYxnRAMfjckgG_AFFQTaKdOihF7ZHHvSwZ-EDwCYsHKmC6yK-BjUpSN8sMHzLNgIatymcrYXjv3K4bJ6E7-P5EAjX3fr81MQBqDs2DfDuA-eXvaTpWeNkw7Qmzk7v1r2kAaKINSinOE8h3KF608HHe8CXjgREeHIpdw/s4032/PXL_20220903_172027699.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj34EqR8Vw3Iw3BfOKgYxnRAMfjckgG_AFFQTaKdOihF7ZHHvSwZ-EDwCYsHKmC6yK-BjUpSN8sMHzLNgIatymcrYXjv3K4bJ6E7-P5EAjX3fr81MQBqDs2DfDuA-eXvaTpWeNkw7Qmzk7v1r2kAaKINSinOE8h3KF608HHe8CXjgREeHIpdw/w640-h480/PXL_20220903_172027699.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beat and I pick our way along the summit ridge on September 3, 2022.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Confused on the slabs and fully exposed to the unavoidable sun, my stew of anxiety neared a boiling point. I didn't quite notice how stressed I was feeling because my energy level had plummeted. I stumbled and faltered as Beat and Raj climbed along the bone-dry creek toward the cirque. It was here we encountered a large group — at least 10 hikers who clearly were mostly beginners. We did not see all that many people on the mountain, but the large group just happened to be clogging up a bottleneck on the route. Beat and Raj disappeared as I got stuck behind the group — 10 people crawling every possible way up a steep boulder field and nervously calling out to each other for help. It was fine. They were doing what they needed to do to get through this tricky terrain, but it was not where I wanted to be and Beat was nowhere to be seen. </div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTHPFIqOHBI8n5NqpAncO3s2kfyuLb6TXP6gB2pu3tfEIoMPemNldiUukz1NKokTpiOt4jJ86UmIZQbcuI4IRuhY7ix_5tC-BVIX2aynYKltrFehoVGKrH3nF8Lax1qu4NWYwMBTgg9Qd1Y-y2na-D9LV07_8lMyaxieP7XfERV86D7TE_zg/s4320/005.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3240" data-original-width="4320" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTHPFIqOHBI8n5NqpAncO3s2kfyuLb6TXP6gB2pu3tfEIoMPemNldiUukz1NKokTpiOt4jJ86UmIZQbcuI4IRuhY7ix_5tC-BVIX2aynYKltrFehoVGKrH3nF8Lax1qu4NWYwMBTgg9Qd1Y-y2na-D9LV07_8lMyaxieP7XfERV86D7TE_zg/w640-h480/005.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scrambling over talus blocks with Tom on July 27, 2011.</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div>I finally caught up to Beat and Raj at a crucial junction, where it's easy to continue straight following the drainage and end up in a horrific boulder field — which is what I did in 2010 — or take an obscure left turn around an outcropping to access a faint trail across gentle tundra. I didn't quite remember the correct way. The big group approached, we chose left, and Beat again took off impatiently. His action — as understandable as it was — was the hair trigger that shattered my frayed nerves. I tried to hold it in. I couldn't breathe. I tried holding my breath, but I lost it to a gasping, blubbering meltdown.</div><div><br /></div><div>Beat hiked back down toward me as I doubled over and sputtered, "I can't do this. I can't do this."</div><div><br /></div><div>Two of the young men in the large group passed and one asked in a mocking sing-song tone, "Do you need a hug?" He probably thought I was crying because this hike is hard and I was a big middle-aged baby. If there had been a cliff to pitch myself off of right there ... </div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirk1JZvr6Vb_HPS1g0j0LU-ckpw2xuCrypCMHoTyeYRK81YXh-GVC3olhugGFLkb8LfYQ_pmfbhzHhNwXj2dSO_kmrCFKPIcUL85ZCM11CiL_5ju8Za-81rai3HKoSD-HzUfCtDioyap0zXDwxxBOQVmPekCRA33KIXmxcWciJriFb2-h6xQ/s4032/PXL_20220903_172252881.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirk1JZvr6Vb_HPS1g0j0LU-ckpw2xuCrypCMHoTyeYRK81YXh-GVC3olhugGFLkb8LfYQ_pmfbhzHhNwXj2dSO_kmrCFKPIcUL85ZCM11CiL_5ju8Za-81rai3HKoSD-HzUfCtDioyap0zXDwxxBOQVmPekCRA33KIXmxcWciJriFb2-h6xQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220903_172252881.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the summit on September 3, 2022.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div>Grief hits me like that still, after all of this time. It hurts so much; I'd almost wish for a cliff or a collision with a truck. Anything else to not have to feel that way, not now or ever again. These breakdowns tend to take everything out of me. The anxiety pot boils over and then there's nothing left. I thought I was done. Lone Peak wasn't going to happen today. </div><div><br /></div><div>Surprisingly, as I stood and calmed my breathing, I felt a sense of peace wash over me. I'd carried this particular anxiety monster for so long that I didn't notice the weight until it crushed me. But in doing so, it released me. </div><div><br /></div><div>As we continued toward the summit ridge, I felt as though a terrible burden had lifted. I felt light, free, maybe even a little bit sure-footed. We stopped near the talus blocks so I could put on my approach shoes — Beat had carried a second pair of shoes all the way up the mountain for me so I could avoid blisters in the brutal heat while still feeling more secure on the exposed scramble. He did this because he wanted to be supportive. Although I still felt a sting of irrational hurt for being "abandoned" in the boulder field, I was grateful for his presence. I could not have done this alone.</div><div><br /></div><div>Raj, the experienced rock climber in the group, led the route through the talus blocks. I was grateful for his calm, confident presence as well. <br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_lTdKVhH3aJLGx4ddC71kozWknCh1A6gs-dX6zH__wGaWHzRgzZmh_5NfDSUiHzxH8jcg70I2QEx0mEhP5Jw5aHixS1J--1aECPfEFrRgbURRT5nLfcxpEVh7RZTBX1TyHj-y1c-nV1ASSBU486u21hRJwJ7U64Huiua-hsWYZXRMof4KqA/s4032/PXL_20220903_172404633.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_lTdKVhH3aJLGx4ddC71kozWknCh1A6gs-dX6zH__wGaWHzRgzZmh_5NfDSUiHzxH8jcg70I2QEx0mEhP5Jw5aHixS1J--1aECPfEFrRgbURRT5nLfcxpEVh7RZTBX1TyHj-y1c-nV1ASSBU486u21hRJwJ7U64Huiua-hsWYZXRMof4KqA/w640-h480/PXL_20220903_172404633.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spreading Dad's ashes on September 3, 2022.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />The summit ridge was crowded with a few more groups. We moved through them quickly, following Raj's direction and not making a big deal out of scrambling along a narrow spine where hundreds of feet of exposure loom on both sides. Magically, we had the tiny summit to ourselves for a few minutes. We took advantage of the privacy to send Dad on his way. We each took a turn and said just a few brief words. </div><div><br /></div><div>I said, "I hope you're happy here, Dad." It was sweet. Cathartic. I let myself feel my Dad's presence. I understood he was at peace, dissolving into everything, his last molecules becoming the mountain. <br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy5AF2r4npNRfKhU-Wcwn2xXSa2OUqkQ-ALdM-TMPqDu5Wd1-9KJB5PdsRsH35VqhzdNL7JjUcR6GdETjZcfiaZ0PN0Lb6pXcWwZ7_j9-7YUj5RkzYJzBe1w6OBJ3HpVSzAKQM9S83Xzg63HlWOqGsn3l-CuSOG00F_b6Y3TutHlpUqjfd6A/s4080/PXL_20220903_172833361.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4080" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy5AF2r4npNRfKhU-Wcwn2xXSa2OUqkQ-ALdM-TMPqDu5Wd1-9KJB5PdsRsH35VqhzdNL7JjUcR6GdETjZcfiaZ0PN0Lb6pXcWwZ7_j9-7YUj5RkzYJzBe1w6OBJ3HpVSzAKQM9S83Xzg63HlWOqGsn3l-CuSOG00F_b6Y3TutHlpUqjfd6A/w640-h482/PXL_20220903_172833361.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Forever gazing over his home from this lofty place.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />We stood on the summit for a few more minutes, enjoying the silence. A thousand-foot vertical wall fell away from our narrow perch, and I felt no particular emotion about that reality. I'd tossed Dad over a cliff because it's what he wanted. When I put it that way it sounds macabre and strange. But I had put it that way in my dreams and the thought stressed me out, so I was both grateful and surprised to realize I only felt peace in this place, this vertical moonscape. I had made an emotional mountain out of something simple and sweet — sharing a summit with Dad one final time. I scanned the valley until I recognized the bluff near my mom's neighborhood. From there I could almost pick out her house in the line and shapes. It was such a clear day, so blue, so warm. Dad will be happy here, and Mom can look up at the mountain and know he's happy here. I felt deep gratitude for a thousand moments of grace that made this possible. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV5VJrs1G-STfopc3gy5MDuxspl1iqvhazRi6ite-NVRvmZ-n5BIrDqMLUH7x1yfnJ4t-zG6O4vqkynQLJFVfD7_FGQTggpRiCRQA7Gyg2p1IfkM0gyX7gpm3VcURNq7TjTfvFLBbSIqk4mOWEVLlZqr6xM2CCAe9zLQmOH5n6fkBEZPzZJQ/s4080/PXL_20220903_182617626.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4080" data-original-width="3072" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV5VJrs1G-STfopc3gy5MDuxspl1iqvhazRi6ite-NVRvmZ-n5BIrDqMLUH7x1yfnJ4t-zG6O4vqkynQLJFVfD7_FGQTggpRiCRQA7Gyg2p1IfkM0gyX7gpm3VcURNq7TjTfvFLBbSIqk4mOWEVLlZqr6xM2CCAe9zLQmOH5n6fkBEZPzZJQ/w482-h640/PXL_20220903_182617626.jpg" width="482" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scrambling down from the summit ridge on September 3, 2022.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>As we descended from the summit ridge, Raj mentioned that I was a lucky person to have had all of the wonderful moments with my dad that we had. I wholeheartedly agreed. It wasn't enough time, but there's never enough time. What I still have are thousands of moments of grace, the little joys that I can carry in my heart, that can still lift me up when the burdens of life become too much. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW0irqJ_GmyRS176YMStQvGVpVEsWOEOMWZioCWN3K9eVfGVeKaQf1-RgV9-worEpTIli9aUVZOjTLIZ83PwD3rzbrZXLvtCYPBjl_BhLxNQmboa4oQ6aMUTlgdRCrjNu3AkSSGc4ReSUdeKuLcbFGugOrFJhNbr31xL_OUKgpkhUIHHy6Hw/s4032/PXL_20220903_191440428.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW0irqJ_GmyRS176YMStQvGVpVEsWOEOMWZioCWN3K9eVfGVeKaQf1-RgV9-worEpTIli9aUVZOjTLIZ83PwD3rzbrZXLvtCYPBjl_BhLxNQmboa4oQ6aMUTlgdRCrjNu3AkSSGc4ReSUdeKuLcbFGugOrFJhNbr31xL_OUKgpkhUIHHy6Hw/w640-h480/PXL_20220903_191440428.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beat descends the granite slabs on September 3, 2022.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>I was bursting with energy for most of the descent. I'd finally released a massive burden and Dad was free. An oven of afternoon heat baked the rock. The air was eerily still. We saw almost no one after the summit ridge — the world had retreated under the September heat dome. I greedily slurped down liters five and six of my water, still cold thanks to a freezer strategy I'd carefully honed over the long summer. The notion of needing a puffy or fearing hypothermia was a strange, laughable joke. We spent much of the winding descent describing to Raj what it feels like to sleep outside in the snow when it's 45 below. By the end, we had practically talked him into buying a house in Alaska. </div><div><br /></div><div>Still, I couldn't fight off the melancholy entirely. In the perfect world, Dad would be here with me. In this imperfect world, I'm still alone and afraid. While I feel bound to Lone Peak, I'm not sure I'll be able to face it again. The love runs deep, but so does the hurt. All I have left are my memories. Lone Peak will continue to be a mountain, just a mountain, beautifully indifferent to everything I love. </div><div><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYu7a188uIhLAQuB1p_GPOl7stDx2VwwfelPZxHSiSJ27kRF1-NhGTONPqMwfXYvl5t4TzoS-yTxIZNZA5rDyBRd9l6B_Nh6nZomiQc49HouRwd0_DnvUr_f3oF0TrCaB3500WGCi-15N1ZKsgVRWixvLEIbSRQ7Iafe4QksO7dkUoiXnsWQ/s3648/274.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2056" data-original-width="3648" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYu7a188uIhLAQuB1p_GPOl7stDx2VwwfelPZxHSiSJ27kRF1-NhGTONPqMwfXYvl5t4TzoS-yTxIZNZA5rDyBRd9l6B_Nh6nZomiQc49HouRwd0_DnvUr_f3oF0TrCaB3500WGCi-15N1ZKsgVRWixvLEIbSRQ7Iafe4QksO7dkUoiXnsWQ/w640-h360/274.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad descends the granite slabs on July 27, 2011.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><div><i>Blog entry from August 29, 2010:</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>It's too hard now, not to think about the end. I can believe that my grandpa isn't afraid, but I have to admit that I am. Everything that makes me who I am is wrapped up in the people, and the moments, that all seem to slip away before I'm ready. Life sometimes moves in fast-forward motion, spinning in a blur of color and noise. In my dizziness I look to the past for clarity, only to acknowledge that those moments are gone.</i><br /></div></div></div></div></div>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-5954578251442033602022-09-10T22:34:00.001-06:002022-09-12T08:34:41.206-06:00My belated birthday ride<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6AswbTLc0ofbONze_KC--iaoDG9yMUAZLGUahEsRLjyZC4oh_hfs55PGC3hrXIz3Mvt8EJJ8CcocsU7wejv_w-mhvuhSyF-YEkqbQgmNzjCdK8kWt-IvVMTukjmZgfb-qJscJrgUrhW0mneNq2_sfqxo-KUNcF2nPHGOfrCvf82QNu2FUjA/s3264/PXL_20220827_222947238.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6AswbTLc0ofbONze_KC--iaoDG9yMUAZLGUahEsRLjyZC4oh_hfs55PGC3hrXIz3Mvt8EJJ8CcocsU7wejv_w-mhvuhSyF-YEkqbQgmNzjCdK8kWt-IvVMTukjmZgfb-qJscJrgUrhW0mneNq2_sfqxo-KUNcF2nPHGOfrCvf82QNu2FUjA/w640-h480/PXL_20220827_222947238.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>Saturday, August 20 was my 43rd birthday. 43 was also the number of hours Beat and I had been home since arriving from Europe on Thursday. It felt like a mere hiccup in the space-time continuum as I made my way back to the Denver airport to pick up my Mom, who was flying in for a short visit. I looked forward to seeing her and the timing was good — given my degree of jetlag and the high chance of thunderstorms, it wouldn't have been a choice weekend for an adventure regardless. But it wasn't my favorite birthday — up at 3 a.m. due to jetlag, making the long commute to the airport, waiting in my hot car, delays in finding my mom and more in leaving the airport, finally doing the grocery shopping I'd put off since Thursday, and returning home to a power outage that delayed dinner until 9 p.m. </p><p>I was ready to write the day off, but still, I felt cheated. Birthdays are the best excuse to spend a day doing whatever I want, no matter how selfish or ridiculous, and no one can question it. And every year — despite decades of wishing I was a more normal person who enjoyed parties and pampering — when I search my heart for "whatever I want," I come up with a ridiculous slog that I can grind out alone. That's all I want for my birthday — a day to get out of my head and into the world, numbing my worries with strenuous physical activity while enjoying the freedom of solo travel.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZPkz2YnDc6fDIJusYAVKwPZ0uam7-TwB_fTVkJM1lnmTh7uCDhDgyMpBcdGEQTpHojjkU8CNJkcG7_FXdOtw0KSwmS6mZu3If3w_xau8f4mBGDHyvvxVMoFNginjQV5K21UbhaAdwEqGCQLF3Gsck1iWUSjG96RmVMcErHeT6pn0YZHGNw/s4032/PXL_20220827_202527225.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZPkz2YnDc6fDIJusYAVKwPZ0uam7-TwB_fTVkJM1lnmTh7uCDhDgyMpBcdGEQTpHojjkU8CNJkcG7_FXdOtw0KSwmS6mZu3If3w_xau8f4mBGDHyvvxVMoFNginjQV5K21UbhaAdwEqGCQLF3Gsck1iWUSjG96RmVMcErHeT6pn0YZHGNw/w640-h480/PXL_20220827_202527225.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>My mom flew home in the middle of the week and then Beat headed out for a bro-trip with his friend Daniel to run a 100-mile ultramarathon in the San Juan Mountains. I was a little surprised that Beat didn't ask me to crew for them, but also grateful. It gave me a guiltless weekend to myself. I envisioned quiet days of much-needed recovery (pretty much everything about August 2022 was exhausting.) But then I woke up much too early the morning of Saturday, Aug. 27 (recovering from jetlag takes so long on the back end.) My first thought: "I should go for a long ride."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYRd8ImUFsaRKc4fa7RQo1tgbLqD3CLJSVhrJ_fQvSgRIendDI3X3ljcQicSm3ehH3UJDeztArv5TdAiX2dLB3D5ximQIOy1xNPzEJl9TvdmcYgh_odonhdu7UZ8ftvBqciPRYY8oHFsAaeh9e2dGyegmwWIzoIOa_SqSPZvy7HO_5fUGcTw/s4032/PXL_20220827_213342589.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYRd8ImUFsaRKc4fa7RQo1tgbLqD3CLJSVhrJ_fQvSgRIendDI3X3ljcQicSm3ehH3UJDeztArv5TdAiX2dLB3D5ximQIOy1xNPzEJl9TvdmcYgh_odonhdu7UZ8ftvBqciPRYY8oHFsAaeh9e2dGyegmwWIzoIOa_SqSPZvy7HO_5fUGcTw/w640-h480/PXL_20220827_213342589.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>No matter that I had barely touched a bike in two months or that I was still grappling with lingering asthma symptoms. The adventure my jetlag-addled brain came up with was to ride my gravel bike to the crest of the Continental Divide in Rocky Mountain National Park, starting from home. How far could it be? In 2020, I rode to the summit of Mount Evans from home and that ride was around 150 miles with 18,000 feet of climbing. It couldn't be longer than that, could it? (Reader, it was exactly that.) I checked the weather forecast, which called for brutally hot temperatures even at higher altitudes but otherwise looked okay — high of 88 degrees in Estes Park with a 15% chance of afternoon thunderstorms. </p><p>I packed my favorite backpack exactly as I had for two dozen mountain outings in Europe: an eight-hour day's worth of snacks, three liters of water, a Befree filter flask that I'd end up using three times, a light rain jacket, skull cap, and lightweight shell mittens that were reasonably waterproof when I took them to Iceland in 2013, but have long since passed their lifespan. During my hikes in the Alps, I usually also carried a synthetic puffy along with primaloft mittens and a warmer hat. But I'd needed the puffy once in five weeks and the rest of the winter gear never. Given this day's forecast, all of it seemed like overkill. And given how overheated I'd felt for most of my time in Europe, I figured I'd welcome any weather that wasn't oppressive heat. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZzPf9aJCaoR3INPAXB3H8WCzkMvcF3uH1kNfTyMSbCZX614TpecgqXNQH8732-MSao5nK2A_fcl13i02s4gtx2uL7vxHubMIsxAqAafnV8TVuXb3tXx4WK-c7zITVfkCBcXmMc8Rl167FVmcUXG68KU2PJ07zwHUnXdvqQA870skc7yEJEw/s4032/PXL_20220827_222245617.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZzPf9aJCaoR3INPAXB3H8WCzkMvcF3uH1kNfTyMSbCZX614TpecgqXNQH8732-MSao5nK2A_fcl13i02s4gtx2uL7vxHubMIsxAqAafnV8TVuXb3tXx4WK-c7zITVfkCBcXmMc8Rl167FVmcUXG68KU2PJ07zwHUnXdvqQA870skc7yEJEw/w640-h480/PXL_20220827_222245617.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>I set out at the respectable time of 6:48 a.m. and descended through toasty morning air toward Boulder, skirting the western edge of town before commencing the long, long climb beneath a cloudless blue sky. Even though I know these roads by heart, my memory still oversimplifies them. There isn't one long climb to the Divide — it is a series of long climbs, first on Old Stage Road, then the brutal 16% grades on Jamestown Road, and then endlessly undulating rollers for what turned out to be 30 miles of the Peak to Peak Highway. By the time I reached the entrance to Rocky Mountain National Park, it was 1 p.m. and I'd traveled 62 miles with some 8,000 feet of climbing just to start the climb I'd come here to do. Well. Hmm. It was later than I hoped and farther away than I expected, but I had a water filter and I had lights. The weather looked fine. Why not?</p><p>My legs were beginning to feel the burn but I was otherwise enjoying the experience. It was a beautiful afternoon and fun to be back in Colorado — these mountains are different than the Alps, but I missed being here. I was listening to an engaging audiobook that helped soothe the hard-grinding miles of Old Fall River Road. I probably didn't eat enough and definitely neglected electrolytes as I continued to suck down cold, clear water that I'd filtered from the adjacent creek. It was going to be a long grind home — the climbing would not even be close to over once I hit the top — but that was okay too. I was exactly where I wanted to be.</p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZuj6lAUASnAmoi9ddJL716M4fxVOXkp2M2odLibxJdRIlF496udJLGdSZuI9o7zy6eWoHeNS2oC9yHhpXu3uRp8wRSa0RA9Co41VnchwvvzY8iLZ3qExCEPk6AlvPUNPgremqOoMNoPKXarv6Bf2gyb3JoHbm98qgXR8TP-6hk1J8wbCEtg/s4032/PXL_20220827_222822668.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZuj6lAUASnAmoi9ddJL716M4fxVOXkp2M2odLibxJdRIlF496udJLGdSZuI9o7zy6eWoHeNS2oC9yHhpXu3uRp8wRSa0RA9Co41VnchwvvzY8iLZ3qExCEPk6AlvPUNPgremqOoMNoPKXarv6Bf2gyb3JoHbm98qgXR8TP-6hk1J8wbCEtg/w640-h480/PXL_20220827_222822668.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>As I neared the crest of Old Fall River Road, I noticed dark clouds looming over the horizon. Blurred sheets of rain were clearly dumping on the Mummy Range to the north, but isolated thunderstorms are a thing. This storm looked like it had already missed me. Arriving at the Alpine Visitor's Center and catching my first view over the Divide quickly flattened my optimism. The entire western horizon was a wall of apocalyptic clouds. Already the landscape was darkening to an ominous mid-day twilight. I wanted to turn around and retreat right there, but I couldn't. As long as it's open to car traffic, Old Fall River Road is a one-way gravel road. Legally I had to ride the rollers along Trail Ridge Road, which exposed me to altitudes above tree line for more than 10 miles. I quickly pulled on all of my layers, ate a handful of peanuts, and commenced the steep climb to the top of Trail Ridge. <p></p><p>Trail Ridge Road is one of my favorite scenic rides and I planned to take a bunch of photos, but I have none. The reason I have none is because survival mode commenced almost immediately. Within a half mile of leaving the visitor's center, I was hit with a frigid gale-force crosswind that demanded all of my strength just to keep the bike upright. Trail Ridge Road is already narrow with precipitous dropoffs, and there was a steady stream of downhill traffic from drivers who also seemed eager to escape the storm. I was all over the road and genuinely could not help it. I'm surprised no one hit me. I have to admit at the time I was almost disappointed, because everyone was driving slowly, so I wasn't likely to be hurt badly, and the prospect of being placed in a warm vehicle and carried down the hill sounded wonderful ... although I wasn't about to stick out my thumb and beg for it. </p><p>Just as I started into the long, long descent, what had been a light rain exploded with stunning force. There was heavy rain, and then icy sheets of what I assumed was sleet, and then a pummeling of pea-sized hail that blanketed the surrounding tundra in a white veil. The hail and sleet seemed to stick to the pavement and form an icy sheen. While coasting I detected this strange sensation from the back of the bike — the best way I can characterize it is a sudden lack of vibration — almost as though the rear tire was hydroplaning. This would have been terrifying if I wasn't already succumbing to the early effects of hypothermia. My rain jacket had soaked through, my mittens were worse than useless, my steering had been erratic before I lost the sensation in my hands, and I was mostly just thinking about how great it would be if someone hit me with their car and put me out of my misery. </p><p>Then it got worse. From the crest of Trail Ridge Road at 12,000 feet to the Beaver Meadows Visitor Center at 7,500 feet are more than 20 miles of steep descending with no opportunities for shelter. In hindsight, I should have gotten out of the saddle and started running to boost my core temperature. This visible act of desperation also would have likely earned me the sympathy ride that I was too proud to beg for. But I wasn't thinking clearly. I kept weaving all over the lane, riding the squealing brakes because my numb hands were locked in place, and frequently slipping off the pedals because I could not feel my feet and also could not feel a large portion of my legs. My shoulders shook violently, my teeth chattered painfully, and then the shivering hit my core. I can't remember whether I'd ever involuntarily shivered with my abdominal muscles before — it hurts, a lot. Any part of my body that wasn't numb was wracked with painful convulsions, and I was still trying to steer a bike over icy, hail-streaked pavement as heavy rain pelted my face. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh19_DdztxoY8fkUa7gsvB-56HMkO2eYlg-MzZI9D7gtbnJbz8NZBMLVnKerZLdZ6CWkriVdphHKEpV6kX9mAVemINAPjBnil3U39DG8-O1ZUFVokfmcO7iimKIosOIbjE8KdLhPNgzaCWRwpx80a_GF_jsMCDP6Ri6HAcGVyOaK9aYdD_F-g/s4032/PXL_20220828_004034850.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh19_DdztxoY8fkUa7gsvB-56HMkO2eYlg-MzZI9D7gtbnJbz8NZBMLVnKerZLdZ6CWkriVdphHKEpV6kX9mAVemINAPjBnil3U39DG8-O1ZUFVokfmcO7iimKIosOIbjE8KdLhPNgzaCWRwpx80a_GF_jsMCDP6Ri6HAcGVyOaK9aYdD_F-g/w640-h480/PXL_20220828_004034850.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>The last fully coherent thought I formed during this descent was, "I'm so miserable. I have never been more miserable in my entire life, and I am definitely too old for this." Saying to this myself brought levity to my situation. I smiled, but then everything began to blur. The convulsions began to subside, which was a relief. But also not a relief, because I know how hypothermia works. There's the painful part, and then the not-so-painful part, and then you start acting really weird, and then you lose consciousness. <p></p><p>Somehow I continued to steer myself past the park entrance and rolled into the visitor's center. It was after 5 p.m. and closed, but the bathroom was still open. I threw my bike onto the sidewalk and waddled inside on wooden legs that were not my own. It was comical, how little control I had over my legs. I had no hope of using these legs for pedaling so it was good that I was able to coast all the way to shelter. I sat on the tile floor, removed my shoes and socks, and awkwardly pawed at my toes, unable to massage my numb feet with numb hands that I also had no control over.</p><p>It seemed like I spent a long time in that bathroom, but it probably wasn't that long. Only a couple of women walked in while I was there. They did their best to avert their eyes as I probably looked dangerous in my bedraggled state — soaking wet with bare feet. One of the women left almost immediately, which I didn't find strange at the time but later thought — "yeah, that was probably because of me." The shivering recommenced and then I started to feel more lucid. Suddenly I felt desperately thirsty, which was weird. I hobbled outside to the drinking fountain and filled my hydration bladder so I could gulp down at least 1.5 liters. Feeling even better, I chased the water with a Kind protein bar. Something about that bar — or more likely the hypothermia and drinking way too much water when I was possibly also a little hyponatremic — made me feel extremely nauseated and faint, so I had to sit down again. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8UOg4DfxH773ucx7ed4k9Ae5jL9zjaPqEnJ0JqylerbO3sTu2qhVRLOUhILroOtp5C8FPtaeqShuDr93-dgFCG6elZI6S0t1AqM0gmVQQGJF4T8iiuURXjP5XZJv4kH9c29G6FquQDvnW0y_uJqYqRPnSuqNiEz9ldP9wv0Wyw-L-kg3svQ/s4032/PXL_20220828_011203868.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8UOg4DfxH773ucx7ed4k9Ae5jL9zjaPqEnJ0JqylerbO3sTu2qhVRLOUhILroOtp5C8FPtaeqShuDr93-dgFCG6elZI6S0t1AqM0gmVQQGJF4T8iiuURXjP5XZJv4kH9c29G6FquQDvnW0y_uJqYqRPnSuqNiEz9ldP9wv0Wyw-L-kg3svQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220828_011203868.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>After a few more minutes, my head stopped spinning and I felt all-around better but utterly exhausted. Hypothermia takes a lot out of a body even without 95 miles of cycling behind it. I considered looking for a hotel room in Estes Park, but as soon as I pulled out my phone to look, I remembered that it was a Saturday night. The whole town was likely to be booked solid. And even if it wasn't, I wasn't sure that a bail-out was what I wanted. It had been a while since I'd had an old-fashioned misadventure — you know, bite off more than I can chew, come underprepared but not in an unreasonable way (<i>a 15% chance of storms on a summer day does not portend certain doom</i>), be completely pummeled by natural forces I can't control, and yet somehow battle my way to some semblance of victory. Sure, this was more of a thing for me when I was younger — and I am justifiably still teased about many of these youthful mistakes — but it had been a while. Nostalgia — and yes, a still-addled brain — drove me back to my overturned bike. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii5qddcF3BZRVIawlADKhkQGhcUeL2FflVljOO1cxN9zM5gXJM6JqkzRhVCcMMWz0kV44wR_eCU49hVB0EcFUfho8Mw59wrOvXsD0HHZApVzh4D5Zf7mrPwKfSECgydXdjp5-m1BuD78y8Jqf6tn8yFta4VwGfMXVgAhMxHaSMeJoS1mtl6A/s4032/PXL_20220828_014024257.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii5qddcF3BZRVIawlADKhkQGhcUeL2FflVljOO1cxN9zM5gXJM6JqkzRhVCcMMWz0kV44wR_eCU49hVB0EcFUfho8Mw59wrOvXsD0HHZApVzh4D5Zf7mrPwKfSECgydXdjp5-m1BuD78y8Jqf6tn8yFta4VwGfMXVgAhMxHaSMeJoS1mtl6A/w640-h480/PXL_20220828_014024257.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>I still had some 60 miles and 5,000 feet of climbing to pedal home — indeed, I'd close out the ride with 152.5 miles and 17,800 feet of climbing. And while the wave of nausea abated it never entirely went away. I don't remember whether I consumed another calorie after that Kind Bar. I probably did, but there's also a chance I didn't — I only had two or three bars left at the Alpine Visitor's Center, didn't resupply in Estes Park as I had planned, and still had two bars in my pack when I got home. <p></p><p>As I merged back onto the Peak to Peak Highway, the setting sun lit up the fading remnants of the thunderstorm. The wind calmed to a gentle whisper. The air felt warm, almost hot, once again. My body, no doubt grateful to be alive, filled my blood with adrenaline. I had transcended pain, transcended fatigue, transcended any remnant of weakness that could stop me from sprinting up the steepest hills. Also, my core temperature was still low enough that any time I stopped pedaling, I started shivering, so there was a survival component to my relentless motion. </p><p>Dusk faded and the stars came out, so many stars. Traffic ceased and I was alone in a vast world, feeling warm and safe. I rolled through an empty Nederland and rolled along the washboard gravel of Magnolia Road, which usually rattles me to the bone but seemed to have lost its bite now that I'd transcended being human. </p><p>I turned onto a considerably more rugged road while continuing to descend at a fast clip. The road was sandy and mottled with embedded rocks. I had essentially forgotten I was riding a bike in the real world, let alone a gravel bike with questionable traction. Within seconds, my rear wheel washed out and slammed me onto the dirt — a hard, dead-fish sort of slap that happens when gravity catches me unaware. Having no idea the hit was coming, I managed to stay loose through the fall so the impact didn't have that much effect on me. It was a surprise that jolted me back to reality, but not much more. </p><p>There I was, nearly 150 miles into a spontaneous ride, alone on a rugged back road at midnight, as a 43-year-old woman — well, 43 and one week — who really should know better by now. The ridiculousness of finding myself sprawled out in the dirt amid this reality hit me before any semblance of pain, so I burst out laughing. My brain conjured a scene from the movie "Everything Everywhere All At Once" — the characters wake up in a universe where life never formed and they exist as rocks, and one decides that rocks can still be spontaneous and wear googly eyes, because <i>there are no rules</i>. There are no rules! We can do anything we want!</p><p>Of course, in this universe, I accept that there are still rules. Gravity is a rule, one I respect. I decided to walk most of the remainder of the jeep road — some four miles — since I clearly could not trust my riding. I finally pulled up to my house at 1:33 a.m., shivering in the still-damp rain jacket that I was still wearing. My home thermometer read 71 degrees. It was a hot summer night following a hot summer day. Did any of it even happen?</p><p>I took a shower and went to bed, waking up the next morning and still feeling unsure about that question. If it hadn't been for the bruises on my legs and the chaffing on my bum, I may have continued to question the veracity of my memories. But my feelings were clear: That was such a fun day. I'm definitely too old for such nonsense, but also, I suppose, not too old. For the latter, I'm grateful.</p>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-54342128471003686252022-09-09T22:59:00.001-06:002022-09-10T08:49:48.323-06:00Return to the Matterhorn<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinxCNvpPDkr5Srj_8z-0YEH6ScHl4VEUhloFqnbOnKqnK0iyvL8RJEdP93BeZj_jqtJd6PTPMYllsNJAhirMKQcL7pxfy8ogWFGY9teq89Ve1T9yT_pZ5vhFsYNWZglwbScqrgG9igJ4XZ9EVkiwWG7V4B1dNWlFnehbDQyP44UWx4u_HKkQ/s4032/PXL_20220816_095116351.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinxCNvpPDkr5Srj_8z-0YEH6ScHl4VEUhloFqnbOnKqnK0iyvL8RJEdP93BeZj_jqtJd6PTPMYllsNJAhirMKQcL7pxfy8ogWFGY9teq89Ve1T9yT_pZ5vhFsYNWZglwbScqrgG9igJ4XZ9EVkiwWG7V4B1dNWlFnehbDQyP44UWx4u_HKkQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220816_095116351.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The Matterhorn. When I was a child it was a mythical place, evoked by its namesake ride at Disneyland and by the bodice-and-red-skirt-clad women sounding the alpenhorn for Swiss Days in Midway, Utah. As a teenager, I watched a documentary about the first ascent of the Matterhorn and decided as an aspiring mountain adventurer, I would someday make my way to this storied pyramid. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But then I never did. I met a Swiss man and traveled with him to Europe nearly every year since 2011, touring far-flung places all over the Swiss, French, and Italian Alps. Over that decade, I skirted the valleys beneath this summit several times but never quite caught a glimpse of it. Finally, in 2022, Beat signed up for a foot race that circumnavigated the Matterhorn and I finally saw the mountain from the Italian side. When we came upon our fifth and final week in Switzerland and the question of where we should spend the last few days arose, I proposed a visit to the Swiss side of the Matterhorn, from the village of Zermatt. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYsFLSAdtfyMtEoCYz8dGz7v0LZy878FRSNinnMS0d-kDtQLIwgTz36pqyT9mFBQAtc9c-zYNKCydcvxT1fCsjUhvTaulqxkXx4sa5sDKk8j0-q7MhQQfPkrfHitGgpAP2lJy5XEQxPqtjwhCOk8nuGTQMfBLPcRcl5S116361Jsey8lz2SA/s4032/PXL_20220814_102436452.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYsFLSAdtfyMtEoCYz8dGz7v0LZy878FRSNinnMS0d-kDtQLIwgTz36pqyT9mFBQAtc9c-zYNKCydcvxT1fCsjUhvTaulqxkXx4sa5sDKk8j0-q7MhQQfPkrfHitGgpAP2lJy5XEQxPqtjwhCOk8nuGTQMfBLPcRcl5S116361Jsey8lz2SA/w640-h480/PXL_20220814_102436452.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Beat was reluctant for all of the reasons we never made our way here before. It's touristy, it's crowded, and it's ridiculously expensive. I countered that I was accustomed to such crowds. For years I had been crammed into Chamonix during UTMB week, sharing the narrow streets with tens of thousands of racers, spectators, and other tourists. It was madness that Beat never had to experience because he was galavanting off in the remote backcountry of the PTL course. Zermatt is expensive, but not necessarily more than any other place if we stuck to our usual habit of preparing our own food and hiking all day. And yes, it's touristy ... but we're tourists. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Beat agreed: "You have to see it once."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvb-xRArzBU_H8C2LaR--zsKlXrn-O1yqiNBwTtnmXbjHvXY7w8606lLagzf7T1VQtFp-0wYq-Fj7KyrOTkoIap8R2jEgHO4coyd0C4pkcffxJRKRsZcs3Q-nu2F2Nly4VvoH7ObKCsKgEw8tgqt1Fw5b0HlfuFX8dfOj4Pw90WbUGcV9A5g/s4032/PXL_20220814_141717381.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvb-xRArzBU_H8C2LaR--zsKlXrn-O1yqiNBwTtnmXbjHvXY7w8606lLagzf7T1VQtFp-0wYq-Fj7KyrOTkoIap8R2jEgHO4coyd0C4pkcffxJRKRsZcs3Q-nu2F2Nly4VvoH7ObKCsKgEw8tgqt1Fw5b0HlfuFX8dfOj4Pw90WbUGcV9A5g/w480-h640/PXL_20220814_141717381.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The week before Zermatt was really rough for me. We were spending those days with Beat's mom in her small apartment. The asthma symptoms that have been exacerbated all month hit a level I haven't experienced since my early days with the condition. I was wheezy most of the time and woke up in the middle of the night to terrifying attacks. It's difficult to say what sparked this, although I suspected I might be reacting to Beat's mom's cat. When I first tested for allergies in 2016, I showed a strong reaction to cat dander ... which I found strange because I had lived with one for more than 10 years. The doctor shrugged, said we sometimes desensitize ourselves to specific allergens, and suggested he'd add cat to the list of serums they'd be injecting to help desensitize my body to a much more severe grass allergy. Allergy shots are essentially micro-dosing our personal poisons and agreeing to unpleasant micro-symptoms, and I've been subjecting myself to this for six years. Everything got better for a while, but the past two summers have brought setbacks. So a sudden flare-up of cat allergy makes some sense. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I also, admittedly, was starting to mentally unravel amid a near-complete lack of alone time. It seems to me that most introverted people emerged from the 2020 quarantine either a little more outgoing or leaning hard into their introversion. I'm in the latter group. Put me in a dark room by myself with nothing for stimulation but my own thoughts, and I'll still be happier than I am in an overcrowded airport. For a week, my only chance for alone time was to go stumbling through the woods, physically unable to run because my breathing was too pinched, until I found a quiet picnic table to sit in 90-degree heat and write on my laptop. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia_ercZsjiiS-4JoOMIBNvMkxs8RQiwigZ6KvOtJVkqJoW2kwKJRB695naHRXV9jSRiVOexaKiK4rvYtftrD3FAmK1LqBT3ysSSsXj6aIsUr17DUZn4AYfHuxyt0p4PSXgv1_lvBaQ-hbAxI8kbbaiby_wQvJMMMgK4e6a-mIe_mO1qFVq2Q/s4032/PXL_20220813_141128987.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia_ercZsjiiS-4JoOMIBNvMkxs8RQiwigZ6KvOtJVkqJoW2kwKJRB695naHRXV9jSRiVOexaKiK4rvYtftrD3FAmK1LqBT3ysSSsXj6aIsUr17DUZn4AYfHuxyt0p4PSXgv1_lvBaQ-hbAxI8kbbaiby_wQvJMMMgK4e6a-mIe_mO1qFVq2Q/w640-h480/PXL_20220813_141128987.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Unsurprisingly, I arrived in Zermatt in poor shape. It was mid-afternoon on a Saturday when we stepped off the train, schlepped our gear to our rental studio — which was lovely — and made a quick turnover to squeeze in a hike before evening. Beat mapped out a random route and I tried on my new hiking boots, which we purchased in Switzerland when I realized that many of my troubles with loose terrain and boulder-hopping might be solved with more supportive footwear. Most people on these rugged Swiss trails wear boots, not trail runners, and I think there's a good reason for that. It's not that they haven't discovered sneakers ... it's that sneakers suck on talus and boulders unless you are nimble and sure-footed. And I am not. <p></p><p>Still, I haven't seriously worn hiking boots in 20 years. I should have taken some precautions to prepare my baby-soft feet for a trek of any distance. Mistakes were made on this day.</p><p>We took off toward downtown Zermatt, which was pulsing with noise and music. As we approached, we realized that the main street was blocked by huge crowds watching a parade. There was no way to get to our route without cutting through the parade, so that's exactly what Beat did. He wove through the crowd at a clip I could barely manage, shouldering spectators, weaving through marching bands, and ducking as people tossed batons. I was horrified. All of my social anxieties boiled to the surface and I couldn't breathe. Why did we have to cut through the parade? Why couldn't we just turn around and go back to our apartment and maybe spend the afternoon crying in bed? </p><p>We made it through the parade, but my breathing was already compromised when we hit the trail. And of course, this trail that Beat chose was "Zermatt's Ultimate Fitness Test" — an Ultraks "Vertical" that gains 2,200 feet in just 1.4 miles. The average grade is 43%. It's not a great spot for an asthmatic 40-something woman wearing hiking boots and fighting off a panic attack. </p><p>Beat surged ahead and I stumbled and gasped behind him for some time, maybe 1,000 feet of vert, before I faltered so badly that I almost lost consciousness. My head was spinning and by vision was blacking out. Inhaler puffs did nothing. I texted Beat and told him that I didn't care what he did, but I was stumbling my way back to that terrifying parade to wait until he returned.</p><p>He called and urged me to follow a side trail toward a gondola station. My memory from this point is hazy, but eventually, we reconnected and stumbled back down to town. It was about here that screaming foot pain finally cut through my oxygen-deprived daze. Indeed, after something like five miles and maybe 2,000 feet of climbing in the Gore-tex boots, I'd already managed to develop a heel blister, some serious maceration, and partially detached skin on the bottom of one heel. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwMsrdB5FRPU5O3fXTyVj8CANlWyDlFzEVsfyCWdREtHYyPhm6EF4xeAZlhWy_YUDKXlyU2gcrvr2ZpA5kbehnC2r8f6FkUvB_FvyCAAMa76TORyZBA_I-YDvKBtWLT6j-1HV2U2zCO6Rlz_1BecyvqQQFZxCovghu7m_LG92MHc1nShb-sw/s4032/PXL_20220814_082456193.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwMsrdB5FRPU5O3fXTyVj8CANlWyDlFzEVsfyCWdREtHYyPhm6EF4xeAZlhWy_YUDKXlyU2gcrvr2ZpA5kbehnC2r8f6FkUvB_FvyCAAMa76TORyZBA_I-YDvKBtWLT6j-1HV2U2zCO6Rlz_1BecyvqQQFZxCovghu7m_LG92MHc1nShb-sw/w640-h480/PXL_20220814_082456193.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The following day, our plan was to climb the Mettelhorn — at 11,175 feet, it's one of the highest hikeable peaks (meaning no special gear or climbing skills needed) in the Alps. Our route plan had nearly 7,000 feet of climbing in just 12.5 miles. I lamented that I had failed Zermatt's Ultimate Fitness Test, so clearly Mettelhorn would be a non-starter. Beat urged me to try. The week's forecast called for increasing chances of rain, and Sunday — which was overcast but lacking thunderstorm threat — was likely our only shot. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU-wlPRVX3OyEn0wvQDlpjWE5pxLHpM7sp7VX1kRxHyOCnMLB-VCtLP8SdhnjpunD13WUz3bspqmIoASemlcJKtCpEeiqB9DPG4sWytC0izmZ0RyqG4Mntah5rduLyPLa7Z25UvYTlnIXSIbxGSgbE18qZ9Ux9Tl2ZOndQMm0LeMxjLCmFUQ/s4032/PXL_20220814_100343256.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU-wlPRVX3OyEn0wvQDlpjWE5pxLHpM7sp7VX1kRxHyOCnMLB-VCtLP8SdhnjpunD13WUz3bspqmIoASemlcJKtCpEeiqB9DPG4sWytC0izmZ0RyqG4Mntah5rduLyPLa7Z25UvYTlnIXSIbxGSgbE18qZ9Ux9Tl2ZOndQMm0LeMxjLCmFUQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220814_100343256.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I was feeling better and had taken some care of my feet — which is to say I slathered on a bunch of lube and hoped for the best. We climbed and climbed, and Beat was patient with me ... I was moving slowly, but my breathing improved as we gained altitude. Not much pollen up here! I was glad to wear boots for the glacier crossing; the stiff soles held my microspikes like a serrated knife. I couldn't slide if I tried. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1UAY1VqGeDpgi2BeqEGsZbnN0BSxfZtRk0chkzIlqqewsCRcD4NN1VCfwFdRhTCpFH_n-2dB-Xv9vXvILuDkxPxe5sNJVi5I-PrxrurVB3K1bJYbAvfCpM4hDCqKtELY8Sf_n3j_uRhw9CmUNBy7uIeoL96cjGoF8-jBuX1OIwyI3jbY0VQ/s4032/PXL_20220814_102932409.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1UAY1VqGeDpgi2BeqEGsZbnN0BSxfZtRk0chkzIlqqewsCRcD4NN1VCfwFdRhTCpFH_n-2dB-Xv9vXvILuDkxPxe5sNJVi5I-PrxrurVB3K1bJYbAvfCpM4hDCqKtELY8Sf_n3j_uRhw9CmUNBy7uIeoL96cjGoF8-jBuX1OIwyI3jbY0VQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220814_102932409.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The views from the Mettelhorn were stunning, even when muted by the flat light. It also was shockingly warm for this altitude, which is how I could describe our entire five-week stay in Europe. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3xm-8Ch1n5vm0IcEAx4ID1q83nfYY7u-y3jV40T3SAojieCntnDlT275wyN4GwAM8ABaDH2KbYlAp8nFVTLKlnxzutc-EVPrI8SMwSB7yblQEeN4N1LIefzsvlYm9cpCGBrY8vLsfWPnHSPQ1q6LP6ilauKgL7H4W--n_ajmKPQ0aAq-NZg/s4032/PXL_20220814_115111863.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3xm-8Ch1n5vm0IcEAx4ID1q83nfYY7u-y3jV40T3SAojieCntnDlT275wyN4GwAM8ABaDH2KbYlAp8nFVTLKlnxzutc-EVPrI8SMwSB7yblQEeN4N1LIefzsvlYm9cpCGBrY8vLsfWPnHSPQ1q6LP6ilauKgL7H4W--n_ajmKPQ0aAq-NZg/w640-h480/PXL_20220814_115111863.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">From the glacier below the Mettelhorn, we decided to climb to an adjacent peak called the Platthorn. My feet were in rough shape but my breathing finally felt clear, and I was buzzing with all of the accessible-to-me oxygen in this high-altitude air. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2GL7ZCkvu38LkSICpu4jQqvhNcO3_zKDlUgTzcoXmsE_YaO7YhnwQCdVvMzXZiNph44sn1_ldwQcE_tb_ts8Jn3Wzjvv0VFehXhyJNWPM8hulWU1fcc07PI0XlXy74xNLunzlbZrbwJ0mFL2mz1zpGuEpVCLUXyL7AjLqvL8dR4In_qZSSA/s4032/PXL_20220814_111538137.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2GL7ZCkvu38LkSICpu4jQqvhNcO3_zKDlUgTzcoXmsE_YaO7YhnwQCdVvMzXZiNph44sn1_ldwQcE_tb_ts8Jn3Wzjvv0VFehXhyJNWPM8hulWU1fcc07PI0XlXy74xNLunzlbZrbwJ0mFL2mz1zpGuEpVCLUXyL7AjLqvL8dR4In_qZSSA/w640-h480/PXL_20220814_111538137.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The Mettelhorn as seen from the Platthorn. Those zig-zagging switchbacks to the summit are as steep as they look. I feel like this grade would have been impossible to ascend if my breathing was as pinched as it had been just a day earlier. So glad my lungs cooperated. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK5fB5aHGls1kMzcNinZmMBCiw2lHcL5uU5yATGtD1VVMd9AiHFCVhdTccwJ8f6GFISmeRDexeLIGqn7Y4AVdKi9d3XVTgrVJqdoJQEC2Kcvs0VhjJ1O4LKQvOacYiZOwS5dFg1HIM-t_LcaBB4YJqDkOu7U7NzJCOsSCzEtor5NbNT0PBoA/s4032/PXL_20220814_113853195.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK5fB5aHGls1kMzcNinZmMBCiw2lHcL5uU5yATGtD1VVMd9AiHFCVhdTccwJ8f6GFISmeRDexeLIGqn7Y4AVdKi9d3XVTgrVJqdoJQEC2Kcvs0VhjJ1O4LKQvOacYiZOwS5dFg1HIM-t_LcaBB4YJqDkOu7U7NzJCOsSCzEtor5NbNT0PBoA/w640-h480/PXL_20220814_113853195.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The Matterhorn continued to loom in the distance. This is the view from the summit of the Platthorn, where we called Beat's dad to show him the view. He was so excited ... Mettelhorn is one of his favorite places. At 83, he still hopes for an opportunity to visit one more time. With some planning, training, and perhaps a night in the mid-mountain Trift Hotel, I bet he can do it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPRRcNqCH-c-eoVn67rtRB2nO-Grsh6qUcVx1pnwcPDLNkTDzunbRi7d_1Yxws15dx4oNo6j_BVS689pchUKAND1vtZYcEOr8h4iOCNo_Nl365QqryD1UlzfJ4qzPsm983AO91J9q3OFSsMHQib1urYxsBOzDInYc-MU-mIX_KINC9F0_RIA/s4032/PXL_20220814_130320120.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPRRcNqCH-c-eoVn67rtRB2nO-Grsh6qUcVx1pnwcPDLNkTDzunbRi7d_1Yxws15dx4oNo6j_BVS689pchUKAND1vtZYcEOr8h4iOCNo_Nl365QqryD1UlzfJ4qzPsm983AO91J9q3OFSsMHQib1urYxsBOzDInYc-MU-mIX_KINC9F0_RIA/w640-h480/PXL_20220814_130320120.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We looped around to ascend one more 3,000-meter peak, Wisshorn. Summits aren't easy to achieve in the Alps, so it was fun to tag three in one day. My feet were in so much pain. A thick layer of heel skin did fully detach although I wouldn't be able to remove it for a few more weeks, and the high temperatures meant my feet were soaking in a warm bath of sweat and mottled with heat rash. I am still sold on the potential of supportive hiking boots, but decided that maybe these eight-hour grinds were not the place to break them in. It was a good test, but I'd give my feet a break by completing eight-hour hikes in worn-out trail runners for the rest of the trip. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqSRD028rxG6EJdk8Ne2WuyOAnoAGY1iReOMj85EObOavdIlaobs9VZVzlXRTifoa_YiXfj6Bn3wcZA8x88teurq9DwHLtTKBvM1GDzwk1owweRqDrbR-IaFr4m-ZZuUHQ1L-nzC28qyZWnAjF8IqDwdhAUp6-B3Y_BXntxy17mlUFphpPyw/s4032/PXL_20220815_085854435.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqSRD028rxG6EJdk8Ne2WuyOAnoAGY1iReOMj85EObOavdIlaobs9VZVzlXRTifoa_YiXfj6Bn3wcZA8x88teurq9DwHLtTKBvM1GDzwk1owweRqDrbR-IaFr4m-ZZuUHQ1L-nzC28qyZWnAjF8IqDwdhAUp6-B3Y_BXntxy17mlUFphpPyw/w640-h480/PXL_20220815_085854435.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Monday was supposed to be rainy, so we were surprised to wake up to partly cloudy skies. Our plan for this day was to climb to the Gornergrat and traverse along the Monte Rosa massif — the other side of the valley from the Mettelhorn. A cog railway travels to the crest of this ridge. We looked into riding the train but discovered that a round-trip ticket for the two of us would cost $265. That was close to the price of my new hiking boots. Although I didn't plan to wear them for a while, perhaps I could at least justify the expense if we saved the money and hoofed the 6,000 feet of vertical gain. Beat, of course, always prefers to hike. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglKzl85Jx22nXa6ADU8IhVEka9BnPwo26ER9U8b0reSvBIhKvQDGluFHTC91bSGj5PlwLYrpwHP2tdiOei4-_TetEoDShB-k92e5IkRZmTObZR8tuBM7kOXlZ-8CLc3P4JMf307QSHdbz7zoizt1osBn_2cBN632zrKaey77UPs2FM8JWSIA/s4032/PXL_20220815_095802733.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglKzl85Jx22nXa6ADU8IhVEka9BnPwo26ER9U8b0reSvBIhKvQDGluFHTC91bSGj5PlwLYrpwHP2tdiOei4-_TetEoDShB-k92e5IkRZmTObZR8tuBM7kOXlZ-8CLc3P4JMf307QSHdbz7zoizt1osBn_2cBN632zrKaey77UPs2FM8JWSIA/w640-h480/PXL_20220815_095802733.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>I understand why Switzerland can justify charging what they do for access to the Gornergrat — the route is stunning. Once at the top, the trail is a pleasant stroll with unceasing views of the Monte Rosa massif and the Gorner glacier pouring down the valley. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEineokPQRDbJ1lluMVHu-f1Sq4VbYfYU9G9HZUtDfxIs4AMMrUBNDMxalTA6GMZrE1NkLTGVzj3FDZuhU87I4fR1AzJgMITm14l2bLdAMDqp_XKjTjJFx83dkt_Kv_SNq0jWRg5Z5i3mK9_k9GyRa4kSpa9GWpB2QHgHLvQVMF9GJs9ghhGOw/s4032/PXL_20220815_103433438.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEineokPQRDbJ1lluMVHu-f1Sq4VbYfYU9G9HZUtDfxIs4AMMrUBNDMxalTA6GMZrE1NkLTGVzj3FDZuhU87I4fR1AzJgMITm14l2bLdAMDqp_XKjTjJFx83dkt_Kv_SNq0jWRg5Z5i3mK9_k9GyRa4kSpa9GWpB2QHgHLvQVMF9GJs9ghhGOw/w640-h480/PXL_20220815_103433438.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p>We traversed to the lip of another glacier. It had been a nice respite of easy walking, soon to be broken when Beat marched us up yet another white-blue-white trail that gained 1,100 feet in 0.7 miles. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxd2164eAPncNfgSOiGv9jarRT2-UqItOKrZjNPBh8mg-Xeazr5ui5FCo4j_Mcwh_C8mHSJDMNh0F2iF3WlVUmaTsAXf0i0IU6iZnYmgAvSpxLUUTTxurvKExxfuz5OPNfzljAW0p-IHp539iHA8sRwWtGLdUXy56r4boGldQEe3pM6_At7w/s4032/PXL_20220815_114720655.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxd2164eAPncNfgSOiGv9jarRT2-UqItOKrZjNPBh8mg-Xeazr5ui5FCo4j_Mcwh_C8mHSJDMNh0F2iF3WlVUmaTsAXf0i0IU6iZnYmgAvSpxLUUTTxurvKExxfuz5OPNfzljAW0p-IHp539iHA8sRwWtGLdUXy56r4boGldQEe3pM6_At7w/w640-h480/PXL_20220815_114720655.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p>Beat and the crest of the Hohtalli ridge ... I suppose the steep trail was worth it. We enjoyed our relatively cheap grocery store ham sandwiches and nut tarts, which are so much more delicious than anything you can purchase from a grocery store in the States. </p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDKMXix9EWK1g4Q_15hcTCmzPxotvXjiy-qGADULHFlV4_h2Ye9VwmfdwYgUW-AyPqFsIWGW8KELf1E7CKDAC7B9hyT_Dvg_Ls-d7FiJhmkVvjOMej1ufIAt2QuYz-oEB33tyEYCWBBJYMdYIIIQwG0fnpOTPF6Qkz_jMmNxxO8iv6jSyd-g/s4032/PXL_20220815_094552489.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDKMXix9EWK1g4Q_15hcTCmzPxotvXjiy-qGADULHFlV4_h2Ye9VwmfdwYgUW-AyPqFsIWGW8KELf1E7CKDAC7B9hyT_Dvg_Ls-d7FiJhmkVvjOMej1ufIAt2QuYz-oEB33tyEYCWBBJYMdYIIIQwG0fnpOTPF6Qkz_jMmNxxO8iv6jSyd-g/w640-h480/PXL_20220815_094552489.jpg" width="640" /></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We looped around a minor peak with a closed gondola station and descended an unbelievably steep ski slope. Zermatt can host its share of crowds — not only did we find our way into a summer parade, but the town's annual folk festival was also that weekend. Like any mountain town, though, it's not that difficult to escape crowds. We'd make our way onto these lesser-known routes and see nobody else for an hour or more. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQUs_2sqRor1yMWzZ3EASkuGDT5OJn2oaw7CZG9aaKZk2BZMN_Cxemz44kvKpAOWQoHu41H4vXm3JQTi6tvBB4Z3QaZezB5stTMA3Mvi6wRGbkIThFihkPLMFKjtbdXVbF8O5FxfbmgzHXeU3r94kQf1NaA_-PdGEKwa4_jdlcUf85Ek6vbQ/s4032/PXL_20220816_083306519.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQUs_2sqRor1yMWzZ3EASkuGDT5OJn2oaw7CZG9aaKZk2BZMN_Cxemz44kvKpAOWQoHu41H4vXm3JQTi6tvBB4Z3QaZezB5stTMA3Mvi6wRGbkIThFihkPLMFKjtbdXVbF8O5FxfbmgzHXeU3r94kQf1NaA_-PdGEKwa4_jdlcUf85Ek6vbQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220816_083306519.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Tuesday was forecast to be the rainiest day of them all. I was scheduled to work a full shift on Alaska time starting around 8 that evening, so I had the day to burn, but little faith that the weather would allow for much. We made amendable plans and then woke up to shockingly bluebird skies. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEQE2rVKOd9pkH7nE0FjlOQvgLeJiYsCbikwTlEJwvjCAprVi0Mnsb-dWqwNrV_HnZL_euNn6URrBomxV14Cx3Aq-LBc5v1RoppE2JH7uwl_iR7NEtLPFwYmY9uJ3KBCH1Kb6IOTeO3kwjFTGlkeuNPs2YNihqAC178lBYOQBQnAfUcs5WvQ/s4032/PXL_20220816_090442226.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEQE2rVKOd9pkH7nE0FjlOQvgLeJiYsCbikwTlEJwvjCAprVi0Mnsb-dWqwNrV_HnZL_euNn6URrBomxV14Cx3Aq-LBc5v1RoppE2JH7uwl_iR7NEtLPFwYmY9uJ3KBCH1Kb6IOTeO3kwjFTGlkeuNPs2YNihqAC178lBYOQBQnAfUcs5WvQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220816_090442226.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On Sunday we'd explored north of the valley when we climbed to the Mettelhorn. Monday we turned and went south to Gornergrat. On Tuesday, we went west, climbing directly toward the Matterhorn through the Zmutt valley. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik-syzhfiqK8BjcEEWOEH6yhiG6MbodH3VC3AEh2JK3QviM4SBQfT4rtTIUUJPICRE85gPwT2rhjaC50yh-6CRd4AWXqjunJbzXynEP83x5CVCamjj7SoW7AxhKBjHlmFbcSfA8pxbj8xBqTLVZnh0QOrgAGQ-1H3YfFRfsk0MB6q-vSd1Fg/s4032/PXL_20220816_102816764.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik-syzhfiqK8BjcEEWOEH6yhiG6MbodH3VC3AEh2JK3QviM4SBQfT4rtTIUUJPICRE85gPwT2rhjaC50yh-6CRd4AWXqjunJbzXynEP83x5CVCamjj7SoW7AxhKBjHlmFbcSfA8pxbj8xBqTLVZnh0QOrgAGQ-1H3YfFRfsk0MB6q-vSd1Fg/w640-h480/PXL_20220816_102816764.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>This route was comprised almost entirely of reward. We knocked out nearly 4,000 feet of climbing in the first three miles, and then enjoyed a long traverse above the valley with stunning views of the Matterhorn. Beat went on a short diversion in search of a technical challenge, and I enjoyed an hour of alone time. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU5BsuxvmwsdN6QzYZEDTlwF4sGbbkHtkp6nAT1C1U-ma5wp_zzYjFDJPWHRe80JugnjodfL6ODOgujlUKZGxUR2xY8dCKReAwo9G1V-DGSo5T796_Rewwm6ZvCtLv96CYLHDfczx5im_Mt3WhTwXaXKYmzzCjqKlNLX2RJ5kzVIuR4ogl5w/s4032/PXL_20220816_103413444.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU5BsuxvmwsdN6QzYZEDTlwF4sGbbkHtkp6nAT1C1U-ma5wp_zzYjFDJPWHRe80JugnjodfL6ODOgujlUKZGxUR2xY8dCKReAwo9G1V-DGSo5T796_Rewwm6ZvCtLv96CYLHDfczx5im_Mt3WhTwXaXKYmzzCjqKlNLX2RJ5kzVIuR4ogl5w/w640-h480/PXL_20220816_103413444.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p>The only segment I did not love was a short section along the edge of a crumbling moraine. This part of the trail has been rerouted and was not mandatory, but Beat headed up there anyway. I admit that it did seem like the more scenic route but soon became difficult to escape and so severely eroded that every step seemed precarious. </p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh77QWpwJNPeL5hYeNCnBIBKwavgafZCy4avxcq_2CAul1sZPcBRCz3qItmCWjPFDKKX406BehxQV3jzTKd7RryXk2O2CsEpI5JflwMTvyTkk7EbpBbWeJC2T135QnBAeJMOiva1EUIeHsf8l3VxqPipEIIuygEuCDAeBpPvL4wBC5mDj2Zcw/s4032/PXL_20220816_112127204.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh77QWpwJNPeL5hYeNCnBIBKwavgafZCy4avxcq_2CAul1sZPcBRCz3qItmCWjPFDKKX406BehxQV3jzTKd7RryXk2O2CsEpI5JflwMTvyTkk7EbpBbWeJC2T135QnBAeJMOiva1EUIeHsf8l3VxqPipEIIuygEuCDAeBpPvL4wBC5mDj2Zcw/w640-h480/PXL_20220816_112127204.jpg" width="640" /></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As we climbed higher up the valley, we began to wrap around the north face of the Matterhorn. For having never viewed this mountain before 2022, I can now say I've seen it from all sides: From the south and west while hiking around the Italian side, and the north and east from Zermatt. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAe1emzntI2ieiFaTWuvKQIG0KuZ6pW59RByNZ4YiI-wh7h6zcA7hjXQE3ruxXSabt8gd7nwb3pH5E_IJB8kK5fsPUPIbQbLmdobz4LUtrifLbagpvt0tWpqPg6eXaLAoRyQmyXLCLK7GDHYkihouira4NnGR2UvQaBTUsVPilSBNJtx8Tcw/s4032/PXL_20220816_110325925.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAe1emzntI2ieiFaTWuvKQIG0KuZ6pW59RByNZ4YiI-wh7h6zcA7hjXQE3ruxXSabt8gd7nwb3pH5E_IJB8kK5fsPUPIbQbLmdobz4LUtrifLbagpvt0tWpqPg6eXaLAoRyQmyXLCLK7GDHYkihouira4NnGR2UvQaBTUsVPilSBNJtx8Tcw/w640-h480/PXL_20220816_110325925.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>We climbed as high as the Schonbielhutte, with stunning views of the Dent d'Herens. A few clouds arrived in the afternoon, but it was altogether an unexpected clear day. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW7mPwVdqcx53KLzwQuonh8VuF8tsBuVwlFxQzscfdDclvix2zeahDHv4NdmNsI-K2SmJ5ZzE1bnWwgwRSHOc0FQOl4wjGyhB7JfQVI8YGek2BHPuDDxNId02s131fo5ZNodW7Y4bbGEFBypVcs1GAzHux7SUdys9aKMq3LHkGvXw5zJ0JvA/s4032/PXL_20220817_094437476.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW7mPwVdqcx53KLzwQuonh8VuF8tsBuVwlFxQzscfdDclvix2zeahDHv4NdmNsI-K2SmJ5ZzE1bnWwgwRSHOc0FQOl4wjGyhB7JfQVI8YGek2BHPuDDxNId02s131fo5ZNodW7Y4bbGEFBypVcs1GAzHux7SUdys9aKMq3LHkGvXw5zJ0JvA/w640-h480/PXL_20220817_094437476.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>Wednesday was our final full day in Switzerland and would be a long day of transitions to Geneva for an early Thursday flight. We still squeezed in a shorter hike to the Europaweg — a trail that traverses the main valley — to check out the longest suspension bridge in Switzerland. The bridge is 500 meters across and rises 80 meters above the crumbling gully it traverses. I was intrigued but also concerned ... I'd freaked out on the bridge spanning the Aletsch glacier valley just a couple of weeks earlier. This one wasn't as bad — there was no raging torrent below and higher cables on which to cling. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is impressive that Switzerland invests in this level of infrastructure for hikers. A similar route in Colorado would almost certainly traverse a crumbling path through that avalanche gully and its gauntlet of rockfall, and for obvious reasons would be an unpopular and little-used route. That also is the difference between "wilderness" and "mountains which have been utilized by humans for hundreds of years and heavily developed in the process. </div><div><br /></div><div>I appreciate wilderness, of course. Wilderness immersion is why I cherish my Alaska experiences, why I'm drawn to the desert even though I'm terrified of it, and how I soothe my social anxieties in a world of 7.7 billion people. Still, I'm grateful for the nearly endless network of trails — more than I could hike in a lifetime — and other infrastructure — I suppose, yes, even the gondolas and $200 trains — that make these beautiful mountains so accessible. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3BN1veCaHvzKcYHTjB79Sf5x0_a7o6EsfLEfaD5Vf7slKzhpuHr_7psrK4Qv6n-qmZxY12OCgsob2I12pklYjuD-wi_77NB0mcosc88AvWbW4YUoKPfjpi9_4AuB2JJo_H1r0GtUfSySgOkbN5ylxBwSKgOeB15UHHJ9gCx6myHQV5hoiXw/s4032/PXL_20220817_101335214.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3BN1veCaHvzKcYHTjB79Sf5x0_a7o6EsfLEfaD5Vf7slKzhpuHr_7psrK4Qv6n-qmZxY12OCgsob2I12pklYjuD-wi_77NB0mcosc88AvWbW4YUoKPfjpi9_4AuB2JJo_H1r0GtUfSySgOkbN5ylxBwSKgOeB15UHHJ9gCx6myHQV5hoiXw/w640-h480/PXL_20220817_101335214.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Despite my physical and mental difficulties, I'm grateful for my experience in the Alps this summer. My 40s have brought emotional turmoil that I would not have expected when I was a 20-something diving head-first into my first Alaska and bikepacking adventures. If you asked me about my motivation then, I would say that I was an anxious person who wanted to face my fears, which was true, but I also carried this assumption that you tackled a problem and thus conquered it. I was going to will myself to be brave and strong and that would be the end of it. <div><br /></div><div>Now, I have this sense that life is likely to only get harder, that I'm becoming weaker and less equipped to confront a growing roster of monsters, that my anxiety is getting away from me, that it might just become sentient and take over entirely. Even what many would consider the relatively benign and undoubtedly privileged experience of getting on a plane and traveling to Europe for five weeks was intimidating, and I didn't always cope well. But ultimately it was a wonderful experience — so much beauty and shared joy with Beat, so many exhilerating moments interspersed with a few of abject terror. </div><div><br /></div><div>And I got to see Zermatt — at least once, but after these incredible few days, I hope I can go back.<br /><div><div><br /></div></div></div>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-90465729744851388652022-08-25T23:07:00.005-06:002022-08-26T08:36:49.190-06:00See Switzerland, before it melts<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGHA38TMzntBEgI4J8GkuMCK_dzd762a1yy9h9CEMajx396kWGe974sCkd264OPqBMDKqxTSXXt61spdNUHhnJKRjkxfCvAXO0i728rK02sm4xCxS_dCHttJ7mID8IOM33PX3O2dFc-mNnt6QxWVIiAuXaxhcjLw-yEUV_wm1xr5W8FSIw5A/s4032/PXL_20220808_101243849.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGHA38TMzntBEgI4J8GkuMCK_dzd762a1yy9h9CEMajx396kWGe974sCkd264OPqBMDKqxTSXXt61spdNUHhnJKRjkxfCvAXO0i728rK02sm4xCxS_dCHttJ7mID8IOM33PX3O2dFc-mNnt6QxWVIiAuXaxhcjLw-yEUV_wm1xr5W8FSIw5A/w640-h480/PXL_20220808_101243849.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>"Beautiful vistas everywhere you go."</p><p>"Switzerland is a tiny country, but if you ironed out all of its wrinkles, the land mass would cover much of Europe."</p><p>"Switzerland's 1,400 glaciers have lost more than half of their total volume since the 1930s."</p><p>If I were designing a brochure for the tourism bureau, I'd probably find a way to include all of these statements. (Never mind that the second one is highly debatable.) </p><p>The last statement, for me at least, creates an alarming sense of urgency. Since 2016 — just six years ago — Switzerland's glaciers have lost more than 12% of their volume according to a<a href="https://www.pbs.org/newshour/science/already-shrunk-by-half-study-shows-swiss-glaciers-are-melting-faster"> recent study</a>. At this rate, they'll almost certainly be gone in my lifetime, which has much broader implications than the simple absence of ice. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz8Kkxi-NerNI2IjYKlbgLCRy6a3PGKs4_FpycwQYtYL_EEHwUxkFUXccE8UvBk-bVEIBWSE8oUFKPuA80uGFFCyUa0yzC-py_aYL2OJOoNk9Xzxz7WoDjOi_5e6c99OynNumaJHV4_E6DWymOjRWGwLjEj16noD9RTFbZawNqSzTuoWp_bw/s4032/PXL_20220801_112037852.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz8Kkxi-NerNI2IjYKlbgLCRy6a3PGKs4_FpycwQYtYL_EEHwUxkFUXccE8UvBk-bVEIBWSE8oUFKPuA80uGFFCyUa0yzC-py_aYL2OJOoNk9Xzxz7WoDjOi_5e6c99OynNumaJHV4_E6DWymOjRWGwLjEj16noD9RTFbZawNqSzTuoWp_bw/w640-h480/PXL_20220801_112037852.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p>Still, the absence of ice is heartbreaking enough. And yes, I get it, those of us who travel on airplanes and live privileged lifestyles are contributing to this warming world. Also true, is that individual actions are so infinitesimal that even if I were to reduce my carbon footprint to zero by throwing myself off a cliff tomorrow, nothing would change. Still, we have to be honest about our role in everything. I will admit that this kind of honesty sometimes makes me yearn for an "easy" way out of being human (cliff.) Not that I want this, of course — life is beautiful, fun, and compelling, even when it's discouraging. One of the best ways to combat the nihilism of individual powerlessness is to cultivate joy in each moment. Right here, right now, the world is a beautiful place. It will still be beautiful tomorrow, even when it's different.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJGIAbYsRyOzYZ1z2OecpV96a-oHSsiwhFcK2_1sCWRbV4-mYrLJ3ognZsUt3otH_z_g_enwPh0eOBKdx9jsrlng6eNk8ByE3COqfEn5vX4O3rSltOV6TnyNWHFfRa7YVnWo-iFs2mWrFSKZ8_N_k_KjWHnwj4-clJgx1D2FmHaAVB1p4slg/s4032/PXL_20220804_090750009.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJGIAbYsRyOzYZ1z2OecpV96a-oHSsiwhFcK2_1sCWRbV4-mYrLJ3ognZsUt3otH_z_g_enwPh0eOBKdx9jsrlng6eNk8ByE3COqfEn5vX4O3rSltOV6TnyNWHFfRa7YVnWo-iFs2mWrFSKZ8_N_k_KjWHnwj4-clJgx1D2FmHaAVB1p4slg/w640-h480/PXL_20220804_090750009.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p>Now that his mom and dad are their 80s, Beat is making an effort to spend more time with his family. Rather than visiting their home near Berlin, Beat's father Fred and his wife proposed a destination vacation to the Valais, a mountainous canton where Fred scaled 4,000-meter summits in his mountaineering youth. We planned for a week near the Aletsch Glacier, the largest glacier in the Alps. In Fred's memories, from the heyday of the 1970s and 80s, this glacier is a mile longer and 1,000 feet thicker than it is today. He admitted that he wasn't sure he could stomach seeing the Aletsch in its diminished state.</p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB4EEbVxLJkGqUjt1CBY5uby2eO7UT4kdGOtzfBrX0R0SuOebvzmFUaxWTNNHxmlVcxz9LW6xcZJ3AgSnQuydsj3YSiHAD3RXdevlAXUFbbQy-NFH3IC6IjxonOMiPqpxGI9za-36ZsL1G8uraskF17qlkFByGJlQByVBr8qOulU2Jhilajg/s4032/PXL_20220801_123634513.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB4EEbVxLJkGqUjt1CBY5uby2eO7UT4kdGOtzfBrX0R0SuOebvzmFUaxWTNNHxmlVcxz9LW6xcZJ3AgSnQuydsj3YSiHAD3RXdevlAXUFbbQy-NFH3IC6IjxonOMiPqpxGI9za-36ZsL1G8uraskF17qlkFByGJlQByVBr8qOulU2Jhilajg/w640-h480/PXL_20220801_123634513.jpg" width="640" /></a><br /> On August 1, we made our way south from Beat's mom's place amid the gentle hills at the center of the country. We crossed over the headwaters of the Rhône River and caught our first glimpse of the craggy summits of Valais. We stopped a few miles before our rental apartment near Brig to enjoy a little leg stretcher — little, in the Alps, means a 9-mile hike with more than 4,000 feet of climbing. Our destination was the Risihorn. It was a bluebird day, hot and dry, and a national holiday as well. Thanks to the gondola being closed for remodeling, we had the trail nearly to ourselves.<p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1RLll5Zj9OjDnQFFO8rRLyVzgVnkzjnQcPUVjRhaXeVnBzS_gcKLJvXvH2bw719LZ4uBZdhQcJzn6U71_hlrQRYw0EE_RH0Qn-4lR5QD9tvMgnUfnl93RtmBZ0MyEW19rx_JPSLo66XXgRHYpbO6lu8oExPZtCuymODVHzzx9-Tw0cbfOtw/s4032/PXL_20220801_123454898.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1RLll5Zj9OjDnQFFO8rRLyVzgVnkzjnQcPUVjRhaXeVnBzS_gcKLJvXvH2bw719LZ4uBZdhQcJzn6U71_hlrQRYw0EE_RH0Qn-4lR5QD9tvMgnUfnl93RtmBZ0MyEW19rx_JPSLo66XXgRHYpbO6lu8oExPZtCuymODVHzzx9-Tw0cbfOtw/w640-h480/PXL_20220801_123454898.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The final scramble up the summit ridge can be a little spicy at times. But in true Swiss fashion, any time there is a remotely flat spot with a view, there will be a bench. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2HXrtjm5oVkHhYuC2d3WqwoLGGCkRNvAIr_F7Sisbf_i5UyyyhkFhyGnYjCrLBzC0qTw5YwDqK_6oAW7Mgbg9qXkH59almgIQ_oDZq97vrngaxODY9dXW1aLrYv3CG0yBJRWJK-C4gMHa7405O1pQx1cG3CHsQeEXuU3c4WHSyfw_LhebwA/s3264/PXL_20220801_124846236.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2HXrtjm5oVkHhYuC2d3WqwoLGGCkRNvAIr_F7Sisbf_i5UyyyhkFhyGnYjCrLBzC0qTw5YwDqK_6oAW7Mgbg9qXkH59almgIQ_oDZq97vrngaxODY9dXW1aLrYv3CG0yBJRWJK-C4gMHa7405O1pQx1cG3CHsQeEXuU3c4WHSyfw_LhebwA/w640-h480/PXL_20220801_124846236.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">August 1 is Swiss National Day, when Switzerland commemorates the signing of the Letter of Confederation of 1291. The Swiss celebrate this day much like the U.S. celebrates the Fourth of July, with parades, fireworks, festivals, and apparently, little paper flags on toothpicks for the fresh rolls from the bakery. We took these flags to the Risihorn for our own miniature celebration. In just four years I will be eligible for Swiss naturalization and I am so excited! Beat looks like he's even more excited than me. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC-FTsU4M9POUfpzaRgLEcR7BbZ99yLsfSZ2MPfYV2tVTf4Q4tgHU44OAJ5K_EcziHY2Ei5tolyc2MeQAyfSrMUOJM-piEbiDXKrHDmxQTIY4Oe2oCFlezGZyqvc40FqluUXFyvyL3JftWl8K-hYD9SkYyysMolDWEGHe2vTAUOO2wg_mhWQ/s4032/PXL_20220802_152507153.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC-FTsU4M9POUfpzaRgLEcR7BbZ99yLsfSZ2MPfYV2tVTf4Q4tgHU44OAJ5K_EcziHY2Ei5tolyc2MeQAyfSrMUOJM-piEbiDXKrHDmxQTIY4Oe2oCFlezGZyqvc40FqluUXFyvyL3JftWl8K-hYD9SkYyysMolDWEGHe2vTAUOO2wg_mhWQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220802_152507153.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There are many ways in which I imagine life in Switzerland through a "grass is greener" lens. Spending more time here does tend to cut into the illusion, and I acknowledge that I would have my fair share of difficulties if we ever move here. Before this year, we tended to visit the Alpine regions in late August and September, when pollen season has abated. I assumed my allergies and sensitivity to air quality would not be an issue in Europe. But that is definitely not the case — the grass really is greener here, in the literal sense. Either from pollen to which I have not been desensitized through immunotherapy or a potential increased reaction to Beat's mom's cat, I spent much of my time in Switzerland feeling moderately sick. I woke up to terrifying asthma attacks, couldn't run without wheezing, and dealt with brain fog and increased anxiety. Since we were spending so much time with Beat's elderly parents, we took a number of Covid tests — all negative. And I didn't feel like I had an acute illness, but my health was not great. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQcng6MV3_0dzdmkGcod3F05XIXsJjoqG38RtVdyCOqF9B8WQUXcN-ZH0zMUAx8yDrzdQslpXHjzseRyeITfDiLMiyc77JPXEZvppPGgz8gotqrLA5oZXU5ogizYcgCEz1mvROpPvfm-8sf8hOLZKRnJPnbHho3Q4vD5R1OONg5WZg0J55WA/s4032/PXL_20220802_135519542.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQcng6MV3_0dzdmkGcod3F05XIXsJjoqG38RtVdyCOqF9B8WQUXcN-ZH0zMUAx8yDrzdQslpXHjzseRyeITfDiLMiyc77JPXEZvppPGgz8gotqrLA5oZXU5ogizYcgCEz1mvROpPvfm-8sf8hOLZKRnJPnbHho3Q4vD5R1OONg5WZg0J55WA/w640-h480/PXL_20220802_135519542.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I was also dealing with insomnia and crushing fatigue, which yes, are symptoms that can be caused by excessive hiking. But there is also the issue of being a person who falls fairly deep on the introversion spectrum and getting almost no solo time. It got to the point where I'd drag my wheezy lungs on six-mile walks to sit in the 90-degree heat with mosquitos at a picnic area just to be alone for a few hours. On our first full day in Valais, I had to adhere to a work schedule and couldn't join Beat's family on the day's adventures. Having an entire apartment all to myself felt quite luxurious. I even had time for a two-hour walk along the Massa Gorge, a lovely ravine carved by the retreating Aletsch Glacier. I took this photo while crossing a small suspension bridge near the bottom of the canyon.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4_vBk7rOqmyGHDbFuf1_IKtXwLippfiyGF3REUNoVW-SUNLGNaxaeISO6ZZPOyHZFIQsOwrW2yBCQSXhT8XXEKV7pZhND8DqZAu53GIdZw76IYb3kSQmR0l9YM1XJXB12BJMt6wVBm4_br559SUADmr6mp-orDvTowJT1PzcAnSOEhBMQyg/s1309/Massa%20gorge.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="875" data-original-width="1309" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4_vBk7rOqmyGHDbFuf1_IKtXwLippfiyGF3REUNoVW-SUNLGNaxaeISO6ZZPOyHZFIQsOwrW2yBCQSXhT8XXEKV7pZhND8DqZAu53GIdZw76IYb3kSQmR0l9YM1XJXB12BJMt6wVBm4_br559SUADmr6mp-orDvTowJT1PzcAnSOEhBMQyg/w640-h428/Massa%20gorge.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>Two days later, on Aug. 4, massive chunks of rocks broke loose from the ravine and tumbled into the river. The photo on the left is my photo, and the one on the right is from a news site, at a slightly different angle but essentially the same aspect. You can see where rock sheered from the wall to the right and created a natural dam. The suspension bridge above helps depict the scale; this was a massive event. Not the kind of thing I'd have wanted to witness from a wobbly suspension bridge, so I'm grateful the timing didn't align. Rockfall and erosion are an increasing problem in the Alps, where the permafrost that glues these mountains together is melting. This low-altitude rockfall was likely triggered by increased pressure from the Massa River, whose flows have skyrocketed with meltwater from the Aletsch Glacier.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBAm5nhGIiG5SVf7a9rhl-h7LnKX6iEFO44VWpNPRRjJEQVthjCK8-Bfanala0IGYBILjGxl7cjwARkvDM4AkxZ2HcjR-KDfd2BdCeeywspp_lSyxCs2A35nSexApU0nwBiDNR-l23BYodvgqT7hxgvAoOgJ2uvsMoeonUf3UHuKqk-mCSXA/s4032/PXL_20220803_091806401.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBAm5nhGIiG5SVf7a9rhl-h7LnKX6iEFO44VWpNPRRjJEQVthjCK8-Bfanala0IGYBILjGxl7cjwARkvDM4AkxZ2HcjR-KDfd2BdCeeywspp_lSyxCs2A35nSexApU0nwBiDNR-l23BYodvgqT7hxgvAoOgJ2uvsMoeonUf3UHuKqk-mCSXA/w640-h480/PXL_20220803_091806401.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The night after the Massa rockfall was a weird one. I'd just dozed off after 1 a.m. amid a string of largely sleepless nights — working on Alaska time, indigestion from eating too much cheese (Swiss home-cooking: Delicious but heavy on the dairy), and anxiety from time with Beat's family, who are wonderful, but you get it. A once-rare-for-Switzerland midnight thunderstorm moved overhead and erupted in one of the loudest claps of thunder I've ever awoken to. My addled brain immediately assumed "<b><i>LANDSLIDE</i></b>" and I jumped out of bed like a frightened chicken, ready to dart out the door while screaming that the sky was falling. Luckily, I came to a realization about what was actually happening before the screaming started, but the adrenaline rush contributed to yet another brutal night of poor sleep. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8QvbnocX25yo6kH-asNatBV98bY2o8GwULic773Oh1wB5s6y6vR6R1ek6J_aYBdc9XvYbWj4Lpucv6h2f_vd2ywghLiIEz10V2wWoKX4Ae6eXv16K-oOXQ2BbgyPZ8XpQkuO6rMmUoRkKqfZdyKmDOIE8mRgHzLhidWz1_AF6r3McIhPB0w/s4032/PXL_20220803_102909309.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8QvbnocX25yo6kH-asNatBV98bY2o8GwULic773Oh1wB5s6y6vR6R1ek6J_aYBdc9XvYbWj4Lpucv6h2f_vd2ywghLiIEz10V2wWoKX4Ae6eXv16K-oOXQ2BbgyPZ8XpQkuO6rMmUoRkKqfZdyKmDOIE8mRgHzLhidWz1_AF6r3McIhPB0w/w640-h480/PXL_20220803_102909309.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">That was Thursday night, so I suppose I skipped over Wednesday, which had one of the better weather forecasts for the week. This prompted us to embark on the longest hike we had planned, leaving the family members to enjoy a more mellow day on the other side of the valley while we marched up 7,500 feet of vertical gain to the top of the Sparrhorn. This summit rises to just over 3,000 meters (just under 10,000 feet) in the Bernese Alps. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtF04gdAxn6r70JEpR9tTVxPmAsIlD68eZgjiLDb3pzNLOuQ90jLuG2hrEoSv6YrV78clY9IoeM3s77wc7jetVvRpR7Mhzb4aX4Icj7m06Gri19eWOBkZNtnhq8fECatPz30KJ4v1hZl9z1X4PMW-p6JgdatB3RIOwlg7xjomar6DVpIvOXw/s4032/PXL_20220803_102915092.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtF04gdAxn6r70JEpR9tTVxPmAsIlD68eZgjiLDb3pzNLOuQ90jLuG2hrEoSv6YrV78clY9IoeM3s77wc7jetVvRpR7Mhzb4aX4Icj7m06Gri19eWOBkZNtnhq8fECatPz30KJ4v1hZl9z1X4PMW-p6JgdatB3RIOwlg7xjomar6DVpIvOXw/w640-h480/PXL_20220803_102915092.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The Sparrhorn offered striking views, including the moraine that once held the Oberaletschgletscher. It was a lovely outing, but a long descent through overgrown grassy fields triggered the worst of my asthma, leaving me wheezy and grumpy. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgheWJ_jQ48owGKNh1279zqaC_zoA1c1IS__jPcvst2iEXMu0ykKmB3SaQArRpQdSWRRyuSuNa_nEzIMsgPhyJ69L0lyLvfmEHtCIs9iknjlxX3WbEhd9vyd67KJwMVOlsm61ObiueCHIoGvFqEj4Go1SsWbjLUnFadetI0iTHypSGjjkfFJA/s4032/PXL_20220804_101855708.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgheWJ_jQ48owGKNh1279zqaC_zoA1c1IS__jPcvst2iEXMu0ykKmB3SaQArRpQdSWRRyuSuNa_nEzIMsgPhyJ69L0lyLvfmEHtCIs9iknjlxX3WbEhd9vyd67KJwMVOlsm61ObiueCHIoGvFqEj4Go1SsWbjLUnFadetI0iTHypSGjjkfFJA/w640-h480/PXL_20220804_101855708.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Thursday — before the rockfall, but still mired in the 95-degree heat wave that powered midnight thunderstorms — the five of us took the cable car up the Riederalp to get a better look at the main arm of the Aletsch. I thought the plan was to spend quality family time together, but as soon as we stepped off the second expensive ride from Bettmeralp, Beat's father and his wife decided to veer left on a truncated route, Beat headed right toward a technical ridge, and I ended up following Beat's uncle Ernst on the direct line along the glacier. This family! It's like herding cats. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc4RHlaDZWrWVqrYlTtxkyk5xsryRI-u40lB7zKOIHt5pdsId0aGPQVrbqzKciZbz0rKUVqjYQIa7gw_l-iWl_1L0yBl4xXPXokV64jCkD5UvexPrGREAb33O-aHgAIJChPruLLegD7mzSaNkKYl3G_ZRgOAPgeWjozbQ7G8Py9j0-urU_Sg/s4032/PXL_20220804_112610126.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc4RHlaDZWrWVqrYlTtxkyk5xsryRI-u40lB7zKOIHt5pdsId0aGPQVrbqzKciZbz0rKUVqjYQIa7gw_l-iWl_1L0yBl4xXPXokV64jCkD5UvexPrGREAb33O-aHgAIJChPruLLegD7mzSaNkKYl3G_ZRgOAPgeWjozbQ7G8Py9j0-urU_Sg/w640-h480/PXL_20220804_112610126.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Still, Ernst and I had an enjoyable walk to the Marjalen lake, which has long drained away beneath the retreating glacier. It was a crowded trail with large youth groups, and I was beginning to understand what Beat meant when he insisted we needed to experience everything we could squeeze into this week because "we're not coming back here." Beat does not like crowds, but there's a reason these places are crowded (and any time you put even a couple of miles between you and a gondola, they're rarely all that crowded.) </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Dw5NuhLMZIpVcR2-KntAx2Q8GsmBY-uiVVxsAVk7cox54a5UrLoEvnzur6jsuns35YFVgsfG43RaY2Ipw5XQKUKjYsGyGI-VsXsCR9-1GZsOl1kuyZOaO8nNRYmHxuD89VhpuCQhuNSxwkl9IvNj7FUm9CJDl-7jZtQxq-2qwzUryHrvgw/s4032/PXL_20220804_131601485.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Dw5NuhLMZIpVcR2-KntAx2Q8GsmBY-uiVVxsAVk7cox54a5UrLoEvnzur6jsuns35YFVgsfG43RaY2Ipw5XQKUKjYsGyGI-VsXsCR9-1GZsOl1kuyZOaO8nNRYmHxuD89VhpuCQhuNSxwkl9IvNj7FUm9CJDl-7jZtQxq-2qwzUryHrvgw/w640-h480/PXL_20220804_131601485.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">While eating lunch at the pile of rocks / ghost lake, Beat called and said he overextended his leg on an easier part of the technical ridge and badly pulled a calf muscle. He thought the muscle might be torn. He was hurting but managed to limp down to us. Ernst found a compression wrap in his kit, and we limped out to the next cable car.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwf30csiWVqDqCqq_PlfH05168BkCyMcEeqtxc1GHvKsEf6ACN5oTljXdhZanGvL9WDdWfvzNLipcsiDpsl2gb3gih7IaHRJogWThtw6VbXpoqPXm6P8EtpYWNFeGjU0mLTXNKPp3bAcA46BjW9jrmND5Px4W5-Dtd-fmWgYJpG2edFa2hYA/s4032/PXL_20220804_142759878.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwf30csiWVqDqCqq_PlfH05168BkCyMcEeqtxc1GHvKsEf6ACN5oTljXdhZanGvL9WDdWfvzNLipcsiDpsl2gb3gih7IaHRJogWThtw6VbXpoqPXm6P8EtpYWNFeGjU0mLTXNKPp3bAcA46BjW9jrmND5Px4W5-Dtd-fmWgYJpG2edFa2hYA/w640-h480/PXL_20220804_142759878.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">After Beat headed down, Ernst and I continued along the ridge toward Rideralp. Ernst pointed out a strange fault line forming along a rocky outcropping at the crest of the ridge. I failed to get a photo of it, but it was the strangest thing — a rock crevasse, widening where one side of the mountain was pulling away from the other as the anchor of the glacier faded away. Ernst explained that this was why all of the lower trails were closed — and aggressively closed at that, with fences strung along the entrances and stern threats posted on signs. Any year or even any day now, the entire mountainside could sheer away and crumble toward the glacier moraine, taking out a biologically unique forest (and any hikers who ignore the warnings) in an enormous landslide. This was a distressing thought. And then, of course, that night brought the Massa rockfall followed by the thunderstorm that triggered a week of unsettled dreams and general uneasiness. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNELZVt8ACNIeJY9nYBWU1xyeGG71-7phCdSrdHMLn9qXG6Pjc3BFHQwKcE0jBjYMeCcAVAq0KnEAgpLfuv21v4fA7WD07MZ6L4PrsE0TaSEmkrjN3Ttwadg3B8tI-TuCTXUxu2mJ4l-vyPnjHIDZRI29P0Elq8Ek9rFOAwHH6uAFk2HACDA/s4032/PXL_20220805_102744601.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNELZVt8ACNIeJY9nYBWU1xyeGG71-7phCdSrdHMLn9qXG6Pjc3BFHQwKcE0jBjYMeCcAVAq0KnEAgpLfuv21v4fA7WD07MZ6L4PrsE0TaSEmkrjN3Ttwadg3B8tI-TuCTXUxu2mJ4l-vyPnjHIDZRI29P0Elq8Ek9rFOAwHH6uAFk2HACDA/w640-h480/PXL_20220805_102744601.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The following morning, Beat's outlook seemed more positive. His leg hurt but not as acutely as he feared. He thought a day of rest might be all he needed. I will admit to feeling excited about the prospect of a day all to myself. I planned my own 18-mile, 7,000-feet-of-climbing trudge to a famous suspension bridge that allows passage over this fearsome gorge. Once upon a time, trekkers like Beat's father crossed over glacier ice to connect area trails, but that's been impossible for years. In 2008, Swiss officials re-established the connection with a 124-meter-long, 80-meter-high suspension bridge. This marvel of Swiss engineering seemed like a neat thing to visit — especially because it's not in a traditionally accessible place. I climbed 4,000 feet to reach this overlook, which yes, can be accessed by gondola. But even still, the bridge is a full 2,000 feet lower. Anyone who wants to access the bridge must hike this descent and subsequent climb. The bridge is so far below its access points that I had to draw a red line to depict it in this photo.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA3gpHKnv06gmJ8MWHoFCXtqtT7nck9r4P0dF2cZoh4wfz_pHYKMefWw0qAhuBbElysh7HRLtqmASSv9IS0VU7y-XOr5gVUD9W-__9tq762kr79xWmvPL7myG8yq7-Wsxtw6yH-WmPK3BzIXzpK2UaA1PJy0SvV-CYuipFk2b86bPg7MKyHA/s4032/PXL_20220805_115138599.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA3gpHKnv06gmJ8MWHoFCXtqtT7nck9r4P0dF2cZoh4wfz_pHYKMefWw0qAhuBbElysh7HRLtqmASSv9IS0VU7y-XOr5gVUD9W-__9tq762kr79xWmvPL7myG8yq7-Wsxtw6yH-WmPK3BzIXzpK2UaA1PJy0SvV-CYuipFk2b86bPg7MKyHA/w640-h480/PXL_20220805_115138599.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As I made my way down into the gorge, the rain I'd been wishing would come for days amid 95-degree heat finally arrived. It was, at first, a gentle rain. The air was still so hot that the light mist felt more like thick humidity than rain. What it did accomplish was adding more slickness to the already slick rocky approach. I struggled with my footing as I slipped down slabs and occasionally slid onto my butt. This crushed my confidence just in time to arrive at my destination and its intriguing question: Does Jill still suffer from vertigo?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg96k3yjgrt3IRvG8TlzAIHxR9y5uB_Kb_yPrfEy3YwAX-J8tMn-g8jRS-O4UtUsz6xTujjmW7nLNWSprZK9SEM1z4qpiyUu5wwMVP1LMIYl1UtRSwF5mDrsxfrS6jdGc4bTGVIly5-6Sk7eWijQfmgyGjbtfjKtLn8TWAKS3oh6WNlAwjjIQ/s4032/PXL_20220805_115434103.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg96k3yjgrt3IRvG8TlzAIHxR9y5uB_Kb_yPrfEy3YwAX-J8tMn-g8jRS-O4UtUsz6xTujjmW7nLNWSprZK9SEM1z4qpiyUu5wwMVP1LMIYl1UtRSwF5mDrsxfrS6jdGc4bTGVIly5-6Sk7eWijQfmgyGjbtfjKtLn8TWAKS3oh6WNlAwjjIQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220805_115434103.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The answer was not one I wanted — not here, not now. Raindrops picked up velocity as a surprisingly frigid crosswind roared down the canyon. Meanwhile, 250 feet below my feet, the Massa River raged with the angriest, most roiling whitewater you can imagine. The hanging bridge creaked and groaned ominously. Granted, this bridge is Swiss-built — as sturdy as they come. But vertigo doesn't care about such facts. It just doesn't. It only understands yawning empty space and unwelcome motion. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcDc92b4bcaRz8Isdk7yhu565Q8ew3X5UDs6JkmsdF_vTttChfaXs2HiqfjAd3QQIe76ptHyovqfGA7RhVO-s6mwx242okGO8xDLevaEnNq_AnlafZZtsbuSVSVDPDZ_sw7oiRsXm25ednR94B4W0O7PeHT0DmYU4uGrSkzU_RspmPFvXVTA/s4032/PXL_20220805_115847952.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcDc92b4bcaRz8Isdk7yhu565Q8ew3X5UDs6JkmsdF_vTttChfaXs2HiqfjAd3QQIe76ptHyovqfGA7RhVO-s6mwx242okGO8xDLevaEnNq_AnlafZZtsbuSVSVDPDZ_sw7oiRsXm25ednR94B4W0O7PeHT0DmYU4uGrSkzU_RspmPFvXVTA/w640-h480/PXL_20220805_115847952.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The bridge crossing was awful. Truly awful. I barely remember it. My brain was in full panic mode, my throat gulping down sour bile and the vacuum of air created by the strong wind. I think the only reason I didn't vomit was because it had been a while since I'd eaten, but my head spun and my legs wobbled as I clung to the cables. I was certain the bridge was going to spin around like a wrung towel. I had planned to take photos of the unique scenery from the bridge but of course, got none — I was a full 300 feet above the other side of the span before I collected myself enough to turn around and look back at the terrifying river. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6nFNSW5rV1Qfb6zqq9lox_i0UkNzaISJ0AQK4RsKN1J46VaOSYvL-dTei160R4ZEf0DhEhLCmra8MEKVGLrSQJkZxhyVk_2Nuo55_1a7oBC6JV81Sdr1SebhQ3X__T5uM8nzTvezdMLQmbySIKZGqy9mF0ABv4cPYvRpa2p1JH7cdrQZl8A/s4032/PXL_20220805_131222195.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6nFNSW5rV1Qfb6zqq9lox_i0UkNzaISJ0AQK4RsKN1J46VaOSYvL-dTei160R4ZEf0DhEhLCmra8MEKVGLrSQJkZxhyVk_2Nuo55_1a7oBC6JV81Sdr1SebhQ3X__T5uM8nzTvezdMLQmbySIKZGqy9mF0ABv4cPYvRpa2p1JH7cdrQZl8A/w640-h480/PXL_20220805_131222195.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I continued to stumble upward through the Aletsch Forest, which became Switzerland's first World Heritage Site for its unique biology and glaciated geology. The lower flanks of the threatened mountainside are home to pine and larch trees, including 900-year-old Swiss stone pine. It's a beautifully dense forest that I also failed to capture in photos, because I was still recovering from my bridge scare, and because another fearsome thunderstorm had moved overhead. Lightning lit up the forest like camera flashes in a dark room. Deafening thunder booms followed almost simultaneously. The storm was close, and I would have been <b><i>terrified </i></b>if I were anywhere but a dense, dark forest. Even though I realize that you are never safe from lightning as long as you are outdoors, there is a part of the fearful brain that also does not care about these facts. I felt safe in the forest, so safe and cozy and free from harm. I loved listening to thunder boom overhead. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbkAZXjNJ0_kL12bNcs_iHLSAih1eyJtVcFfs_1FIIVuuYrEYXLeLKGN5qMejHCtdQiiZrfKvTCHFZM5poeQ-4lCRuexaVSBK7kZNrLF1ZqWTflx0jIyC6vJfjTAXdNDMLUdR5r-oOgKWqAcSzTnNv3GvKUK_Nf8JIIkGk585xSWWB56vHHg/s3771/PXL_20220805_141540653.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3771" height="514" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbkAZXjNJ0_kL12bNcs_iHLSAih1eyJtVcFfs_1FIIVuuYrEYXLeLKGN5qMejHCtdQiiZrfKvTCHFZM5poeQ-4lCRuexaVSBK7kZNrLF1ZqWTflx0jIyC6vJfjTAXdNDMLUdR5r-oOgKWqAcSzTnNv3GvKUK_Nf8JIIkGk585xSWWB56vHHg/w640-h514/PXL_20220805_141540653.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Feeling placated, I reached the ridge that Ernst and I traversed the previous day and renewed the descent back toward the gorge. My plan for crossing back over the gorge was to traverse the Massa dam, which yeah, seems harmless right? And it is a massive, sturdy concrete structure. But the overflow pouring through the floodgates was downright monstrous — an endless roar of thunder tumbling toward those crumbling rock walls below. To reach the dam, I had to descend the airiest staircase I've ever encountered — metal steps suspended over hundreds of feet of nothingness — and then brace against violent wind gusts as I wobbled across the surprisingly narrow dam. As I climbed the staircase out of the gorge, ascending at least 200 wet metal steps, I was more than ready to be done with these manmade terrors. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVMavSMN6Ti8QgLvQpw0isvehPby_2KbRUEbYNTG5Cxgmmy_sOpAsYcfgVPOmbMnXJvkBxxqA7b7RiypC28gsZzJsuawGuJeMkXSTp6LKFbi53dtuz4pfhHPrDPLWfgxYc3mrA3Bc0Ri50URlBwMCWCcWmJ91kXMLlc58LMInYHanOl-VwJQ/s4032/PXL_20220805_141800919.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVMavSMN6Ti8QgLvQpw0isvehPby_2KbRUEbYNTG5Cxgmmy_sOpAsYcfgVPOmbMnXJvkBxxqA7b7RiypC28gsZzJsuawGuJeMkXSTp6LKFbi53dtuz4pfhHPrDPLWfgxYc3mrA3Bc0Ri50URlBwMCWCcWmJ91kXMLlc58LMInYHanOl-VwJQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220805_141800919.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At least I found the wherewithal to make one photo from the dam, facing the Massa River far below. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMXnJFaB08u3Z-_dIcwzmJtPV-9ccZ0e18FocLop19rinTM5izk6_pQkC02Z14DxXZ6qphuEuIWyDcCaaD7Z29iM7_kCK7BaygjVHGAwjpkx_LXu_ePq2CRyAtosT0TMrfbiYT3K_HvxyO-94TSlYv-UJ4X7Keo7uYARNbtBlob_51OpkrQA/s4032/PXL_20220806_080509099.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMXnJFaB08u3Z-_dIcwzmJtPV-9ccZ0e18FocLop19rinTM5izk6_pQkC02Z14DxXZ6qphuEuIWyDcCaaD7Z29iM7_kCK7BaygjVHGAwjpkx_LXu_ePq2CRyAtosT0TMrfbiYT3K_HvxyO-94TSlYv-UJ4X7Keo7uYARNbtBlob_51OpkrQA/w640-h480/PXL_20220806_080509099.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On Saturday, the plan was again to spend time with the family. The five of us piled into Ernst's car for a half-hour drive to Simplon Pass, near the Swiss/Italian border. The plan was to hike to the Spitzhorn. I specifically remember the word "Spitzhorn" uttered by every member of the party. Beat created a GPS track of the route. As soon as we stepped out of the cramped vehicle, Beat immediately headed toward his route without a word, I went toward the public restroom because geez, a full day above treeline with five people means grabbing any rare opportunity for privacy, Ernst went a different direction than Beat, and the parents chose yet another route that apparently was the route Fred remembered from 40 years ago. When I caught up to them and showed him my GPS, he refused to believe this untrustworthy technology and continued marching toward Italy. Even when we saw Beat standing high on a hill, because there was no direct trail, he refused to approach his son. What did I say about herding cats?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_vkdGLT2LvoY4WYHFOqYSV-OZCZy16tJpYAt83HJnsDVLjTmFDzLE_MUbwloy9GjNRhuxk5MpsAkM9l-dmNwdiFBWRGSZ62mHMg2s3ZIJ8ZBDo5kh65z04KcUo-WYV8IeiEVeIyBJrpQBURqQwD6OgrZb05s6e_Te5EzVZvbVzd9du8G0Bg/s3264/PXL_20220806_095532859.jpg" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_vkdGLT2LvoY4WYHFOqYSV-OZCZy16tJpYAt83HJnsDVLjTmFDzLE_MUbwloy9GjNRhuxk5MpsAkM9l-dmNwdiFBWRGSZ62mHMg2s3ZIJ8ZBDo5kh65z04KcUo-WYV8IeiEVeIyBJrpQBURqQwD6OgrZb05s6e_Te5EzVZvbVzd9du8G0Bg/w640-h480/PXL_20220806_095532859.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I eventually found my way to Beat and then we waited for the folks for a full 45 minutes. Even then, the folks had a shorter route in mind, and Beat and already schemed a harder route. Long story short, 90 minutes later I summited the Spitzhorn alone. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJz3d_7aTfK2xltZOtoAHmFlgGXbhcUUsk8ztCh2GmeosGz583YD4MOEICprdBgnT-KUV9SJCfjJD8qBveHKlNXY5IawRekenhVyOmwer5gJ8pEwXxgOL_nWRJw3yY5B8ztgar-Pp9mZrCnT_1MVwcvANEId3nGbsHf4Pp5X1cBKQvJKj7Bw/s4032/PXL_20220806_114838048.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJz3d_7aTfK2xltZOtoAHmFlgGXbhcUUsk8ztCh2GmeosGz583YD4MOEICprdBgnT-KUV9SJCfjJD8qBveHKlNXY5IawRekenhVyOmwer5gJ8pEwXxgOL_nWRJw3yY5B8ztgar-Pp9mZrCnT_1MVwcvANEId3nGbsHf4Pp5X1cBKQvJKj7Bw/w640-h480/PXL_20220806_114838048.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I reconnected with Beat on the ridge and then we found the folks down on the pass, where they made lunch. Beat, Ernst and I continued tracing the higher ridge while Beat's dad and his wife made their way back on the main trail. I will say, Beat's dad is stunningly strong for an 83-year-old. He can hold a steady pace up these steep Swiss trails, but his endurance is perhaps not as extensive as it once was. He tends to tire after a few hours, but still. Impressive. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEFje4EM57bzofJpwOa6ZNNGuA0XzQinwsZge1xWdjkTsSHoemRblrGe18OC-WXf6ZUrn7MZdFMIcHFz9dlz6j5n7wqQM7OHy7uCUk8rBal5H2MV1taOzRVBHa54hf4cyewypyzXquM9X6wtoj0VpIgr1gkZb56rHIzaL5TuINpEwQmkYtfA/s4032/PXL_20220806_170842755.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEFje4EM57bzofJpwOa6ZNNGuA0XzQinwsZge1xWdjkTsSHoemRblrGe18OC-WXf6ZUrn7MZdFMIcHFz9dlz6j5n7wqQM7OHy7uCUk8rBal5H2MV1taOzRVBHa54hf4cyewypyzXquM9X6wtoj0VpIgr1gkZb56rHIzaL5TuINpEwQmkYtfA/w640-h480/PXL_20220806_170842755.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Anyway, we returned after a nice five-hour adventure, piled back into the car, headed to town for groceries that included ice cream, and returned to our apartment. It was there Beat's dad realized the key that he was certain had been in the pocket of his trousers was no longer there, and in fact, it made the most sense that it was all the way back at the pass where we'd had lunch. After scrambling, searching and stress-eating the ice cream, we finally called the owner who informed us that there was one spare key and he had it with him — in Italy. Although he had been thinking about returning that night, he was still a good three hours away. Three hours was enough time, Beat and I concluded, to go back and look for the key.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_RXk2k9v9NyW9oLhYPs5BZZPulOjP17U4VekYmH7hg9YEnrOR79mN4BHIhb2d7aN1PeuX7DMg-24wDCMmZsxiREVquWZIouFEGzvPrux2xvxRnFCXsIZ8GO7foTdw7Ge60vqkJL20WmO3aEDPgrEczoBarxjMKHHQ2zJ65QGr46tj5ZpXQ/s4032/PXL_20220806_170830283.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_RXk2k9v9NyW9oLhYPs5BZZPulOjP17U4VekYmH7hg9YEnrOR79mN4BHIhb2d7aN1PeuX7DMg-24wDCMmZsxiREVquWZIouFEGzvPrux2xvxRnFCXsIZ8GO7foTdw7Ge60vqkJL20WmO3aEDPgrEczoBarxjMKHHQ2zJ65QGr46tj5ZpXQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220806_170830283.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>What we didn't have to spare, at that point, was much daylight. We piled back into the car and drove to Simplon Pass, where the three settled at a restaurant as Beat and I took off up the trail. There had been a number of spots where Beat's dad sat down and may have dropped the key, so we had to split paths at every braid in the trail and keep our eyes peeled for a macrame key chain that unfortunately was the same color as the tundra. It felt fairly hopeless, but at the same time, it was fun to have a purpose. Despite my rough week of sleep, struggles with asthma, and fatigued legs, I felt strong and fast. Even with many stops to dig through grass and rock piles, we raced up the 2,110 feet in an hour and managed to locate the key exactly where Beat's dad thought he'd dropped it. We even beat sunset home with enough time to still cook the raclette we'd purchased, which yes, led to another rough night of indigestion for me. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdr6UQXhGDD1atFvzLCdSiHfeRwxhEIaBGVPaes6UZOrP2o34jSUlWXvrv5lFUZ1UmgY2qis6pc7JvbzO8DX4NF6l-AdfUHwbIISgHBWgA1ft6Eq0JtZeCk0yd9le2BjLS_ngx6VxN-o8NrPad5AmmhKnoTwGLe_YYhMLlHoxAm9iWzWgXsw/s4032/PXL_20220807_112136870.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdr6UQXhGDD1atFvzLCdSiHfeRwxhEIaBGVPaes6UZOrP2o34jSUlWXvrv5lFUZ1UmgY2qis6pc7JvbzO8DX4NF6l-AdfUHwbIISgHBWgA1ft6Eq0JtZeCk0yd9le2BjLS_ngx6VxN-o8NrPad5AmmhKnoTwGLe_YYhMLlHoxAm9iWzWgXsw/w640-h480/PXL_20220807_112136870.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Sunday was our last full day in Valais and the folks were fairly exhausted by that point. I was too, but you have to take advantage of opportunities when they're in front of you. Beat plotted a route to the Foggenhorn, which was a compromise mountain based on my fear of thunderstorms in the forecast. Beat's idea was another 3,000-meter giant traversing class-three terrain, which, yeah ... I blamed thunderstorms but was inclined to shut down the proposal for any excuse available. Beat didn't race PTL this year and thus hadn't shaken the craving for extra spice out of his system. I now understand that if he doesn't participate in one of the insane mountain races that I don't love him participating in, he is going to try to drag me on adventures that far surpass my comfort zone. Perhaps I just need to accept PTL.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGgomIuZyd2dZ-UBUVfiYwpzRlJ1TTRiUSlWg4DENBp0T_bPgl3VKBXxp2_OwSHxEuArqdioZjx429hIr-585kD8gA43e7Atkdud8NIdnc7tnsyfU_lRRU52h3AAbpyjkqRjCc0hW4vMhDPsFaz8M8TZPQ1EKFe_41abu5TagqR1Et0y5Rtg/s4032/PXL_20220807_112145194.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGgomIuZyd2dZ-UBUVfiYwpzRlJ1TTRiUSlWg4DENBp0T_bPgl3VKBXxp2_OwSHxEuArqdioZjx429hIr-585kD8gA43e7Atkdud8NIdnc7tnsyfU_lRRU52h3AAbpyjkqRjCc0hW4vMhDPsFaz8M8TZPQ1EKFe_41abu5TagqR1Et0y5Rtg/w640-h480/PXL_20220807_112145194.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Anyway, Foggenhorn was a nice spot — still a bear of a 7,000-foot climb, and the storms did move in on schedule. We got wet, which is to say I finally pulled out the shell I'd schlepped all over Italy, France and the Swiss Alps, hopeful that at least once, the brutally hot summer would grant this long-useless piece of gear a renewed purpose. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPNLpVTctl9fIVmvez66XCWKsiTD4V6nVKyfXj232DevzWirdlWZ4j9AocAk39265EztddcWbr6FhAwAoW3REPRdSpn8LgUsQdtk28nTqtr7rJ_COqzoYwAnVmkm-CDPBvvooQNfD3dibEcwmcxeEKO0Abrh7xdwaXr8wU0EcQ8lj6ljlz8A/s4032/PXL_20220807_114613573.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPNLpVTctl9fIVmvez66XCWKsiTD4V6nVKyfXj232DevzWirdlWZ4j9AocAk39265EztddcWbr6FhAwAoW3REPRdSpn8LgUsQdtk28nTqtr7rJ_COqzoYwAnVmkm-CDPBvvooQNfD3dibEcwmcxeEKO0Abrh7xdwaXr8wU0EcQ8lj6ljlz8A/w640-h480/PXL_20220807_114613573.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">From Foggenhorn we dropped down the other side of the ridge, where we encountered a herd of the strangest goats. They looked like chocolate-dipped mountain goats, with long flowing hair that divided perfectly into brown and white halves. Apparently, these are Valais Blackneck Goats, which are thought to have arrived in the region thousands of years ago. They're locally unique and also considered to be a threatened species, so there's a protection program in place. The goats are technically domesticated, although their main job is to nibble grass and keep these Swiss mountainsides looking pristine. This herd took a particular interest in Beat. The one looking at the camera approached us, and soon the entire herd lined up single-file behind us as we continued down the narrow trail. Again, I regret that I didn't get a photo of that, but it was nerve-wracking to hear the ding-ding of their bells bobbing behind us and imagine the angry farmer to whom we were going to have to do some explaining when the herd followed us down the mountain. Luckily, the herd got distracted by another group of hikers and we got away. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUnDGI-5_bG31zdZD9EEBXjtO-pxmvCH0yKRotudPW8trDajkrAdO7FY66OxDGOAp2CSEDkB734GlS8U8YE6AjGWEt8KjxRvmIgDxUBENxNqW9Ag6gBwJshzGGQcTKsitkiHXLMvdnIzQO1fhA9TIuL4i5_84xKxRPtQ6N6rzVIKw-rYF1aQ/s4032/PXL_20220808_093501931.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUnDGI-5_bG31zdZD9EEBXjtO-pxmvCH0yKRotudPW8trDajkrAdO7FY66OxDGOAp2CSEDkB734GlS8U8YE6AjGWEt8KjxRvmIgDxUBENxNqW9Ag6gBwJshzGGQcTKsitkiHXLMvdnIzQO1fhA9TIuL4i5_84xKxRPtQ6N6rzVIKw-rYF1aQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220808_093501931.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Our seven days in Valais were a solid week of activity for me — 100 miles with 35,000 feet of climbing in something like 40 hours on my feet. Even still, I mostly only felt stronger throughout the week and was disappointed to have to leave this beautiful place. We made one stopover on the way home as we returned over the Bernese Alps at Grimselpass. Here, Beat found an intriguing ridge route toward Rhone Glacier, the source of the mighty river that flows through Switzerland and France. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsTLIyWpHXKAHYvKrBAH5BJtdWBYE76uZPu5VNFr5ytdCqYfZX9buaSIddil74g1skcVjzYWemO0DEqKehXbkmXExZu33Q82LorNVTqMfvjW00Ugy-s2duXOjoyeEL9jdD8TlPFlgfWreH85sW46d3AZazPyXjlfvKYCdEFdJI76_7T9uOkw/s4032/PXL_20220808_102048379.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsTLIyWpHXKAHYvKrBAH5BJtdWBYE76uZPu5VNFr5ytdCqYfZX9buaSIddil74g1skcVjzYWemO0DEqKehXbkmXExZu33Q82LorNVTqMfvjW00Ugy-s2duXOjoyeEL9jdD8TlPFlgfWreH85sW46d3AZazPyXjlfvKYCdEFdJI76_7T9uOkw/w640-h480/PXL_20220808_102048379.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Starting high means staying high, and any mountain route above 2,500 meters is going to a minefield of tricky boulder fields. But oh, the views! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH_VCnx04MIoA52uOSWPeuSWrW7vsPXH4BTh1pCQlktOZiUBlERZ9Y4XJ1nIAQ0sb4t9ttnwM3hFgMsBCD4ht5uipZTzJc4nBmrVR2LTlKdamZMIGsXwtIiuHZBPyXGZXoXgMwLR77QHdVivFTR7uZNLoibiJg9pIeC94HEQ7aZKeDkzMUtQ/s4032/PXL_20220808_105022745.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH_VCnx04MIoA52uOSWPeuSWrW7vsPXH4BTh1pCQlktOZiUBlERZ9Y4XJ1nIAQ0sb4t9ttnwM3hFgMsBCD4ht5uipZTzJc4nBmrVR2LTlKdamZMIGsXwtIiuHZBPyXGZXoXgMwLR77QHdVivFTR7uZNLoibiJg9pIeC94HEQ7aZKeDkzMUtQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220808_105022745.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">That's the Rhone Glacier. It may be shrinking, but it's still a stunner. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqp5z9VBt6s4403P8SZmMc8RH3QkqPgpO5qChIDue62O3-4ywloNfVef7BIqeusNMrtcDpjDbGtqVJylbcY6tH-3WeSKt2MO5Woge1OH4-yMin-S8RiAAtSJOSLjhawp7ewGT6GDWmOlIM2KR6x2c8BEyuaciUncuu5oSeZMkea4O8tU_Cg/s4032/PXL_20220808_111508341.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqp5z9VBt6s4403P8SZmMc8RH3QkqPgpO5qChIDue62O3-4ywloNfVef7BIqeusNMrtcDpjDbGtqVJylbcY6tH-3WeSKt2MO5Woge1OH4-yMin-S8RiAAtSJOSLjhawp7ewGT6GDWmOlIM2KR6x2c8BEyuaciUncuu5oSeZMkea4O8tU_Cg/w640-h480/PXL_20220808_111508341.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>Beat likes to loop his routes so every step leads you somewhere new. This often yields wonderful discoveries but sometimes WTF moments as well. This loop descended along the glacier on a narrow moraine and then shot directly up a boulder-choked grassy gully that looked like it ended in cliffs. Occasionally we'd encounter the faded paint of trail markings, indicating we weren't in the wrong, but it was clear this once-trail had undergone considerable erosion in recent years. In fact, what it looked like was a landslide wiped it out. There wasn't much left. I'd take a few knee-to-chin steps up the blocky, 40-degree slope, stop to catch my breath, and look up. "There's no way this goes," I'd think. And then I'd keep lunging upward.</p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNKa4_6a95Kw1mcAkWMHKQRHKiYtqxk1g4YNKyJqvcOUvk5KpnKrwP-Q_1SY_coIJ9w1vT3IjgJRWksFLdiLLj6tGr2UsZqwcTvEoAHoNvtyabGkcGYCrDI1CaRms_sgaNE4DuJI5CGnSPN9cuBG9_skLS3VLp8Rf1cRrD2BNijGXFYrW8wQ/s2040/dIDx559nj1G7WP_ofqchV5qpV0MP95jH_ARLwDA_SP8-2048x1542.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2040" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNKa4_6a95Kw1mcAkWMHKQRHKiYtqxk1g4YNKyJqvcOUvk5KpnKrwP-Q_1SY_coIJ9w1vT3IjgJRWksFLdiLLj6tGr2UsZqwcTvEoAHoNvtyabGkcGYCrDI1CaRms_sgaNE4DuJI5CGnSPN9cuBG9_skLS3VLp8Rf1cRrD2BNijGXFYrW8wQ/w640-h482/dIDx559nj1G7WP_ofqchV5qpV0MP95jH_ARLwDA_SP8-2048x1542.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Amazingly, the route did go. We had to gain 1,000 feet in well under a half mile, but it went. En route, Beat took this photo of me that I think encapsulates hiking in Switzerland: Incredible vistas, breathlessly difficult terrain — even on routes that look reasonable, short, and easy on maps — glaciers in view — in most views, even as they retreat — and trailside restaurants that are not in view but probably even closer. It's a wonderful place, even if I recognize that the grass likely is too green, deceptively green. But it's worth seeing — before it melts. </div><p></p>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-37099580548813238492022-08-11T09:19:00.005-06:002022-08-11T15:24:07.635-06:00French fried<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVUG1pV7SmMhGgYjUA1PaR2PdtsROrh0tqsTH_NI58GRPCMpYMz574xseIVrg27MYMBXyj4iM20Pah2vRnxVsht50erkTdnY1hWdKAIcdsKK979W2Q1EYD7Bac1G2HJFvNPpQ72kd62Pk3ivAxfHlm_OL5dcLUD6R_Q3x1k3lHdEaO46cjKQ/s4032/PXL_20220720_135833984.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVUG1pV7SmMhGgYjUA1PaR2PdtsROrh0tqsTH_NI58GRPCMpYMz574xseIVrg27MYMBXyj4iM20Pah2vRnxVsht50erkTdnY1hWdKAIcdsKK979W2Q1EYD7Bac1G2HJFvNPpQ72kd62Pk3ivAxfHlm_OL5dcLUD6R_Q3x1k3lHdEaO46cjKQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220720_135833984.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trail running above Rustrel, France</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>As we left the higher altitudes of the Aosta Valley, headlines blared warnings about a heat wave sweeping across Europe. Paris expected to hit 41C (106F!) Great Britain would see temperatures it had never before seen. We were heading south to a typically balmy region of France, where our friend Pieter and his wife Jill (technically, they were already legally married since their wedding had to be postponed in 2020) were planning an elaborate ceremony on July 21. Haze from nearby wildfires filled the air and my lungs were pinched with inflammation. With all of the travel and social mingling, we continued to take Covid tests that continued to be negative. So the only explanation I had for how lousy I was feeling is, "Summer still sucks for me, even in Europe."<br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_gw-Vl07mKIXrz7vN0bIHWlTJixRdvFpAS35_UWsAvCW6tlrx1drCUiDlAH2yCM2LIFjidmt1xFSr5GItNgwRg-WD7WCK5ZfRg1lfqiqsQ2JjM8cpnZUj_STHClQ7SQElrMWx5Ob2zWu4Q3iCGIIUPO5mbtJjcxyDCnULpeIWpwKLTkkA5A/s4032/PXL_20220718_160557643.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_gw-Vl07mKIXrz7vN0bIHWlTJixRdvFpAS35_UWsAvCW6tlrx1drCUiDlAH2yCM2LIFjidmt1xFSr5GItNgwRg-WD7WCK5ZfRg1lfqiqsQ2JjM8cpnZUj_STHClQ7SQElrMWx5Ob2zWu4Q3iCGIIUPO5mbtJjcxyDCnULpeIWpwKLTkkA5A/w640-h480/PXL_20220718_160557643.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>We took advantage of the six-hour drive to Saignon to visit the Ecrins, an especially rugged section of the southern Alps in France. We only had time for a quick evening excursion, climbing toward Glacier Blanc as threatening clouds and thunder rumbled overhead. I was nervous about the weather and already felt like a bear was sitting on my chest. I considered just turning back for the car as Beat blazed up the steep trail, annoyingly strong for being a mere two days recovered from his 53-hour march around the Matterhorn. At least he looked good in his race T-shirt and classically Italian neon shades that were his prize for finishing the Cervino Matterhorn Ultra Race. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDfR8BhJFHhL8VA2mS-65R2XHAoZuTnbsEhaJJiwfCfrs8MYYj8f-NGfDUUYzgt9nT1YzhqeGXJMrvz1Vf3E0sCS6JvkG4LFuzTZyZiKC9h-u5zcLPXf3_LFNvLZ0C4Za5vCu2E5CBndixcHrazptHAbWR1A5DVD6nb5gIk_-uk9z2fWHBmg/s4032/PXL_20220718_153227057.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDfR8BhJFHhL8VA2mS-65R2XHAoZuTnbsEhaJJiwfCfrs8MYYj8f-NGfDUUYzgt9nT1YzhqeGXJMrvz1Vf3E0sCS6JvkG4LFuzTZyZiKC9h-u5zcLPXf3_LFNvLZ0C4Za5vCu2E5CBndixcHrazptHAbWR1A5DVD6nb5gIk_-uk9z2fWHBmg/w640-h480/PXL_20220718_153227057.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div>We climbed as high as I could muster before Beat waited long enough for me to catch him. I admitted that I was tired of gasping for breath and just wanted to go home. I confess, at this point, I wanted to go home-home, as the weight of this long trip was wearing me down. Again, I am certainly not complaining about the privilege of traveling for five weeks in Europe. I love being in these mountains and they are worth the sacrifices. But it does take a lot of energy to cope with the lack of respites that help me manage anxiety at home: Solo time. Established routines. A cool and familiar place to sleep at night. Autonomy in how I spend much of my day. Predictability in my diet. Cold drinks. Oh, cold drinks! How I miss cold drinks. </div><div><br /></div><div>But, our stay in the Ecrins was quite nice. We rented a room from an Italian man who cooked us a delicious three-course meal with an assortment of unique delicacies including local smoked trout, prosciutto and melon, pesto tortellini, and an incredible soft cheese for which Beat and I would pay top dollar if we could ever find it again. It was probably our best meal of the trip, with no disrespect intended for the fancy dinners before and during the wedding, which were also delicious. </div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh19dbkkEA2fMltWXe1cXfx-vCW-7L_CP5O23NFiESu9Pnsix_F9rsy9mzhSwMi-zZWPwIMzVOLIsajYUWk8fB_USxLXd-Pum9HzZKxauR3LS3I-0dQfY9d9XOGJw7AUUCDnMI9EXo7OMg758VD60uPC5SdTyYDxnBCqRHkok-WA_RRrNfG7Q/s4032/PXL_20220719_113954686.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh19dbkkEA2fMltWXe1cXfx-vCW-7L_CP5O23NFiESu9Pnsix_F9rsy9mzhSwMi-zZWPwIMzVOLIsajYUWk8fB_USxLXd-Pum9HzZKxauR3LS3I-0dQfY9d9XOGJw7AUUCDnMI9EXo7OMg758VD60uPC5SdTyYDxnBCqRHkok-WA_RRrNfG7Q/w640-h480/PXL_20220719_113954686.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Château de Rustrel</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>For our time in the Provence, we stayed in Rustrel. We rented an apartment in a 17th-century feudal castle that had recently been renovated to include the town hall, an art studio, and several rental properties, among other things. How neat is it to live in a castle for a few days? And it was special — beautiful grounds and sweeping views from our third-story apartment. However, we didn't consider what it would be like to live in a castle — a structure built with insulation that few modern buildings can match — during a time when temperatures were climbing into the high 90s every day. The upper levels of the castle held the heat like an oven, and the only barrier we had against it was a single fan. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQm3CmKJf5FTdhohtnkioU-ZmXdP_Qwv30KZK9JaVpaDn6_I_lsmd62A5hCRkHq3SrQijFoyxasybpZqifoqtSCGMRLkFiVTzaaO84lVNJLz8UgBbPVvgBMZcsDKsKOqdZiKn26IEpU2bY6FQMDqIxKODdDy10_oQ4TUg-Nh4zX8dDfBd8A/s4032/PXL_20220722_161226876.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQm3CmKJf5FTdhohtnkioU-ZmXdP_Qwv30KZK9JaVpaDn6_I_lsmd62A5hCRkHq3SrQijFoyxasybpZqifoqtSCGMRLkFiVTzaaO84lVNJLz8UgBbPVvgBMZcsDKsKOqdZiKn26IEpU2bY6FQMDqIxKODdDy10_oQ4TUg-Nh4zX8dDfBd8A/w640-h480/PXL_20220722_161226876.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view of Rustrel and the surrounding ochre hills</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>I don't think I've done so much sweating in all of my life. Each night I'd lay sprawled on a sheet and panting. My legs, glistening and bare, were soon pockmarked with mosquito bites. If I drifted to sleep at all, it was a feverish daze, and I'd often wake up drenched in sweat. More often I just lie awake in the stifling darkness, slowly losing the will to live. My core was so overheated that instinct convinced me if I moved my body at all, I'd pass out and possibly die. Honestly, this seemed like not the worst outcome. It did answer a long-standing question: Would I survive if I had to move to a tropical climate? No. No I would not. </div><div><br /></div><div>The heat also eroded my already tenuous grasp on my anxiety. On our first day in Rustrel, we walked to a local bistro for lunch. The only available seat was directly in the sun. I sat across from Beat watching sweat pour from his neck like a faucet. Quickly, my heart rate shot into the 150s and my breathing became shallow. I felt like a dog trapped in a hot car. I finally wheezed at Beat that I was seconds away from a panic attack if we didn't move, so we reseated ourselves at a different uncleared table in partial shade. After that, I lost interest in restaurants. I will trade the sweat and panic for day-old bread in private, thank you very much. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBNau_KG8HYnvf0nYaEnmMqEvF29sfX0ewBXpO8nG3o7qz969Jpe8h6qoXGDDHvfZOFFjSipBWgKdJhRcun4UqT0uylid7yEgJ1d4x8sxGaJGkJSASbCZvczFcjOFRZSHNtGr4LqLgg5fVb08Ma6JHNmnTQww3DzjB-uEqgOO2twkWw9kuMg/s4032/PXL_20220720_123830358.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBNau_KG8HYnvf0nYaEnmMqEvF29sfX0ewBXpO8nG3o7qz969Jpe8h6qoXGDDHvfZOFFjSipBWgKdJhRcun4UqT0uylid7yEgJ1d4x8sxGaJGkJSASbCZvczFcjOFRZSHNtGr4LqLgg5fVb08Ma6JHNmnTQww3DzjB-uEqgOO2twkWw9kuMg/w640-h480/PXL_20220720_123830358.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This area reminds me of Kodachrome Basin State Park in Utah</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Appropriately, the local attraction just happened to be a redrock “desert” called Colorado Provencal. Pieter called the park a “tourist trap,” but I was eager to check it out. There I was, feeling anxious, hard-boiled, and homesick, and here was a uniquely familiar place in my far-away backyard. </div><div><br /></div><div>Colorado Provencal was once an ochre quarry. Erosion following the excavations exposed unique rock formations. So it’s hardly natural, but it is a novelty, and thus is quite popular despite being relatively far from anywhere. You need reservations to visit before noon, so Beat and I had to wait for the full heat of the afternoon.
Still, as I had nearly forgotten, it’s more tolerable to move through heat than it is to sit still. Airflow at least helps sweat work in your favor. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgExS8Wn99fNMG7OBGC1LIAH8FTWcKZF1mNlZPaquM2ALXxJnh-6TeKhAz2dsTe2zqZgVjwnBBexfPtsYKjc-H3sNaoJJD_GkAfQrkfN0M-_ixAxBGsk-8PLtFotBPZblWRyGvSwj6CM-7Mb9Qt9nKeRWBxd5fLsHlDrrpxuMwJYgJxMi_JJA/s4032/PXL_20220720_123627138.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgExS8Wn99fNMG7OBGC1LIAH8FTWcKZF1mNlZPaquM2ALXxJnh-6TeKhAz2dsTe2zqZgVjwnBBexfPtsYKjc-H3sNaoJJD_GkAfQrkfN0M-_ixAxBGsk-8PLtFotBPZblWRyGvSwj6CM-7Mb9Qt9nKeRWBxd5fLsHlDrrpxuMwJYgJxMi_JJA/w640-h480/PXL_20220720_123627138.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>We walked the 1.5 miles to the park entrance and purchased a ticket for the one-mile loop through the hoodoos. In that short space, we were approached by no fewer than five rangers who reminded us about the extreme fire danger and to be sure and stay on the marked path. Beat was not thrilled about being corralled along sandy paths to look at a mostly fake miniature version of something we can experience in sweeping expanses closer to home, but I loved Colorado Provencal. It quelled some of my homesickness and helped the heat seem more reasonable somehow. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinEuhdji_73AU0doin0XdFiZS5mr6bZu_LPqtkOf4YShdhcMpWnpyvXOL7AV9d52n6uhr2qa1626hhWNKwZCq4v7oLeGIUW_6FrywYIszMLeuA1F4plAHODk_S5PyqBudJKJAja091BhHEuqRcOCN27BszUqYCzn6RY0C4GyvtXBLf4RcR2Q/s4032/PXL_20220720_185740040.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinEuhdji_73AU0doin0XdFiZS5mr6bZu_LPqtkOf4YShdhcMpWnpyvXOL7AV9d52n6uhr2qa1626hhWNKwZCq4v7oLeGIUW_6FrywYIszMLeuA1F4plAHODk_S5PyqBudJKJAja091BhHEuqRcOCN27BszUqYCzn6RY0C4GyvtXBLf4RcR2Q/w640-h480/PXL_20220720_185740040.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ah, bromance. Daniel and Beat at the hilltop restaurant in Saignon</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>The wedding festivities were an adventure in themselves. The evening prior to the ceremony we attended a dinner at a beautiful French restaurant on a hilltop overlooking much of the region. We were glad for the company of Colorado friends Daniel and Lindsey, as the events were a barrage of awkward social interactions and language barriers and I was fairly nervous about all of it. The pre-wedding dinner started fashionably late around 9 p.m. and was still going strong when we clocked out well after midnight, citing the tough ride we had planned the following morning. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuFnO_nZQdObArWLprMGKVyaPLWU11TIkgHpA07ZzKsxF-Z1GLGyROiP1-DNRsKqjGekzF9szz-x7zWVeAQfEpbzAUIC_LQTqcHZ1ubK1fYDqoSO-oVSnSrMIBNGtE1k4HtCBUC5wBugwKlpSc0P8SmM0omAhsuErVpgJvtBehexHTgM-t3g/s4032/PXL_20220721_100722961.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuFnO_nZQdObArWLprMGKVyaPLWU11TIkgHpA07ZzKsxF-Z1GLGyROiP1-DNRsKqjGekzF9szz-x7zWVeAQfEpbzAUIC_LQTqcHZ1ubK1fYDqoSO-oVSnSrMIBNGtE1k4HtCBUC5wBugwKlpSc0P8SmM0omAhsuErVpgJvtBehexHTgM-t3g/w640-h480/PXL_20220721_100722961.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The famously bald upper slopes of Mont Ventoux</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Another nearby feature we discovered when browsing maps is Mont Ventoux, a prominent mountain that looms over the rolling hills of the Provence. The road that snakes over the summit has become a staple for a long stage in the Tour de France, climbing a vertical mile (5,050 feet) in a mere 12 miles on grades ranging from 7 to 9%. The training app Zwift turned this climb into a segment that has become a favorite of ours. It’s a mind-numbing grind, and the graphics mimic reality with enough proximity to provide a truly enjoyable experience. It’s difficult for me to explain my love of Zwift to those who can’t fathom enjoying indoor exercise, but the combination of physical difficulty, visual stimulation, and virtual proximity to others hit the same synapses that I engage in outdoor excursions. I love that I can do so from the comfort and ease of home. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2V_C-3IITjaW6oRkAvluo5FKpvoKL1q-uJJCts5kbIdxAoDdeUKYKdpROGw1Q0naFHRzjznqRGVhDQPd-5VkIwoAOjsD_BU5Li6Sj2MtHw0zOxCtkKHIvtf5mRdYd7CfYzy2GA4dcODRSz-sCTIONCijlzPLDiuE1qLlRt5vfCogSzPrwzQ/s4032/PXL_20220721_102020300.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2V_C-3IITjaW6oRkAvluo5FKpvoKL1q-uJJCts5kbIdxAoDdeUKYKdpROGw1Q0naFHRzjznqRGVhDQPd-5VkIwoAOjsD_BU5Li6Sj2MtHw0zOxCtkKHIvtf5mRdYd7CfYzy2GA4dcODRSz-sCTIONCijlzPLDiuE1qLlRt5vfCogSzPrwzQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220721_102020300.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anyone who has ridden Ven-Top on Zwift will recognize this view: You're almost there! </td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Still, a chance to climb Mont Ventoux in real life was too enticing to pass up. Beat and I set up bike rentals in Malaucene and planned an early start (as soon as the bike shop opened, 9 a.m.) to be back in time for the wedding. Because of the mountain’s prominence, the summit is often raked by high winds and “always cold,” according to Pieter. I didn’t believe in this cold for a second and packed four liters of water — two of which I had frozen solid over two days in the tiny apartment freezer — in my hiking backpack. One of the things about Ventoux I was looking forward to was the commute there and back — two full hours in the car with the air conditioner on full blast. Beat did the driving. He’s been very kind in volunteering to pilot these narrow, winding roads when he knows how much driving adds to my stress levels. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixLdLM7M3K__FXhbeUcosemDaE-K92nQWGaVRmC3DnCPa7NzqfCzo-T9hit14rE7g6RoIFaB4Nid1XTeh8VmyZuyit3dBoyn6ZmE0cKCkxlc0teNSimwzVsBuvBqFlcXzBrcyNqefZrCjQxzoj-_yqyTI_9jCqJku0Tp9-s5cub0le274jwA/s4032/PXL_20220721_092902193.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixLdLM7M3K__FXhbeUcosemDaE-K92nQWGaVRmC3DnCPa7NzqfCzo-T9hit14rE7g6RoIFaB4Nid1XTeh8VmyZuyit3dBoyn6ZmE0cKCkxlc0teNSimwzVsBuvBqFlcXzBrcyNqefZrCjQxzoj-_yqyTI_9jCqJku0Tp9-s5cub0le274jwA/w640-h480/PXL_20220721_092902193.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Road markers indicate the distance to the summit and grade for the next kilometer</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>It was another hot day — already over 30C (86F) and climbing at 9 a.m. as we pedaled the rolling pavement toward Bedoin, the official start of the Zwift segment. I purposely brought my leaky hydration bladder so it would continuously drip icy water onto my torso. Between this and the wind chill, those hours riding Mont Ventoux were one of the few times all week that I didn’t feel overheated — even when the wind chill was a mere 4 mph at my plodding pace. I didn’t feel strong, but I hadn’t expected to feel strong and wasn’t fussed about killing myself trying to set a PR on this climb. Beat motored ahead and I hung back, pedaling at a manageable pace and marveling at the strange familiarity of the landscape. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsYeQgA5k41phdSXn8R0QO9p_H_1fps8fvLMO6jH_r3uef6U3JtVRzZl3SAZI3n3vstpyKDXExIyX8PuXeAO7w5xLrF_QW9QX3ZfYBkcTUIYZI_PvUnH4VeBAEpTbN586xZ1AGAnr7OlVfUj-ERNEbjJFDUjkNuxkXh2-mtlNK_y1jM5PCnA/s4032/PXL_20220721_102649113.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsYeQgA5k41phdSXn8R0QO9p_H_1fps8fvLMO6jH_r3uef6U3JtVRzZl3SAZI3n3vstpyKDXExIyX8PuXeAO7w5xLrF_QW9QX3ZfYBkcTUIYZI_PvUnH4VeBAEpTbN586xZ1AGAnr7OlVfUj-ERNEbjJFDUjkNuxkXh2-mtlNK_y1jM5PCnA/w640-h480/PXL_20220721_102649113.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quick pic at the peak. The summit sign itself was far too crowded to approach</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>The road was a veritable circus of vans, cars, motorcycles, and many dozens of other cyclists tackling the climb that morning. Every mile or so, an enterprising photographer snapped action shots and then ran toward me waving their business card and urging me to buy the portraits online. I managed to escape a couple, but one caught me on a particularly steep grade and grabbed my backpack, stuffing the card in a pocket. Ventoux is Disneyland for cyclists, but it was fun for the experience it was. Despite legs that felt like they were filled with sand, I was having a great time. It was amusing how much climbing this summit “felt” like Zwift, how my muscles remembered the strain of a particular hairpin, and how my overall pace was comparable. The time (~2:30) would have been one of my slowest on the Zwift segment, but given the heat, my fatigue, and moderate heart rate, it’s about what I would have expected. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ73YMCOzIEJrAo2BhQqTVoShqIdn6uGAuiSyRLx_p9ZXq3YFxcofs51FbvmjkNW5GOQoBkb9Qww9RIVVp6I0yT1P3lGuiAHPA3uTOpfMGQDawbEI0v2DkhrHueC3gyIfbjOCIitn0qjb9OpU7ELUbTqJrJypQMSCl-oHoLf_asWOtPTkvog/s4032/PXL_20220722_133202354.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ73YMCOzIEJrAo2BhQqTVoShqIdn6uGAuiSyRLx_p9ZXq3YFxcofs51FbvmjkNW5GOQoBkb9Qww9RIVVp6I0yT1P3lGuiAHPA3uTOpfMGQDawbEI0v2DkhrHueC3gyIfbjOCIitn0qjb9OpU7ELUbTqJrJypQMSCl-oHoLf_asWOtPTkvog/w640-h480/PXL_20220722_133202354.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A typical "trail" above Rustrel</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>The wedding was a lovely affair on the grounds of a 12th-century abbey. I regret that I didn’t take any photographs. It was, of course, relentlessly hot. For more than an hour we sat on hard chairs in the sun, drenching our dress clothes while listening to speeches in Dutch and French, both languages I don’t understand, so it was … hard. But the emotion was apparent, and even I am not so jaded as to not feel the love at a wedding, so I appreciated the opportunity to be there. Pieter and Beat met at the 2014 Tor des Geants and have become inseparable Alpine adventure buddies, teaming up nearly every year for the PTL. It started as a kind of mentor-mentee relationship — Pieter is 19 years Beat’s junior — and has blossomed into a valuable partnership. So it was an important occasion to share, and I’m glad we could. Delicious wine and food flowed for hours, along with music and dancing, with the latter still going strong at 1 a.m. Pieter’s 80-something grandmother was still out and enjoying dessert when we finally had to tap out, beyond exhausted. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDoWlTtbTd2noxudYwNCMp3p1jzTIa2JyGpG9FkUamTCtpSKgXSvo9cmcuXa_EchSYr-4lOBChR0KG2HJ7-RLZIoKCQAbZjEEqiehZ3tF8odVOH_mQgiBi_A7TUE_TCXilUApCYqT5TEqVg1AmVlcdQs6jzE8nJdljijD3dZWF6mnV-oG7mA/s4032/PXL_20220722_150259815.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDoWlTtbTd2noxudYwNCMp3p1jzTIa2JyGpG9FkUamTCtpSKgXSvo9cmcuXa_EchSYr-4lOBChR0KG2HJ7-RLZIoKCQAbZjEEqiehZ3tF8odVOH_mQgiBi_A7TUE_TCXilUApCYqT5TEqVg1AmVlcdQs6jzE8nJdljijD3dZWF6mnV-oG7mA/w640-h480/PXL_20220722_150259815.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Provence — somehow paradise</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>The following day, in the throes of Ventoux and wedding recovery, we stumbled out the door for one more hike through the Rustrel hills. It was by then fairly late in the afternoon, 99 degrees, and these local trails are nothing but rubble and chunder, badly overgrown with prickly brush and dry grass. The air was thick with humidity and haze. All of this aggravated my asthma to a degree that I was panic-puffing my inhaler, and yet I reveled in the experience. It was like coming full circle through the branches of Hell to arrive back at fun. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdn5Z_yUie-Ag-eBPqnGlr4Sx_26IZtUMFoBhUNqjp-YbijStn4FO78ee90W31tNMCnrSQhkQGCSSCw5z1LNmlXVX2AlbyQ7m3XM20hBaSbtrGH2I78npkkGDuHqFdAhPHlj5AnfVXwsyr-helCikNhamRTzykZcLLuIb6YRLbDmLR1ooWaA/s4032/PXL_20220724_074514720.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdn5Z_yUie-Ag-eBPqnGlr4Sx_26IZtUMFoBhUNqjp-YbijStn4FO78ee90W31tNMCnrSQhkQGCSSCw5z1LNmlXVX2AlbyQ7m3XM20hBaSbtrGH2I78npkkGDuHqFdAhPHlj5AnfVXwsyr-helCikNhamRTzykZcLLuIb6YRLbDmLR1ooWaA/w640-h480/PXL_20220724_074514720.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This way to Mont Blanc, only 13,000 feet higher!</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Our next stop was Switzerland, but we took a couple of days to visit Chamonix, a part of Europe that almost feels like home. I haven’t been back to this French mountain town since 2019, and I’ve really only experienced it amid the madness that is UTMB week, so it was nice to see a relatively quiet side of the valley. We spent two nights with our friends Rob and Ali in Les Houches, enjoying conversation about American politics and evenings at a Canadian bar that serves hamburgers and fries — not to mention Perrier on ice! </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNGDPleOGW98Ib53GBOVcOyWBmNTCMNwpVCeaRSqup8PJJEfSaU6B18hrOvF_IyLc3i2tzLdbHJmw22L3tCU9rg1riWvIJzCH4UhbCeYZ7Rpb7AiQ4JGO4qfxd3UI3I1CC1UaktgChOoaCfktHGwFGE6zKpcew2pOx2NQ6iem1Was2rLIVYA/s4032/PXL_20220724_105826634.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNGDPleOGW98Ib53GBOVcOyWBmNTCMNwpVCeaRSqup8PJJEfSaU6B18hrOvF_IyLc3i2tzLdbHJmw22L3tCU9rg1riWvIJzCH4UhbCeYZ7Rpb7AiQ4JGO4qfxd3UI3I1CC1UaktgChOoaCfktHGwFGE6zKpcew2pOx2NQ6iem1Was2rLIVYA/w640-h480/PXL_20220724_105826634.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not really pictured: Big drop. I'm a right-foot dabber so I especially dislike right-side exposure</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>We had relatively fantastic weather — it was still hot, but not as hot. We took advantage of the conditions to climb 7,000 feet out of the valley to a middle perch on the Mount Blanc ridge, Tete Rousse. I’ve long been nervous about this route because it includes a fair amount of exposure, albeit mostly protected in via Ferrata style with ladders and chains. Exposure tends to induce vertigo, which isn’t simply a fear of heights — it’s a reaction to heights that induces dizziness and nausea so debilitating that it becomes paralyzing in its worst forms. These days I tend to avoid exposure or at least long periods of exposure because I never know how my brain will react. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMG0bYc5woUU5Ybkre3diORVnXAWl2a-iwbZaOO8b-FUb8u5M6fOZoN0VRJyumw-eYHpPxz2kfzXIfZ7JDdUdZUEttuTOjQD2bUZEeSL069qL1AX1vylx3IVcO3GnXchREzMH3sFNfQlHzOjDM5yWmSukNDuQeZ0qh7cSVCuI3AQ6j7lStug/s4032/PXL_20220724_110033412%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMG0bYc5woUU5Ybkre3diORVnXAWl2a-iwbZaOO8b-FUb8u5M6fOZoN0VRJyumw-eYHpPxz2kfzXIfZ7JDdUdZUEttuTOjQD2bUZEeSL069qL1AX1vylx3IVcO3GnXchREzMH3sFNfQlHzOjDM5yWmSukNDuQeZ0qh7cSVCuI3AQ6j7lStug/w640-h480/PXL_20220724_110033412%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This may be an easy ladder, but it's a long way down!</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Oddly, I experienced no vertigo on this route, despite situations that would typically be extremely triggering for me. In general, my vertigo has been more absent (though definitely not gone) for much of the summer. I wonder if higher levels of generalized anxiety prevent these cortisol spikes, or if it’s something else … tough to say. It does make “spicy” trails a lot more enjoyable because while I am still fearful and uncomfortable, I’m not on the verge of losing my shit. Still, I never know when vertigo might strike, so I’m not about to take any big leaps out of my comfort zone. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2aNu59pMA6mKrBsYa-8w0YbfIJPfwwX60xX_XhvUQI6jj_ez8W6i8w2NHepRJOHDVxepCMx-yws6BDdIYEzHOFLhtEh76dwUtf04Iw7_PC84z8-Emel3tNgURh4hd2IPUOQgUwgMqYYFKchkF-idoJ2DXrEd_OhJ_RR3lU1IHDU4fGTplSg/s4032/PXL_20220724_115548808.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2aNu59pMA6mKrBsYa-8w0YbfIJPfwwX60xX_XhvUQI6jj_ez8W6i8w2NHepRJOHDVxepCMx-yws6BDdIYEzHOFLhtEh76dwUtf04Iw7_PC84z8-Emel3tNgURh4hd2IPUOQgUwgMqYYFKchkF-idoJ2DXrEd_OhJ_RR3lU1IHDU4fGTplSg/w640-h480/PXL_20220724_115548808.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What remains of the Tete Rousse Glacier</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Tete Rousse was a gorgeous spot, but also a little bit sad. The glacier leading to the refuge — while still uncrossable for us without gear — is almost gone. The couloir leading to the upper slopes is so unstable and raked with rockfall that local officials had to institute a hard closure of the main route to Mont Blanc. They even closed the refuges because people were still climbing illegally, leading the mayor to call for €15,000 fines for everyone to cover the inevitable recovery and funeral expenses. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF5wY81J5sChz7N5vot0xUNVa_LGvdg4C3iqiseyFYE5PyjZIQviJCS12TdDsodJmTKzGN-9kjCUjzgREplSBcWof1l3nWl-lVLw8jmU1HY6qtSJeKcmTEiVm3MTZ513nMGQ26_X7SGe114Q3mYx_mi7yeO54U9CltjUWCsgyPr-d5Q6Je6w/s4032/PXL_20220724_103659274.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF5wY81J5sChz7N5vot0xUNVa_LGvdg4C3iqiseyFYE5PyjZIQviJCS12TdDsodJmTKzGN-9kjCUjzgREplSBcWof1l3nWl-lVLw8jmU1HY6qtSJeKcmTEiVm3MTZ513nMGQ26_X7SGe114Q3mYx_mi7yeO54U9CltjUWCsgyPr-d5Q6Je6w/w640-h480/PXL_20220724_103659274.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The climb to Tete Rousse. Any route above 2,500 meters is going to traverse tricky boulder fields.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRUjIIphMKcQFHJrFvOJTGz0sa8PIODKN3McwYynAD25IfYsCOeXs7GD39veSiXOay2Td2kr9uzhcSVjE7VXMvbFHyHcvjHPZ39vrbIhcZLIK9NOuQ6nLkOXGRgZrx9i9txlDdfdTJ7Y_iw_J_UJrLt2Kp648dRiC7EWvzAWe42EqQhk2tsA/s4032/PXL_20220724_121646063.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRUjIIphMKcQFHJrFvOJTGz0sa8PIODKN3McwYynAD25IfYsCOeXs7GD39veSiXOay2Td2kr9uzhcSVjE7VXMvbFHyHcvjHPZ39vrbIhcZLIK9NOuQ6nLkOXGRgZrx9i9txlDdfdTJ7Y_iw_J_UJrLt2Kp648dRiC7EWvzAWe42EqQhk2tsA/w640-h480/PXL_20220724_121646063.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Views 7,000 feet down into the Chamonix Valley.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinMkS8qDXl1vUeIudRM1e8LpOgN6lEt4avv4Mptq1JvliXKFK1F9yjC0imS2uJWWlp9Sup9v7DF1RG8eyuw8rPXl5km4ZFAG-wJO6ODq5GWJvWciWxNWsAgRDxzW41DVCDeaafmkwE249I4FDPwccOnnZqep4XLS9JlagswLPqaLNrF06v_g/s4032/PXL_20220724_125658793.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinMkS8qDXl1vUeIudRM1e8LpOgN6lEt4avv4Mptq1JvliXKFK1F9yjC0imS2uJWWlp9Sup9v7DF1RG8eyuw8rPXl5km4ZFAG-wJO6ODq5GWJvWciWxNWsAgRDxzW41DVCDeaafmkwE249I4FDPwccOnnZqep4XLS9JlagswLPqaLNrF06v_g/w640-h480/PXL_20220724_125658793.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lots of ibex near Tete Rousse</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFTxeUfpC2YowIND9Zzlm1CGdwUQ77nnYRYvo13m_xiIQYu_N41WB9SfcgUPPN8pZNAawsU4DR8kw40QdtoohNHCxuwZNzzT18rBsw5CGBOXJXV1Ld2FX56ogkhTw2q2IfOXVNsg_P-BeU5iwDDW8dOh1RQ-_cA2RWYiDtSlPaUlqwylaBoQ/s4032/PXL_20220724_132944823.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFTxeUfpC2YowIND9Zzlm1CGdwUQ77nnYRYvo13m_xiIQYu_N41WB9SfcgUPPN8pZNAawsU4DR8kw40QdtoohNHCxuwZNzzT18rBsw5CGBOXJXV1Ld2FX56ogkhTw2q2IfOXVNsg_P-BeU5iwDDW8dOh1RQ-_cA2RWYiDtSlPaUlqwylaBoQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220724_132944823.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lower flanks of the Tete Rousse Glacier</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfPFrwGsR5YD_cwEdxREzxEw2Wh5nADJTZjDtZPa1uDVYDiaLoCH5AlNJSQNkDQhtnZ8eTN5ZNV3d8mtn8dw2rmJH68XlLYNIAvxuU0btq8SQ4PZ76-Km79E5FigLKOLQ7RwpgFbj2AUmbNXugzKVwaV3ga0hK-wqssADwyBQhYp7jOeqxEQ/s4032/PXL_20220725_091919872.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfPFrwGsR5YD_cwEdxREzxEw2Wh5nADJTZjDtZPa1uDVYDiaLoCH5AlNJSQNkDQhtnZ8eTN5ZNV3d8mtn8dw2rmJH68XlLYNIAvxuU0btq8SQ4PZ76-Km79E5FigLKOLQ7RwpgFbj2AUmbNXugzKVwaV3ga0hK-wqssADwyBQhYp7jOeqxEQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220725_091919872.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beat on Aiguilettte des Houches with Mont Blanc in the background</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Before leaving Les Houches, I introduced Beat to what has long been my favorite spot in all of the Chamonix Valley, Aiguilette des Houches. It’s my favorite because it’s a relatively quiet spot, it’s a 4,500-foot march straight up just to get there, but there’s nothing difficult or scary about the march, and then you have the most fantastic view of Mont Blanc. Beat thinks these kinds of trails are “boring” but he was amenable to my "easy" Sunday stroll. He did agree that it was a beautiful place to be on a sunny day in July. Ultimately, I was sad to leave France, especially Chamonix, with legs nicely toasted and a mind that had finally settled in for the long haul.<br /><p><br /></p></div></div>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-67009452414981059452022-07-30T13:17:00.000-06:002022-07-30T13:17:32.453-06:00Around the Matterhorn<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVQowms_zzL-A-h5thiJ-9bqaFwxKD7XueiSb7xIBub4zDg-vbY6sqGURFpLuHMDSLIeDaCWTu93nlf6oXkOxjBv9Cu2DeSpKfEaO4TS3p-rMrR158t3soUYAR7NkWAd0CaR7TTV84HMkNbGN2El9JV8c-LCmGCl6UuI2p31DuOLj2zzHI7g/s4032/PXL_20220715_124610985.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVQowms_zzL-A-h5thiJ-9bqaFwxKD7XueiSb7xIBub4zDg-vbY6sqGURFpLuHMDSLIeDaCWTu93nlf6oXkOxjBv9Cu2DeSpKfEaO4TS3p-rMrR158t3soUYAR7NkWAd0CaR7TTV84HMkNbGN2El9JV8c-LCmGCl6UuI2p31DuOLj2zzHI7g/w640-h480/PXL_20220715_124610985.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Matterhorn (Monte Cervino) as seen from a glacier near the Swiss-Italian border</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>I’ve been meaning to post a few entries from our visit to the Alps this year. I didn’t do so last year, and I regret this now. My brain was so scrambled after my dad died that I remember little about the summer of 2021, even though we visited incredible places and I found many moments of peace. A sort of brain fog has settled into this summer as well, perhaps for different reasons, but I don’t want to let another mountain season slip away from memory. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyJ5B7gL0SN7bWFlXZi_wj0u48iLPkjChJZYyLSsg6HNY8OgSZv-usA1CpusR6NoXIPzQpDMNvvVFHfbfajd_FHD1AR_PfEgr_yjhfALnLdKVKU0PDE8zuAPxyQpynFaMCLXrysj_LH_WYS58ceTk0kSFdH7KCvMZ_dgvJZa6dlIT_-9d_jg/s4032/PXL_20220714_175417421.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyJ5B7gL0SN7bWFlXZi_wj0u48iLPkjChJZYyLSsg6HNY8OgSZv-usA1CpusR6NoXIPzQpDMNvvVFHfbfajd_FHD1AR_PfEgr_yjhfALnLdKVKU0PDE8zuAPxyQpynFaMCLXrysj_LH_WYS58ceTk0kSFdH7KCvMZ_dgvJZa6dlIT_-9d_jg/w640-h480/PXL_20220714_175417421.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking off the jetlag above Valtournenche, Italy</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>We arrived in Geneva sometime in the late evening on July 13. We’d heard all of the horror stories about air travel this year and braced for the worst, but even so, the journey was challenging. A flight was canceled, another was delayed, a long layover in the stifling crowds of London-Heathrow and a plane delayed on the tarmac did not prevent the airline from losing our luggage, and then we had to leave the airport sans supplies for a three-hour drive to a remote mountain village in Italy in what was by then the middle of the night. Having barely slept in two days, I botched the navigation and misdirected Beat onto the Autostrade, which forced us to pay a 9 Euro toll to drive 12 miles in the wrong direction. At this point I essentially had a panic attack, gulping down bile to reign in my breathing.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEpCYEDO-YWu4IKur9pAZi3HLK92YKS9HhOZUT9W4eogAtt0uGlvuo8xEG2-Z9s8G6N2zRE04S7MMiG0edjCXf3iWHdSt0eYXuEXWVSGlg1WdvOHJDl5aifdaiIV8KVZURbuS0Zd8Iz3KzVixgCap9gQ17jXjtj3C0XPI0p10QLt1Slf3cg/s5472/DSC00581.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEpCYEDO-YWu4IKur9pAZi3HLK92YKS9HhOZUT9W4eogAtt0uGlvuo8xEG2-Z9s8G6N2zRE04S7MMiG0edjCXf3iWHdSt0eYXuEXWVSGlg1WdvOHJDl5aifdaiIV8KVZURbuS0Zd8Iz3KzVixgCap9gQ17jXjtj3C0XPI0p10QLt1Slf3cg/w640-h426/DSC00581.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The southern aspects of the Matterhorn, as viewed from the Italian side</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Lately, I’ve wondered if I still possess the mental health for enjoyable international travel. I do love being here, but the disruption of routines, the general stress, insomnia, and limited personal space have fueled an extended anxiety episode that I'm still working to shake. Most mornings, I wake up to the question of how I’ll best cope with the day’s agenda, even if I’m excited about it. If I don’t form a mental road map, I tend to unravel quickly. I’m certainly not complaining, just explaining why I’m having a difficult time right now, even in a gorgeous and privileged setting. I think most people who cope with some level of anxiety disorder can relate. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDeAjkevjiIoXZ8tronOFF1G9EFVldgMa1rHVI3q0K_qL15cK6T02Ur-AiyEnRLbtFsrbHkJSfb2lvBmSnRKQblsM_nEabrZ7u2r5eqqvs9RpGmsTth5BRnFeVLSLJbcWxzaEuKWYwkoxD7_tiLzAgFKWVdnHjAAs94DRrvIZf81MvRUbWdg/s4032/original_e026d3f2-d3db-480e-9cdb-236c44ff3063_PXL_20220715_080326460.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2438" data-original-width="4032" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDeAjkevjiIoXZ8tronOFF1G9EFVldgMa1rHVI3q0K_qL15cK6T02Ur-AiyEnRLbtFsrbHkJSfb2lvBmSnRKQblsM_nEabrZ7u2r5eqqvs9RpGmsTth5BRnFeVLSLJbcWxzaEuKWYwkoxD7_tiLzAgFKWVdnHjAAs94DRrvIZf81MvRUbWdg/w640-h386/original_e026d3f2-d3db-480e-9cdb-236c44ff3063_PXL_20220715_080326460.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beat and friends start the Cervino Matterhorn Ultra Race</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>First on the agenda was another of Beat’s Alpine mountain races. The Cervino Matterhorn Ultra Race circumnavigated the Matterhorn over 182 kilometers (113 miles) of technical trail with 13,000 meters (42,000 feet!!) of climbing. Just the usual for Beat at this point — actually a bit short compared to the 300-kilometer courses he’s raced in past years. It had to be short as our Belgian friend, Pieter, was getting married in a few short days — the reason we’re in Europe in July this year, rather than September. Daniel, our friend from Denver, also joined.
Since our luggage disappeared, Beat was missing some of the required gear for the pre-race meeting, so we had to stop at an outdoor store in the village of Valtournenche. The proprietor was exceedingly helpful and friendly, even gifting me a water bottle and three pairs of underwear that he said his wife made him stock for just such occasions. We left the store remembering why we missed the Aosta Valley so much — the mountains are spectacular, the food consistently more delicious than anything I eat at home, and the locals just make you feel good about yourself and humanity in general. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhobBSTd49oYZIgXL449BozgVm3Br75UhpHftzccVmKu8j3tZ2ffeqwIHvjQtFYn9W27xZMhcpQ7q6rTDFD1_cAox-qS1nMJQaB4wo6lgcM9FWrw5Sf_hstaorWAn08JRPjlL6rtiO9CGb-6oGF9UFTRSIhzPzxFwX0L_L16PkRwIUBIQ4Ljw/s4032/PXL_20220714_175853110.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhobBSTd49oYZIgXL449BozgVm3Br75UhpHftzccVmKu8j3tZ2ffeqwIHvjQtFYn9W27xZMhcpQ7q6rTDFD1_cAox-qS1nMJQaB4wo6lgcM9FWrw5Sf_hstaorWAn08JRPjlL6rtiO9CGb-6oGF9UFTRSIhzPzxFwX0L_L16PkRwIUBIQ4Ljw/w640-h480/PXL_20220714_175853110.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Euillaz — this is all part of a ski area in the winter. Peaceful and lonely in the summer.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Since thousands of bags were missing from the Geneva and Paris airports, and since we were three hours away from Geneva, I assumed we’d never see our luggage again. Amazingly it arrived the following evening via a courier — an unexpected stroke of luck. This allowed me to squeeze in a late evening hike above the apartment where we were staying — just a quiet side road between Valtournenche and Breuil-Cervinia. It never ceases to amaze me that there are so many places in the Alps where you can walk out the front door and within an hour be in a spot like this. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipAVxwGYzuaeQibXI1GjYPx3Z1sLk_k3cZGb24tjYZP4FI57sXzYDQTIRK5J0tAPYvkqcwsVHp3sznnow0vZXYQhk3leBBEuRQVItXF6imgTiq1DHuPVCTU9um0cUTx9SaTqZpyWaJk0TD9jOO7yaVRA35w8zZk3u0q4Z24A_4fcTRG94g3g/s5472/DSC00583.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipAVxwGYzuaeQibXI1GjYPx3Z1sLk_k3cZGb24tjYZP4FI57sXzYDQTIRK5J0tAPYvkqcwsVHp3sznnow0vZXYQhk3leBBEuRQVItXF6imgTiq1DHuPVCTU9um0cUTx9SaTqZpyWaJk0TD9jOO7yaVRA35w8zZk3u0q4Z24A_4fcTRG94g3g/w640-h426/DSC00583.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The glacier trail to Testa Grigia</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>The race started Friday, July 15, at the very Italian time of 10 a.m. I cheered the guys through the gate and then took off up the other side of the valley, climbing the final pass in their race, Teodulo. It’s a vertical mile of trudging up steep dirt and scree, and was exactly what I needed. Somewhere around 10,000 feet my brain finally switched from anxious to awestruck.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXRgFKo_CxmoR6HZXFsu9joeIyTxNbAaLJcgQ9LcVGahiV8KJgyqSMZ3PsYSjoqM7_IQgOuuIIuuU83VRiKCkM010CFw8SR6JmLcQkQCYFtVOuwicW6TzPLqe-8q2Ls7o1S06eWTZXzU450NkVzYT4ulyEfe16AulpaSyaVh0U-PavE_Aldg/s5472/DSC00584.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXRgFKo_CxmoR6HZXFsu9joeIyTxNbAaLJcgQ9LcVGahiV8KJgyqSMZ3PsYSjoqM7_IQgOuuIIuuU83VRiKCkM010CFw8SR6JmLcQkQCYFtVOuwicW6TzPLqe-8q2Ls7o1S06eWTZXzU450NkVzYT4ulyEfe16AulpaSyaVh0U-PavE_Aldg/w640-h426/DSC00584.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The glacier cat track carries you all the way down to the Swiss side</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div>The Italian-Swiss border is flanked by an expansive network of glaciers that are rapidly shrinking. Until recently, temperatures above 3,000 meters usually stayed near or below freezing year-round, but that is no longer the case. The temperature was probably around 50 degrees at this altitude, but under direct sunlight with the reflective oven effect of the snow, it felt like a scorching day in the desert. <div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiDpUkfXVd8q0dm0l8OiVYuyBaKIIM3khvqRmISQ6ueDeOFq-ny8A-V3rOzH58kcYy4p201Dj9w393aLEsdVPs4fRoWH49INEny0_1zeFN0wWC6AJ3UGqQ-VbyU1kXo__BBHUc8ZWXMEcioZ4RDXJXi9bDLmGapbjcMCjhwHHrnl-VStnBtQ/s5472/DSC00585.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiDpUkfXVd8q0dm0l8OiVYuyBaKIIM3khvqRmISQ6ueDeOFq-ny8A-V3rOzH58kcYy4p201Dj9w393aLEsdVPs4fRoWH49INEny0_1zeFN0wWC6AJ3UGqQ-VbyU1kXo__BBHUc8ZWXMEcioZ4RDXJXi9bDLmGapbjcMCjhwHHrnl-VStnBtQ/w640-h426/DSC00585.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view across Ventina Ghiacciao</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>The Ventina and Furgg glaciers are used as a year-round ski area and are regularly groomed even on a hot day in July. Skiers and snowboarders use tow ropes to reach the upper slopes, but I saw other hikers and climbers walking the cat track, so I figured this wasn’t forbidden. I strapped on my microspikes and set off toward Switzerland, splashing and slipping through several inches of slush and flowing water over glare ice. Every so often a snowboarder would tear past in a roar of scraping ice, creating a wake through the runoff that made it appear as though they were surfing waves rather than snow. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY3U-GrS1S1rTMutRimnEcYVm5QpBuqAYGwulW2fMRpuhVfpFoDJUtyE4EonZJmWbnyMxZhxWI9ARHsBEQn_9NCm0w_hqDteiixQzWBwcdNm1zd9JhtQ5gu4uk3MlrpyiU04YRzSh-7gtUWyRVLXjcnA7xOoJD7GUVXseWwjROn4KNzyEv9g/s5472/DSC00586.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY3U-GrS1S1rTMutRimnEcYVm5QpBuqAYGwulW2fMRpuhVfpFoDJUtyE4EonZJmWbnyMxZhxWI9ARHsBEQn_9NCm0w_hqDteiixQzWBwcdNm1zd9JhtQ5gu4uk3MlrpyiU04YRzSh-7gtUWyRVLXjcnA7xOoJD7GUVXseWwjROn4KNzyEv9g/w640-h426/DSC00586.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another incredible view from the Furgggletscher<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div>Walking across the glacier created a similar ripple of cognitive dissonance. It looked like a frozen mountain paradise but felt like a baked landscape of white rock and sand. My feet were soaked but not cold, and the high-altitude UV rays broke through my best defenses — industrial-strength sunscreen from New Zealand and a long-sleeve sun shirt with a hood. It’s jarring to watch a glacier actively melt, very quickly, in real time. The sound of cascading water over the ice was unnerving and cast a shade of melancholy over my awe. Rather than try to fight this emotion with disassociation — like I do with anxiety — I dug in deeper and sat with the sadness. It won’t be many more years before this glacier is gone. There’s a chance I will still be alive and well enough to climb this same pass and walk into a world of only rock and scree. That likelihood is already baked into our future, so as my friend Pieter advises, it’s better to appreciate the glaciers while they’re here rather than mourn their inevitable loss. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUX-9fRpwb0JJ2RoDDU4Ll53avGIZDgZSLkL0wLTEM7c2omNPixgXYlbEXBampNvD1iwNjNuvAz235rOTaCuuDZUQ3IrmUTpaNFjsG_HNRf_bR53XZSvnaFCdHHlmmtUFOkotuMVI2z3q_soykbFNK8lJchJ_YpGEB0thlUE9verA8Glnm3g/s5472/DSC00590.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUX-9fRpwb0JJ2RoDDU4Ll53avGIZDgZSLkL0wLTEM7c2omNPixgXYlbEXBampNvD1iwNjNuvAz235rOTaCuuDZUQ3IrmUTpaNFjsG_HNRf_bR53XZSvnaFCdHHlmmtUFOkotuMVI2z3q_soykbFNK8lJchJ_YpGEB0thlUE9verA8Glnm3g/w640-h426/DSC00590.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stone farmhouses above Breuil-Cervinia</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Beat’s Alpine ultras always leave me feeling nervous, as there is an abundance of dangerous mountain terrain that he’s expected to traverse at all hours of the night and in all weather. Still, over the years Beat has proven himself capable of handling it, and CMUR was at least not as long or sadistically routed as PTL. Still, I endured another somewhat sleepless night wondering about him. First thing in the morning, I learned that Pieter would have to drop out of the race with a serious case of dehydration. He had blood in his urine and his physician sister advised him against continuing. What she told him is, “if you don’t want to spend your wedding day in the hospital, stop now.” Pieter continued to question this decision but I’m also of the opinion that heat injuries are not the place to test your limits. Cold is much less scary to me — unless you’re completely unprepared, subzero temperatures can be managed for a long time. Even frostbite usually doesn’t kill you. Heat is like — you start having cramps and 60 minutes later, you’re dead. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXNh31RFk4QcYTdJK2Dj1BSw2wW9IWBl4n3Usbr9cQrWhcvEQWyDLgN6upHY2KiPaQdC-q3AxjtAOXi0kieT1rA0NjfojCFc2QytdL30WodNtQ7WI3eP2EQjuSoCm-K-mhOupp_sufuSAPgejeQcWJg-gu0XEGjA_zbEu5ozCPvQha6Uhdbw/s5472/DSC00592.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXNh31RFk4QcYTdJK2Dj1BSw2wW9IWBl4n3Usbr9cQrWhcvEQWyDLgN6upHY2KiPaQdC-q3AxjtAOXi0kieT1rA0NjfojCFc2QytdL30WodNtQ7WI3eP2EQjuSoCm-K-mhOupp_sufuSAPgejeQcWJg-gu0XEGjA_zbEu5ozCPvQha6Uhdbw/w640-h426/DSC00592.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Approaching Finestra di Cignana</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Beat and Daniel planned to stay together as the European heat wave of mid-July 2022 continued to bake the region. Luckily Beat at least had heat training behind him, having run the Bighorn 100 in northern Wyoming in June as temperatures spiked into the high 90s. A lot of the European racers also had to drop with heat-related issues. I often wonder what my future might hold in regard to endurance racing, but I’m almost certain that my “summer racing” days are behind me. I just have too many physiological challenges stacked against me: Sun sensitivity (I break out in heat rashes over nothing), asthma, pollen allergies, and fairly extreme reactions to smoke and pollution. Despite asthma treatments and perhaps miraculously avoiding Covid so far (although I expect the virus to come for me eventually and probably soon), my airways feel a little more pinched each summer. I’m already imagining a future where I might have to hole up indoors for long blocks of the wildfire season, making use of my bike trainer and a HEPA filter to avoid going mad. Either way, strenuous racing during the summer months seems out of reach. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr4KO03fm8bfjpQHAGw7vETFUfbNrjz_8png8_UjoXn9pBiwsLz7b3u5OCSAY4m8U-_OrQTa7qG-3kvjDNN7BF9tMET063stp0dvPhzm3My-F9wM3GE0YHlviE0VMvlwQMOtOewktSh-6BYUgQlE2PJp5k0nqUbdire6VcKlbH1pBEIoCN3g/s4032/PXL_20220716_111728303.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr4KO03fm8bfjpQHAGw7vETFUfbNrjz_8png8_UjoXn9pBiwsLz7b3u5OCSAY4m8U-_OrQTa7qG-3kvjDNN7BF9tMET063stp0dvPhzm3My-F9wM3GE0YHlviE0VMvlwQMOtOewktSh-6BYUgQlE2PJp5k0nqUbdire6VcKlbH1pBEIoCN3g/w640-h480/PXL_20220716_111728303.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from Col de Valcorniere</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>So yes, during summer my breathing and thus fitness often deteriorates regardless of training. On the bright side, this gives my ego a reason to let go of expectations and just wander to my heart’s content. I confirmed that Pieter could catch a shuttle back to our apartment — a pickup was something I really didn’t want to have to endure as the round-trip drive to Zinal would take at least six and a half hours — 50 or so miles on foot, and 120 by endlessly winding mountain roads. Having slithered out of any potential crew duties with this fact, I had another full day to wander in the mountains. I chose to aim for the first pass on the CMUR course, Col de Valcorniere. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglcwk4s--xc5zxIZppt9ljt6gh0_tWBjg4R4yvqquZD38TO9S98T1MjvtUJ0OKLiIjD-1mMo8CZ_pLLdGZcJqcdV6tIY2EUHwPhE3b1DCAPu74tgowlbfyV-DE7Vnq9v8NO829vzmyiRfLPGZjAdhqMQ9nhr0mOJGyVK5wmTO52scDpqSE_g/s2967/DSC00605.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2136" data-original-width="2967" height="460" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglcwk4s--xc5zxIZppt9ljt6gh0_tWBjg4R4yvqquZD38TO9S98T1MjvtUJ0OKLiIjD-1mMo8CZ_pLLdGZcJqcdV6tIY2EUHwPhE3b1DCAPu74tgowlbfyV-DE7Vnq9v8NO829vzmyiRfLPGZjAdhqMQ9nhr0mOJGyVK5wmTO52scDpqSE_g/w640-h460/DSC00605.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An ibex family on Col de Valcorniere</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Col de Valcorniere was an enjoyable climb, another vertical mile along a rocky trail, talus fields, and a short section of protected scrambling at the end. I sat on the pass for a half hour, enjoying the antics of a momma ibex and her two rowdy kids. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiyFh4FvP9MlxT0JB5noC_s1gCIFKki-w5DsVEfMCEQ5gGriScw1igjgxNWFkPUNdYyMStlVVtWrPTxtIMGZyXilH3IoNwQVcSNYqnFXf0pSvkNz90VKv_9v-VRpuYCeOt_Fb6t6obv_DD9Sy701SL8EOpQKNYinngQeMrne9dnBNBSIlLNg/s4032/PXL_20220716_120249943.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiyFh4FvP9MlxT0JB5noC_s1gCIFKki-w5DsVEfMCEQ5gGriScw1igjgxNWFkPUNdYyMStlVVtWrPTxtIMGZyXilH3IoNwQVcSNYqnFXf0pSvkNz90VKv_9v-VRpuYCeOt_Fb6t6obv_DD9Sy701SL8EOpQKNYinngQeMrne9dnBNBSIlLNg/w640-h480/PXL_20220716_120249943.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nothing but choss as far as the eye can see</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Somehow I generated a desire to venture down the other side of the pass, which was a chossy nightmare. Tight, meager switchbacks still cut a 40-50% grade, loose and slippery but too chunky to simply boot ski — not that I have the coordination to ski scree. Still, I continue to pick my way down 800 vertical feet before I turned to look back at the crumbling wall behind me. “This is all very dumb. It’s not like I’m in a race and have to force myself to do any of this.” I reversed course and quickly lost the “trail.” I had to resort to climbing directly up large blocks of talus, which is not unlike “hiking” in the high country of Colorado and was actually preferable to the nightmare “trail.” </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIwFBHNPBj2dfeXsP50mMchDKHhLhvUb_P4Qi2izf8LziE_oTBvLlXoG4I36PVcJ4lP_tKwAR6OxJvOLQLAaHica7dImfQpWowkYq0ibPcIX8kZ9lNbG29AUiStd0qfF8jNyjKQnCDY4Zecn-og-YVgsUTRJVOt65yjG4kVI4INxM0lW3H5g/s4032/PXL_20220716_141724050.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIwFBHNPBj2dfeXsP50mMchDKHhLhvUb_P4Qi2izf8LziE_oTBvLlXoG4I36PVcJ4lP_tKwAR6OxJvOLQLAaHica7dImfQpWowkYq0ibPcIX8kZ9lNbG29AUiStd0qfF8jNyjKQnCDY4Zecn-og-YVgsUTRJVOt65yjG4kVI4INxM0lW3H5g/w640-h480/PXL_20220716_141724050.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fireweed over Lago di Cignana</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>I descended into Valtournenche on the Alta Via 1 — part of the Tor des Geants course I hadn’t yet seen — and started the long climb up to Euillaz as 5 p.m. sunlight baked the pavement. A store marquee said it was 32C, which is nearly 90 degrees, almost unheard of for an Alps village above 5,000 feet.
For a mile my route followed a steeply graded road with heavy traffic — where are all of these people even going? Beat called during this time and I spent much of it trying to hear him over the roar of sports cars piloted by aggressive Italian drivers while sweat streamed down my phone onto my hand. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUbLCeiz_Onhhm4_ammHeBJYQFCIkI2NsOqxJEfImG3uiSHDBh2geJw81p4gs7rkXXo3I-dNTmc8qKlaBw_086KyKERaeNTX8TTQRg1HZJpcp4vQoNDwyXJbzQfBSrjBQkIccWNE44AreKCKOcTnFtCihLPMZcnp48iri4Kad03X21CNLBXQ/s4032/PXL_20220716_101146573.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUbLCeiz_Onhhm4_ammHeBJYQFCIkI2NsOqxJEfImG3uiSHDBh2geJw81p4gs7rkXXo3I-dNTmc8qKlaBw_086KyKERaeNTX8TTQRg1HZJpcp4vQoNDwyXJbzQfBSrjBQkIccWNE44AreKCKOcTnFtCihLPMZcnp48iri4Kad03X21CNLBXQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220716_101146573.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waterfall below Lago di Balanselmo</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Then the route finally veered onto a trail and it was typical Aosta Valley ridiculous — severely eroded, cow-stomped dirt cutting straight up the hill at a 30% grade. When it rains these trails are pure mudslides so I’m glad it wasn’t that. I was nearing 8,000 feet of ascent for this hike and my legs were tired, but I particularly loved this part. It was so hot and such a slog that I only had the energy to focus on the present. Late afternoon light saturated the grassy slopes, which were simultaneously soft and angled. Silence resumed. All of the travel anxiety finally faded. I felt content. </div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPBOFG5ENl9dD5V7kT4vFnUQltzk5BrwmInUKjur0GeAzCya08ccyAQmtz4sdOscp-yJ4NA91u4VNeIw2JJuJT5OjaZGzo7qoCeP42D1PaWNw0McJ-jxdGBP4pQKXCn6zD4mXOYfJrERbkHvDJfqZEgUwlMQShqR2GeP67y7-QCoMvb8p-3Q/s4032/PXL_20220717_102107385.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPBOFG5ENl9dD5V7kT4vFnUQltzk5BrwmInUKjur0GeAzCya08ccyAQmtz4sdOscp-yJ4NA91u4VNeIw2JJuJT5OjaZGzo7qoCeP42D1PaWNw0McJ-jxdGBP4pQKXCn6zD4mXOYfJrERbkHvDJfqZEgUwlMQShqR2GeP67y7-QCoMvb8p-3Q/w640-h480/PXL_20220717_102107385.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking toward the Matterhorn, flanked by clouds</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div>By the time I descended to our apartment after 20 miles, it was nearly 9 p.m. Pieter had finally made it back himself so we cooked up pasta and chatted about our adventures. I checked Beat’s progress in the race and determined there was no chance of an early-morning finish, and finally — finally — settled in for a decent night of sleep.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTCNExGT7EWhILOeaOVxe3W1nz7NhwaEDBJBKBMAwfGGNtiY_zetnZyFKtB3DmAAtG1dB--Xqf6-BLNc72N21A4TuEsC_qrd4-vVVZNj_4RVs3GT7WVp-Xoajn-QUUsgrtdaPGYGpR1vKOJfYsCakuDpJa86oDg-iufVeYcsJJUXgCD2Hc3w/s3264/PXL_20220717_104942292.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTCNExGT7EWhILOeaOVxe3W1nz7NhwaEDBJBKBMAwfGGNtiY_zetnZyFKtB3DmAAtG1dB--Xqf6-BLNc72N21A4TuEsC_qrd4-vVVZNj_4RVs3GT7WVp-Xoajn-QUUsgrtdaPGYGpR1vKOJfYsCakuDpJa86oDg-iufVeYcsJJUXgCD2Hc3w/w640-h480/PXL_20220717_104942292.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just another ho-hum view of the Matterhorn ridge from Mont de l'Eura<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>The following morning, Pieter was feeling better so we headed into town to await Beat and Daniel's arrival. Pieter planned to take the cable car to Testa Grigia and then run the final 10K downhill with the guys. I can't keep up with Beat in the mountains on my best days (and he's pretty much never at his worst) so I opted to hike toward the Matterhorn on the standard approach one might take to climb the mountain from the Italian side. You start on a class-one jeep road, begin the class-two talus-hopping at Mont de l'Eura, and it just gets harder from there. I stopped just shy of the section with class three and four scrambling around 10,000 feet, mostly because I ran out of time. It was a fun morning, still hot, and my legs were too dead to do much running on the way down. <div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifDzNVWIbYU-uA-WUJ-pWp6De2b0mtUrQ9wfIpx2xdeYrl81ivivK__CknZ_jqAu1rSVq2x5NhJ-xkr8Vnj8YYjHKGHx6iR6rUqhARHQ7RgRM7otBRo5wDHJ7rafeDCt-aQRN6XkiC8X7jJBLN5Jlqo3QWLHOuOb-mCQI3EURjHGLAWG9cEw/s4032/PXL_20220717_130451726.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifDzNVWIbYU-uA-WUJ-pWp6De2b0mtUrQ9wfIpx2xdeYrl81ivivK__CknZ_jqAu1rSVq2x5NhJ-xkr8Vnj8YYjHKGHx6iR6rUqhARHQ7RgRM7otBRo5wDHJ7rafeDCt-aQRN6XkiC8X7jJBLN5Jlqo3QWLHOuOb-mCQI3EURjHGLAWG9cEw/w640-h480/PXL_20220717_130451726.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beat and Daniel finish the Cervino</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>The guys finished their race in 53:01:42, and were 61st and 62nd place out of about 180 starters. I don't know how many people dropped out, but I believe there were fewer than 100 finishers. That's a large attrition rate for a ~hundred-mile race in the Alps. Most people who attempt these courses are highly experienced with Alpine racing — it's the Americans who tend to become overwhelmed. But the Europeans aren't used to two full days of 30C heat at altitude, and that's probably what did most of them in. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6VDcKdJ8Lj-SKM29Y7NmVrktUnXHQfiyuernfdR-wNY3h4XjFYGA3X2VFTpo-aJcW71iqyQbQBZDKNQII0Vg36mS9UVKAhOZ8suwCKEADb8LvLtlR-MAmsXN21sTBgzxOtpZjh9P9HVFoGWt5vRV91wL1GD-T5NTyBbci_JZYEZQVXojhiw/s4032/PXL_20220717_181445306.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6VDcKdJ8Lj-SKM29Y7NmVrktUnXHQfiyuernfdR-wNY3h4XjFYGA3X2VFTpo-aJcW71iqyQbQBZDKNQII0Vg36mS9UVKAhOZ8suwCKEADb8LvLtlR-MAmsXN21sTBgzxOtpZjh9P9HVFoGWt5vRV91wL1GD-T5NTyBbci_JZYEZQVXojhiw/w640-h480/PXL_20220717_181445306.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matterhorn views at sunset</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><div>At the finish line, we dragged Beat and Daniel to a nearby bar to sit in a sliver of shade. The guys didn't seem enthused about anything but a cold shower and a nap, but they perked up with cold beers and ice cream. The bar gave me a rare entire glass full of ice cubes with my 0.2 liters of lemon soda, so I was in American heaven (the lack of ice and abundance of lukewarm drinks in Europe never fail to baffle me, even as the Europeans give me similar side-eyes when I stuff my hydration bladder into tiny freezers with the intention of creating three liters of solid ice.)</div><div><br /></div><div>The guys went home and crashed while Pieter and I waited until 9 p.m. to rouse them for pizza. In the meantime, I grabbed a final evening stroll along Torrente Marmore. Life is often simplest when I'm walking, and for this I'm grateful.</div></div>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-50223047870460245112022-07-08T22:50:00.007-06:002022-07-09T20:47:55.400-06:00Now that you’re kind of everything and everywhere<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhULmviYphEXpt6CwAu5APpsK3KqWrJ9ctf0CyIy-5uTCWy1pxqx2FiVu9oj4S3AKHwIyndzK4yQPlizpvuCvGkpPFlIPfkI2ycHrPepzzrc1Y3eBxRnKbXYJ-uQi8c7MO0GPOnxeow7UsZ0aJN8sW5XvYhaQOaVWonnFnCpLPxWQdUc1HdeQ/s7154/IMG_9483.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3848" data-original-width="7154" height="344" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhULmviYphEXpt6CwAu5APpsK3KqWrJ9ctf0CyIy-5uTCWy1pxqx2FiVu9oj4S3AKHwIyndzK4yQPlizpvuCvGkpPFlIPfkI2ycHrPepzzrc1Y3eBxRnKbXYJ-uQi8c7MO0GPOnxeow7UsZ0aJN8sW5XvYhaQOaVWonnFnCpLPxWQdUc1HdeQ/w640-h344/IMG_9483.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>On my birthday last year, one of my favorite songwriters released a new album. "Denis Was a Bird" was in its entirety a journey through the grief that Tom Rosenthal experienced after his father died of Parkinson's Disease in 2019. Throughout the summer, Tom posted teaser videos on social media. I discovered the upcoming album by accident sometime in the predawn hours of June 18, 2021. Tom had premiered a new video just hours earlier, so it showed up near the top of my feed as I scrolled mindlessly through Facebook, straining to feel anything else. </p><p>It was our first night in Utah following the most bewildering nine-hour drive of my life, which Beat and I made to be with my family after my father died suddenly in a hiking accident. The trip started the morning of June 17, when we had to crawl behind a cyclist in a bright pink jersey for the entire five-mile descent of Flagstaff Road. This is the only part of the drive of which I have any clear memory, because I (as a passenger) boiled over with road rage so blindingly overwhelming that this experience of losing my shit — more than anything else — has made me fearful of being a vulnerable cyclist on the road. But even vague images of the rest of the drive still haunt me: the slow crawl in summer traffic along I-70, blinking numbly at rest stops in the 103-degree desert, and again boiling over with rage as wildfire smoke choked the air over eastern Utah. </p><p>It was after 3 a.m. I hadn't slept. Beat was upstairs and I was sprawled in my mother's unfinished basement, hiding from the heat, hiding from the threat of sunrise, shaking from the monster of pain churning in my gut and wishing I could just violently rip it from my body. No physical pain could be worse than this. </p><p>The song, which I suspected would be hurtful to hear but clicked the link anyway, is called "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c_fAdd6zxu4" target="_blank">I went to bed and I loved you</a>." The video depicts clips of various people from around the world standing or dancing with portraits of lost loved ones. The lyrics are brilliant and shattering, but a particular line left me sobbing. I shook so hard I thought the monster of pain might be crushed for good. Of course, it was not, but a hint of perspective managed to slice through the devastation. </p><p>The line is: </p><p><i>I don't see you as a force above. <br />You're down here. <br />Sparks in all of us. <br />Somewhere in the lost light of every room.</i></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2NDxxNI3N7Q2hbklRHP4Vus1zhTVqB8LxOgZJJ3WunwdqfmIrWrAK9BGpPWZt8KYxUrG0G14v0aBaBmjopF7JvNyfFInpm9PvtWejPR7qW2xLUnmS_q1Jc3nTkCDP-FxP0CK1xzIxz1my2OaAQ0jk44Tye2Ipe1cU8V0L7ffKw0rPPzOjQ/s3264/PXL_20210821_124358943.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2NDxxNI3N7Q2hbklRHP4Vus1zhTVqB8LxOgZJJ3WunwdqfmIrWrAK9BGpPWZt8KYxUrG0G14v0aBaBmjopF7JvNyfFInpm9PvtWejPR7qW2xLUnmS_q1Jc3nTkCDP-FxP0CK1xzIxz1my2OaAQ0jk44Tye2Ipe1cU8V0L7ffKw0rPPzOjQ/w640-h480/PXL_20210821_124358943.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A belated birthday outing at Glacier de Corbassière on Aug. 21, 2021</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>When the <a href="https://tomrosenthal.bandcamp.com/album/denis-was-a-bird" target="_blank">album came out on Aug. 20</a>, I purchased the digital version from the Frankfurt airport and listened to it repeatedly while hiking up and down every steep trail I could find out of Verbier, Switzerland. I tend to do this with Tom's music when I'm feeling fragile — Tom Rosenthal's songs essentially got me through the Iditarod in 2018, and again in 2022. The music is just so simple and honest, quirky yet vulnerable, blunt yet hopeful. </p><p><i>Walking up the hill again <br />To see you<br />I don't know when I will again<br />Time feels new.</i></p><p>I never had an opportunity to bring my Dad to the Swiss Alps. We had been planning a summer trip in 2020. I was so excited; I amassed a folder full of trails we could hike, AirBnBs where we could stay, and mountain huts where we could sample local cakes while overlooking glaciers and snow-capped peaks. It would have taken a month to do everything I wanted to do. Then Covid happened, and then time ran out. As August 2021 approached, I wanted to cancel my plans to travel with Beat to Switzerland. I couldn't bear the thought of being in these mountains, walking alone, knowing I'd never be able to share this with Dad. Apathy and inertia, more than anything else, caused me to continue with the trip as planned. Of course I'm glad I did. Hiking in the Swiss Alps was the first time since he left that I felt, really felt, Dad walking beside me. </p><p>All the while, I had Tom Rosenthal telling me in every way possible that everything was going to be all right. </p><i>
It's not a catastrophe </i><div><i>It will happen to you and it will happen to me </i></div><div><i>And the sky won't fall down to the sea </i></div><div><i>And the joys won't end with you.</i></div><div><i><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvjW7yCoDqtALbcTOoaFG3iJfeuQSw4IPg2UVDZDHbDV0bx_4jkGfXCyhsz0XjHMfLbgBz1_CEUzO-f7UanBdTI9KPoU1i7G0mP8FPPY8C4yLGU-_h9p1aBZL1DSt66esHEgMUWZboa7ylZZ112u0hL9C35G9rmUAgXtxrAzsJPa7tx8a5VA/s8522/IMG_9421.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3848" data-original-width="8522" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvjW7yCoDqtALbcTOoaFG3iJfeuQSw4IPg2UVDZDHbDV0bx_4jkGfXCyhsz0XjHMfLbgBz1_CEUzO-f7UanBdTI9KPoU1i7G0mP8FPPY8C4yLGU-_h9p1aBZL1DSt66esHEgMUWZboa7ylZZ112u0hL9C35G9rmUAgXtxrAzsJPa7tx8a5VA/w640-h288/IMG_9421.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></i>Grief has been an interesting journey. The lows can be so low, and yet there are brilliant moments of the purest joy, these streaks of white light through the darkness. I can feel my values shifting along this axis of the light, in ways I don't yet comprehend. It's the same old existential dilemma: If life is a cosmic accident with no inherent purpose, then where do we find meaning? And the answer, obtuse and simplistic as it is, remains: We create our own meaning. But how? The darkness helps sharpen my perspective. Pay attention. What makes the light? This is what matters.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><i>Send me into the long night with all your<br />Little joys, little joys, little joys, little joys<br />Little joys, little joys, little joys<br />Of the finite</i></i></div><div><i><i><br /></i></i></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjisGadfZ3blWbbDbdaL4Gj8KAxGrdzjJdhQ5iENdEPDZ4T4P_a1gox-pCgaycTIq7uXM3RE1AMIzBGi8whi6kjQniaUVDHtWOf9df372_l4aiy3FoDyMT-Batd0FzoivA28cvnpiUgzLBy3P74wEN1MrfDyZT_9LmJVa7PFrFhRWuHIegFIw/s4032/PXL_20220422_191433635.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjisGadfZ3blWbbDbdaL4Gj8KAxGrdzjJdhQ5iENdEPDZ4T4P_a1gox-pCgaycTIq7uXM3RE1AMIzBGi8whi6kjQniaUVDHtWOf9df372_l4aiy3FoDyMT-Batd0FzoivA28cvnpiUgzLBy3P74wEN1MrfDyZT_9LmJVa7PFrFhRWuHIegFIw/w640-h480/PXL_20220422_191433635.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />My dad brought so much light to my life, but one important realization of my journey through grief has been this: He still brings light to my life, and always will. All that remains is all that matters: The countless little joys that I can reach out to grasp any time I choose, or at least any time I can muster the strength to turn my gaze from the darkness. One of these little joys is Canyonlands National Park, Dad's Heaven on Earth. If he could choose, he would spend eternity in the midst of these sculpted sandstone spires, and told Beat and me as much when we visited in April 2021. Dad had three specific spots where he wanted his ashes spread after he died, and two of them were in the Needles District of Canyonlands. As we trekked along his favorite trails, Dad deliberately pointed them out with enough emphasis that both Beat and I both remembered the exact spots. I took photos to document the locations. We joked that he'd have to train his grandkids because Beat and I would be too old and decrepit to make the journey by the time he finally went. After the trip, I posted this photo and caption on my Instagram: </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ1snLlS5X0NXqdS9a-KgHvhCTWkIEmRXQ2H5cBi-Vv20a9QbOtwrOGzP36LJc6zQbS5Qq0hPYHxG_YBTYm5uWWnL2bF7n1XroQZvqccM7IjVYhhVI1VsQrs86jwER2zFh6ftKoB2o-veMb_6id10T2hUGVMr5ghpzcdFVdRcJk8FIoxQfOA/s5472/April.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ1snLlS5X0NXqdS9a-KgHvhCTWkIEmRXQ2H5cBi-Vv20a9QbOtwrOGzP36LJc6zQbS5Qq0hPYHxG_YBTYm5uWWnL2bF7n1XroQZvqccM7IjVYhhVI1VsQrs86jwER2zFh6ftKoB2o-veMb_6id10T2hUGVMr5ghpzcdFVdRcJk8FIoxQfOA/w640-h426/April.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">April 23, 2021.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div>"Over the weekend, Beat and I joined my 68-year-old father on his annual journey into Canyonlands Needles District, where he revisits some of his favorite places in the world every year. Here, my dad is overlooking a spot where he would like his ashes spread someday — overlooking "The Sentinel." I told my dad that he'll probably outlast that rock formation."<div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1L5S-AGqzKd0MdMQaZshmGjU-SQZu9wmCyNnzDm4OzhyJK1pzDvA_va_IMJDtQEik7cF8dzjm89b2obkrvki-xglkGuk5d7OLqea6PFtl0gFTPwfMmBW94cIUjkrHQKjnb49nLdDvkk5vwkThUA60eBh5p-MWtTqXooNtMpfXj74Z8Wa-xw/s2056/Canyonlands_dates_2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2056" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1L5S-AGqzKd0MdMQaZshmGjU-SQZu9wmCyNnzDm4OzhyJK1pzDvA_va_IMJDtQEik7cF8dzjm89b2obkrvki-xglkGuk5d7OLqea6PFtl0gFTPwfMmBW94cIUjkrHQKjnb49nLdDvkk5vwkThUA60eBh5p-MWtTqXooNtMpfXj74Z8Wa-xw/w498-h640/Canyonlands_dates_2.jpg" width="498" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad and my sister Sara standing at the exact same overlook, exactly one year apart. The dates and picture poses were unintentional — this is just how it worked out. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>I broached the Canyonlands issue within hours of arriving at home on June 17. I wasn't sure whether Dad and Mom had discussed his final wishes. In their religion, cremation was once verboten or at least heavily discouraged. It's still outside the norm — most members of the LDS faith are buried in cemeteries next to their parents and other relatives, usually with space reserved for a spouse. Often the name and birth date of the still-living spouse are carved into a shared headstone, which I always thought was a bit creepy. I already understood that my mom wished for a traditional burial. And I didn't know whether Dad had ever discussed alternatives with her. He hadn't shared much with me about his desire to be cremated before he rather presciently brought it up in April 2021. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was nervous about approaching Mom. He'd discussed it with her, but only in passing, and there was nothing about burial in his will. (Humorously, what he did include in his will were the three classic rock songs he wished to have played after his funeral, as well as the longtime friend who he wanted to sing during the service — "if he's still alive.") I was ready to fight for what I strongly believed to be Dad's final wishes, but was also willing to concede if Mom was going to be deeply upset — after all, she's the one still living; what matters to her is what matters. Mom surprised me by agreeing to cremation without hesitation. My sisters also were strongly on board. We made the arrangements and planned for a closed-casket service with a decoy casket and a strategy to discretely handle prying questions from relatives. Then we started making plans for our private family service in Canyonlands. </div><div><br /></div><div>"It has to be April," I said. "That was his time." <br /><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJOIBXTQRZwncmYP5-9sSzxnMeNKRK0tCzf25inyG1lgTdWy6zvjU9nKjVLi7hVcUm8H79HOSjeWCZ2t_cGyhZFzD4sXAqvNnqZUHk8fdVk2z4tBhZ1OAywuYIuY6wHLNFEy7kc2Os56b5-6plS0hACxWlJdtkxztV9DPwigbMO4GXT3xf3A/s4032/IMG_9462.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJOIBXTQRZwncmYP5-9sSzxnMeNKRK0tCzf25inyG1lgTdWy6zvjU9nKjVLi7hVcUm8H79HOSjeWCZ2t_cGyhZFzD4sXAqvNnqZUHk8fdVk2z4tBhZ1OAywuYIuY6wHLNFEy7kc2Os56b5-6plS0hACxWlJdtkxztV9DPwigbMO4GXT3xf3A/w640-h480/IMG_9462.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With my sisters and mom in April 2022.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>We booked dates in late April, and I spent far too much time and energy fretting about how it would work out — hopefully the weather wouldn't be too harrowing, and hopefully Mom could handle the long hikes, and hopefully I wouldn't panic at that weird exposed spot on the Peekaboo Trail like I did in 2021. As it turned out, I ended up with the biggest issue to overcome. Back in January, I fell down my stairs at home and broke the pinkie toe on my right foot. I'm not sure this was the exact nature of my injury, but it was incredibly painful and surprisingly debilitating and yet "just a toe." I continued with my Iditarod training and raced the difficult 350 miles with long miles of pushing my bike in late February. I think as a consequence, the appendage never fully healed. Then, two days before we were set to leave for Utah, I fell down my stairs again, and again jammed the exact same toe that again turned purple and swelled like a rotten grape. I panic-texted photos to my physician friend and physical therapist and again got the "it's just a toe" advice. So I packed a supportive, 20-year-old pair of Vibram-soled leather hiking boots and hoped for the best. </div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS1ay4TR0-6ATffYyBALoRMtXDYamLcQLGskDsy9rTvRjME4SO2ZcKdg08YWDL1_qTLMarvkiiS13U_6kjY5RPu-_r_AEJf8YWbJbYNn5PPHSIU4C9IxoKRYqIh4aAm2-_kjxkIVqLu4wGk7VUp3pzbyF4qJfheLytl2wCAGmdO4qCm-VX_g/s4032/PXL_20220422_161719804.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS1ay4TR0-6ATffYyBALoRMtXDYamLcQLGskDsy9rTvRjME4SO2ZcKdg08YWDL1_qTLMarvkiiS13U_6kjY5RPu-_r_AEJf8YWbJbYNn5PPHSIU4C9IxoKRYqIh4aAm2-_kjxkIVqLu4wGk7VUp3pzbyF4qJfheLytl2wCAGmdO4qCm-VX_g/w640-h480/PXL_20220422_161719804.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>It is strange to be in a fair amount of physical pain during an emotionally cathartic experience. At times I could put it out of my mind, but for long stretches, I could not. My toe throbbed and sent continuous signals to my brain to stop walking already. For that reason, I couldn't quite slip into the flow that I rely on to find peace in my hikes. It took focus to remember what I was doing and appreciate where I was. I wondered if my mom was feeling something similar. She engaged in daily 3- and 5-mile walks to prepare for these hikes, but it had been a while since she hiked technical trails with so many ups and downs. The forecast called for one day with a high likelihood of thunderstorms, and a second slated to be cold and breezy but dry. So I flipped our original plan around to start with Chesler Park — the less technical trail, and end on Peekaboo. Because of this, we ended up on each trail exactly one year to the date of my Dad's final hikes here. It was unintentional, but fitting. <div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYtXHWRuGgme4EGkhnnUvoP1Crgihwtq4qM7c4LXrT14yeLv91SMJjE0tcWunFrgY9-t7DfAVrnz6ImWiSFqEdGfEZEcLmKZ-li3VLCtSeKFtZmxQ9Iauzht4xQzDWcpONNczD_lB_gN3iAWVebviZc1Cns-nfsGu-8jXRulfJdfOSi0-upQ/s2048/DSC01383.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYtXHWRuGgme4EGkhnnUvoP1Crgihwtq4qM7c4LXrT14yeLv91SMJjE0tcWunFrgY9-t7DfAVrnz6ImWiSFqEdGfEZEcLmKZ-li3VLCtSeKFtZmxQ9Iauzht4xQzDWcpONNczD_lB_gN3iAWVebviZc1Cns-nfsGu-8jXRulfJdfOSi0-upQ/w640-h426/DSC01383.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">April 22, 2021 in Chesler Park.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>In 2021, Dad, Beat and I descended from a bench onto this sandy ribbon of singletrack when Dad first described his wishes to have one of his final resting places be among these sandstone spires. He stopped briefly to turn to me, spread his arms and made a sweeping motion with his hands. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Anywhere in here," he said. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Anywhere?" I asked, looking around for a tangible landmark. It was all vast open space, brush and cryptobiotic soil. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Anywhere," he confirmed as Beat pointed toward a distant boulder.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Maybe over there?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Anywhere," Dad repeated. I took the above photo, because this was the spot. It had to be here.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggD7SDKb_CSaJ1SKgFO4WyY5aQ0zh6Rmjqi9RE6y-F1zJM5hE5ZPXxHeLcARif1NISQaxvykcqTzLTSUpuBSebARm7biwngIZOrNgNrm67YsiKcDiv6anWFycBJ6aYoyWdhK4ZLtFTY_j2mdeuVk_AMMFFKcHDjiylMq3VLulkAng57QMolg/s4032/PXL_20220422_163203096.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggD7SDKb_CSaJ1SKgFO4WyY5aQ0zh6Rmjqi9RE6y-F1zJM5hE5ZPXxHeLcARif1NISQaxvykcqTzLTSUpuBSebARm7biwngIZOrNgNrm67YsiKcDiv6anWFycBJ6aYoyWdhK4ZLtFTY_j2mdeuVk_AMMFFKcHDjiylMq3VLulkAng57QMolg/w640-h480/PXL_20220422_163203096.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">April 22, 2022 in Chesler Park.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>In the 2021 photo, you can see hints of a sandy wash lined with juniper trees. We chose this wash for his eternity in Chesler Park — ashes to ashes, dust to dust. It was 4.5 miles from the nearest trailhead, a little farther than I'd guessed, but a beautiful and quiet stroll amid the hoodoos. Strong weather was already moving in when we stood in a half-circle facing these formations. I didn't know what to do or say. I'd never done anything like this before and had only experienced a similar service once before when my friend Raj spread some of his father's ashes at White Pine Lake in July 2021. I'll admit that the act was awkward but gratifying. I whispered goodbye as the gusting spring winds swept Dad away.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyuo9_Pjx1BfbucTMQEK2YQksYHeyYWl4JfyRVjb42yis14uzYGnH9W2eEhnjGdN3Mosh_qVa0fkyRDDdiirZcM_LczjRrMx15djiQg1qLNJAR9Gj1cHbVRBrXRv10UzBc28ucqi_tfR1OFoO0VcAEjwK9mitwtmdYdfaqxHKDjuKFynIXcg/s4032/PXL_20220422_183923502.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyuo9_Pjx1BfbucTMQEK2YQksYHeyYWl4JfyRVjb42yis14uzYGnH9W2eEhnjGdN3Mosh_qVa0fkyRDDdiirZcM_LczjRrMx15djiQg1qLNJAR9Gj1cHbVRBrXRv10UzBc28ucqi_tfR1OFoO0VcAEjwK9mitwtmdYdfaqxHKDjuKFynIXcg/w640-h480/PXL_20220422_183923502.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Then the rain arrived — hard, cold, and persistent. Red water gushed down previously dry channels. I carried several extra jackets but wasn't quite as prepared as I should have been for a typical April deluge in the desert. Strong gusts buffeted us as we contoured sandstone benches. I was a little nervous that we wouldn't be able to ward off hypothermia. Luckily we dropped into a canyon, where we had to wade through baby flash floods, but at least we were protected from the wind. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix4LZPtrRa-Epj482cXn81c_O6IZWIdthnLM4AGu-egOnHxN8_4EyLE_AcICOWyJyj5IDsktTE4Jgy_jL0VrrsehTKbUy1SXHlKhTfZaqULR5-wBvQGwH9eBSsh656JEL-wKWsOD5BoTF5ZQegoSj6sut9qCXrO5ymlEi0sa4c3BH2Ns4ffw/s4032/PXL_20220422_184839669.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix4LZPtrRa-Epj482cXn81c_O6IZWIdthnLM4AGu-egOnHxN8_4EyLE_AcICOWyJyj5IDsktTE4Jgy_jL0VrrsehTKbUy1SXHlKhTfZaqULR5-wBvQGwH9eBSsh656JEL-wKWsOD5BoTF5ZQegoSj6sut9qCXrO5ymlEi0sa4c3BH2Ns4ffw/w640-h480/PXL_20220422_184839669.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>It was quite the adventure. Mom mentioned several times that Dad wouldn't choose such a wet day for a hike, but this wasn't exactly true. While he was talented at optimizing for ideal conditions, he wouldn't let a sudden shift in the weather stop him. In 2018, we hiked the Peekaboo Trail in a full April snowstorm as powder accumulated on the rock. This day, because it was so much wetter, felt even colder. Lisa didn't complain until she fully lost feeling in both hands (I offered my own pair of soaked gloves, which didn't help.) Beat, dressed in typical running garb, opted to run ahead. Sara and Mom didn't complain at all. I like to think Dad would have been proud.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>There's a lot of you in this light </i></div><div><i>Nimble in your footstep, dashing out of sight </i></div><div><i>Every corner is written by you. </i></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWjD2ZZt5nZc9roC-fc_pMDx5h4ndP1rIjwU4YJXa23rFm-yYYNdzNk5kESB-Ia6uDBFahllA5r0ryhzWGm4RVRFOasXtp_i0YcBt-LKEDRkvXH8O-Q9ivugcq3xAY6HnKQYdYmx2gtTx33rHocL6sr4QqIHfg1cbbcQ0W2eZMHTbug9-F_A/s7350/Canyonlands_dates_3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="7350" data-original-width="5472" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWjD2ZZt5nZc9roC-fc_pMDx5h4ndP1rIjwU4YJXa23rFm-yYYNdzNk5kESB-Ia6uDBFahllA5r0ryhzWGm4RVRFOasXtp_i0YcBt-LKEDRkvXH8O-Q9ivugcq3xAY6HnKQYdYmx2gtTx33rHocL6sr4QqIHfg1cbbcQ0W2eZMHTbug9-F_A/w476-h640/Canyonlands_dates_3.jpg" width="476" /></a></div>I was nervous about taking my family on the Peekaboo Trail, only because it's hard for me — all of that off-camber sandstone, scrambles in and out of drainages, and brief exposure. As is my way, I overthought the entire thing and proposed an alternative approach along Salt Creek Wash — a boring sand slog that truly only Jill could love, or at least tolerate. They rejected my proposal soundly, and I tried hard not to let anxiety get the better of me. <div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXDnpG51-_d8ucmTD2vgEU6dIO0XO2n3gK4I9hm1bAl-R_loel5V1Ob8HyLa8bHFMjScmOfdlCYp9oix4GiTZGdeJ0ywg7A2ol4aJZKO168RwXRH1z35luUKF32X2wljWoilWg6fX8c3gSFqs3qx7wk3OKS1-AmDrityvbyfX_UkItQ9MqQ/s4032/PXL_20220423_162220552.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXDnpG51-_d8ucmTD2vgEU6dIO0XO2n3gK4I9hm1bAl-R_loel5V1Ob8HyLa8bHFMjScmOfdlCYp9oix4GiTZGdeJ0ywg7A2ol4aJZKO168RwXRH1z35luUKF32X2wljWoilWg6fX8c3gSFqs3qx7wk3OKS1-AmDrityvbyfX_UkItQ9MqQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220423_162220552.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beat plays peekaboo on the Peekaboo Trail.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />As forecast, the day brought cold wind but blue skies. The Peekaboo Trail is a real crowd-pleaser with fun playground-like terrain and dynamic vistas of redrock skyscrapers and canyons bursting with spring green. My sisters were in awe, which was fun to observe. Mom struggled more on this day, but she never made a peep about it, even after we admonished her to sit down and finally eat something. The snacks, in honor of Dad, were pita bread smeared with Nutella, Maui sweet onion chips, and a trail mix that was exactly half peanuts, half regular M&Ms ... why Dad didn't just eat Peanut M&Ms, I never understood, and now I'll never have a chance to ask. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC4seVqzy45q7lZrA3GpsuAWbOe4dJ4VDMgCuyoJkaktsJNXdK4zapErZ4566A3GOSxxX4WlBApZvsCSC1coH6nriytzADzQ7bAC0dAbOdg14iTyMllPumrlbWNbSESM7qf9cb7MeWi9rmThGnHbRO7TSXpdImotgL_abJdPgDR1v-ZZHJ6Q/s4032/PXL_20220423_155603592.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC4seVqzy45q7lZrA3GpsuAWbOe4dJ4VDMgCuyoJkaktsJNXdK4zapErZ4566A3GOSxxX4WlBApZvsCSC1coH6nriytzADzQ7bAC0dAbOdg14iTyMllPumrlbWNbSESM7qf9cb7MeWi9rmThGnHbRO7TSXpdImotgL_abJdPgDR1v-ZZHJ6Q/w640-h480/PXL_20220423_155603592.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>Despite everything going well, anxiety had scrambled my brain somewhat. Somehow, I convinced myself that the rock formation we were contouring around wasn't "The Sentinel." </div><div><br /></div><div>"It's larger than that," I insisted. "And it's farther away." As we rose to the upper bench, I spotted a nearby butte with rock debris littered around the base. I let myself believe, maybe for longer than I should admit, that the Sentinel had collapsed. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Wouldn't it be wild if Dad <i>did</i> outlast the Sentinel?" I babbled as Beat shook his head. This runaway fantasy was fun while it lasted, but eventually, I had seen the Sentinel from enough aspects to leave no room for doubt. The formation still stood. </div><div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguWWtHwCXtJx4H_P6cZjdvWb7W61X7QRCut4-mwiA29pgpUVsT5zvp0t5kwKRoDeeUMpgmo-52YrmCaF6s6aMzHrmS3jfr1cdjHhPu_9Y5L99oLPeeHF6jPOcwz6JGOi45Imja3le7H_X4qZtM2pbq-LszzaolYSukoBLF0yOIQyGXoq5WxQ/s4032/PXL_20220423_164548901.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguWWtHwCXtJx4H_P6cZjdvWb7W61X7QRCut4-mwiA29pgpUVsT5zvp0t5kwKRoDeeUMpgmo-52YrmCaF6s6aMzHrmS3jfr1cdjHhPu_9Y5L99oLPeeHF6jPOcwz6JGOi45Imja3le7H_X4qZtM2pbq-LszzaolYSukoBLF0yOIQyGXoq5WxQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220423_164548901.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>The place Dad had pointed out last year wasn't exactly in the shadow of the Sentinel, but rather the highest point on the route with a panoramic view that swept across much of Canyonlands. We each took a turn standing at the edge to share a few sentences of gratitude and release a handful of ash to the gusting wind. The ashes, shimmering in the sunlight, swirled through the breeze for long seconds, traveling out of sight before they could settle. The intent was Leave No Trace, but the effect was mesmerizing in its beauty. Sparkle and fade. Dust to dust. The awe of impermanence. Now, Dad can rest all across this valley, and all under the watchful gaze of the Sentinel. Of course, even the Sentinel can't last forever. </div><div><br /></div><div><div><i>I thought that life would be a lot without you here </i></div><div><i>It's alright </i></div><div><i>Now that you're kind of еverything and everywhеre </i></div><div><i>In low light.</i></div></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCCTzMmkTYETCSoeK4LJoOIburjzOLSrvVOCXcABiMblhINuOC1S5BJM305AWRrU_t6UWkY2qFVi7T5tJSUsUfJ1v0h_0iOnW-4ktm2A9X4RowiM2ULXXJHC-Rx_JE8f0O2ohUsd1zYh8knWEypRhWpRapsMEgiE6tQL4YRgljbPeWbBSOUQ/s4032/PXL_20220423_165907026.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCCTzMmkTYETCSoeK4LJoOIburjzOLSrvVOCXcABiMblhINuOC1S5BJM305AWRrU_t6UWkY2qFVi7T5tJSUsUfJ1v0h_0iOnW-4ktm2A9X4RowiM2ULXXJHC-Rx_JE8f0O2ohUsd1zYh8knWEypRhWpRapsMEgiE6tQL4YRgljbPeWbBSOUQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220423_165907026.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />No other hikers passed this spot the entire time we were there, nearly an hour, unheard of for a sunny Saturday afternoon in April. But so it was. We enjoyed the peace and silence of Heaven on Earth. I quietly thanked Dad for giving me an excuse to return to this place at every opportunity possible. It's just so meaningful compared to a manicured cemetery crowded with hundreds of strangers. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD94YruXy2tXULI5MyRu5DzDYWqCoK4BKU9VZwQ8W67hhFM6y8w4QbL1DF-8bdjdXHJrESdKCqypBSaYlBN10SwJqJZXGjoi2rKDn6suue9DYPtxhouKyS12Ksg0pxnwoM9XkM2v21CHjh3ioArkcTh8x-Eg7uMTjr3_kUv_RlClOEBoyijA/s4032/PXL_20220423_185227970.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD94YruXy2tXULI5MyRu5DzDYWqCoK4BKU9VZwQ8W67hhFM6y8w4QbL1DF-8bdjdXHJrESdKCqypBSaYlBN10SwJqJZXGjoi2rKDn6suue9DYPtxhouKyS12Ksg0pxnwoM9XkM2v21CHjh3ioArkcTh8x-Eg7uMTjr3_kUv_RlClOEBoyijA/w640-h480/PXL_20220423_185227970.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I'm not sure where I want my body to go when I die. To be entirely honest, I don't really care. Perhaps it could be mulched somehow and used to fertilize a tree, although that may be overly complicated or outlawed. With any luck, I'll be very old and there won't be many left to mourn my passing, which is just fine with me — although also to be entirely honest, my greatest fear is that I'll outlive all of the people I love. In my wildest fantasies, I'm under an avalanche of snow or the bottom of a ravine and left there to be devoured by the elements, although I realize this isn't fair to the living. Cremation is probably the most practical solution, and perhaps there will be someone out there willing to spread my ashes on Rainy Pass in Alaska. Or — even more appropriate — Lone Peak.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lone Peak is the next and final step in this particular journey. It was the third spot my Dad expressed a desire in having his ashes spread, and it's the most difficult to reach. I've been to this summit in the Wasatch Mountains at least six times, but only once without my dad. It was 2010 when I decided to climb up there and release torn-up pieces of paper on which I had written memories of my dad's Dad. Grandpa Homer died on Sept. 4 of that year. The climb ended up being a harrowing experience — I hadn't before realized how safe I felt with my father until I was clinging to a rock slab with my butt hanging over hundreds of feet of empty space on the summit ridge. But later this summer, perhaps on Sept. 4, I intend to climb Lone Peak with my Dad one more time. I believe he'll provide the peace I need to surmount my anxiety and finish the journey. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Nothing to save, no more weather delays </i></div><div><i>Nothing to lose, no more troubles for you </i></div><div><i>I can still see you running around </i></div><div><i>And if it stays in my mind, then it's not gone.</i></div>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-68966205097921172202022-06-23T23:30:00.004-06:002022-06-23T23:49:46.159-06:00365 days<p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2wbujCDkhtCRE0Yo1RjXKkTeNdg_4ZZMRop8HngAeEz92sQBls_-ES4XmgFNFkUYgIJtTjD8m-BFLIYQhT5Ed6nojwgd1fqEtpGL0NzEpTYdTd-6yIuOdgVvKcfsuXfNfdW-GehRTB3EOVD-q2exvIQROkGfg6CYZy5T1O3Uh0Pe8TLG9zg/s4032/PXL_20220618_040200279.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2wbujCDkhtCRE0Yo1RjXKkTeNdg_4ZZMRop8HngAeEz92sQBls_-ES4XmgFNFkUYgIJtTjD8m-BFLIYQhT5Ed6nojwgd1fqEtpGL0NzEpTYdTd-6yIuOdgVvKcfsuXfNfdW-GehRTB3EOVD-q2exvIQROkGfg6CYZy5T1O3Uh0Pe8TLG9zg/w640-h480/PXL_20220618_040200279.jpg" width="640" /></a> I'm still not sure what to do with this blog, besides letting it drift deeper into ever-expanding cyberspace like the Voyager time capsule, which is what all blogs eventually become. It is nice to have an outlet for long-form adventure reports, but there's also that element of "why continue to send things out into the void?" </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I recently started a new writing project that's entirely self-motivated, meaning I'm creating it for myself and I'm not too fussed about gaining readership, although I made it public because I do enjoy the act of telling a story for a potential reader. I'm using<a href="https://jilloutside.substack.com/" target="_blank"> Substack </a>as a venue, because I like the idea of a mailing list that will regularly reach only the people actually interested in my essays — unlike social media, which casts a wide but shallow net. I find my use of a mailing list ironic, though, because the entire reason I started this blog back in the Before Times of 2005 was to curtail the mass e-mails I was CC'ing to friends and family. I wish I had saved the snarky response I received from a high school friend with whom I lost contact years ago, but it amounted to, "No one wants 1,000 e-mails about your great new life in Alaska." So I launched a blog. It's amassed more than 2,250 posts and is now old enough to graduate from high school itself. Life truly does come full circle. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The premise of my Substack is to sort through an old trunk that is full of the detritus of my youth — photo albums, journals, art work, CDs I can no longer play, and floppy discs I can no longer read — and write essays inspired by the contents. I've been wanting to "archive" this stuff for years, but have little interest in dutifully digitalizing everything. While it's worth revisiting, most of it isn't worth saving. Just spending a month with it has already convinced me that when the wildfire comes, this trunk will not be among the things I try to save. Reading through my old journals has resurrected so many long-buried emotions; I will welcome the incineration of each painful page. But the fun memories and life lessons remain, and I have been sorely in need of a prompt to continue my writing practice, and sorely in need of a regular writing practice for my mental health. The project was going well until June 8, when I lost momentum. Summer is likely to continue being both busy and difficult, and I admit that new posts will continue to be spotty. But if you're interested in subscribing, the link is here: <a href="https://jilloutside.substack.com/">https://jilloutside.substack.com/</a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIQDkcFeyXmjsBBUyLKTY2-WvCnKgO6HDJroeTSFduPvzYiw-yHc9hYFN9AwW4i1tEDcZhKg9hmvWGw1Fh2oxiUnX9D3qxzfQgJ-6HTivEpqFD2w985i_XkzwbbPrkVIWnjvXRlg6VX2ELPaHyDIEFNM_xede8MUXKosrpYKqDFgchwqfddw/s4032/PXL_20220617_041004873.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIQDkcFeyXmjsBBUyLKTY2-WvCnKgO6HDJroeTSFduPvzYiw-yHc9hYFN9AwW4i1tEDcZhKg9hmvWGw1Fh2oxiUnX9D3qxzfQgJ-6HTivEpqFD2w985i_XkzwbbPrkVIWnjvXRlg6VX2ELPaHyDIEFNM_xede8MUXKosrpYKqDFgchwqfddw/w640-h480/PXL_20220617_041004873.jpg" width="640" /></a></p>June 16 marked The Day, the terrible anniversary, one full trip around the sun without my Dad. It's been a surreal year. It often feels as though my brain has been rewired, that I no longer can return to the person I was before June 16, 2021, because my interests and values have been entirely reworked. Of course, the reality is much more complex than that. Spending time with my terrible teenage journals has revealed the discomforting truth that I'm still the same person I was then, that I can't change, not inherently, and it's time that is moving on without me. It's rare to find moments when the dissonance quiets, but my surest paths are also the most simple: Hiking in the mountains, long bike rides, and spending unqualified time with my family. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqaa74vJnqulBf8jOv3P78z8_OqOR24_rK8ENY14tb5ycg-YpIEQhyQpeems9CrcO7wjeEq7lyczCBKj8dNSQv807MEHISwv6rK0Jvqu04YBLymxOI7PmN55GwFBMvr0PbMGJ32AcrrX_8lfl7x935UNSKXUW8y44dUvhAvbx4UQodU48Svw/s4032/PXL_20220618_040118110.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqaa74vJnqulBf8jOv3P78z8_OqOR24_rK8ENY14tb5ycg-YpIEQhyQpeems9CrcO7wjeEq7lyczCBKj8dNSQv807MEHISwv6rK0Jvqu04YBLymxOI7PmN55GwFBMvr0PbMGJ32AcrrX_8lfl7x935UNSKXUW8y44dUvhAvbx4UQodU48Svw/w640-h480/PXL_20220618_040118110.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>It was my youngest sister who proposed spending June 16 together, just the four of us. Oregon was my idea. Last June, while helping my Mom unspool the finances that held her life together for 44 years, one of our first tasks was canceling all of the AirBnB and hotel reservations my Dad had made for their planned July trip along the Oregon coast. She had maintained such a brave demeanor during the awful week of funeral planning and services, but after her trip was officially canceled, she broke down in front of me for the first time. <div><br /></div><div>"Who will I go on road trips with now?" she asked through a stream of tears.</div><div><br /></div><div>I vowed to take my Mom on a road trip. My sisters don't love sitting in cars and I doubt my Mom has many potential companions who can match her strenuous travel style. I enjoy driving, at least on the open road in the wide-open spaces of the West, but I'm only a shadow of my dad in this regard. He could get in a car and drive straight-through for 12 or 15 hours, stopping for only 10 minutes at a time for snacks and pee breaks, no sit-down meals. He'd drive until 2 a.m. if it meant he didn't have to stop and pay for a hotel. Even when we were children, he'd groan at every bathroom break we requested. He likely continued to do so with my Mom, who told me she wasn't allowed to buy the big drink. </div><div><br /></div><div>As for me — 12 hours of driving per day is my maximum, and that's mainly if I can squeeze a three-hour adventure break somewhere in the middle. I buy the big drink, sometimes two or three of them if you count coffee, and stop at two-hour intervals for long stretch breaks — especially now that I have become a person with a bad back. And while I enjoy driving, I think it's exhausting. It's at least as exhausting as hiking, which is why I need to draw a hard line about driving past bedtime. It's okay to fall asleep on my feet, but not okay to fall asleep behind the wheel. So I do not have my Dad's driving endurance by any stretch, which is why I should have done a modicum of research before proposing the trip and schedule I proposed. Even five seconds on Google Maps would have told me the most direct distance from Boulder to Rockaway Beach was 1,400 miles. But I digress.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDnaKhd8iIuJflBAHLDHw2MORDXa-37BPftII1ebgfEK9sCdj9zSpwXBtbaJapTz93xrL65oS_OB63OpiALwJWp9ZwE0t9As1OdqCEVJvgXoj5OUuNOH-1Y7sNk5AKNIxftm4sGTad7QDvaof7pJdu-j8DcZ4hBkPGfH61WovxUNeCkNwbwQ/s4032/PXL_20220612_145906519.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDnaKhd8iIuJflBAHLDHw2MORDXa-37BPftII1ebgfEK9sCdj9zSpwXBtbaJapTz93xrL65oS_OB63OpiALwJWp9ZwE0t9As1OdqCEVJvgXoj5OUuNOH-1Y7sNk5AKNIxftm4sGTad7QDvaof7pJdu-j8DcZ4hBkPGfH61WovxUNeCkNwbwQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220612_145906519.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>I drove out to Salt Lake City on a Sunday, stubbornly setting my alarm for 5 a.m. so I could take my long stretch break on a 14er, Mount Bierstadt. It was still early enough in the season to not be terribly crowded — I mean, the parking lot was full at 7 a.m., but if you knew the crush of a Colorado summer, you'd find these crowds reasonable. I like 14ers because they're easy to plan and easy to access, but it's already become that time of year when they are best avoided. <div><br /></div><div>Bierstadt was a straightforward three-hour hike and then I was back on the road, cruising west along the Colorado River corridor. Temperatures climbed into the triple digits by Grand Junction, and an encroaching cold front brought 40 mph winds and a raging dust storm. For me, haze and heat create the worst kind of ugly. I couldn't see the La Sals, couldn't see the San Rafael Swell, could barely see the semi-truck in front of me on Highway 6. The scenes were eerily familiar to my drive out to Salt Lake the day after my father died, along these same roads. That June day also brought triple-digit heat and haze in the form of wildfire smoke. My heart was filled with a depth of anger and fear I'd never before experienced, and the world was unspeakably ugly. I was certain I'd never see beauty again. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, one year later, I was listing to a fun and generally light-hearted storytelling podcast to take my mind off the heaviness I was beginning to feel. In fact, <a href="https://strangerville.libsyn.com/" target="_blank">Strangerville</a> is what inspired me to start my Substack, since the co-host Eli always tells such fun stories from his Utah childhood. He and the other co-host, Meg, have become my virtual friends who entertain my virtual trainer rides. I've worked my way backward to episodes deep into 2020 — a fun time for us all! But it was an episode from early in the year, the Before Times — February 8, 2020 — that broke me. A woman witnessed a hit-and-run collision and rushed to help the victim when no one else would stop. She described holding a 70-year-old man in her arms as he took his final breaths. As she spoke, the proverbial dam exploded and I collapsed into gasping sobs. I had to pull over on a narrow shoulder of Spanish Fork Canyon. It wasn't the safest place to stop, but I was physically incapable of driving any farther. I could barely lift my head up from the steering wheel to catch my breath. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQjYSD1L5mScGJpWJ46lLSkv2kvI_LgxiMdBdPy-tDq4e7mjO_JoetFTA4Ijm8qZFGMf6D3HQt3UM_M3ur1WvaqerIteJMtl4jWQD9qZ_ikaCbuaoFKVeSzWgStRQB4zWn6DG1fRpobZp0SNmMb7nLGpYzhOTCxNY5JsxJHeoTXnKIWhlRHQ/s3264/PXL_20220614_172720222.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQjYSD1L5mScGJpWJ46lLSkv2kvI_LgxiMdBdPy-tDq4e7mjO_JoetFTA4Ijm8qZFGMf6D3HQt3UM_M3ur1WvaqerIteJMtl4jWQD9qZ_ikaCbuaoFKVeSzWgStRQB4zWn6DG1fRpobZp0SNmMb7nLGpYzhOTCxNY5JsxJHeoTXnKIWhlRHQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220614_172720222.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Running along the Willamette River</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>It's strange, the way grief comes in waves. Sometimes the turbulence is so strong that I can't even breathe, and sometimes it's a gentle tide that lulls me to sleep. But what I've learned in the past year is that it doesn't go away, that it won't ever go away, and the best I can do is work to keep my head above the water. That episode in Spanish Fork Canyon reminded me that this week was going to be hard. I managed to pull myself together and drive the remaining hour to Salt Lake, where Mom and I promptly started preparations for the continued push West.<div><br /></div><div>Salt Lake to Portland is 12 hours of nonstop driving, and Mom pushed a relentless pace. I don't think she intended to; it's just what she's used to. You go into the rest stop, you use the toilet, and you're back at the car in three minutes or less. We managed one serendipitous 20-minute stop at a Panera in Boise. But the sit-down break had been so comparatively luxurious and thus wasteful that in my fluster to leave Boise, I forgot to stop for gas, which generated a not-small amount of stress in Eastern Oregon. Mom and I filled the drive with engaging discussions and emotional honesty, everything I intended to achieve from this trip, but 12 hours of nonstop conversation is also difficult for me. By the time we reached Portland, I was a shell. I've been less tired after ultramarathons. </div><div><br /></div><div>Due to my work schedule, we had an extra day and a half in Portland before my sisters arrived. I filled the hours with work and running. With each mile, I slowly unraveled the knot in my back and brought my brain back to the present. Portland is such a beautiful city. I remember why I wanted to move here when I was young. <div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifdaPCyMDtIth9lNfBQ0ztxi5fSk4Thhn3qqcKwJEU0rCXPeXBPMqOidF9WA1JST99YuPTNCZOz8kQmXSjps6Ti8xdZ-6nc5IZC3Gh58g2-lk2sylzjtRuLy8qKNIvtX5sRRWy4yZfk55aJb-u1Z2PPQlu6ZXN3humuWGJHQi5zspAvl1A-g/s3834/PXL_20220615_223935995.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3834" data-original-width="2867" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifdaPCyMDtIth9lNfBQ0ztxi5fSk4Thhn3qqcKwJEU0rCXPeXBPMqOidF9WA1JST99YuPTNCZOz8kQmXSjps6Ti8xdZ-6nc5IZC3Gh58g2-lk2sylzjtRuLy8qKNIvtX5sRRWy4yZfk55aJb-u1Z2PPQlu6ZXN3humuWGJHQi5zspAvl1A-g/w478-h640/PXL_20220615_223935995.jpg" width="478" /></a></div>Lisa and Sara arrived by early Wednesday afternoon. Lisa's flight was delayed by several hours because flying is a nightmare right now (both of their return flights were canceled and they had to reschedule at the last minute.) With gas closing in on $6 a gallon and crowds bursting at the seams of every remote destination, there is a small part of me that yearns for a return to stay-at-home quarantine times ... but I digress. We were together in Oregon and we were happy. We headed toward the coast without much of a plan. We drove right by the Tillamook cheese factory so I suggested stopping there, instantly regretted this suggestion when I saw the Disneyland-like crowds, but ended up becoming enthralled with all the delicious dairy. We spent two hours at the cheese factory. Over ice cream I searched nearby destinations on my phone and proposed a diversion to Cape Meares — my sisters and I collectively remembered that "Mom loves lighthouses" and she confirmed that she does indeed love lighthouses. <p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyk5XUG245_18CjP-SA5aZ3XDdFqHoi9ofgq3rDXKMhJr47BllSTPVHw4F7-463N3Gfk-Axkyxhaiy2xQ-rgGJ1ogvM6ELCIDMKyZ3TlaHfgb0VHqxDr2-T4_WrrPUBEXJq81AIpjQRaTXMkqcGGNrUvtWYwIi6nmKF52dG2HfnEQrCZCWyQ/s4032/PXL_20220616_000939129.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyk5XUG245_18CjP-SA5aZ3XDdFqHoi9ofgq3rDXKMhJr47BllSTPVHw4F7-463N3Gfk-Axkyxhaiy2xQ-rgGJ1ogvM6ELCIDMKyZ3TlaHfgb0VHqxDr2-T4_WrrPUBEXJq81AIpjQRaTXMkqcGGNrUvtWYwIi6nmKF52dG2HfnEQrCZCWyQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220616_000939129.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p></p><div style="text-align: left;">While at Cape Mearas, the sisters and I embarked on a short but steep hike to the coast. The trail was an utter mess — the Pacific Northwest has received record rains this spring, so every inch was either a morass of mud, a tangle of deadfall, a puddle, or a fern jungle. The sisters were good sports. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisCy9LVfw3yTyKOtby0mkL6gAYeydw1Esx5ysxtcER8eOSSzwWLotXCRYR2HUcG-vHHr-fRoUEbd3k2z7e00EoGe1YUtoZG7sMhOH77_HDTb3lnc-sHMujajTOyT8-rvH-VJWw0TRMwle5kmoDtGwzEYrEfeeGR9ECrhf0CGZUWe1GZD18oA/s3264/PXL_20220616_001448189.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisCy9LVfw3yTyKOtby0mkL6gAYeydw1Esx5ysxtcER8eOSSzwWLotXCRYR2HUcG-vHHr-fRoUEbd3k2z7e00EoGe1YUtoZG7sMhOH77_HDTb3lnc-sHMujajTOyT8-rvH-VJWw0TRMwle5kmoDtGwzEYrEfeeGR9ECrhf0CGZUWe1GZD18oA/w640-h480/PXL_20220616_001448189.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We ended up in a narrow cove surrounded by cliffs, a secret beach where we could sit on driftwood and watch the waves. All of us had a good cry here. It's a cliche but true — the ocean is a place for healing. It's so vast that we can disappear into it for a moment, let it absorb all of the pain and grief, and simply be. The mountains are good for me as long as I can keep moving, but if and when I reach a point in my life where I require a long pause, I hope I can be by the ocean. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vbZswkNwq5e9E9Aw8KTL8F6bZPj4kWcS2AnCrhkjKOyhIkqIW62EB8sKEIopvNgKj11NN96YfLzvHrucYcSAYV1vBlnBnpbrxEO4kwbA_PGf_Y44ofvvPQ_TUSRQsN074NtlNZseEKw6XoqE2mwJBIjgBdDaKWeHmAfHPFntaskjU4m9Qg/s4032/PXL_20220616_145845151.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vbZswkNwq5e9E9Aw8KTL8F6bZPj4kWcS2AnCrhkjKOyhIkqIW62EB8sKEIopvNgKj11NN96YfLzvHrucYcSAYV1vBlnBnpbrxEO4kwbA_PGf_Y44ofvvPQ_TUSRQsN074NtlNZseEKw6XoqE2mwJBIjgBdDaKWeHmAfHPFntaskjU4m9Qg/w640-h480/PXL_20220616_145845151.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So I guess this is the "trail." </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Thursday, June 16. Mom had a busy itinerary in mind ... I think she just needed some distraction, to feel as though life could still be as it was when she and my Dad flitted all over the place to squeeze a full two weeks of vacation into one week. The only thing I required on this day was a least a little solo time to breathe and reflect, so I set an early alarm. We were staying at a condo in Rockaway Beach, a delightful out-of-the-way beach town with little to offer beyond a whistle-stop for a steam engine train and "the largest cedar tree in Oregon." My room had its own secret sliding door to the street, so I slipped outside at 6:30 a.m. to misty rain and temperatures in the 50s. Sublime. Thanks to the rain, grass pollen was tamped down and all of this sea-level oxygen made me feel as though I could fly. Sometimes I let myself believe I'm a complex creature who needs an entire ocean to absorb my grief, but then I get a hit of easy oxygen and realize my whole mindset can shift simply by giving my body food, water, or air. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Rockaway doesn't have much in the way of trails, so I mapped out a route on logging roads through the coastal headlands. It was a lovely run along a ridge with views of the verdant hills and big blue sea, with decimated patches of clear-cut forest to keep things real. As I descended toward town, the road I was following became fainter and more overgrown until it dead-ended altogether. I was at that point less than a half-mile from the beach. It was more than five miles back up and around, and I had a tight schedule to keep. I decided to brave bushwhacking, which proved a poor choice in this land of blackberry brambles and other types of bitey vegetation. My legs were shredded by the time I emerged from the forest. I looked like I had lost a fight with an angry street cat. But I was happy. It was a wonderful run. I was in love with Rockaway Beach. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWri1VvB1ueR8641mrYuwhQz8cxVSEKIhq7lDyoaUDPyr-TUfqsVt4BkFjHV3jhvGSv_jDaTHJ6fK2kuDz60fM8f6nSKyrvqq50ypdi3YOzIoi4qEDcq51lIn4mSWgNmcL81BWwHe_lk04-wYArnztFBajqemBDOB8_HtF788uxQH_YT8dLQ/s4032/PXL_20220616_175844920.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWri1VvB1ueR8641mrYuwhQz8cxVSEKIhq7lDyoaUDPyr-TUfqsVt4BkFjHV3jhvGSv_jDaTHJ6fK2kuDz60fM8f6nSKyrvqq50ypdi3YOzIoi4qEDcq51lIn4mSWgNmcL81BWwHe_lk04-wYArnztFBajqemBDOB8_HtF788uxQH_YT8dLQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220616_175844920.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Rain continued to pour down as we drove north to Cannon Beach, but luckily petered out in time to do all of the things. Cannon Beach is iconic and gorgeous, and also windy and cold. Cold weather is always a treat for me, but Sara, who lives in Orange County, California, was less impressed with this aspect of the "beach." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Epq22oAmMuwm5aVsT3GbKD0PoTJlFq1_4niIIHFJHKGpYdQC7LItb0sbyJOJQWqwDYY2zLOYBz9FKiyBtIpCJjstgZy6Ajw684gIC5EQfB3AOqYB6Qpvlu9pySx4W7P7o3FgQW0_eM_nSUsbPGraPZV6DbKPLSZHMbTZx_LpWVnuGJHz7w/s4032/PXL_20220616_220130672.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Epq22oAmMuwm5aVsT3GbKD0PoTJlFq1_4niIIHFJHKGpYdQC7LItb0sbyJOJQWqwDYY2zLOYBz9FKiyBtIpCJjstgZy6Ajw684gIC5EQfB3AOqYB6Qpvlu9pySx4W7P7o3FgQW0_eM_nSUsbPGraPZV6DbKPLSZHMbTZx_LpWVnuGJHz7w/w640-h480/PXL_20220616_220130672.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We headed over to Ecola State Park, which generated much in the way of fun sister jokes because I kept calling it "Ebola," Sara thought it was "E. coli," and we were all singing a parody yodel from the cough drop commercial, "Eeee-co-laaaa." It too was a messy place of endless peanut butter mud and badly eroded trail. I had hoped to squeeze in more hiking with my sisters, but even I was ready to admit that these tiresome conditions were too much for me. <br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7eGgjt1xy3C6KApNJjGt3LQLPnFYX2gaUr722k4zWss0ZZA_PCyNdEM_UA4r1beHGwp7ZArwsuSY6iOkmvnn_lxL9DiWgX9o1IqMxJ_4OWjtGjZnD3wwkOrAnzB6prnCe42aQxAlbaLxzcH_ZpkngZwemkUgUa6KnSjGMWIA3ESuniNYNsw/s4032/PXL_20220616_220513798.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7eGgjt1xy3C6KApNJjGt3LQLPnFYX2gaUr722k4zWss0ZZA_PCyNdEM_UA4r1beHGwp7ZArwsuSY6iOkmvnn_lxL9DiWgX9o1IqMxJ_4OWjtGjZnD3wwkOrAnzB6prnCe42aQxAlbaLxzcH_ZpkngZwemkUgUa6KnSjGMWIA3ESuniNYNsw/w640-h480/PXL_20220616_220513798.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was lovely, though, to trek through this enchanted forest somewhere deep in Middle Earth. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjzimzQsW0lmz53gxieGiCo4uRzsruB5Mb0KLzJG-GBRKZRA7-cX8Mzlhz_p1sn557_bmRLf0xbI3DCjHv7Bvb6vENQI6Oe_jZ7vsNuAkeRhS4kX7RQo7FWjUwoXO6O-eko_kfkKVKjfCFtmi8mn55mg0n4-qOjvJFvMMdq5No7IZ_ttgYBA/s4032/PXL_20220616_223914645.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjzimzQsW0lmz53gxieGiCo4uRzsruB5Mb0KLzJG-GBRKZRA7-cX8Mzlhz_p1sn557_bmRLf0xbI3DCjHv7Bvb6vENQI6Oe_jZ7vsNuAkeRhS4kX7RQo7FWjUwoXO6O-eko_kfkKVKjfCFtmi8mn55mg0n4-qOjvJFvMMdq5No7IZ_ttgYBA/w640-h480/PXL_20220616_223914645.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I think we had all managed to distract ourselves from the difficult anniversary we came here to observe. But truthfully, I wanted to observe it. I had my opportunity here, at Indian Beach. As we sat down on driftwood, I again completely lost myself in the sound of the waves. It was so peaceful, so encompassing. I felt strongly that I just wanted to sit there for the rest of the afternoon, watch the sun set, and let the last light of June 16 disappear into the ocean. Mom seemed to be pushing for our next destination, which was Seaside. I can't blame her, as she'd already been waiting for two hours while we slipped and slid through Ecola. Still, I'll admit to feeling sadness as we drove away. I felt as though we were pushing too hard to speed through this experience, and that we'd miss it altogether. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRak8QYqhAWICR3lqLNuvfuWM0aU_GgvYtzYxMHpPL79Jd-JLuQtD8tsLcs6bBSouJVw3emxATHxg1NexaSJOx5arihGoPkdhg_jJDDtSEvWTKIeJlyePHy-LHYr5ea5fEKu2RNg54NzA_wAkhM-kcmKJxj4qzox11AElr65HGtIFm-II9JQ/s4032/PXL_20220617_231004821.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRak8QYqhAWICR3lqLNuvfuWM0aU_GgvYtzYxMHpPL79Jd-JLuQtD8tsLcs6bBSouJVw3emxATHxg1NexaSJOx5arihGoPkdhg_jJDDtSEvWTKIeJlyePHy-LHYr5ea5fEKu2RNg54NzA_wAkhM-kcmKJxj4qzox11AElr65HGtIFm-II9JQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220617_231004821.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>We had a lovely evening in Seaside. But the following morning, I couldn't muster the energy for a run. I encouraged a visit to "Big Tree" with lunch at the local bakery. I quietly hoped we'd spend the rest of the day in Rockaway, but restlessness prevailed and by afternoon we were on the road south. We stopped at one of Mom's favorite spots, Cape Lookout, but again the trail became too mucky to hike. Mom was enthusiastic about continuing once we hit the mud, but I tried to quietly discourage this — a number of emergency vehicles were parked at the trailhead, and rescue crews passed as we hiked, indicating that someone had a serious injury, which becomes likely on trails like this. After about a mile we gave in, but at least we had a few nice views (the trail was buffed out and dry for the first half-mile, as shown here, which is why we had generated a modicum of optimism.) <p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh83ADYsVYVffXbbK9wdwEwfZyRKEl6X1GDzB5f3lhE94YeBH5UzamRUGJ31T-paArgivkkV9CWqMvRgSEyidEulCj6hr9My1mXQQR-ZKQUj9XVWaGyGY0wX4mKJHC7qd-RM81ffLjaIXvVrzKZGebbcn2tPKrdR-shk5sQCr11wxcfbKbG_g/s4032/PXL_20220618_005643400.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh83ADYsVYVffXbbK9wdwEwfZyRKEl6X1GDzB5f3lhE94YeBH5UzamRUGJ31T-paArgivkkV9CWqMvRgSEyidEulCj6hr9My1mXQQR-ZKQUj9XVWaGyGY0wX4mKJHC7qd-RM81ffLjaIXvVrzKZGebbcn2tPKrdR-shk5sQCr11wxcfbKbG_g/w640-h480/PXL_20220618_005643400.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was Lisa who suggested Cape Kiwanda, another 20 minutes down the road and unknown to all of us. "Sand dunes," she announced as she scrolled through her AllTrails app. I had low expectations, and it was late in the day, but we were already here so why not check it out? We had another humorous family moment after we arrived in an obvious tourist town to discover the only public parking cost $10. Channeling the spirit of our father, Lisa drove through streets lined with "no parking" signs to search for a free space as Sara rolled her eyes. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"It's ten dollars," she said with an exasperated tone and then offered to just pay the fee herself. We promised we pay back our $2.50 share and everyone had a good laugh. Family jokes, you know. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjeeLwV4QAi4b2EGtxE9l1YU1EmdFv15uPRvEL_dQIMgJUdqteMu7tzF4CMszc6-pFt_TYuHb1pIpT9Eo45GeVJ_vbx_Tyl0_zPT6Y9VBXLd8IECQWQ0GW_LbjUHj6so0TrjSkThHjugP3PZnzwZXIu6wF-AOkbWYE_sCVdDkpzeuDUSL77w/s4032/PXL_20220618_004652181.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjeeLwV4QAi4b2EGtxE9l1YU1EmdFv15uPRvEL_dQIMgJUdqteMu7tzF4CMszc6-pFt_TYuHb1pIpT9Eo45GeVJ_vbx_Tyl0_zPT6Y9VBXLd8IECQWQ0GW_LbjUHj6so0TrjSkThHjugP3PZnzwZXIu6wF-AOkbWYE_sCVdDkpzeuDUSL77w/w640-h480/PXL_20220618_004652181.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Cape Kiwanda was beautiful — honestly my favorite stop of the trip. We trudged along the dunes, stopped to look at sea caves, and spend long minutes marveling at the hydraulics churning below the cliffs. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ2aSCORz2h2E-hC28bv5HGwBbJ7ecgKROYRQGkWpv2ZTfqlGcDyRJAF-DOZjlgTiXh_Vyt5TPKfhP5l9Jlzn_Jz0x7IaqlzAnUXun6sFecuIB_8kAeoYda_ftuO5TbFHb-wJBAooPJSYFRWh1z6Bho7qU9bUD5I5_xpl-2hLjE8d2ckwx1A/s2418/PXL_20220618_012102231.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1619" data-original-width="2418" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ2aSCORz2h2E-hC28bv5HGwBbJ7ecgKROYRQGkWpv2ZTfqlGcDyRJAF-DOZjlgTiXh_Vyt5TPKfhP5l9Jlzn_Jz0x7IaqlzAnUXun6sFecuIB_8kAeoYda_ftuO5TbFHb-wJBAooPJSYFRWh1z6Bho7qU9bUD5I5_xpl-2hLjE8d2ckwx1A/w640-h428/PXL_20220618_012102231.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Our loop brought us to the edge of a steep dune descending back toward the beach. It reminded me of winter hiking with my dad, when we'd hit a steep snowfield and he'd suddenly leap forward, snowshoes whipping and powder flying in a barely controlled sprint down the slope. Lisa and Sara started to pick their way down the sand when I announced, "I'm going to go for it. I'm going to run." And with that, I launched forward, legs kicking and arms flailing in an exhilerating descent. My sisters quickly followed, laughing and whooping as we crushed 200 feet of vertical drop in seconds. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Still surging with adrenaline, shoes filled with sand, we ran to find our mom. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"That was just like one of Dad's favorite things in the world," I told my sisters. "Running down the snow slope." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLWihvB1pw0j0OsyNhclKhgaU9n7-bssdeSMcKr-3ZNLT2moNsKuh3iBnsbHkikzM-3xZdYFygqfuBS3zdjyJ2dEV2gVO2FyUEUuMkSekj12uebc6pR6Up_RKDQXZPKNlGF1hs7gdMFiHDtDXZQrQIGtk4LDZ7A_2R7XT_01VK7-mlABnO1Q/s4032/PXL_20220618_142748540.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLWihvB1pw0j0OsyNhclKhgaU9n7-bssdeSMcKr-3ZNLT2moNsKuh3iBnsbHkikzM-3xZdYFygqfuBS3zdjyJ2dEV2gVO2FyUEUuMkSekj12uebc6pR6Up_RKDQXZPKNlGF1hs7gdMFiHDtDXZQrQIGtk4LDZ7A_2R7XT_01VK7-mlABnO1Q/w640-h480/PXL_20220618_142748540.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We had one more morning in Rockaway before my sisters needed to be back in Portland to catch their rescheduled flights home, and then Mom and I would drive another 6.5 hours to Boise to visit her brother. A whirlwind trip, and I was admittedly dreading this day, as my energy levels and back pain had not yet recovered from the drive out. To help prepare my back for another day of painful compression, I mustered motivation for one last early-morning run. This time, I planned my logging road route a bit better and managed to avoid the blackberry brambles. I even squeezed in a mile along the beach.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This run was lovely, with morning fog giving way to a sunny day. It was also deeply cathartic, as rich oxygen coursed through my blood and I experienced a rare sensation that was both peaceful and powerful. I imagined a future where the ocean would always be there to swallow my sadness, but also I could still live in the mountains and a place with real winters. Of course, there's no perfect place, no permanent peace, no true stops in the journey of life — at least until the final stop. I will never stop feeling my grief, never fill this hole where I keep my love for my father. But he's been gone a year now, all of the seasons, and I believe I've reached a measure of peace with this truth. His memory lives on in the people I love, and also in the places he loved, and there is still beauty in this expansive world that nothing can take away. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p></div></div></div>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-48621674401302004822022-05-07T22:40:00.001-06:002022-05-08T09:11:37.486-06:00Just being here now is enough for me<p></p><h2 style="text-align: center;">The 2022 Iditarod Trail Invitational. Part four of four.</h2><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIGzNoWAeX5ra2yz0EnVZH-UsmcYVRmiGOrKgAyni2CJIUYMIq51JsGdMTAobgYxPk8fnLC-UYlqYsNOtiaOrlzEkXqPjbbpzqpdxestmjtqeD6VtvqIysZ2fVdWIHqMorUlEK3ybYS5KtvRNczQlPkZA4p2127b_o5nHyc_EGyMxKZ6TyXw/s4898/DSC00436.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIGzNoWAeX5ra2yz0EnVZH-UsmcYVRmiGOrKgAyni2CJIUYMIq51JsGdMTAobgYxPk8fnLC-UYlqYsNOtiaOrlzEkXqPjbbpzqpdxestmjtqeD6VtvqIysZ2fVdWIHqMorUlEK3ybYS5KtvRNczQlPkZA4p2127b_o5nHyc_EGyMxKZ6TyXw/w640-h426/DSC00436.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Kuskokwim River, March 4, 2022</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> The story of my final day on the Iditarod Trail in 2022 has been a difficult one to start. In addition to being my potential last day ever on the Iditarod Trail — at least in the context of this race — this turned out to be one of my favorite days. But if I wrote from a direct perspective, purely about what happened, it would come across as an exhausting, tedious, punishing sort of day — which it was. If I approached the story from the more fluid perspective of my inner world, it would read like a weird fever dream — which it also was. The truth, as usual, is both and also neither, too complex for a tidy narrative. But we keep trying, don’t we, to tell our story? Like anyone attempting to weave tangled threads of experience, I hope to grasp something tangible from the abstraction of memory. <div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEs2C9CwQi1b7w2wKiSiQOApt4JW7-ErFvmt9BicljHxi0UMzk4P-o69HXcPnYST-tuNIzlFe3mB490NF6fcmx2F9J-ObUJUQl7it2vuRQ0rbP_DZN_k0n1Glxjp0o-gMB-HxO9pO7jL6Wr6mAHMYdJKUW7-NlXy9PvyQOfcW-NsciEiLjKQ/s4898/DSC00426.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEs2C9CwQi1b7w2wKiSiQOApt4JW7-ErFvmt9BicljHxi0UMzk4P-o69HXcPnYST-tuNIzlFe3mB490NF6fcmx2F9J-ObUJUQl7it2vuRQ0rbP_DZN_k0n1Glxjp0o-gMB-HxO9pO7jL6Wr6mAHMYdJKUW7-NlXy9PvyQOfcW-NsciEiLjKQ/w640-h426/DSC00426.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morning outside Nikolai</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>The day started inside the Nikolai checkpoint at the unforgivably early hour of 7 a.m. The checkpoint, located in the village community center, is a large open room with a pool table, a few folding chairs, a bathroom, and a kitchen. When I arrived at 1 a.m., again last in a large conglomeration of cyclists, the only people awake were Troy and a Danish man who I learned was Asbjorn's father. Asbjorn was a skier in the Nome race. The man — who presumably traveled all the way from Denmark to volunteer at this remote checkpoint in rural Alaska — was standing outside and waving his arms when I pulled up to the community center. He had seen from my tracker that I'd spent the last half hour pedaling aimlessly around the village. I found it amusing but endearing that he thought standing in the dark and making this gesture would help me find my way. He directed me inside and offered to cook a hamburger. </div><div><br /></div><div> “This is only the second hamburger I have ever made,” he said proudly. “I am learning American cuisine. How is it?” </div><div><br /></div><div> “It’s great,” I chirped, although he could have served a desiccated piece of Spam and I would have eaten it. I was too muddled to be discerning, and my mouth was too raw from several days of frozen nuts to taste much of anything. I felt shattered. Just so tired. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBzu3sJYkWJx4KA9Cw9rJGhHiLQE_Wj2CaC4Kc3C5U1hknjTOZvWiyMQgk59N3zJbSbEKF3rBZxOHXF2L6QTtCEekZn8uP4LI6LDAI0ycAFHRfdTHQSY1dXXHorEuE3czR4tExDG_t4sf2Uchr6Ec6zUtNDuFTsHswTkgCU7CxjxelKsMVWQ/s4032/PXL_20220304_183643660.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBzu3sJYkWJx4KA9Cw9rJGhHiLQE_Wj2CaC4Kc3C5U1hknjTOZvWiyMQgk59N3zJbSbEKF3rBZxOHXF2L6QTtCEekZn8uP4LI6LDAI0ycAFHRfdTHQSY1dXXHorEuE3czR4tExDG_t4sf2Uchr6Ec6zUtNDuFTsHswTkgCU7CxjxelKsMVWQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220304_183643660.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moody skies over the still well-packed trail outside Nikolai</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>I finished my late-night burger and rolled out my sleeping bag on the linoleum floor. The room was lined with wall-to-wall sleeping bags and there wasn't much space left to lie down. I had to squeeze into a spot in the center of the room. Doubtlessly some people had to step over me during the night, but I still slept like a corpse until the final stragglers started moving five hours later. This was my group — the five who shared tent space in Rohn and banded together for the South Fork crossing. Even though I could barely sit up, I felt compelled to follow them. </div><div><br /></div><div> When I say I could barely sit up, I’m not exaggerating. I must have crashed my bike at least a dozen times the previous day. My pre-dawn body slam on hard ice had limited the mobility in my left hip, but this limp was just the beginning. My entire body was a knot of pain. I was lucky to have cleared the moguls without breaking any bones, but every joint creaked and groaned. My muscles felt tenderized. My bruised skin was throbbing. Every limb was stiff. My older injuries — the back pain and broken toe — were still there, but so muffled by the screaming from everything else that they hardly registered.
When I was still weirdly contorted in my sleeping bag on the floor, Becca walked by and asked if I was planning to leave soon. </div><div><br /></div><div>“I need to summon the will to live,” I croaked. I wasn’t exaggerating about this, either. If I had two buttons and one said “ride to McGrath feeling the way you do” and the other said “die painlessly,” it would have been a genuine toss-up. </div><div><br /></div><div> The official checkpoint volunteer, George, was sitting at the kitchen counter and barking at his phone. Apparently, Lindsay, the 70-something Canadian cyclist, was injured near the Farewell Lakes and had requested a rescue. A volunteer from Rohn had already tried to get through without success — the bumps were too much for his machine. </div><div><br /></div><div> “It’s too windy for anyone to fly,” George said into the phone. “What does he expect us to do?” </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhweNNtE9seTqFR0Mdl2yPfmkGMv-yqh4JuJb0GdAwSgnvRrWrUop9bWGss3oxz34Qma-RImoyHQ2b6ZLhhJv-UFW-lupYNXU0icQPTBRsqtT2y0JJPWmZoTke9ksxrzX02FtHfrIPG8vJm6vZoN1_JusqVTHaXIwCx1viEGT_xwRQbchQRng/s4032/PXL_20220307_023911101.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhweNNtE9seTqFR0Mdl2yPfmkGMv-yqh4JuJb0GdAwSgnvRrWrUop9bWGss3oxz34Qma-RImoyHQ2b6ZLhhJv-UFW-lupYNXU0icQPTBRsqtT2y0JJPWmZoTke9ksxrzX02FtHfrIPG8vJm6vZoN1_JusqVTHaXIwCx1viEGT_xwRQbchQRng/w640-h480/PXL_20220307_023911101.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Kuskokwim River as seen from the air<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Indeed, despite the minimal windows in the room, I could hear an ominous knocking against the walls. The wind had returned and it was unlikely to be the tailwind we’d enjoyed the previous day. The trail beyond Nikolai went generally west but also occasionally turned south along the meandering Kuskokwim River. As I creaked to a standing position, I visualized the route map superimposed over what I still believed to be the wind direction — the previous day’s 25 mph southwest winds. A destabilizing crosswind and drifted trails seemed all but certain. This would turn out to be an optimistic assessment because the wind had shifted to the south. </div><div><br /></div><div>Beat and I joke about how people always overestimate wind speed. Winds are always “At least 50 mph, probably gusting to 80!” I do this too, even though I know that if the wind was actually blowing 80 mph, my body would be splayed on the ground and I would be forced to crawl if I wanted to move at all. So, for this report, I checked the weather record for March 4 at the Nikolai airport — keeping in mind that winds are often higher on the river. When I left town at 8:10 a.m., the wind was blowing SSW at 16 mph, gusting to 28. This would increase throughout the day with a continuous wind speed of 26 mph and gusts as high as 53 mph. Trust me when I say this is a lot of wind. </div><br /><div>While packing up to head out, a gust caught my red bivy bundle and blew it a few hundred yards down the snow-packed street. I had to sprint after my survival gear, stumbling and groaning in pain. For two miles the trail follows a village road through the woods before dipping onto the frozen Kuskokwim River. I stopped a number of times for any excuse I could imagine just to avoid the inevitable. Even with the relative protection of the woods, crosswinds knocked me to and fro. My legs throbbed. I was miserable. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuosD2qZl0Poqd6fLJxUZTr4JeM0r_1UWKcKXFOc2rvQH9invmB11n8Y-_lY0Ig2qxtUOOxV1o8_jihzIgD17mARCMiUNyYhtY_mPI9rJ8szLhYG3PhEgOgqm1lnaFA-wUn6gZePmAjGPQS6IVhur8LrPxHVgSIavQ5qvSf1CsjoVpVoOJxQ/s4898/DSC00428.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuosD2qZl0Poqd6fLJxUZTr4JeM0r_1UWKcKXFOc2rvQH9invmB11n8Y-_lY0Ig2qxtUOOxV1o8_jihzIgD17mARCMiUNyYhtY_mPI9rJ8szLhYG3PhEgOgqm1lnaFA-wUn6gZePmAjGPQS6IVhur8LrPxHVgSIavQ5qvSf1CsjoVpVoOJxQ/w640-h426/DSC00428.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morning light on the Kuskokwim River</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Then I thought of a mantra that my friend Jorge mentioned after his 2018 walk to Nome. It sounds bleak but it works for me — an unapologetic pessimist whose mental scaffolding is prone to collapse before the game is over. The mantra is, “This is never going to end.” I repeat it to myself when I’m frustrated. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel. There’s no end to the discomfort. And if there’s no end, then how do I learn to live here? </div><div><br /></div><div> Somehow this worked. My focus shifted from misery to renewed determination to embrace the difficulty and ignore the pain. I dropped onto the river, buffeted by a fearsome crosswind. Several inches of spindrift coated the trail. Finding the rideable line wasn’t trivial. Beneath the windblown powder was an intermittent mix of packed snow and whipped-up, mashed potato snow. The mashed potato snow was too soft to support my weight. But the packed snow surface remained hidden from view. Keeping the wheels turning became a kind of Zen meditation, an indescribable sense of knowing the unknowable, of finding the way by intuition alone. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbRmtWtlacoYmjzxZpV5o21LPQkvHXCaC8VWyIqJ9GEi6hwuia8nDo6f2eTuBac9PsgCr9kqg2fAXIiIBiKaNR4FtoVTLfGDtLS_mT3gaW2xh9Mpk8U8Dyh53d059pHL5-mfkDO6Z4bT7GjH91CpK1x9aG5IigKmJCN-xY9CEpO8YjLULqUQ/s4898/DSC00432.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbRmtWtlacoYmjzxZpV5o21LPQkvHXCaC8VWyIqJ9GEi6hwuia8nDo6f2eTuBac9PsgCr9kqg2fAXIiIBiKaNR4FtoVTLfGDtLS_mT3gaW2xh9Mpk8U8Dyh53d059pHL5-mfkDO6Z4bT7GjH91CpK1x9aG5IigKmJCN-xY9CEpO8YjLULqUQ/w640-h426/DSC00432.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drifted snow over the trail</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>It sounds hokey now, but I was mesmerized by the effort. For timeless miles I remained wholly absorbed in the next pedal stroke, the next shimmy of the handlebars, always holding my invisible line and never wavering even as the south wind continued to rattle me violently.
Bobbette and Becca were about a quarter-mile behind. Snow continued to blow across the trail, erasing my tracks. Although riders had been through just a few hours before, there was no evidence of their passing, either. This is something I respect about winter trails — they are always changing. In this way, "ghost trails" are living works of art: an embodiment of the impermanence in all things. </div><div><br /></div><div>Each moment that my mind, body, and soul were wholly absorbed in drawing a perfect line in the snow, that’s all it was — a moment. Wheels turned, spindrift filled in my tracks, and it was as though I was never there. Can you understand the freedom therein? It was exhilarating. If I exist in a world without end but also without beginning, then each moment is everything. There can be no past filled with pain, no future weighted with worry. And each moment — the snow, the moody sky, the distant mountains stretched along the horizon — was indescribably beautiful. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigQp1J0V1pcjVttlBIFLMeu8f-VD3LGoszyaAtJdTbpu5lXCooYDVFugQzltZN6hANfUgIs6qZoAQoMKcxCeVBHr7rfHhWZlSX4u4ygvISaUJsqIUMlLd-E2QIpIVDzwez-Jjwlh2csYkMQOV2YNDI7Sf_RhpPUvwmyq4IgzcOm1h-AzmyoQ/s4032/PXL_20220305_011429692.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigQp1J0V1pcjVttlBIFLMeu8f-VD3LGoszyaAtJdTbpu5lXCooYDVFugQzltZN6hANfUgIs6qZoAQoMKcxCeVBHr7rfHhWZlSX4u4ygvISaUJsqIUMlLd-E2QIpIVDzwez-Jjwlh2csYkMQOV2YNDI7Sf_RhpPUvwmyq4IgzcOm1h-AzmyoQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220305_011429692.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pushing when the drifted snow was too difficult to ride</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>My mind did occasionally wander. My moving meditation was interrupted by the most random memories: people I hadn’t thought about in years, insignificant snippets of the past. Memory can be so fickle. I suppose this is another beautiful embodiment of impermanence: the vignettes of life that we carry in our subconscious, for reasons we don’t even understand.
Though bewildering at times, it was interesting to wend through the lesser-traveled corridors of my mind. Some memories bordered on hallucinations, closer to a sleeping dream than a daydream. For long minutes, I’d be wholly immersed in the neon lights of State Street in Salt Lake City, a teenager in a car surrounded by nearly forgotten yet vivid sounds and smells — the lime yogurt that fermented and then exploded in the trunk of my friend's Chevy Cavalier, Queens of the Stone Age playing on a garbled FM radio station. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was so real. Then, as though being pulled out from underwater, I’d snap back to howling wind and an invisible line in the snow. These fluctuations between past and present became unnerving, enough so that I forced myself back to a more normal state of mind — one that, unfortunately, was more attuned to pain and boredom. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWvsIkiii3QD7IVdHyMN4Qv4-3tVQHfrxuRxo28As6O824VttRNzYmFF28d8xQVgjzhmF85N7mLZq-bs4DFaJzOa6fWtAjc-ZsJ2Nw85Gol-fYGYSLkctMflD69y3Cb2jgfyVSFWOkFbtATQ_WkGgDvC7ZaxoXPaGkcySDddOW5bx1UqAI2A/s4898/DSC00433.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWvsIkiii3QD7IVdHyMN4Qv4-3tVQHfrxuRxo28As6O824VttRNzYmFF28d8xQVgjzhmF85N7mLZq-bs4DFaJzOa6fWtAjc-ZsJ2Nw85Gol-fYGYSLkctMflD69y3Cb2jgfyVSFWOkFbtATQ_WkGgDvC7ZaxoXPaGkcySDddOW5bx1UqAI2A/w640-h426/DSC00433.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breaking my bike down to carry it up this short but steep embankment</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>The trail also became more dynamic, with bumpy shortcuts through the forest, stretches across swamps where the loose snow was too deep to ride with or without Zen techniques, and punchy climbs and descents on and off the river. One embankment was only about as high as my head, but the climb was nearly vertical, slicked with ice, and impossible. I tried several methods of hoisting my bike to the top before I finally relented to removing the bags. I hooked the frame to my backpack and climbed the embankment, kicking tiny steps into the ice and using exposed roots as handholds. I returned two more times for the bags. Though successful, the experience rattled me a little bit. I suddenly felt vulnerable. What if I came to an embankment that I simply couldn’t climb up? It wouldn’t take much to break me, and this wind-blasted wilderness isn’t kind to broken people. </div><div><br /></div><div> The trail cut through the woods and dropped back onto the river, this time heading due south. The wind, doubtlessly gusting to 50 mph, became an invisible but impenetrable wall. I could no longer ride forward. Genuinely, I could not. I felt so exposed. It wasn’t that cold — certainly, it wasn’t 45 below like 2020 — and yet I felt the same sort of unease, a realization that my human body was exceptionally fragile.
This realization is one of the reasons I don’t think I will return to the Iditarod Trail, at least not in this context — as an endurance racer, pressed against my soft human limits. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWdZHnj_HY4xbE_GGR1ZpuHZVYsCutXh9DiyrvB6MZfaTiYJOqlrLXVl-RDMr3IM1U8da1ztTVt9g9BUl1pcXoI7IVlwBoLDDkDqudy0KPmxi1yfK_ExoqPG_1go9L5oUOtSN9-mu_0HgV4pqNGTHz6L0zzC7CdJojiFGRZmPcHr8z5RyVHQ/s4032/PXL_20220304_174704833.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWdZHnj_HY4xbE_GGR1ZpuHZVYsCutXh9DiyrvB6MZfaTiYJOqlrLXVl-RDMr3IM1U8da1ztTVt9g9BUl1pcXoI7IVlwBoLDDkDqudy0KPmxi1yfK_ExoqPG_1go9L5oUOtSN9-mu_0HgV4pqNGTHz6L0zzC7CdJojiFGRZmPcHr8z5RyVHQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220304_174704833.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The isolation I can feel out there is difficult to depict</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Earlier this year, when I admitted to friends that I did not want to return for the 2022 race, I heard similar assurances: “It’s okay. You’ve had a tough year. You have nothing to prove.” But I never had anything to prove. It was always hubris to believe I could “conquer” anything, that I could take my weak human body on a difficult journey and somehow this would solidify my inner strength. This trail has crushed my inner strength again and again — in good ways, memorable ways, ways that have made me a more empathetic, adaptable, and mindful person (cracks are where the light gets in, after all.) But as the years have rattled my physical and mental health, I better understand how I can be weakened by these endeavors. Some cracks don’t heal. I can’t risk shattering completely. </div><div><br /></div><div> For now, I was fearful of shattering but also stuck. McGrath was still 20 miles away and I was going to have to power myself through this wind wall no matter what. (As the Lindsay drama demonstrated, help is not guaranteed even if I was in real distress, which of course I was not. Lindsay was eventually able to mobilize a ground rescue from two Nikolai residents on more powerful snowmachines, but even that was a complicated undertaking.) </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHVuZzIHgBsAEFf10cQt7RCtz2rHTxmP_5nRsVV2E7qGnmytV1g-tD38fpvi3yf6xIF896GAqC_2G8Cb5wpIfq-_BTfv_haElibzI-hBN_FSXfAI-2eQJF7P7S4-PX9iqwLYT27uWZCLddkCj3pUvUuYffc_5QXrn9GERXmqciNH0qr_iMSQ/s4032/PXL_20220304_185418025.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHVuZzIHgBsAEFf10cQt7RCtz2rHTxmP_5nRsVV2E7qGnmytV1g-tD38fpvi3yf6xIF896GAqC_2G8Cb5wpIfq-_BTfv_haElibzI-hBN_FSXfAI-2eQJF7P7S4-PX9iqwLYT27uWZCLddkCj3pUvUuYffc_5QXrn9GERXmqciNH0qr_iMSQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220304_185418025.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fighting for the perfect line</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Writing about it now, all of the fear I was feeling seems overwrought. But it was genuine, because most of it was rooted in the well of the exhaustion and pain that I had managed to cover up for much of the day. When I looked up to face the wind, the difficulty seemed overwhelming. But as soon as I stopped struggling in the pedals and relented to walking my bike, I settled back into steady motion. </div><div><br /></div><div>There was one more difficult obstacle to face: a steep climb over a bluff that shortcuts an oxbow bend in the river. For miles, I couldn’t shake my stress about this upcoming climb. I know it sounds silly, but I was fearful that I wouldn’t be strong enough, that I simply wouldn’t make it. I knew a few snowmachiners in the Iron Dog Trail Class cut a trail that followed the river around the oxbow, but this prospect was also ridiculous. It added at least five miles, and half of that was due south into a headwind that was arguably even more unmanageable than the steepest grade possible. As it turned out, the wind had entirely erased the river trail, so the only option was the shortcut. I was physically shaking. As nervous as I was at the time, I was also rolling my proverbial eyes at myself. “How far I’ve fallen. Once I found the courage to venture into the Alaska wilderness when I knew effectively knew nothing. Now I know so much and I can’t even face a hill I’ve climbed before.” </div><div><br /></div><div> The hill, of course, wasn’t that bad, except for a large birch tree had fallen over the hillside and was blocking the entire trail. It wasn’t all that trivial to break a footpath through the deep snow around the tangle of branches, but it wasn’t that bad. I wasn’t about to fall backward like I nearly had on the Post River Glacier, and I didn’t have to break down my bike and carry it up in pieces, so it wasn’t that bad. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLApskrUnp2g-iCo_2hsWxU0gzpaEal_CvSAEP-pCs4HgXt0k3DBZvoUQBdxMZ3va3jGtgrPUMPgbaEFsok3giECg-5nutVLkflZB5p3V6Bs085hlpB3PbdDiIvpVNgFwaRGL-beEZYXmWRxyZUTLH7KJ_JfJZV95rMhHhlMvwslhPnG3dfg/s4898/DSC00435.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLApskrUnp2g-iCo_2hsWxU0gzpaEal_CvSAEP-pCs4HgXt0k3DBZvoUQBdxMZ3va3jGtgrPUMPgbaEFsok3giECg-5nutVLkflZB5p3V6Bs085hlpB3PbdDiIvpVNgFwaRGL-beEZYXmWRxyZUTLH7KJ_JfJZV95rMhHhlMvwslhPnG3dfg/w640-h426/DSC00435.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ripples in the snow</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>And then I dropped back onto the river, where the trail had filled with drifting snow. The spindrift had a beautiful, rippled pattern, like fine grains of sand in a white desert. A fierce crosswind continued driving sand — I mean snow — over the surface. The afternoon sun illuminated streams of spindrift, which resembled fingers of light. The way these fingers reached out from the woods evoked a haunting feeling, as though the wind was alive. And although this wind spirit didn’t feel evil, the sensation of being haunted was visceral enough that I decided it was again time to get out of my head. Earlier I’d turned off an audiobook to concentrate on the sinister hill, so I switched my device to a music playlist. As though the spirit of the wind was speaking directly to me, what should be the first song to come up? “Addict with a Pen.” </div><div><br /></div><div> These are just pop songs, I know, and it’s silly that I keep bringing them up, but the way they give voice to my moods is a crucial part of the experience. This song by Twenty One Pilots was the one that happened to come on during my last endurance race in September, the Utah Mixed Epic, in a pivotal moment when I lost myself to grief and collapsed in a nondescript high-desert valley in Central Utah. I curled around my knees on the rocky ground and cried excruciating yet liberating tears. As the song ended, I struck up a conversation with my father. It felt so real, and it lent me a few moments of immeasurable peace. For the same song to play now, pulsing with the rhythm of the wind and blowing sand — I mean snow — was surreal. It swept me back to that rust-colored hillside in Utah, the wisps of clouds in a cerulean sky. I’d returned to the desert, and I was again swept into all of the emotions all at once. </div><div><br /></div><div><i> But I try my best and all that I can </i></div><div><i>To hold tightly onto what's left in my hand </i></div><div><i>But no matter how, how tightly I will strain </i></div><div><i>The sand will slow me down and the water will drain </i></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuvdzGsJaygQDugy4c7V5KjgGgdzEc98W-pIkm27B4FS42cRhwXtemFrFuS1T2udTW4TJwXNlDcQ4Uc2XdoX02SeC_iMsAGmBtHixGy1-tjTexfqmhm9V_rjO5ndS_HMoLwCZ7QVgTHvjd1BPfI6iWdsDYmFbYTFfpdzwoa6xzStOOdGqcSg/s4898/DSC00439.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuvdzGsJaygQDugy4c7V5KjgGgdzEc98W-pIkm27B4FS42cRhwXtemFrFuS1T2udTW4TJwXNlDcQ4Uc2XdoX02SeC_iMsAGmBtHixGy1-tjTexfqmhm9V_rjO5ndS_HMoLwCZ7QVgTHvjd1BPfI6iWdsDYmFbYTFfpdzwoa6xzStOOdGqcSg/w640-h426/DSC00439.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trying to capture the dynamic dance of wind and sky</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>My eyes blurred with tears, and then the sky began to dance. Amid the blowing snow and jet stream of clouds, the sun’s rays shimmered and swayed. The scene was indescribably beautiful. I took several photos that do it no justice, but my grief- and joy-stricken mind perceived this place as otherworldly, magical, as dynamic as a galaxy compressed in a pinpoint. In the physical world, I was stumbling through ankle-deep spindrift, leaning into the lee side of my bike as the crosswind froze the tears on my cheeks … but in my mind, it was one of the most phenomenal moments of my life. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzZgq5CS1pzHl3w6c-4j9pb8OxPSUeoYhjgnG2X10HmsIGXBjYJ2almvhDaub4rhtoBzeFmi_ivKuu2hTskf85x1DgCyr1st7e2FWeaTqJQ8Qkk610TW5CMibPaIEnda9srpOs70bMCZ9CgjhScrbEfsS2qDm-aJ2sgkT8ile2Pqa8PqqN6Q/s4898/DSC00440.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzZgq5CS1pzHl3w6c-4j9pb8OxPSUeoYhjgnG2X10HmsIGXBjYJ2almvhDaub4rhtoBzeFmi_ivKuu2hTskf85x1DgCyr1st7e2FWeaTqJQ8Qkk610TW5CMibPaIEnda9srpOs70bMCZ9CgjhScrbEfsS2qDm-aJ2sgkT8ile2Pqa8PqqN6Q/w640-h426/DSC00440.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No, I couldn't really capture it.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>My reverie broke when the trail ascended another near-vertical embankment and cut through the woods. The roar of the wind gave way to a muffled whistle through tree branches, which sounded comparatively silent. A sign said McGrath was 10 miles away. Pain and fatigue returned. I crossed swamps and battled headwinds. The trail again dropped onto the Kuskokwim River, wending briefly north and then due south. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was late evening now, with soft pink light stretched across the horizon. The wind was as strong as it had ever been. When I hit the invisible wall on the southward bend, I threw a foot down and looked up. I was just two miles from the end. I could see the McGrath airport. But I couldn’t move. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBcckd-RCGJwv_s9MeaeCJ3XGrWpZcNGdpUXUdujDWE__UgeHpMTiCftOrPecN8-CRWCnTwuMh6csH22r4Ljnf_jMgKx3xhigvh-c8dCn162KHbe1X697VZ46oqjZtv_vPh_oeIolcApqFjtT2YOcVd3Df2fsqChdO_Rpo_n136-obN-CxDg/s1024/274598195_10224535988021321_2596819170330645283_n.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBcckd-RCGJwv_s9MeaeCJ3XGrWpZcNGdpUXUdujDWE__UgeHpMTiCftOrPecN8-CRWCnTwuMh6csH22r4Ljnf_jMgKx3xhigvh-c8dCn162KHbe1X697VZ46oqjZtv_vPh_oeIolcApqFjtT2YOcVd3Df2fsqChdO_Rpo_n136-obN-CxDg/w640-h480/274598195_10224535988021321_2596819170330645283_n.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Standing at the start of the Iditarod Trail Invitational with my first fat bike, "Pugsley," in February 2008. I like to look at this photo and ponder the ways in which I've come full circle.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Fourteen years ago, I met a similar wind on the Kuskokwim River. Spindrift masked the trail entirely. At times I couldn’t even tell whether I was still going the right way, but back then I was naive enough to not be frightened because I had a plan. My plan if I lost the trail was to hike in a direct line guided by my GPS — this was back when I believed such a ridiculous thing to be possible. I somehow held the correct path and climbed off the river — my perceived final challenge — only to be blown into a snowbank by an errant gust. My bike landed on top of me, effectively pinning me in a hole. I didn’t have the energy to lift myself then, either. I remember how that surprise setback evoked all of the emotions, everything all at once, and I laughed and cried before summoning an empowering burst of strength. Now it seems so long ago, and also just a blip in time. </div><div><br /></div><div> What have I learned after all these years? How does that lyric go? “I was so much older then; I’m younger than that now.” My dad loved The Byrds. </div><div><br /></div><div> Often I think middle-age is similar to adolescence. Your hormones are changing, your worldview is shifting, and the full scope of adulthood no longer makes sense. You don’t have your path figured out the way you once did, because life isn’t a linear journey. Life is long, and the more you live, the more you’ll change. Life is loss, and the more you live, the more you’ll lose. Life is exploration, only to realize that the more you learn, the less you know. Life is hard, but not because you decide to pursue hard things. It’s hard for reasons you’ll never control, and you have to learn to live with that, too. </div><div><br /></div><div> And I suppose that this — standing frozen river with a 50 mph wind blowing in my face — is one of life’s absurd situations that ultimately means something. Because I chose it, and because I love it, in spite of its absurdity. Because it’s beautiful and rewarding, in spite of also being tedious and pointless. Because I watched the sky dance in a moment of clarity that I will cherish always, even as my path takes me far away from here. The Iditarod Trail is a microcosm of life, which is why we keep coming back. I told myself that this was the last time I would come back — I continue to tell myself this — but I can’t know what the future holds. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuokg-wbp5EpH2O0Asj07v_YVuNXVQpeh5_gbSMUUPweTm7jBG7XRqSOTknAliuUp8Icc-lowjw0KGHbSjEp_2XrCxh4rAvvd8IfD7p6rMQUY0BjjyxHqo6xpxTFrKu3qx05FcVKKaZty3Ugptqg13CLnwG6G16ox_XYtsRVstO82dENIW_Q/s3264/PXL_20220305_033944214.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuokg-wbp5EpH2O0Asj07v_YVuNXVQpeh5_gbSMUUPweTm7jBG7XRqSOTknAliuUp8Icc-lowjw0KGHbSjEp_2XrCxh4rAvvd8IfD7p6rMQUY0BjjyxHqo6xpxTFrKu3qx05FcVKKaZty3Ugptqg13CLnwG6G16ox_XYtsRVstO82dENIW_Q/w640-h480/PXL_20220305_033944214.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Final selfie, one mile from McGrath</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>For a few seconds, the wind quieted. I took advantage of the lull to launch my bike forward. Even as gusts picked up, I continued summoning all the energy needed to keep the pedals turning. Time seemed to warp — it took nearly an hour to pedal that final two miles. A local drove by on a snowmachine and congratulated me. As I neared the riverbank, the final home-free, I upheld a long-standing tradition to let the music playlist decide the theme song for this adventure. So I hit next and heard the intro to “Go Solo” by Tom Rosenthal. </div><div><br /></div><div>I promise: I am not making up any of these random music selections. Of course, I only write about the ones that were implausibly relevant, but this adventure couldn’t have finished on a better note: </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Our love is a river long,</i></div><div><i>The best right in a million wrongs.</i></div><div><i>I know I'm coming back to you.</i></div><div><i>And I'm happy, </i></div><div><i>nothing's going to stop me </i></div><div><i>I'm making my way home, </i></div><div><i>I'm making my way.</i></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtJkXeRONxIQJjVRpLZBwsh4schzlJTOjmD8EzKgjxtY0Gnh8tWc24gDMGM3ch6hIQGSwrUi9Nw9fjVX18c24lO42TygtqWqJbXaJ_s91cSQupdaxYJZ9PawrfQu85zJliTm50iPciYKYllbZ76U8jZuWP0u7hL7lIvcl1ZyS43nKNAlANg/s1440/275201468_10224618833452405_8864752013500381279_n.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtJkXeRONxIQJjVRpLZBwsh4schzlJTOjmD8EzKgjxtY0Gnh8tWc24gDMGM3ch6hIQGSwrUi9Nw9fjVX18c24lO42TygtqWqJbXaJ_s91cSQupdaxYJZ9PawrfQu85zJliTm50iPciYKYllbZ76U8jZuWP0u7hL7lIvcl1ZyS43nKNAlANg/w640-h640/275201468_10224618833452405_8864752013500381279_n.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arriving at the McGrath finish with my current fat bike, "Erik," on March 4, 2022.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>It took longer than the song’s three-or-so minutes to pedal a mile, so I continued hitting repeat until I rolled up to the lodge. My friend from Boulder who was volunteering at the checkpoint, Cheryl, was standing outside waiting for me, as were two ladies who finished earlier — Beth and Janice. </div><div><br /></div><div>Janice asked what finish this was for me.
“Number six,” I replied, and then clarified. “Three on a bike, three on foot, but once on the bike I was on my way to Nome, so that didn’t count, and once on foot I intended to go to Nome, so that was a DNF.” </div><div><br /></div><div> Janice mercifully cut me off. “Six,” she said. “Nice work.” </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmRTh9rc4ftTtMjehg0-VZeshwMUIv1eCFIw-BUujvuevQQMECOQFp5xYJjVdc9NTRaNzHip_oJr5n7CuVc74I07kbyLFkaqqopj_fXCv4cttPldZea6444r1RMxjUelvq1o0bhUCfpJwjFSsK2eQkHMilaB8lXJkpoKt736kMAIfeR7T66Q/s4032/PXL_20220306_200836112.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmRTh9rc4ftTtMjehg0-VZeshwMUIv1eCFIw-BUujvuevQQMECOQFp5xYJjVdc9NTRaNzHip_oJr5n7CuVc74I07kbyLFkaqqopj_fXCv4cttPldZea6444r1RMxjUelvq1o0bhUCfpJwjFSsK2eQkHMilaB8lXJkpoKt736kMAIfeR7T66Q/w640-h480/PXL_20220306_200836112.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Faye Norby is exhausted after finishing as the first woman on foot in 6 days, 13 hours</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>As for the 2022 stats, Amber won the women’s bike race in 4 days 11 hours, Beth was second in 4 days 18 hours, Janice finished in 4 days 21 hours, I was fourth in 5 days 4 hours, and Bobbette and Becca rolled in an hour later in 5 days 5 hours. Jennifer Hanson was the seventh finisher in 6 days, 1 hour. </div><div><br /></div><div>None of us went onto Nome — in a field of 30 Nome hopefuls, sadly none were women this year. But I am heartened to see how women’s participation in this sport has grown over the years. In addition to the seven cyclists, there were three women on foot and two on skis. In 2008 it was just me and the co-race director, Kathi Merchant, and two women on foot, Loreen Hewitt and Anne Ver Hoef. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVlC78c8OAQzsRGnaQ1xuCSjyAGuE423iAyIDtPnJMnUJoBduCzly0UxLpr8_GBfcerXBMZsUqAVboehLq_0SDpayqf8NYuq_8pujghE5f4CgxKJBDTht2mIxIsug7dlXPis5aKrTFij1xt96H0RKWTCvnwQjRYAm9MmSJGHvYbdFdggwoYQ/s4032/PXL_20220306_133707685.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVlC78c8OAQzsRGnaQ1xuCSjyAGuE423iAyIDtPnJMnUJoBduCzly0UxLpr8_GBfcerXBMZsUqAVboehLq_0SDpayqf8NYuq_8pujghE5f4CgxKJBDTht2mIxIsug7dlXPis5aKrTFij1xt96H0RKWTCvnwQjRYAm9MmSJGHvYbdFdggwoYQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220306_133707685.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beat arrived in McGrath early in the morning on March 6 and left 12 hours later. He won the race to Nome and received a free entry as a prize, so of course he plans to return in 2023. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Despite all of the difficulties, I had an incredible experience on the Iditarod Trail this year and am glad I made the decision to ride to McGrath. I nearly left it at DNF’ing the walk to Nome in 2020, and am grateful that wasn’t the final chapter. While I’m not certain this is the final chapter, I am content with being “retired” from Iditarod racing for the time being. It’s an opportunity to reflect, refocus, and imagine where I might be 14 years from now — should I be so lucky to still be writing my own story.</div><div><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.jilloutside.com/2022/04/its-level-at-peak.html" target="_blank">Part one: It's level at the peak</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.jilloutside.com/2022/04/even-death-just-may-not-be.html" target="_blank">Part two: Even death just may not be</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.jilloutside.com/2022/04/well-cross-that-bridge-sometime-and-see.html" target="_blank">Part three: We'll cross that bridge sometime and see</a></div></h3>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-63427347189416200022022-04-29T22:35:00.002-06:002022-04-30T07:58:04.798-06:00We’ll cross that bridge sometime and see<h2 style="text-align: center;">The 2022 Iditarod Trail Invitational. Part three of four.</h2><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIlGycjTWDyj_Hym1O5nUCnKAwIiIXKQ7uvbC8JA1h5wTVyUsXtikXlRku6f75PPij9dML7Je_1viPE8h2KnAb_W-l8juyYAoUAdOeGm_D48T-rfJ18nRgkvdtPXwnRw4xlvxUFDA0sYmknFoYqb1Z7yl3ipL7oDD0WFJ0f5PFoUwxcfJPKA/s4898/DSC00418.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIlGycjTWDyj_Hym1O5nUCnKAwIiIXKQ7uvbC8JA1h5wTVyUsXtikXlRku6f75PPij9dML7Je_1viPE8h2KnAb_W-l8juyYAoUAdOeGm_D48T-rfJ18nRgkvdtPXwnRw4xlvxUFDA0sYmknFoYqb1Z7yl3ipL7oDD0WFJ0f5PFoUwxcfJPKA/w640-h426/DSC00418.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gazing back toward Egypt Mountain and a sky streaked with lenticulars.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Rohn is a friendly place, a strange sort of outpost in Hell. Beneath an old spruce forest at the confluence of two rivers sits a single-wall tent, about the size of a large bathroom, with a portable wood stove and spruce branches stacked to make a bed that covers three-quarters of the indoor space. A race volunteer, Adrien, often waits outside to greet racers with hot bratwurst and as many shots of Fireball whiskey as they'll accept. There’s enough room for five people to lie down on the wet branches, perhaps six if they squeeze. </div><div><br /></div><div>Rohn is an uncomfortable place to sleep, and it was still early in the evening. But I was frightened about the upcoming crossing on the South Fork of the Kuskokwim River and couldn’t coax myself to leave alone. Bobbette and Becca had arrived about an hour before me and were settling in for a nap. Troy and Bob Ostrom would soon arrive. I laid down with one proverbial eye open, ready to jump up and start packing so I could leave with the group.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivbFYIVnfEgqQGtzOsWi6yQxTkCMU4aTgChfWV7MyLOS9DIN792lV_sqK2l0Vu0rMUkYTzoQ7YO1rRtPVtnq24l83JwSXJZMMTYTb8MN2vtFYHZSP_l53HdSyGddyp0Ajq35jFKvonRDV89kXpGeMuz-KW0L4vJ1ifLK6ih0vqniLOf2vAOA/s4032/PXL_20220303_135030593.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivbFYIVnfEgqQGtzOsWi6yQxTkCMU4aTgChfWV7MyLOS9DIN792lV_sqK2l0Vu0rMUkYTzoQ7YO1rRtPVtnq24l83JwSXJZMMTYTb8MN2vtFYHZSP_l53HdSyGddyp0Ajq35jFKvonRDV89kXpGeMuz-KW0L4vJ1ifLK6ih0vqniLOf2vAOA/w640-h480/PXL_20220303_135030593.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is a crappy photo I took of the South Fork of the Kuskokwim at 4 a.m.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>The unspoken alarm rang at 3 a.m. The group shoveled in oatmeal and suited up in silence. Bob left first and I followed closely behind him. Troy, Bobbette, and Becca came soon after. We immediately popped out of the woods and descended onto glare ice. The Tatina empties into the South Fork of the Kuskokwim River here, spreading into a wide delta of braided gravel bars and turbulent channels. In early March, it’s one big expanse of black ice. At 4 a.m., this expanse looks and feels eternal. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hung close to Bob’s wheel as a fierce headwind buffeted our bikes. My studded tires began to slip out; I teetered and slowed just as Bob's bike spun sideways, slamming him into the ice. He quickly stood and said he was okay. The wind was howling; both sky and ground were the deepest shade of black. The horror flick vibe was so visceral that I all but expected a mask-clad murderer to appear on the scene. Indeed, the trail Bob was following dead-ended at the riverbank. An apparently abandoned campsite was strewn with empty fuel cans, shredded canvas bags, and other murder-adjacent trash.
I finally checked my GPS. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlsPgcOvmNvt7a1i13dDApUx4t_2JgkWTbv0HIAUYWkIirUvm1RBudtM4Y0_UXBJPxLrHO6tfsokUKRTOcSU8FYO1kK7rjLCdSYv9NACGXmyZBygA_iGJcu3PMv0C0gViPitUP9h-85RYyQW5rNAV6S5_hreRpKERF4Oc00RZ8mJgKQvQ7tw/s1440/275370114_10228269756071648_5761947239325652065_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlsPgcOvmNvt7a1i13dDApUx4t_2JgkWTbv0HIAUYWkIirUvm1RBudtM4Y0_UXBJPxLrHO6tfsokUKRTOcSU8FYO1kK7rjLCdSYv9NACGXmyZBygA_iGJcu3PMv0C0gViPitUP9h-85RYyQW5rNAV6S5_hreRpKERF4Oc00RZ8mJgKQvQ7tw/w640-h640/275370114_10228269756071648_5761947239325652065_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What the South Fork of the Kuskokwim looked like in daylight. Photo by Beth Shaner.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>“We’re going to wrong way,” I announced. “We’ve been riding back up the Tatina.” </div><div><br /></div><div> Bob thought this was impossible. There was no other trail. But my GPS clearly showed a line heading toward the Dalzell Gorge. We weren’t far from the open channel I’d crossed the previous evening. </div><div><br /></div><div>Troy turned away to follow a trail cutting farther up the river. I announced I was going back to Rohn. Bobbette, Bob, and Becca followed me. I was shaking with fear and disinclined to become a leader, but I wasn’t willing to leave the comforting purple line of my GPS. Soon we were back at the river bank closest to Rohn, where I located the correct line of snowmachine scratches leading down the South Fork. </div><div><br /></div><div>As soon as we turned northwest, the headwind became a destabilizing crosswind. My studded tires scratched and slipped along the black ice. The trail scratches didn’t precisely follow my GPS track from the 2020 race, so I occasionally looked up to scan the black abyss for reflective tape or an Iron Dog lath. There were none — likely they’d all been swallowed by the river in an ongoing cycle of overflow and freeze-up. Thin, barely refrozen ice crackled beneath my tires; it was all I could do to focus on my breathing and not erupt into a full panic. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXhpaXAVboyUOtoafIel4qpXQ8dwyusO8sjav8G75KbBtoR4hid7olD-aVuSF1AxT2SZtlTrQYPvpFAUrUSZbpcFxI8xpfnt2OXb7YWZup1CaEq0pdvk8hjuNs9Ih9_LtIoSWTYKEWNI-FNfBHgpMg_2GzyHmuvkJ20D9uaKcVVnB7jh3v3Q/s3194/IMG_2278.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2395" data-original-width="3194" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXhpaXAVboyUOtoafIel4qpXQ8dwyusO8sjav8G75KbBtoR4hid7olD-aVuSF1AxT2SZtlTrQYPvpFAUrUSZbpcFxI8xpfnt2OXb7YWZup1CaEq0pdvk8hjuNs9Ih9_LtIoSWTYKEWNI-FNfBHgpMg_2GzyHmuvkJ20D9uaKcVVnB7jh3v3Q/w640-h480/IMG_2278.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another daytime shot of the South Fork, showing where the trail leaves the river. You can see a cyclist wading in the background. Photo by Beat Jegerlehner, taken about 12 hours after we crossed.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div>I was still leading when a gust of wind knocked my rear wheel sideways. For a moment I was suspended in eerie silence before a jarring thud echoed in my ears. My body had slammed onto hard ice. Becca wasn’t far behind and rushed toward me because she thought I’d been badly hurt. The fall must have looked bad. My adrenaline was surging and I felt little pain, although later a bruise would spread across my entire left hip and buttock. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I stood, my headlamp caught a permanent reflector stapled to a tree on the far shoreline about a quarter-mile away. "Finally," I thought. This comforting trail marker indicated the point where we could finally leave the South Fork for good. But my heart sank when I realized that there was nothing between us and the trail marker but the blackest of abysses — no ice to catch a headlamp beam, no gravel bars sparkling with frost. This was all open water. <br /><br /></div><div>Four of us sat down on the ice and pulled on our waders. Troy took off in another direction, likely determined to find a better crossing. I still felt strongly that known open water was preferable to unknown ice over potentially deeper channels. Bob went first, wading into water that soon encompassed his thighs. Bobbette and Becca were close behind. I, having struggled with my waders, trailed a bit. I could feel the cold current pressing against my legs as I waded into the channel. The ice underfoot was soft. I carried my bike at shoulder level; the floating tires removed much of the weight, but the wind was strong enough to push it like a sail. To make my balance issues even worse, a strong river current was pushing against my legs from a slightly different direction. The tractionless soles of my waders slipped and I flailed, maintaining my upright position but dunking most of my bike. Luckily, nothing important got wet — I’d waterproofed most of the bags on my bike — but the entire frame was caked with hard ice for much of the day. </div><div><br /></div><div>At this point, I didn’t care too much about a wet bike or wet legs. I just wanted off the river, by any means necessary.
I followed the group’s exact line but the holes were becoming deeper with each pass. Fast current and the terrible crosswind continued to shove me sideways. Bob climbed up onto the shore; I could see him removing his waders and pouring large amounts of water out of them before I’d even exited the river. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpC4V974XwOybdDskFWhAsg1qn_VLrVFdPd3jMRLK4jmB4hOwW1uNhZtj0DtfXiYQM9_2g2AvVF86-J5lgfOIuM0WaF9IIe0OMqglLdKrd0zX1Eh3boMiZgQ7unH5BozdbexudbBbDkeI-tAqasENuGXKSic8jvSIFlzpzlOBFGv4299vgA/s4032/PXL_20220303_135103157.NIGHT.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpC4V974XwOybdDskFWhAsg1qn_VLrVFdPd3jMRLK4jmB4hOwW1uNhZtj0DtfXiYQM9_2g2AvVF86-J5lgfOIuM0WaF9IIe0OMqglLdKrd0zX1Eh3boMiZgQ7unH5BozdbexudbBbDkeI-tAqasENuGXKSic8jvSIFlzpzlOBFGv4299vgA/w640-h480/PXL_20220303_135103157.NIGHT.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The group packs up after exiting the river</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>The sense of relief I felt when climbing onto the bank was almost overwhelming. I expressed my gratitude to Bob and his willingness to lead. Without the group, I doubt I’d have worked up the courage to face this — the real prospect of a winter swim in Alaska. My greatest adventure fear. At best I would have returned to Rohn and cried until daylight. The group dynamic was empowering. </div><div><br /></div><div>Bob didn’t seem too fussed that he’d gotten wet. The temperature wasn’t terribly cold — probably about 10 degrees, but the chill became searing in the wind. Troy emerged from the woods and sat down to remove all of the clothing from his lower body. Apparently, he hadn’t found a dry crossing, either. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiht-12QXU8tvGjcvqZ-jhkjMAwBJfav8tAevMT-XegMihJAxR232TUlxVxY8wleAchY_SWUwGwaqoWxkuD7LN5MdR1Q03Luo6ryA-HqO1wO-Je76lJ53hrk25sHm3Ul2oyCCYcCWElv0eqrG45GUFryZLMyFna-9-OaYHoZl4VTwInZ3KuDw/s4032/PXL_20220303_170501501.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiht-12QXU8tvGjcvqZ-jhkjMAwBJfav8tAevMT-XegMihJAxR232TUlxVxY8wleAchY_SWUwGwaqoWxkuD7LN5MdR1Q03Luo6ryA-HqO1wO-Je76lJ53hrk25sHm3Ul2oyCCYcCWElv0eqrG45GUFryZLMyFna-9-OaYHoZl4VTwInZ3KuDw/w640-h480/PXL_20220303_170501501.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morning swamps north of Rohn</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>I took my time removing my waders and was the last to start pedaling again, only to discover my rear derailleur was encased in ice. The gear I was stuck in was “terrified pedal mashing on flat glare ice” — one of the hardest gears. Beyond the South Fork, the trail immediately climbs into the foothills and undulates steeply in and out of drainages all the way to the Farewell Lakes. The trail itself was rippled with icy snowmobile moguls, adding a technical element to the already-steep climbs. </div><div><br /></div><div>Stuck in high gear, I couldn’t have pedaled much even if my legs were strong. I fell into a morning rhythm of pushing for 10 minutes, stopping to massage the derailleur and cables with my warm hands, blowing a bit of hot air onto the ice-caked cassette, giving up, pushing for 10 more minutes, and rolling down a hill.
My efforts to thaw out my drivetrain seemed futile, but every other time I was able to downshift into a new, lower gear. When this happened I’d praise my bike with vocal encouragement. “Good job! You’re doing great!” </div><div><br /></div><div>Soon I had broken up enough of the ice to locate the final chunks inside the mechanism. I couldn’t get at them with my hands, so I finally relented to sacrificing my prized possession: the thermos of hot coffee I’d carried from Rohn and intended to consume when the late-morning sleep monster arrived. But my bike needed coffee more than I did. </div><div><br /></div><div>The hot liquid did the trick; the ice was finally gone and I could shift through all of my gears. “You are the best bike!” I exclaimed in a sing-song voice. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrh0SEvx-8f2rv6h377W53imT9fR8i_m3yNRDp0cleONsRfBOTrPWmpsPoHKpLvW_V_nMVdOJF7mMzB5tx7EgwaKXtMb5wZ9m7mntRcQvIF7s2_2z8iPjL2rZfxbZCJblZgv4sac4N7VmVU7GzX1_63iQQlZY03Q7CVJjsHxmbj_HbU9wc9g/s4898/DSC00415.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrh0SEvx-8f2rv6h377W53imT9fR8i_m3yNRDp0cleONsRfBOTrPWmpsPoHKpLvW_V_nMVdOJF7mMzB5tx7EgwaKXtMb5wZ9m7mntRcQvIF7s2_2z8iPjL2rZfxbZCJblZgv4sac4N7VmVU7GzX1_63iQQlZY03Q7CVJjsHxmbj_HbU9wc9g/w640-h426/DSC00415.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In a land of swamps, there's no end to the ice</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Dawn light finally appeared along the horizon as I was crossing the Post River, a short but also scary span of glare ice. It was here I first realized the gusting wind was now a tailwind. I hadn’t made much use of it when I was pushing my bike through the woods. The climb away from the Post River is extremely steep. In past years, the trail cut over a veritable waterfall that was colloquially called the Post River Glacier. Crews rerouted the trail to a nearby ridge a few years ago, but the pitch is no less steep and only slightly less icy. </div><div><br /></div><div>Because the packed snow was almost petrified, I had to veer into deep powder surrounding the trail to gain traction. I was essentially using my legs as anchors, punching a knee-deep hole in loose sugar, digging in with my toes so the leg wouldn’t slip out, then pulling my nearly overturned bike a few inches up the slope. Repeat. The danger of slipping backward or losing my grip on the bike and letting it slide down the hill was pressing enough that my heart was pumping near its maximum just to maintain momentum. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKCCYxqEcI98Zmu1KNifqN6dN80jcbt197j1A23TrPHWbv9y8f_p82Rp3ohwr7n20emzjptIxI2I7yr4qc66w2fOxBibwGEqCRqQEV6nFtwExSOjVCN-ERNdNQYvb2YdT_h6NOkyKJRktltObjBmz1alpGjX5s2zwYhEpIKyowOrpjQs-Ohg/s4898/DSC00411.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKCCYxqEcI98Zmu1KNifqN6dN80jcbt197j1A23TrPHWbv9y8f_p82Rp3ohwr7n20emzjptIxI2I7yr4qc66w2fOxBibwGEqCRqQEV6nFtwExSOjVCN-ERNdNQYvb2YdT_h6NOkyKJRktltObjBmz1alpGjX5s2zwYhEpIKyowOrpjQs-Ohg/w640-h426/DSC00411.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arriving at the top of the Post River Glacier, V.2</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>I’d been listening to my iPod Shuffle for most of the morning, since leaving the South Fork at least, to soothe my anxiety. As I was crawling up V.2 of the Post River Glacier, “Wooden Soldiers” by Modest Mouse provided an apt soundtrack. </div><div><br /></div><div>Modest Mouse is my favorite band of all time; I’ve consumed their music avidly since I was a junior in high school in 1996. It seems that every time I’m working through a particularly volatile period in my life, Modest Mouse releases a rare new album that I will proceed to consume on repeat for months. When I was a high schooler with a faith crisis, my treasured CD was “This is a Long Drive for Someone with Nothing to Think About.” Transitioning from college to early adulthood was “The Moon and Antarctica.” The quarter-life crisis that prompted me to move to Alaska was “Good News for People Who Love Bad News.” Discovering my passion for endurance racing and the subsequent upheavals that led to moving away from Alaska were accompanied by “We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank.” Then eight years went by with no new Modest Mouse music. It was a time of relative prosperity for me, but “Strangers to Ourselves” arrived just in time to carry me through my illness during the 2015 Tour Divide and the health challenges that have followed since. Then again, there was no new Modest Mouse until 2021, when “The Golden Casket” dropped just days after my father died. </div><div><br /></div><div> “The lyrics are kind of depressing,” my friend Danni observed about this album, specifically citing the opening to Wooden Soldiers: <i>“Making plans in the sands as the tides roll in.” </i></div><div><br /></div><div> “I don’t see how anyone can make it to middle age and not write depressing lyrics,” I replied. </div><div><br /></div><div> “Wooden Soldiers” is a wealth of cathartic lyrics that I devoured on repeat during the summer. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>"Hashtagging, photo bragging, no one who’s even sorta real </i></div><div><i>No wonder no one feels better than before."</i></div><div><br /></div><div>And a line that reminded me of climbing to White Pine Lake with my friend Raj in July so he could spread his father’s ashes. Raj carried a beautiful earthen pot and showed me the ash and bone fragments inside. When he tossed the pot into a waterfall, I felt an electric tingling in my veins, a whisper of the eternal within this ritual of impermanence. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>"In India they make mugs, you throw them down, they turn to mud </i></div><div><i>Pull it out and make them as they were before."</i></div><div><br /></div><div> Yes, "Wooden Soldiers" is a song about despair but also rebirth. As I battled my bike to the top of yet another impossible climb, I was first struck by the hopeful tone at the close of this song. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>"It’s level at the peak </i></div><div><i>Even death just may not be </i></div><div><i>We’ll cross that bridge sometime and see </i></div><div><i>But just being here now is enough for me."</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Just after I cleared the steepest pitch, my legs began cramping badly. I propped the bike against a tree and sat on the trail. Behind me, thick clouds were beginning to clear, revealing the morning light. The burned forest somehow softened in this violet glow. Views extended to windswept mountains that few ever see. I thought about the rivers surrounding Rohn and how much I hate them. Why do I keep coming back here? I already know too much of the fear and pain. But sometimes, I find myself immersed in immense beauty, the depth of which I don't experience in my comfortable life, where pushing my bike to the top of a hill is so trivial but the withering stare of a stranger can ruin my day. I come here to see through my cracks, to gaze into the void, and embrace my minuscule place in the universe. And although it's impossible to articulate this soaring sense of smallness, a quiet refrain comes close:</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"Just being here now is enough for me. </i></div><div><i>Just being here now is enough for me."</i></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiv7-ksl4-dUZEHucsB4cES9dv99P6BxVEJui4LKtmsvVhb77g6xHmoturj393mCWxINyYEE0Nd1GM9q-8DvCnBlQXYOUCj24C6cGnv-v2H3N3pHefdmdLJymlqvZBvbIyLzC0OJTTUT6dboGZZm1V92H8uW8GC65XmI88Gae6nhyfrOL0dQ/s4898/DSC00416.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiv7-ksl4-dUZEHucsB4cES9dv99P6BxVEJui4LKtmsvVhb77g6xHmoturj393mCWxINyYEE0Nd1GM9q-8DvCnBlQXYOUCj24C6cGnv-v2H3N3pHefdmdLJymlqvZBvbIyLzC0OJTTUT6dboGZZm1V92H8uW8GC65XmI88Gae6nhyfrOL0dQ/w640-h426/DSC00416.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The perfect flow trail</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Awe revitalized my mind, but my legs wobbled like a newborn moose when I tried to stand. Since incurring a back injury in the October truck collision, I’ve experienced what I suspect to be related neurological symptoms. Hopefully, this is temporary? But sometimes when I sit cross-legged on the ground or bend at my hips while standing, I experience intense tingling and occasional numbness in my legs. This never happened to me before last October. The sensation is jarring enough that it sparks a brief panic as my amygdala prepares for nerve failure and paralysis. My logical brain writes this anxiety off as utterly implausible, but still conjures its own useless command: “Legs this is not a good place to fail.” </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoSZz1SxJemqYJhVdQsRlHunVAU6_YBeCPvQmxUXOzQm6JUgIhp2yveBW4vLFY8jSVthQODOXs1svatIEsK4boSiU8Jd3b5aZD8bw0kd31iZD3tIZoN7guB-7pBHUFvwkvIYg3P9u94y8OrarrB4oFn8sWp9PTsOr9m-vSjfZwo32WlfFoxw/s4898/DSC00417.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoSZz1SxJemqYJhVdQsRlHunVAU6_YBeCPvQmxUXOzQm6JUgIhp2yveBW4vLFY8jSVthQODOXs1svatIEsK4boSiU8Jd3b5aZD8bw0kd31iZD3tIZoN7guB-7pBHUFvwkvIYg3P9u94y8OrarrB4oFn8sWp9PTsOr9m-vSjfZwo32WlfFoxw/w640-h426/DSC00417.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leaving the mountains behind</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>My legs didn’t fail, but between the muscle fatigue and nerve weirdness, I couldn’t have asked for a better place to have a bike in my possession. Where the trail cut through a windswept burn, much of the surface had been scoured to dirt. A tailwind blew with such force that my wheels started rolling before I even threw a leg over the saddle. Suddenly I was screaming through the burned forest, an effortless ride over rocks, roots, and tundra. The route wrapped around Egypt Mountain, a pyramid-shaped summit that stands alone, then plunged toward the Farewell Lakes. I was riding so fast that I momentarily heard nothing of the wind; we were moving the same speed, always the eeriest of silences. </div><div><br /></div><div> It would be the last time this trail cut me any slack, but it came at the most opportune moment. I was terrified, and then both bike and body were broken, and then, awed by the scope of the landscape, the wind caught my astonishment and carried me effortlessly for 10 miles. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_IdkJlV-cOrHlhdHOXzmxETJSQxpifQu_5SVCnjz0FBSZOkszJ2zeLwgGEr10oMqkVB378vwnQ4Br3ijFfEQ7XQ750crVFNQpp_v0CYYhEgIl6qJtdgTER1f7gO87KoBkVoHwna91XvEYCX2ypAP9ytR1rieH53AmH3-CnSlpbDXqyg6QHA/s4898/DSC00419.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_IdkJlV-cOrHlhdHOXzmxETJSQxpifQu_5SVCnjz0FBSZOkszJ2zeLwgGEr10oMqkVB378vwnQ4Br3ijFfEQ7XQ750crVFNQpp_v0CYYhEgIl6qJtdgTER1f7gO87KoBkVoHwna91XvEYCX2ypAP9ytR1rieH53AmH3-CnSlpbDXqyg6QHA/w640-h426/DSC00419.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A lake covered in refrozen overflow and jumbled ice.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Just when it felt like redemption, I nearly crashed into the shoreline of the first Farewell Lake. A steep descent ended in a jumble of broken ice; the bike bucked sideways as I grabbed the brakes and threw my weight high-side, barely avoiding a header. The tailwind would no longer be my friend.
For the next five miles, the trail crosses lakes and frozen swamps, where much of the surface is glare ice. Recent thaws had flooded the lakes in overflow. Back when the surface was still wet, snowmachines whipped the slush into a bumpy mess. It was all technical and all very slippery. This ice was difficult enough to negotiate without the wind shoving me forward with frequent surprise blasts from the side. And I was lacking a helmet. </div><div><br /></div><div>After clearing the South Fork of the Kuskokwim, I’d become complacent. No matter what happened now, I had at least passed the last of the “scary” ice. But I felt almost equally unnerved crossing the Farewell Lakes, knowing it wouldn’t take much of a mistake to crack my skull or break an arm. Anxiety begged me to reduce my risk and walk, but my minimally studded boots didn’t provide enough traction on glare ice in this wind. I had to ride. My back muscles were as tight as a steel cable. I was beginning to believe I’d really messed up my back while pushing my bike up Rainy Pass. Adrenaline and then bliss masked the pain all morning, but my entire upper body was sore and my legs were tingling from that weird neuropathic issue. To round everything out, my left hip was painfully stiff after slamming into hard ice on the South Fork that morning. And now I had to somehow propel a heavy bike across this messy nonsense. It was all so risky, and here in the middle of nowhere. If I did break an arm, it seemed unlikely a rescue plane would be able to land in this wind. I’d likely have to wait for a half-day or more for a snowmachine ride (and little did I know at the time, even a ground rescue was nearly impossible at the time, due to trail conditions.) </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio-qqixkNUAEECaY5E4dStMM71sGmhWifxWw3Uv5eYFyieMAI_2pD3dy5JBhLIs2Y-Szf4NmADGLOBytDXDFrpkqdNjE4p7i_hlJlTM1v9DUIMxwlE1GLbCz_AApF3PlOvJAXlbfZl9QMNU05Hn8IAVuQNNOgif4PJZQzBSJNheRWpvzK3lw/s1440/275057653_10228269756271653_8197323376144476223_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio-qqixkNUAEECaY5E4dStMM71sGmhWifxWw3Uv5eYFyieMAI_2pD3dy5JBhLIs2Y-Szf4NmADGLOBytDXDFrpkqdNjE4p7i_hlJlTM1v9DUIMxwlE1GLbCz_AApF3PlOvJAXlbfZl9QMNU05Hn8IAVuQNNOgif4PJZQzBSJNheRWpvzK3lw/w640-h640/275057653_10228269756271653_8197323376144476223_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I forgot where I found this photo. Taken by someone else, it shows the moguls in the morning.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>To soothe the stress, I daydreamed about the absolute sailing I’d be able to do once I was off the lakes. I couldn’t have been more wrongly optimistic. The moguls began the minute I’d cleared the final lake. Moguls are bumps that form when snowmachines throttle their engines to gain speed, kicking up snow in their wake. This snow gathers in piles, which increase in size as more machines rev their engines to clear the moguls, until the trail is a rippled mess. It’s a similar phenomenon as washboard on a gravel road — but to an extreme. These were some of the worst moguls I’d ever encountered. Each bump was as much as two feet deep and only as wide as a snowmachine track — about 15 inches — with narrow ski tracks forming a rutted high side. It would be one thing if this was packed snow, but a freeze-thaw cycle had encased the moguls in hard ice. </div><div><br /></div><div> So how to ride the moguls? I am somewhat familiar with pump tracks, although I’ve never ridden one. But I know you must throw your weight into the descents to clear each climb. Not much pedaling can be done. But if you do need to pedal, you’ll only have time for one really hard stroke on the downside of each mogul. This will need to be enough to propel you up the next mogul, some of which are as good as vertical. And when your bike weighs 70 pounds, this needs to be a really hard stroke. I’m thinking 500 watts. Not exactly the kind of power that can be reliably generated by a fatigued 40-something female endurance cyclist with back pain.
The next option was to attempt to ride the ski track to the left. This track was also rippled, but much less so. It was also the exact width of a fat bike tire, so any hairline diversion meant slipping off the track. And if this happened above the trench of the moguls, the dab alone could be a three-foot fall. If my shoulder caught a tree branch near the edge of the trail, it meant tipping over. Same with catching my left pedal on the snow berm. The crashes started within the first mile and only compounded from there. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9BFNQAjv4c07MqmBt-TasA2JriTiLFadEFUUVc-vFzv9s1d5zQWkhbH1M361d-x_NafERpa3qiUsdvF4NxK357YarFDwTCXuw9kUvBiHFKGfznmyqJQa75WS__b_AfgXfsIk4EBZqS-_VUBw3OMmP5y-D7DLGwpaRjZ5arRFNqO4K9ymKNQ/s1440/275733672_10106498106484313_873483509093492255_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9BFNQAjv4c07MqmBt-TasA2JriTiLFadEFUUVc-vFzv9s1d5zQWkhbH1M361d-x_NafERpa3qiUsdvF4NxK357YarFDwTCXuw9kUvBiHFKGfznmyqJQa75WS__b_AfgXfsIk4EBZqS-_VUBw3OMmP5y-D7DLGwpaRjZ5arRFNqO4K9ymKNQ/w640-h640/275733672_10106498106484313_873483509093492255_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A daylight photo of the moguls. Sorry if this is your photo; I didn't take any of my own.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>At first, I was careful, remembering that my unprotected head was skimming within inches of trees. But as frustration and adrenaline surged, I stopped caring. Ongoing crashes continued to pummel me until I felt nothing but rage. Hot, white rage. This rage might have carried me to Nikolai, but then I tipped over and landed on my right hand. The throbbing pain from a wrist that I needed, really needed, whether I rode my bike or pushed it, was the jolt of reality that finally ended this crash bender. </div><div><br /></div><div> The throbbing subsided and my wrist was okay. At least, it was okay enough to grasp the handlebar and maneuver the bike while walking. Pushing a bike over these ridiculous bumps was hardly easy, but I’d already resigned myself to walking most of the way to Nikolai.
Somewhere in this section, I passed Becca and Bobbette, who were heating up meals for lunch. </div><div><br /></div><div> “I have forgotten how to ride a bike,” I lamented. </div><div><br /></div><div> “Us too,” Becca said, although they passed me again 20 minutes later, confirming their skills were better than mine. Between the final Farewell Lake and a remote outpost called Bison Camp are 12 miles of short but steep hills. These hills are utterly endless. I go into this section thinking there are maybe 10 hills and leave convinced there must be 100. I became impatient, and the three of us continued to leapfrog as I commenced my riding attempts. </div><div><br /></div><div> “Every year, every year, I come to a hill and think this must — MUST — be the last hill. And there are at least 20 more!” I exclaimed breathlessly to Becca. “I am no longer going to tell myself this is the last hill. They will go forever, and I will learn to live this way.” </div><div><br /></div><div> Becca laughed and said something about how she had Bobbette had been giggling for most of the afternoon. Everything was uproariously funny. That’s what happens to desperate brains, I thought, when forced to either despair or embrace the absurdity. It’s liberating to embrace the absurd. </div><div><br /></div><div>We both laughed and I suddenly felt 12 years old, the way I felt when sleeping over at a friend’s house. We’d watch a horror film to scare ourselves on purpose, and then we’d stay up all night wandering around the neighborhood, playing small pranks on our neighbors and hoping not to get caught. We were simultaneously frightened and fatigued, exhilarated and exhausted. These sensations were their own kind of high. We craved that intensity. Sometimes, when I’m in the midst of sleep-deprived nonsense that I subject myself to in endurance racing, I wonder if some part of me deep down just wants to be 12 years old again, to again see the world the way I saw it then. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4QstxCGdnxKKGN36TZaK0GDxumQElYphX7NKIfdqvsdoG59WO_3OAVoNOPCI2jSx7amYVT03hvaTvEZii1GcjZ8sr3nQ7q8cEicw-amxhTjnMTE9a9Ucer3qN3pJm8oFMZ-rGDLjl2PGGYAbz7BtyoKmjXlMlLswSTZFl0q-IG7fm4Muf4A/s4898/DSC00421.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4QstxCGdnxKKGN36TZaK0GDxumQElYphX7NKIfdqvsdoG59WO_3OAVoNOPCI2jSx7amYVT03hvaTvEZii1GcjZ8sr3nQ7q8cEicw-amxhTjnMTE9a9Ucer3qN3pJm8oFMZ-rGDLjl2PGGYAbz7BtyoKmjXlMlLswSTZFl0q-IG7fm4Muf4A/w640-h426/DSC00421.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The top of the final hill, just before descending into the "old" Farewell Burn</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Bobbette and Becca surged ahead before the true final hill. After that, I felt dejected — like the girl at the sleepover who couldn’t stay awake and got left behind. Pain returned to the forefront of my mind. I no longer tried to chase it away. The moguls didn’t end with the hills. If anything, they became worse as the trail cut through a densely wooded area, the regrowth of the “old” Farewell Burn. Later, I heard a rumor that Iron Dog racers created these moguls on purpose to slow down their competitors. The bumps were so bad that locals who need the trails for subsistence hunting couldn’t even use them. Indeed, an ITI cyclist, Lindsay, tore a hamstring in a crash near this location. When Lindsay called (using Beat’s satellite phone) to request a pickup, even with his wife in Canada insisting they would “spare no expense,” it was still a massive undertaking to rescue him. No ITI volunteer had access to a snowmachine that could handle these trails. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZbNzr1u-4DXfXQGQjyirrFdx36x5AutEG7MCPzclTWWVpQpVRTF9jwKjL2fbtbdPLiWn9a5oi5wrqHsqPFiXNa6wMJxJwnHHeO2Fb5IOOUO-O-zF_PBJBku7SEiBlcR1cOx2oijfZRu8BppAWskKfxLMkClSlnsLYbUBcQDG8lApEqGrNXA/s1440/bruises.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1440" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZbNzr1u-4DXfXQGQjyirrFdx36x5AutEG7MCPzclTWWVpQpVRTF9jwKjL2fbtbdPLiWn9a5oi5wrqHsqPFiXNa6wMJxJwnHHeO2Fb5IOOUO-O-zF_PBJBku7SEiBlcR1cOx2oijfZRu8BppAWskKfxLMkClSlnsLYbUBcQDG8lApEqGrNXA/w640-h426/bruises.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I finally took a good look at my bruises six days later.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>I lost energy for rage and frustration and gave into the long walk. Even hiking was a stumbling, awkward affair, and I noticed my previously broken toe hurt a lot. Had I rebroken it in a crash? I would come to believe this, but I suppose if that’s all that happened, I got away mostly unscathed. However, about six days later, I finally took the time to look at myself in a mirror after a shower and discovered that my entire body was a startling patchwork of black and blue. Even six days later, I looked and felt as though somebody had pummeled me with a small baseball bat. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNexkWu3rvrvKpP2j9ahiHVfnTsJ2Nsdvv_ORc4MH0r6YEobTbgftHjqyCTP7BfweFc5LXGIPMs7qfsDs5o6x3HguRRems0p8dAUFzrG-ErEoyIXyRl9_iXiXqhQ8ZqE1tPjUWvDQAC9TdiR-lAB3xkXSduF-mMhDXOjtmazYTap3NmJ7-7A/s4898/DSC00422.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNexkWu3rvrvKpP2j9ahiHVfnTsJ2Nsdvv_ORc4MH0r6YEobTbgftHjqyCTP7BfweFc5LXGIPMs7qfsDs5o6x3HguRRems0p8dAUFzrG-ErEoyIXyRl9_iXiXqhQ8ZqE1tPjUWvDQAC9TdiR-lAB3xkXSduF-mMhDXOjtmazYTap3NmJ7-7A/w640-h426/DSC00422.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A lovely spot for dinner</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Still, I have walked the length of these monotonous spruce swamps many times (well, three times), so despite the pain and mounting boredom, I settled into a pleasant rhythm. And while in my memory I pushed my bike the entire way from Bison Camp to Nikolai, I doubtlessly rode quite a bit, as I made reasonable time. But it was a lot like a terrible night of sleep. Even though many of the hours blur together, you feel as though you were awake the entire night. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> I did have one more truly enjoyable hour, about an hour before sunset. I was nearly out of drinking water so I stopped at the shelter cabin turnoff to melt snow and heat up a bag of Chili Mac for dinner. The sun was out and despite a stiff breeze, it felt almost warm, so opted to rest here rather than ride down to the shelter cabin. I hung my ice-crusted waders on the tripod — they actually thawed and nearly dried — and removed my boots and socks to air out my feet in the sunshine. I made a nice chair in a snowbank and sat wiggling my toes in the wind, never wanting to move from this perfect position in paradise. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB4v_Bhe64_y-jACTwQKCprYaB4g_sqhgpSd7AvIAqR78LccJk7szqoPTtFNOr_-OjO-R1VLRe-cg2tkuf1cxywM292PsNtUc855gt0oQiEaFlQeCqFAmJr4CV2XDU2O-zF8jvMjWYsOD8reZeDatHPoPwQfW7B8Y18y3Bf9EPsUO6Ha2CpQ/s4898/DSC00423.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB4v_Bhe64_y-jACTwQKCprYaB4g_sqhgpSd7AvIAqR78LccJk7szqoPTtFNOr_-OjO-R1VLRe-cg2tkuf1cxywM292PsNtUc855gt0oQiEaFlQeCqFAmJr4CV2XDU2O-zF8jvMjWYsOD8reZeDatHPoPwQfW7B8Y18y3Bf9EPsUO6Ha2CpQ/w640-h426/DSC00423.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset over a swamp. The moguls were not bad in these open areas but returned in force through every forested section.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">The sun set and the light was gorgeous for an hour, and then the forest returned to dark and menacing. I dimmed my headlamp so the shadows on the moguls weren’t quite as dramatic. At some point Troy passed; I had been certain he was ahead and I was the last person out there. His approach through the haunted woods was far too startling. Even when he pulled up beside me I half-believed he was a ghost. Troy was weirdly perky and said something about finding a flow through the bumps. I may have quietly grumbled something about brute force and technical prowess mattering more than Zen mastery. Troy surged ahead; whatever he was doing didn’t look like flow; his bike was bouncing all over the place and he was riding it like a rodeo horse. But he managed the turbulence without tipping over, so I had to concede that Troy had found the answer. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd9aWgqoRAO9UJGl9O5nZ1UNZ9ZWXzTUHu6UwsvVZ7T_bgKB9GsQBnEUKwFEgDNl5zGelcMXkW6KRBVva_rh6GT83osAwVlEFqZkv7a-SU8OcOU8ree7JaYXmg31uMymkdYdNlkupTZPndKRsYsoCNKqTyMO78Ud6iXkZEzDci53v1MwAdkA/s4898/DSC00425.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd9aWgqoRAO9UJGl9O5nZ1UNZ9ZWXzTUHu6UwsvVZ7T_bgKB9GsQBnEUKwFEgDNl5zGelcMXkW6KRBVva_rh6GT83osAwVlEFqZkv7a-SU8OcOU8ree7JaYXmg31uMymkdYdNlkupTZPndKRsYsoCNKqTyMO78Ud6iXkZEzDci53v1MwAdkA/w640-h426/DSC00425.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset south of Nikolai</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My 72-mile “ride” from Rohn to Nikolai encompassed a 22-hour day — up at 3 a.m., into Nikolai at 1 a.m. The only real stop I made was the hour-long dinner break. It would have been a tough day without dumping all of my adrenaline first thing amid the terror of the river crossing, then taking a day-long beating from my bike, and then stumbling into a small village in the middle of the night. I was deeply befuddled and became lost for at least a half-hour while trying to find the checkpoint. I may have wandered around for most of the night if I hadn’t encountered Ethan, who was leaving the checkpoint at that hour and followed my tracks the wrong way up a long hill. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> I have doubtlessly described crushing fatigue in many of these race reports, but I swear to you, I have never been so tired in the ITI as I was on this night.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.jilloutside.com/2022/04/its-level-at-peak.html" target="_blank">Part one: It's level at the peak</a></h3><h3 style="text-align: center;"><br /><a href="http://www.jilloutside.com/2022/04/even-death-just-may-not-be.html" target="_blank">Part two: Even death just may not be</a></h3>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-62804508593912334602022-04-26T22:50:00.002-06:002022-04-27T21:06:12.777-06:00Even death just may not be<h1 style="background-color: white; background-image: url(""); background-position: 0% 50%; background-repeat: no-repeat; color: #080707; font-family: Allerta; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0.5em 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; position: relative; text-align: center;">The 2022 Iditarod Trail Invitational. Part two of four.</h1><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcrfh1d-b1St88P5KqILVPPW7cfs-5RlfuTHjpgKA_5HZmLzdq3vRtvhGdAypdIVZYMZTUHfG-7R2pP9nEKAqTRm8tDl13MDWHhHGc2g2BKzushoC5aeAmMwX1uY26-Wybd_9vyGHF8Czfb0-mq0vR22gkEiUToZ2aj_zCjlF4ezdiitjO3g/s4898/DSC00405.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcrfh1d-b1St88P5KqILVPPW7cfs-5RlfuTHjpgKA_5HZmLzdq3vRtvhGdAypdIVZYMZTUHfG-7R2pP9nEKAqTRm8tDl13MDWHhHGc2g2BKzushoC5aeAmMwX1uY26-Wybd_9vyGHF8Czfb0-mq0vR22gkEiUToZ2aj_zCjlF4ezdiitjO3g/w640-h426/DSC00405.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rainy Pass, 2022</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>I was surprised it was already 6 a.m. when I finally woke up, blinking in confusion. What year was it? Where was I? The small cabin was quiet, but the wood stove was warm with recently stoked flames. I pulled on my clothes and stumbled over to the lodge. Becca and Bobbette soon joined me for breakfast. Bobbette had a small amount of reception on her phone so we took turns checking the weather and scrolling through Trackleaders. </div><div><br /></div><div> “Oh shit, Beat’s only about three miles away,” I announced. "He’s going to lecture me about being lazy.” </div><div><br /></div><div>This is true — if Beat caught up with me when I had a bike and he was on foot, with trails as good as they’d been, he’d undoubtedly tease me about sleeping too much. I wanted to see him but also felt shame about snoozing for 11 hours, so I packed up quickly and left. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcMnYXONVI1NcjkMy8xTNls5JNhI3xMj1RqX9AgqWGseqmFNgjCFwYA5I05cKR3xOglCzBthydSs50e1jqVUYFjI95A7Z7fv74NkBHCbrTiIw3lllvuvVdmtBBBgqZpdzv5ZSfd3TnX6CPuLjAZTg7O8RI0bRj3uOTcTXLaw28XoYjS1_LA/s4898/DSC00364.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcMnYXONVI1NcjkMy8xTNls5JNhI3xMj1RqX9AgqWGseqmFNgjCFwYA5I05cKR3xOglCzBthydSs50e1jqVUYFjI95A7Z7fv74NkBHCbrTiIw3lllvuvVdmtBBBgqZpdzv5ZSfd3TnX6CPuLjAZTg7O8RI0bRj3uOTcTXLaw28XoYjS1_LA/w640-h426/DSC00364.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soft trails and a hint of pink morning light</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>The trail remained windblown and punchy, cutting across open swamps with brief diversions into patchy spruce forests. If I could maintain my momentum the front wheel would plow through the drifts, but it became more difficult to generate this kind of power. I certainly felt better after 11 hours of sleep, but not as great as I deserved to feel. Bobbette and Becca soon passed, and then I was riding near Robert for a bit. I stopped three or four times to let air out of my tires and pump them up again. I couldn’t decide where the sweet spot landed. Probably nowhere. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVpWqTobUk6KbCvmW1p3_ZGLKYmWB_IeFYySPKqiZQtYM5dkOzeCcRm6PF-UZ2JIvY8ejWSwGhHApjArgib3noY9j8Vk8vAJPdEh6Nj9cVW0F66M8aSqMI66OlAs5Hf1JFre99QXk6BRry6E4GfkPxprdUE8K4Catl8aBQOsoQYBQ1MZkbZg/s4542/DSC00369.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3003" data-original-width="4542" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVpWqTobUk6KbCvmW1p3_ZGLKYmWB_IeFYySPKqiZQtYM5dkOzeCcRm6PF-UZ2JIvY8ejWSwGhHApjArgib3noY9j8Vk8vAJPdEh6Nj9cVW0F66M8aSqMI66OlAs5Hf1JFre99QXk6BRry6E4GfkPxprdUE8K4Catl8aBQOsoQYBQ1MZkbZg/w640-h424/DSC00369.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robert May with the Alaska Range in the distance.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>The morning was stunning though — cloudy overhead with strips of ethereal light illuminating the sharp summits of the Alaska Range. This is the point where the mountains become close, and it always feels like a monumental threshold. It’s also a place where the wind always blows — a ceaseless and eternal wind, of this I am convinced. The trail was coated in several inches of spindrift, enough to make riding more arduous than my legs could handle. I could see bootprints in the snow and took some comfort in this evidence that I wasn’t the only person walking. The distant silhouette of Robert pushing his bike also brought a sense of camaraderie. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKd7hTBVrpLAdj7HjPX_EwbzMaytUV-39G4aZW3XKwzXD2_H7Rw_rp6A7Cj7FVFD3mI-BWqMpJUxJXyrSFXebYbkktz8wRXK6o_1eMvPfZu8BoXAZ6CF1VIEJad5kw7P-CIP_7JDtqbdUSdjHEYuh74dC9MWpm2CRTLvt8NZuO9zT8kl6EOQ/s4898/DSC00372.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKd7hTBVrpLAdj7HjPX_EwbzMaytUV-39G4aZW3XKwzXD2_H7Rw_rp6A7Cj7FVFD3mI-BWqMpJUxJXyrSFXebYbkktz8wRXK6o_1eMvPfZu8BoXAZ6CF1VIEJad5kw7P-CIP_7JDtqbdUSdjHEYuh74dC9MWpm2CRTLvt8NZuO9zT8kl6EOQ/w640-h426/DSC00372.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The checkpoint at Finger Lake, a wall tent with a view</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div> The tent at Finger Lake was fairly empty in the mid-afternoon, at least relative to past experiences of squeezing into that drafty and basically unheated wall tent at midnight. Bobbette and Becca were still there. Robert and Ethan had rejoined forces. Lindsay, a 70-something Canadian adventure hero, was sitting on a bundle of hay and telling stories to apparently no one, as his partner Phil had gone outside. Troy, a four-time Nome finisher from Australia, was sitting cross-legged on the floor. Troy apparently left Finger Lake several hours earlier and then returned to the checkpoint, but spoke as though he had no issues and was getting ready to head back out. I didn’t ask questions. </div><div><br /></div><div>I unzipped my pant legs to expose bare shins and feet, then propped my legs up on two of the three available chairs while taking mouse bites from an enormous burrito. My stomach was clenched and churning; I could only handle the tiniest of mouthfuls, but I promised myself I wouldn’t leave until I’d finished the thing. Maybe if I was lucky, I'd lose consciousness and end up on a helicopter back to Anchorage. I wasn’t having a bad time, really, but I was so tired. Did endurance biking always leave me this tired? I felt old, but Lindsay and his loud, enthusiastic demeanor openly defied the little voice that told me it was time to retire. And to be fair, Beth and I were the babies in the women's bike field at age 42, which blows my mind.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv5Jqg4cdNf-0t1j7Agj6hxUaKMRIq8-JjyaxkRjE3aURacMV6oXFpPugeLRzjSvGiYZ76Y9bqh40Q-ACMjL8D7fLUoVND_qF2aoQRKX5lMoDyS1vxvHKPaJczK7YHtw47JLBOPq3UycHPu_1-GgIL6fVuHmHEl810Vlfc7ZBF-81o0PzPLA/s4898/DSC00373.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv5Jqg4cdNf-0t1j7Agj6hxUaKMRIq8-JjyaxkRjE3aURacMV6oXFpPugeLRzjSvGiYZ76Y9bqh40Q-ACMjL8D7fLUoVND_qF2aoQRKX5lMoDyS1vxvHKPaJczK7YHtw47JLBOPq3UycHPu_1-GgIL6fVuHmHEl810Vlfc7ZBF-81o0PzPLA/w640-h426/DSC00373.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A perfect half-mile of trail skirts around Red Lake</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>I managed to both finish my burrito and maintain consciousness, but it was long after everyone but Troy left. He now had his socks off and seemed settled in, so I packed up to set out alone. As expected, the trail was in fantastic shape for the one mile where Winter Lake Lodge runs sled dog tours. Just beyond the Red Lake turnaround, the Iditarod Trail deteriorated into a foot-stomped morass. The next 30 miles cut across steep and rolling terrain to climb into the Alaska Range. The trail here is seldom used and usually windblown. I expect this section to take 10 to 12 hours whether I have a bike or not — basically, I already expected to walk the entire way, so I wasn’t too bothered by poor trail conditions. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnoxTO_ftoFdPL8Z6Fjc9LCy6jLi_tZiSsJJfqLcayo-dZQNyrztiWbx-hyrAAshQLJT8VrBU_SBRvFlK4oK2AwOtnUJ5_bjY4L2qVsgOtkLDs17irpI33bB7n7q6HnjsMaOYlxVsx4Mq4bO667ebsKoo3M2aCvDT43YCmL2RsktX68bURPg/s4898/DSC00378.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnoxTO_ftoFdPL8Z6Fjc9LCy6jLi_tZiSsJJfqLcayo-dZQNyrztiWbx-hyrAAshQLJT8VrBU_SBRvFlK4oK2AwOtnUJ5_bjY4L2qVsgOtkLDs17irpI33bB7n7q6HnjsMaOYlxVsx4Mq4bO667ebsKoo3M2aCvDT43YCmL2RsktX68bURPg/w640-h426/DSC00378.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just before the climb out of Red Lake</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>I pushed up the long hill and wove across narrow swamps. The punchy trail, broken solely by bikers and skiers since the most recent snow, looked potentially rideable at super low tire pressure. I decided to test my hypothesis. Sure enough, nearly flat tires glided over the morass like a rolling pin over mashed potatoes — that is, the wheels would roll if I pedaled hard enough. This was predictably a lot of work. </div><div><br /></div><div>Everything about riding this trail was a lot of work. I was beginning to understand that the energy demands of ceaselessly high-resistance surfaces were the reason I was so tired. My muscles weren't trained to pedal near their threshold all day without relief. It didn’t even matter how much I slept or how many enormous burritos I consumed because as soon as I started pedaling, my body instantly became overtaxed. I had to engage my highest internal gears just to keep the 70-something-pound bike rolling. It was like attempting to power a tractor with a Toyota Camry engine. Four-cylinder. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrhSLN6i1U6T3g87qK19A7vihV3HjuBQ_FunFx2h_CZrvNHy94-0CE_8tQmhsnIABGn7CFPdx3sX07Sm5MZ6NF3OZmfsAGLdkabqycY1ceBSXDdE1dicG3aPOzeHdOGDQX0KFDGZuwdZNWmu2cs1dl5K3zPkxMio7KnrgzOlMxyREmdoXgsA/s4898/DSC00379.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrhSLN6i1U6T3g87qK19A7vihV3HjuBQ_FunFx2h_CZrvNHy94-0CE_8tQmhsnIABGn7CFPdx3sX07Sm5MZ6NF3OZmfsAGLdkabqycY1ceBSXDdE1dicG3aPOzeHdOGDQX0KFDGZuwdZNWmu2cs1dl5K3zPkxMio7KnrgzOlMxyREmdoXgsA/w640-h426/DSC00379.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This section is exhausting but it is beautiful</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>And yes, some would criticize me for bringing so much gear and loading my bike with arguably more weight than I could handle. It was "only" the race to McGrath. But those critics weren’t there with me in 2020 when my brain lost the plot at 45 below zero, after days of trail and weather conditions that challenged even the most experienced Nome racers. The "short" race offers no guarantees that you won't have to manage the worst Alaska can throw at you. The more experience I gain, the more I realize what it truly means to rely on only myself in the wilderness. And the more I understand what this means, the more lifelines I carry. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH-BRDE_YVyEf9XKhd-ykCnIJ9Ia6o8i9YTTN36kGxKYOldYAIBiQZ-mNPB030U3gWbt4JHjY-ZJKdmUn-eW7l8qd9gzkALvYbGDCa42dITNI6vtxPwfrMWDprDHe4ZSIn4uTh6Vvedzc_YKg9--lmggfAMVLN6TtP5d0I6dpLQpJ6pUuZFg/s4898/DSC00386.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH-BRDE_YVyEf9XKhd-ykCnIJ9Ia6o8i9YTTN36kGxKYOldYAIBiQZ-mNPB030U3gWbt4JHjY-ZJKdmUn-eW7l8qd9gzkALvYbGDCa42dITNI6vtxPwfrMWDprDHe4ZSIn4uTh6Vvedzc_YKg9--lmggfAMVLN6TtP5d0I6dpLQpJ6pUuZFg/w640-h426/DSC00386.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view west from Shirley Lake</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>I’ve never quite understood those who insist that more experience should result in fewer reasons to "pack my fears," as though accumulating years’ worth of scars should placate fears rather than create more. The former ITI race director, Bill Merchant, coined a phrase now popular in the community: “We go into the Alaska wilderness to find cracks in ourselves. We go back a year later to see if we’ve done something about them.” Like others who repeat this saying, I used to believe that “doing something” meant fixing my cracks. Now I believe the opposite. So why return to Alaska, if the experience is only going to deepen and widen my cracks? There’s also a saying about cracks being where the light gets in. </div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY0w9hGkXzOgev5DjMsD6wvPE3PDZEv4oeR5Mn5hyQ5YV0lUYsR37KCj0KuJ-TQLJQ40VPcGfvpt5lOZH9y3uAZO5p3JKKMCSelLxO98WANgCMnJdEUtg-PpUQOZcpSb_eG_IGf7I5Q19G0L_gwSvDDOMXAT3Vs_mF-JTgYMYdRLCuEWg0JQ/s3264/PXL_20220302_015437042.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY0w9hGkXzOgev5DjMsD6wvPE3PDZEv4oeR5Mn5hyQ5YV0lUYsR37KCj0KuJ-TQLJQ40VPcGfvpt5lOZH9y3uAZO5p3JKKMCSelLxO98WANgCMnJdEUtg-PpUQOZcpSb_eG_IGf7I5Q19G0L_gwSvDDOMXAT3Vs_mF-JTgYMYdRLCuEWg0JQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220302_015437042.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The face of someone who is feeling pretty cracked.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div>As I battled my abundant weaknesses, late afternoon light saturated the towering peaks. Whenever I’m here, standing beneath the steep canyon walls surrounding the Skwentna River, I’m convinced this is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been — probably because my fissured mind is so receptive to light. Winding my way to the Happy River had been a frustrating affair. Where the trail cut through the woods, Iron Dog snowmachines had chewed the surface into a minefield of moguls. The ripples were often so steep that it became nearly impossible to ride. The tiered descent down the Happy River Steps involved lowering my bike by hand down a vertical embankment, an action I might compare to trying to lower a 70-pound sack of cement from the roof of a single-story home to the ground without breaking it. My shoulders were screaming.</div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNohyJMkmjGzOuiSDNSbsXG9fXB5LELpxrBo3jvFYYW-J1bXE4WrP6x37xnmUs8bbl7-G_zDn9AswmzmlQLL7ZMKiCWLHiab8JVfBFv8Quk63OkClDQNL-4_0chNqHP43LYAo7z3XQochjV1C-9WOUjiXRsdIRR47GNTf8UYxN5dnbHOLfgg/s4898/DSC00383.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNohyJMkmjGzOuiSDNSbsXG9fXB5LELpxrBo3jvFYYW-J1bXE4WrP6x37xnmUs8bbl7-G_zDn9AswmzmlQLL7ZMKiCWLHiab8JVfBFv8Quk63OkClDQNL-4_0chNqHP43LYAo7z3XQochjV1C-9WOUjiXRsdIRR47GNTf8UYxN5dnbHOLfgg/w640-h426/DSC00383.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from the Skwentna River at its confluence with the Happy River. A perennially favorite place.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div>I was swearing up a storm on the Steps, but all was forgiven once I dropped onto the river ice. Big views returned. Sunlight filtered through a low ceiling of clouds, shimmering from every fleck of snow.
My heart fluttered as I pedaled across the snow-covered ice. It's a short-lived respite of bliss before the long climb out of the Skwentna, where the trail leaves this river behind for good. In past years, the river embankment formed a nearly vertical wall that had been scraped to ice and dirt by snowmachines. I barely got my sled up it in 2020, so I was prepared to break down my heavy bike and carry my gear up the embankment in stages. This year, heavy machinery had bulldozed the trail to a manageable grade. It was still a steep push, but by becoming doable rather than impossible, this year's climb out of the Happy River Steps felt like cheating.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzTzL5JvK6Zvdh3_VStxgS-t2Z-fgns_OV-_95sSdjvr6ke0wsb_gvcu_iKBRBhy4UXCO2nNQYGqaZ5HxHDpk8_g2lj5OrWnezv6ejEoAKb_a1c2lbYVgs3yngIrObh8JpEGpaWTqm2_O0lLaF5gNi_k1Y2_sCTE_w2KEDsWX3G3Y2xJYklg/s4898/DSC00381.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzTzL5JvK6Zvdh3_VStxgS-t2Z-fgns_OV-_95sSdjvr6ke0wsb_gvcu_iKBRBhy4UXCO2nNQYGqaZ5HxHDpk8_g2lj5OrWnezv6ejEoAKb_a1c2lbYVgs3yngIrObh8JpEGpaWTqm2_O0lLaF5gNi_k1Y2_sCTE_w2KEDsWX3G3Y2xJYklg/w640-h426/DSC00381.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Still a seldom-traveled trail. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>In my exhausted state, an easy out should have been a relief, but the bulldozed trail soured my mood. This meant the ice road was expanding. “The ice road” refers to the West Susitna Access Road, a project that would provide road access to a mining district at the foot of the Alaska Range. While the route doesn’t follow the Iditarod Trail precisely, there are enough parallels that the 100-mile largely private mining road would all but destroy the wilderness experience of the trail. Most people in the Iditarod community strongly oppose this development, which will have heavy environmental as well as local economic impacts. But it seems to be going forward, and just like an enormous dam expansion project near my home in Boulder, I feel resigned to witness the bulldozing of places that I love. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinnhl2nDyR81Yg04FLc0yyuzqu3739NX1GDS1AW4BA0fzRFoQdoDQ5p-SEPU5UqFC6kI_qVUhiIs0_7KM9NT__n-obJrLaCLd7u4c0Qku_CK8wHKxBf4xxVIZzzPyfKPrYrQeZN5KaLL3TKqqogdiBFrMCkYpSk_EX_GFYUv-aPi_6x4oMzg/s4898/DSC00385.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinnhl2nDyR81Yg04FLc0yyuzqu3739NX1GDS1AW4BA0fzRFoQdoDQ5p-SEPU5UqFC6kI_qVUhiIs0_7KM9NT__n-obJrLaCLd7u4c0Qku_CK8wHKxBf4xxVIZzzPyfKPrYrQeZN5KaLL3TKqqogdiBFrMCkYpSk_EX_GFYUv-aPi_6x4oMzg/w640-h426/DSC00385.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another view from Shirley Lake</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>This sadness feels like a widening crack in myself. As I pushed my bike up the wide-tracked path, another figurative scar opened.
To soothe the sadness and fatigue, I indulged in nostalgia. I gazed up at vistas and tried to remember what I was experiencing "in this place in 2008.” My memories of this first year on the Iditarod Trail remain the sharpest, as often happens with life's most intense experiences. That year, I left Finger Lake at dusk and traveled most of this section in the dark. I didn’t see any of these gorgeous mountains; what I did see were menacing woods and endless hills. I remember dropping onto Shirley Lake, still 15 very slow miles from the Puntilla Lake checkpoint, and thinking I was “almost there.” </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuyeY9jh-tsaF_93zx7eqQ-weIx_PgzFrOMB3mQz66jNY2RIFTbN2-r_TQMliUglmAZ0eO5fC6_OqDlIuLSOWAQKBMKOuoB8Y9ZfqUhNrX8Bapo44fMT7J4bnErw7P6lEuz8C4SJeCKvG3pVq0LqHK0BnkLfIKR2zsQqlS7xclRbWj9gz8Pg/s4032/PXL_20220302_032048325.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuyeY9jh-tsaF_93zx7eqQ-weIx_PgzFrOMB3mQz66jNY2RIFTbN2-r_TQMliUglmAZ0eO5fC6_OqDlIuLSOWAQKBMKOuoB8Y9ZfqUhNrX8Bapo44fMT7J4bnErw7P6lEuz8C4SJeCKvG3pVq0LqHK0BnkLfIKR2zsQqlS7xclRbWj9gz8Pg/w640-h480/PXL_20220302_032048325.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finn Bear Lake</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Now, arriving at the lake an hour before sunset, I knew the ceaseless hills between here and Puntilla meant I would be lucky to arrive before midnight.
Indeed, the hill dividing Shirley and Finn Bear lakes might as well be a wall. The grade is nearly vertical. I didn’t break down my heavy bike to climb the hill, but I should have. Instead, I spent long minutes kicking platforms into the snow so I could anchor my boots before chest-pressing the bike with all of the strength I could muster. Then I'd grab the brakes, catch my breath, and repeat the steps. At the top of the hill, my shoulders and calves burned with such force that I needed to sit down for a 15-minute break, taking tiny sips of water while I waited for my muscles to stop cramping. </div><div><br /></div><div>“Achievement unlocked,” I mumbled as self-encouragement. I thought about how, in real life, pushing a bike up a small hill would be such a trivial thing as to hardly matter. But out here, where forward motion is my only means of survival, each step is everything. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9_qyUY2Gc0yK6hOlhsnONvCdcyx7WpYY9jD3ryrS7xIJqYMMuOBNlgcyjLNju_qq2dQoocdmjPaJINIk2eS-v1awNB_6pglbaWEOXZR4G9As352IFv-VpdWe-OJqPjpK3bt6GrgrY9K4Vd4ub7BRNNTl48USlaAE6rEUJud2xM5n64UukhQ/s4898/DSC00390.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9_qyUY2Gc0yK6hOlhsnONvCdcyx7WpYY9jD3ryrS7xIJqYMMuOBNlgcyjLNju_qq2dQoocdmjPaJINIk2eS-v1awNB_6pglbaWEOXZR4G9As352IFv-VpdWe-OJqPjpK3bt6GrgrY9K4Vd4ub7BRNNTl48USlaAE6rEUJud2xM5n64UukhQ/w640-h426/DSC00390.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One more Finn Bear view</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>The trail continued along a bench high above the Happy River gorge. This section follows a ceaseless ripple of drainages, plunging into and steeply out of wooded gulleys. A lot of the trail is rideable if you’re feeling strong, but again, you have to feel pretty damn strong. My expectations were set low and my legs had started protesting loudly, so was happy to hike. I scanned the sky for Northern Lights and listened to “The Memoirs of Stockholm Sven” on Audible. I don’t typically read fiction, but this novel held me rapt with its descriptions of the beauty and isolation of the Arctic. My concentration shifted from the ache in my shoulders to the brilliant night sky. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTx2p7PBTJ9oa8gHxUTE68FE-BTNC9pIubH-v6Rco6mLg9eqUZoJ2WVhRVxM-C3089rQZwgWLt-ilH2aiRXE6X5G_Zd0CCU3z7e1tS6SA7kbAPbpnxFDUbAbYPYXKqFfOmYoCraR4EiS63_pbvqWwd_rC3gx1JIhLwO6pJupdR97f0GdRQuw/s4898/DSC00392.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTx2p7PBTJ9oa8gHxUTE68FE-BTNC9pIubH-v6Rco6mLg9eqUZoJ2WVhRVxM-C3089rQZwgWLt-ilH2aiRXE6X5G_Zd0CCU3z7e1tS6SA7kbAPbpnxFDUbAbYPYXKqFfOmYoCraR4EiS63_pbvqWwd_rC3gx1JIhLwO6pJupdR97f0GdRQuw/w640-h426/DSC00392.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Puntilla Lake at dawn</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>I arrived at Puntilla Lake around 11 p.m., again the last in a large conglomeration of cyclists. In past years, the lodge offered a historic trapper’s cabin as a checkpoint. It was dilapidated, but I actually sort of miss that tiny log building that leaked snowmelt onto my head. The trapper's cabin finally collapsed three years ago, so the lodge built a spacious bunkhouse with two wood stoves. On this night, the bunkhouse interior was heated to at least 85 degrees. Nearly every bunk was full. As I shined my headlamp through the darkness in search of an open bed, I cast a spotlight on a man sleeping in the nude, legs fully splayed. I’m certainly not a prude but the unexpected full-frontal caught me by surprise and caused me to let out an unexpectedly loud "eep."</div><div><br /></div><div> “Ah, probably one of the Italians,” I thought with a smirk.
I threw a few items on a top bunk in the corner and waited for a meal to rehydrate while I sat and savored hot chocolate. I was 100% content; there was nowhere I’d rather be. It is interesting how wide emotions can swing during these endeavors. I didn’t admit this earlier because it didn’t fit the narrative of happy hiking, but there was more than one hill after Finn Bear Lake that reduced me to exhausted tears. Now I was spooning noodles from a bag and averting my eyes from potential nudity — in other words, paradise.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqtmj4kVrk_RmWDFYI8nkYnsLhu_gYB-0C4-yGdY_jgEZGjzp9Ae1Z2C_vcxclGL0J8TFUtq7-6sTvUy7QCSc8QFE0XtvgjICtEgqbTW9pEUvGQ-lYTWF3tZs58vdWVNXQIYxr80vx2aHWtSZkS5XOPWF15tloMk2D6a43xkkDKoLbngb-ig/s4898/DSC00391.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqtmj4kVrk_RmWDFYI8nkYnsLhu_gYB-0C4-yGdY_jgEZGjzp9Ae1Z2C_vcxclGL0J8TFUtq7-6sTvUy7QCSc8QFE0XtvgjICtEgqbTW9pEUvGQ-lYTWF3tZs58vdWVNXQIYxr80vx2aHWtSZkS5XOPWF15tloMk2D6a43xkkDKoLbngb-ig/w640-h426/DSC00391.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ptarmigan Valley as morning clouds settle in.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Nearly everyone was up and out of the bunkhouse earlier than me; I found it difficult to care about my progress and still believed sleep might save me. I was packing up around 6 a.m when another wave of cyclists and the first runner arrived. The runner wasn’t Beat. I admit to being both disappointed and relieved about this. I realized this new wave meant I had slipped from the mid-pack to the back-of-pack, but again, I wasn’t sure this was important to me … although I did still care about Beat's opinion, I admit. </div><div><br /></div><div> The morning was breezy and cloudy, probably about 10 degrees. I quickly broke a sweat climbing away from the lake, right before my cramping hamstrings demanded a return to hiking. Beth passed and then I was alone for a long while. Hints of pink light briefly skimmed mountain tops before the clouds engulfed the landscape in a white pall.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2_YrdzwKP1jZMSq7GWVBvg7Au_sioZM1qI5y5UZnnJPcnuWjEuT6-sTLV1tjCDEqXXU6JIXHKD1HMItzpGOszuPb35oKncY-JunImsFqh3L0sJwvxJhTG2nViwiPhJptWYsMV9Etn5YREtHX4SSYrNOIp45jjoHxMo_vuxd4seosGmrUBrg/s4898/DSC00396.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2_YrdzwKP1jZMSq7GWVBvg7Au_sioZM1qI5y5UZnnJPcnuWjEuT6-sTLV1tjCDEqXXU6JIXHKD1HMItzpGOszuPb35oKncY-JunImsFqh3L0sJwvxJhTG2nViwiPhJptWYsMV9Etn5YREtHX4SSYrNOIp45jjoHxMo_vuxd4seosGmrUBrg/w640-h426/DSC00396.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hints of sunlight</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Before this year I’d say I was “five for five” in landing perfect days on Rainy Pass. I always seem to leave Puntilla Lake between the hours of 5 and 8 a.m. and then enjoy the crossing in daylight under bluebird skies and downright friendly temperatures. Rainy Pass can hold some of the most fearsome weather imaginable. I’ve heard stories of hurricane-force winds and 70-below windchills but I’ve yet to experience the teeth of the Alaska Range. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOU6ux3eaelR9iL87l69DwTTfnaiFjRRPPxeyR9UvZj1gdNtLc53LJCYxxEb4hThZ0pAmBLu0H8Ih__8lOTSf6u4w26plHy4-5U0Vm9n2OkOcaDP7IU0LFY2i3vsndn1aVK8uRe3Hv91VLelE7XNqXD69Sdu2cg6rNiseDcO81JIOJk9F_GA/s4898/DSC00395.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOU6ux3eaelR9iL87l69DwTTfnaiFjRRPPxeyR9UvZj1gdNtLc53LJCYxxEb4hThZ0pAmBLu0H8Ih__8lOTSf6u4w26plHy4-5U0Vm9n2OkOcaDP7IU0LFY2i3vsndn1aVK8uRe3Hv91VLelE7XNqXD69Sdu2cg6rNiseDcO81JIOJk9F_GA/w640-h426/DSC00395.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ethan searches for the trail near one of the hardy spruce trees of the Ptarmigan Valley</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>This year the weather was overcast with strong winds and occasional flurries. Still, the moody skies made crossing number six somehow even more perfect. The light was ethereal; the shifting contrasts of white on white were mesmerizing.
As it climbed through the Ptarmigan Valley, the trail became increasingly windblown. The light was so flat that it was difficult to discern what was packed trail and what was bottomless powder. I took a few tumbles, usually because I threw a foot down while swerving and punched a chest-deep hole into unconsolidated snow. Ethan passed and I found some success following his line, but he too was having only marginal luck with route-finding. The wind quickly buried his tracks in spindrift, and after a mile or so there was no evidence he’d been through. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzGMZFFiCRS6ZHbNqUrR-HBe_g1pJczOw80k1O5-GCgNyecnZwCGKPlxDqz1pMPOaNDsw-fBwuH4uFH1esgWJSxuZYDb-i5HAhqvuBZ0KYX6-LM1GWMA7Sy5Wd0BY7LJDE_JlxUGaZjVI-BBOgAzVFS81al2EsN1HyAf0gA_1gmKVfngUKjQ/s4032/PXL_20220302_235214722.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzGMZFFiCRS6ZHbNqUrR-HBe_g1pJczOw80k1O5-GCgNyecnZwCGKPlxDqz1pMPOaNDsw-fBwuH4uFH1esgWJSxuZYDb-i5HAhqvuBZ0KYX6-LM1GWMA7Sy5Wd0BY7LJDE_JlxUGaZjVI-BBOgAzVFS81al2EsN1HyAf0gA_1gmKVfngUKjQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220302_235214722.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> 🎵"Step out the front door like a ghost into the fog" 🎵</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>By the time the route turned into the drainage below Rainy Pass Lake, there was no longer visible evidence of a trail. Even pushing my bike, the packed trail was difficult to find. I had to go by the feel of the surface under my boots.
Strangely, I enjoyed all of this. The flat light obscured the white mountains and gray sky, causing a near-absence of visual stimuli. There was nothing to taste or smell, and only a soft, cloud-like feel of snow under my feet. The low, moaning wind was so monotonous as to become white noise. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was very much a place of sensory deprivation, and yet I felt rhythmically in tune with the present. A flock of white ptarmigan flushed out of an alder thicket and returned. Thick snowflakes swirled in the wind, creating a similar pattern of white flashes on a gray background. Glimmers of sunlight cut through the pall and faded. Jagged mountain ridges emerged and disappeared behind clouds. </div><div><br /></div><div> “Heaven,” I thought. Isn’t this what we’re taught of heaven? Peaceful, celestial, eternal? My thoughts were a peaceful murmur. My burning calf muscles and tingling nose spoke a more abrupt truth. I was still a mortal soul in a merciless wilderness. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnBKLRHXfchi7LlkDteRVeIxLv9I1DlX_67cHbPH2r9UeBXLM1MRZNAIevN_k7gHbsx2E2yyI-i4XGx4bzDhc5fkRCHV3hZW_YekijwTf4G0bjbCUJHNZ7QFLRnexuXl2Gy2_eIbQ2QmFzQr6_vM4c1A-bqRUfHek4AiOSZQUCixKeLQN48w/s3264/PXL_20220303_003850561.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnBKLRHXfchi7LlkDteRVeIxLv9I1DlX_67cHbPH2r9UeBXLM1MRZNAIevN_k7gHbsx2E2yyI-i4XGx4bzDhc5fkRCHV3hZW_YekijwTf4G0bjbCUJHNZ7QFLRnexuXl2Gy2_eIbQ2QmFzQr6_vM4c1A-bqRUfHek4AiOSZQUCixKeLQN48w/w640-h480/PXL_20220303_003850561.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was my first year the weather was actually a bit "sporty" on Rainy Pass.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>I took a selfie and a brief break at Rainy Pass — always too cold and windy to linger — and fired a quick satellite text to Beat. He hadn’t replied to any of my messages so far and I doubted he was receiving them, so I mainly used these texts to cry into the void. I complained about fatigue and back pain. Although I did, in hindsight, enjoy my time in Heaven, the difficult push had hobbled my back. I felt shooting pains in the problem area — the spot where I’d been slammed by the side-view mirror of a truck four months earlier. My lower lat muscles were spasming and tightening. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhimXLL3rVipYhei5ZrOeRZHhLNIvYxNaaS57ufEwEtDBCE4g66A1_VUEpqi0WvWeQxVnY_ePsqt2D12Awmr2mrxOlYag6qrA0o9gnua9BjRz7-5WLf1xizp526rYc-uDRF600n_-nczqZSppWbW3GNFx-DMm_Ix-a7fZWfpJWOWoUQH36EMw/s4898/DSC00402.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhimXLL3rVipYhei5ZrOeRZHhLNIvYxNaaS57ufEwEtDBCE4g66A1_VUEpqi0WvWeQxVnY_ePsqt2D12Awmr2mrxOlYag6qrA0o9gnua9BjRz7-5WLf1xizp526rYc-uDRF600n_-nczqZSppWbW3GNFx-DMm_Ix-a7fZWfpJWOWoUQH36EMw/w640-h426/DSC00402.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not many views; still beautiful.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Rainy Pass is the point of no return — if I retreated to Puntilla, it would be a relatively easy out. But descending into Rohn is pretty much committing to McGrath. It’s extremely expensive and difficult to get out from the uninhabited land beyond this point. I gave brief consideration to turning around and quitting. Can I really do this? Should I do this? The cold wind discouraged rumination. Without making any decision one way or the other, I was soon fishtailing down the invisible trail on a precarious plunge toward Pass Creek. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaNkay6opTaWkoxJ78-HBjU9oFBCpEyqQefb4olEsmKqp6dT4uAhlo0KrOnjBZ5LA8sqU-APhAd7e0AJL0YpZAPQlwvNR2TKH5mPXIGfoEve8warekQMbTbw7OoW9RSkwAQ0-64ACyXSABVVqJY_oRz7nZRrIHsFesPJl6VWekU2JCSaPVhA/s4898/DSC00407.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaNkay6opTaWkoxJ78-HBjU9oFBCpEyqQefb4olEsmKqp6dT4uAhlo0KrOnjBZ5LA8sqU-APhAd7e0AJL0YpZAPQlwvNR2TKH5mPXIGfoEve8warekQMbTbw7OoW9RSkwAQ0-64ACyXSABVVqJY_oRz7nZRrIHsFesPJl6VWekU2JCSaPVhA/w640-h426/DSC00407.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Dazell Gorge</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Soft and punchy trail conditions persisted. The route wound through alder thickets and crossed over Pass Creek, which was open and flowing with ankle-deep current. My back spasmed painfully but it was better to ride than push my bike, so I took some chances I might not otherwise take (resulting in at least one hard crash on a hidden patch of ice while I was leaning into a sharp turn.) </div><div><br /></div><div>The Dazell Gorge was a moose-stomped minefield — like riding on inverted boulders, but slippery. Again I tried to pretend I am a decent technical rider (I’m not) and kept the pedals turning. Few cyclists wear helmets in this race — the old-school reasoning being that fat bikes are slow and snow is soft — but I have never wanted a helmet so badly as I did on this journey. It was extremely poor planning not to have one. With as much as I crashed (all of my hardest hits were yet to come), I’m lucky I didn’t incur a head injury. Head injuries are definitely being added to my growing list of fears.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcmzf--qzvdLwnUBukaGKqcCHeuMDf3wBvmQEsz6QK6QPDwgxWmvnypdeeAe7YwKuyBFL1BX-tjomhypjwnr7P10UMgJzLc6D2CXtBUGF4kLa5QDIuNxsaooKUpjk5Z9D0tI5AVARcuLaa_WRNff-npP45kfzWExVPcNsWrPCZ_i_zyikL8Q/s4898/DSC00409.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcmzf--qzvdLwnUBukaGKqcCHeuMDf3wBvmQEsz6QK6QPDwgxWmvnypdeeAe7YwKuyBFL1BX-tjomhypjwnr7P10UMgJzLc6D2CXtBUGF4kLa5QDIuNxsaooKUpjk5Z9D0tI5AVARcuLaa_WRNff-npP45kfzWExVPcNsWrPCZ_i_zyikL8Q/w640-h426/DSC00409.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dropping onto the Tatina River. It looks fine. It's not.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>The steep gorge emptied into the Tatina River. The six miles of river travel before and after Rohn are by far my most hated section of trail. I dread the Tatina. It’s a fast-flowing mountain river with ever-changing, often dangerous ice conditions. One person’s smooth-sailing ice can be another’s minefield of knee-deep flowing water. Obstacles can change in a matter of hours. And there are eddies deep enough that a truly unlucky person could fall through the ice, get sucked into the current, and drown. Sure, the Tatina is surrounded by incredible mountain scenery and enough quiet to impart a false sense of peace. This is all part of the diabolical nature of the Tatina. If Rainy Pass is Heaven, the Tatina is Hell. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUKGvUXfj9Qj0WZ7NrSfQsaVCuydlyd6neCbmybZb7tZYrnTXGlGWKGjgGOi1aHRQujZlOBQ6wKiDTF6xlMhbQKNGRxM18sncsmQJzV8nzOMpkfkOdIShceO7fkIHbmfxbJJ_mRzJtE1PHa0Ykl1iNC-5dRAzLn0Ekbf4vFah5mQtR0RTMKQ/s960/275552808_10224144849002224_338183592759763885_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUKGvUXfj9Qj0WZ7NrSfQsaVCuydlyd6neCbmybZb7tZYrnTXGlGWKGjgGOi1aHRQujZlOBQ6wKiDTF6xlMhbQKNGRxM18sncsmQJzV8nzOMpkfkOdIShceO7fkIHbmfxbJJ_mRzJtE1PHa0Ykl1iNC-5dRAzLn0Ekbf4vFah5mQtR0RTMKQ/w640-h480/275552808_10224144849002224_338183592759763885_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Tatina River Narrows, photo by Ethan Harrison</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>But it’s only four miles to Rohn, so I try to put on a brave face and get it over with. A strong crosswind threw me off balance as I pedaled gingerly over scratched glare ice. Open water began to appear along the edges of the river. At the Narrows, an ice bridge had collapsed. There was no choice but to cross the open channel if I wanted to stick to the trail, which I did. Crossing open water on a known path is preferable to feeling out an untested route over potential instabilities. </div><div><br /></div><div> I stopped and removed my Wiggy’s Waders from my bags — these are the lightweight nylon hip waders that nearly every Iditarod Trail racer carries these days. Sitting on the snow, it took some time to pull the material over my legs, especially because I wanted to take care not to rip the material with the carbide studs embedded in the soles of my boots. By the time I stood again I was shaking profusely, both from cold and fear. </div><div><br /></div><div>The ice underfoot was soft and seemed to shudder as though it too was on the verge of collapse. I had little traction from the soles of the waders and dragged my feet in a sluggish shuffle as the current pushed around my knees. Water climbed as high as my mid-thigh — nearly to the top of the waders. The bike bobbed almost weightlessly beside me, floating on its tires. I was certain this was the end of dry anything — I was going to crash through the soft ice, or if not, the channel was going to be chest-deep and I’d swim either way. But I managed to climb out the other side without dropping my bike or flooding my waders </div><div><br /></div><div>I didn’t bother removing the waders. I jumped back on my bike and pedaled frantically toward Rohn, fearful that if I stopped moving I’d crash through the ice for sure.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><h2 style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.jilloutside.com/2022/04/its-level-at-peak.html" target="_blank">Part One: It's level at the peak</a></h2>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18615538.post-77397714476167664662022-04-20T16:07:00.001-06:002022-04-21T23:29:22.525-06:00It’s level at the peak<h2 style="text-align: center;">The 2022 Iditarod Trail Invitational. Part one of four.</h2><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7HJY_v7mXja3-5K-qqLiSZ-vGoJAmOlQk2xGBgCg3GQDbTLCHkaC1k0DYV5F3frslbHHE5qLyC4U0wozJYrVXvybqnLTJnT02NK3Mc5XsDrJruvM5Mxy29mYUc8IC_dgEkyxh6612EiZvBXjFB5p0zmS0NreYGBuz0Fq8vvEIONmgQQyrMg/s4898/DSC00400.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7HJY_v7mXja3-5K-qqLiSZ-vGoJAmOlQk2xGBgCg3GQDbTLCHkaC1k0DYV5F3frslbHHE5qLyC4U0wozJYrVXvybqnLTJnT02NK3Mc5XsDrJruvM5Mxy29mYUc8IC_dgEkyxh6612EiZvBXjFB5p0zmS0NreYGBuz0Fq8vvEIONmgQQyrMg/w640-h426/DSC00400.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rainy Pass, 2022.</td></tr></tbody></table><p> <br />Fourteen years. It’s a third of my life, and it’s jarring to realize that I’m as far away from the wide-eyed 28-year-old who first crossed mile zero of the Iditarod Trail, as she was from my ninth-grade self. In many ways, I feel closer to that 14-year-old. She was anxious and insecure, jarred by the sudden distance from the child she once was, and straining to hold onto the assurance of religious beliefs. She’d reach for hope but also quietly ruminate on a future of seemingly inevitable catastrophes for which she’d developed more faith than the glossy, Christian version of the apocalypse she believed as a child. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYUJld-mUJw4yjORH_g2cgDQ0qlPcYVxSb8RmSjVtcM3mJv-QzAlOjK-4GNyd0m3SILMi5MVwyLtNuD5uSV0wT820R9Pgsu7c8Mf2cDUoGKjxG5UfrmY5LwmqEJWjH0_QmyMquQofRhXriIOGq_U4ogrPvL_xoeL0jPx0_QeVLbjlJalAeQA/s4898/DSC00387.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYUJld-mUJw4yjORH_g2cgDQ0qlPcYVxSb8RmSjVtcM3mJv-QzAlOjK-4GNyd0m3SILMi5MVwyLtNuD5uSV0wT820R9Pgsu7c8Mf2cDUoGKjxG5UfrmY5LwmqEJWjH0_QmyMquQofRhXriIOGq_U4ogrPvL_xoeL0jPx0_QeVLbjlJalAeQA/w640-h426/DSC00387.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shirley Lake, 2022.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>That ninth-grader grew jaded and a bit resigned, but then she wandered North. Here was a vision of renewed hope, a place seemingly far from human destruction — the frozen Alaska backcountry, beautiful and wild, a surreal expanse that held the unbroken silence of a subzero morning and the deafening blast of Arctic winds. Now I see this place in my dreams, when I meditate to calm my brain to sleep, when I wake up blinking and confused, what year is this again? In these moments I see mountains, white and glittering beneath the winter sunlight. Even when the cacophony of life overwhelms my senses, this image grounds me. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4_hdAhgKjuXBlYLfeZqGDP0R_PjE5HcyHPAXLpxjT8u4xQqJkuG82mvbzJ6mCdeV5ylOdaWGPivU5lYJN8yjiwIjoefae5WMQ9cHN90Sx5OSZvgfMizYs_ggTIXFlQV_mNPP-t-Exy-rO_aBlCf8bA60eP_pl309wkN2KdLL5BwnEHBIHxw/s4898/DSC00388.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4_hdAhgKjuXBlYLfeZqGDP0R_PjE5HcyHPAXLpxjT8u4xQqJkuG82mvbzJ6mCdeV5ylOdaWGPivU5lYJN8yjiwIjoefae5WMQ9cHN90Sx5OSZvgfMizYs_ggTIXFlQV_mNPP-t-Exy-rO_aBlCf8bA60eP_pl309wkN2KdLL5BwnEHBIHxw/w640-h426/DSC00388.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finn Bear Lake, 2022.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The North seemed inevitable, my “calling.” The Iditarod Trail Invitational, the human-powered race that travels Alaska's most storied trail, was the perfect expression of this passion, a benediction if you will. For nearly a third of my life, I was all in — even through relationship upheavals, health setbacks, career diversions, and relocations. I roped in my partner, who fell harder than I did. He’s returned to mile zero of the Iditarod Trail nearly every year since 2012. So even when I didn’t race, our lives still revolved around preparations for the North. It began to feel like this intense ritual, like going to church on Sunday but for six months out of the year — testing gear, buying supplies, training, and preparing. Burnout began to sear the edges of my passion even before 2020. I feared this lapse of faith, so I doubled down on my commitment to the North with the ultimate challenge — attempting to walk the entire thousand miles to Nome. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUVqX7-Zg91DoPyCykTPtKx7FoTrpw3ouw9hgfkxCUD0MXgSgQaeqcpArLq9vT3c3c34vBC2Z7H_zpsSGvYzFViHnRCgNHrEyV7QLvJvXDbKLis7T3FNt7urq3FgdqeqgdIu8Seiv6YTt08cPrmQh0zfz8O5ZH3KtbLDEw8rmZu2FbgsZeBQ/s2048/2020_FingerLake.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1522" data-original-width="2048" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUVqX7-Zg91DoPyCykTPtKx7FoTrpw3ouw9hgfkxCUD0MXgSgQaeqcpArLq9vT3c3c34vBC2Z7H_zpsSGvYzFViHnRCgNHrEyV7QLvJvXDbKLis7T3FNt7urq3FgdqeqgdIu8Seiv6YTt08cPrmQh0zfz8O5ZH3KtbLDEw8rmZu2FbgsZeBQ/w640-h476/2020_FingerLake.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dragging my sled toward Finger Lake in 2020. Photo by Mark Smith.</td></tr></tbody></table><p> The 2020 Iditarod Trail was a difficult test by any standard. Windchills and then ambient temperatures dipped below minus 40, several feet of snow buried the route, every ITI veteran agreed this year was one of the toughest. I fought because this had become part of my identity, to face the worst Alaska could dish out even when everything else about life frightened me. But this time I went too far; I pushed too hard, let my executive functions falter, fell asleep on my feet, and tumbled into a tree well at 45 below. The snow was so deep that I struggled to pull myself out of the hollow, thrashing through a primal panic as powder packed into my clothing. Once I was free, the subzero cold felt blisteringly painful against my wet skin. My choices at that point were to build a campfire or set up a bivy to shield my exhausted body from the cold and try to sleep away my ongoing hallucinations. I chose the latter because it seemed simpler and faster, and luckily I’d hauled the best gear — my body was overburdened but at least my mind was prepared. But I’d rarely felt so close to the edge. It still frightens me to recall this moment and recognize how near I was to falling through my own cracks into a terrifying void. </p><p> “This isn’t what I want. Not at all.” I was finally beginning to believe it. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG-kcaUBEfg_6QaHKIYj-ZuUKFzspLhdAC8uBgr_o9RKwn5Xo-SAfN-IgYu3BN_tn1USUT51fiU2Owl7iCMVW55gXxKthl3sgbfdS-SUP9zxA2qpN9gepCNu9WAhsJ_llXfBfZW4dTaYzJ4APVgLqTS7Ji3LdDK0CDz7PHJackrZzOpmVweA/s4898/DSC00401.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG-kcaUBEfg_6QaHKIYj-ZuUKFzspLhdAC8uBgr_o9RKwn5Xo-SAfN-IgYu3BN_tn1USUT51fiU2Owl7iCMVW55gXxKthl3sgbfdS-SUP9zxA2qpN9gepCNu9WAhsJ_llXfBfZW4dTaYzJ4APVgLqTS7Ji3LdDK0CDz7PHJackrZzOpmVweA/w640-h426/DSC00401.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rainy Pass, 2022.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I admitted that I wasn’t strong enough to conquer my ultimate challenge and quit the following morning in McGrath. I thought it might be time to walk away for good, but as soon as I left the Iditarod Trail on March 10, 2020, we crashed directly into the upheaval of the global pandemic. For many of us, COVID was an earthquake, rattling us to the core before settling into a quiet desolation. We were all desperate for renewal. My perspective contracted and then broadened. </p><p> “One more time to Nome. With a bike this time. I did it once; I can do it again.” </p><p>When I signed up it was April 2021 — perhaps the best month of the past two years. The pandemic was waning. Races were restarting. Normalcy was returning. Optimism overflowed. I signed up for summer events and launched joyfully into training in May.
But then came June, when my father fell from a mountain ridge and died. Entire decades seemed to collapse at once. Again everything changed. I reverted back to the confusion of my 14-year-old self, reaching toward the divine only to grasp doubt and confusion. I looked longingly toward 28-year-old me, with her perfect faith in adventure, standing on the shoreline of Knik Lake. I envied her, about to plunge into a beautiful and intense wave that would ripple through the next 14 years. But in my grief I lost the flow; all that remained was cold, darkness and turbulence. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7wHgg8sfIwd30O3STq3IrMUzkYcuVLGUEvvuvTmtf8HDeWJDqRymi_itWzV9xBPpiKTAlh8f0JeSUNV-j5nnEg6pmsbo-JQI1YkqF8yFsPZIcFefhiO9_c0QoGc9dEZN3GcgMAYvt3Nu0X7voHNy-1FJkM9CGNhIBbRWm-p64WEZwCXvpOA/s4898/DSC00418.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7wHgg8sfIwd30O3STq3IrMUzkYcuVLGUEvvuvTmtf8HDeWJDqRymi_itWzV9xBPpiKTAlh8f0JeSUNV-j5nnEg6pmsbo-JQI1YkqF8yFsPZIcFefhiO9_c0QoGc9dEZN3GcgMAYvt3Nu0X7voHNy-1FJkM9CGNhIBbRWm-p64WEZwCXvpOA/w640-h426/DSC00418.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Egypt Mountain, 2022.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>So I was going to walk away. Summer was clouded in grief. I didn’t care about much of anything, let alone racing. August and a few weeks in the incredible Swiss Alps began to soften my edges; I wavered back toward the light. At the end of September, I attempted an endurance mountain bike race called the Utah Mixed Epic, but I was so wracked with emotional pain that after 500 miles I all but collapsed in the desert, locked in a terrifying headspace that felt as close to the void as I felt in that tree well in Alaska. Just a couple weeks later, I was hit by a truck. My back hurt for months, enough so that I could barely ride a bicycle, let alone train for a weeks-long endurance race. </p><p>So I was going to walk away. I had every excuse to walk away. But it’s so hard to let go. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9q-M_srNgh7jxUBJdU5sXSrzXoMaTGplEcTm3U7UWfej4iPevXBKoRTtcmcLicWQIyvQwXtdEbd6syKdT1Yo4v_23mQGkarEDWb8Dw3nCS0Nbr2VQFzsEcxgce4oAShUlg_GB9-BcXszzVIVbm81jWoaJt0tGgVEy7XQ2oI8hUDrbRQAq9Q/s5014/DSC00329.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3134" data-original-width="5014" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9q-M_srNgh7jxUBJdU5sXSrzXoMaTGplEcTm3U7UWfej4iPevXBKoRTtcmcLicWQIyvQwXtdEbd6syKdT1Yo4v_23mQGkarEDWb8Dw3nCS0Nbr2VQFzsEcxgce4oAShUlg_GB9-BcXszzVIVbm81jWoaJt0tGgVEy7XQ2oI8hUDrbRQAq9Q/w640-h400/DSC00329.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Knik Bar parking lot on February 27, 2022.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>This is how I ended up at mile zero of the Iditarod Trail once again, 42 years old, jaded and a bit resigned. I did pull my name off the Nome roster and re-entered the “short” race — Nome was too much, too far, but 315-ish miles to McGrath had the potential to be a fun, cathartic experience if I didn’t take it too seriously. </p><p>There was no way to take it too seriously. My training had been a mess, but I stuck with the bike because I hadn’t done a shred of sled-dragging or strength training to give a walking excursion even a fighting chance. I’d barely even walked in eight weeks — in January I fell down the stairs and broke my toe; it was barely healed. I was concerned about back pain, but even more concerned about mental monsters. Weirdly, I only held passing concern for the real dangers of the trail: Weather, remoteness, cold, unpredictable trail conditions. After 14 years, I’d developed a measure of comfort with these uncertainties, a familiarity with the ever-changing ghost trail. My perspective broadened and then contracted. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinrMo2ITMjiTfbIFKWmxXGIAp3nVCA-sKSMYbT6L27uuX3fAZlTjGIP9UVWQJhWv4bzv_4qPQ5riEmq9JBjFMDc3zNrFLj41vqjPWCy7mgAig4rc52WkKChg2XS1I9nbki-besX0Qn6Yd0jbrmqU2x58JlM0NNSQcNY0PQ4fiFDc4lOMkWIg/s4032/IMG_2202.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinrMo2ITMjiTfbIFKWmxXGIAp3nVCA-sKSMYbT6L27uuX3fAZlTjGIP9UVWQJhWv4bzv_4qPQ5riEmq9JBjFMDc3zNrFLj41vqjPWCy7mgAig4rc52WkKChg2XS1I9nbki-besX0Qn6Yd0jbrmqU2x58JlM0NNSQcNY0PQ4fiFDc4lOMkWIg/w640-h480/IMG_2202.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beat calls this my "deer in the headlights" expression</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Beat and I exchanged our “see you in a month or so" kiss and individually took off across the lake — me on my bike, him with his sled, same as it ever was. The day was uncomfortably warm but the first 10 miles of trail were in perfect condition. I fell in line with a pack of twelve or so, following the traditional Iditarod Trail to Burma Road. This was the first time in many years that the bike field chose this undulating route through the hills. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij8SpHbugFqMn1GBaXAtLvX-j6GmkHKFPP6yRPyejXj8fB-Kyced_oizsgSQp0B2I9U6EN6lYzw2bhm7XqVHUeSFBD-_nEk46guocpVTmqE60stWOlT-1HiF27MYx6yGWFIncjkbeev08pVASYStRPWVcXVeke7HIDG-hnyOuCR2M1_FKEvw/s2497/DSC00342.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1731" data-original-width="2497" height="444" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij8SpHbugFqMn1GBaXAtLvX-j6GmkHKFPP6yRPyejXj8fB-Kyced_oizsgSQp0B2I9U6EN6lYzw2bhm7XqVHUeSFBD-_nEk46guocpVTmqE60stWOlT-1HiF27MYx6yGWFIncjkbeev08pVASYStRPWVcXVeke7HIDG-hnyOuCR2M1_FKEvw/w640-h444/DSC00342.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amber leads the group on snowmachine trails north of Big Lake.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The rules of this race dictate that racers must hit every checkpoint, but how they get there is up to them. For the past two years, the race director threw a wrench in the ITI's well-established gears with a new checkpoint at a private cabin on Butterfly Lake. The checkpoint stood well north of the Iditarod Trail and had dozens of possible approaches along a complex network of both used and unused trails. There was no way of knowing which combination on the map even existed let alone which was the best choice. Each racer had to pick a line and go from there — a Wordle puzzle of winter navigation. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYbW6-Efinz7Gg1cC_JZmdh0WmZcBqIJOINtBXZusqIFnm4bnl6UulBpD3hnqMd4McLDiNC7SdA_7iUCPcjYPHCFbhT1rOKD3zlvla85RC2qj_pyoOH7UR9iPcEMlGRMkB5kYERir67UfBX-LtKSXTFgUybGjaKZh1BGS_DIdor8sR7XQnwQ/s3264/PXL_20220225_211906874.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYbW6-Efinz7Gg1cC_JZmdh0WmZcBqIJOINtBXZusqIFnm4bnl6UulBpD3hnqMd4McLDiNC7SdA_7iUCPcjYPHCFbhT1rOKD3zlvla85RC2qj_pyoOH7UR9iPcEMlGRMkB5kYERir67UfBX-LtKSXTFgUybGjaKZh1BGS_DIdor8sR7XQnwQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220225_211906874.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Checking out the "trail" on Big Lake on February 25, 2022. </td></tr></tbody></table><p>This year added a third dimension to the challenge with overflow. For weeks the weather had been intensely warm and a decent percentage of the route was underwater, quite literally. Just about the entirety of pre-race chatter focused on how to navigate the first thirty miles. Beat and I drove out to Big Lake two days before the race and confirmed that the most popular 2021 route was a no-go unless we wanted to wade through shin-deep slush for miles. We settled on wrapping around the lake via the Iditarod Trail and Burma Road, which added at least five miles of distance and eight miles of trafficked roads. Beat would have to drag his sled over bare gravel, but even he agreed this was the way to go. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyQrnSKBsYCkzUZH0fDdJtGTKDEnaKLOhCp1-LzZzdfQCo_L5d-ublDGBY73pfIhiuNP_ogXcFpVNguevxMmAuzLzn1anWpdwDVxy-na54UeJnK6F2w5d-l5AxfAfHz1Q86726DPS1QNCs8bbqlq3eKHEsHtU97F0FfKwMQyg4tRigBNaDFA/s4731/DSC00337.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3181" data-original-width="4731" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyQrnSKBsYCkzUZH0fDdJtGTKDEnaKLOhCp1-LzZzdfQCo_L5d-ublDGBY73pfIhiuNP_ogXcFpVNguevxMmAuzLzn1anWpdwDVxy-na54UeJnK6F2w5d-l5AxfAfHz1Q86726DPS1QNCs8bbqlq3eKHEsHtU97F0FfKwMQyg4tRigBNaDFA/w640-h430/DSC00337.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pushing up "9 Mile Hill" on the Iditarod Trail. It's a doozy.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Most of the Anchorage locals drew the same conclusion. Those who hadn’t predetermined their route followed us. We rode in a big pack that slowly broke apart as paces and decisions diverged. The day was so warm that it felt more like a social ride in Colorado than the first day of a brutal winter endurance race in Alaska. Despite the friendly atmosphere, I retained a stiff, uncomfortable demeanor. I was terrified of falling into overflow — my background here is that I punched through a pressure crack in the ice on Flathorn Lake in 2009. My right leg sank into bottomless water, soaking a boot and resulting in frostbite on my right foot. Recovery was difficult (I still have nerve issues in this foot and adopted the mantra that “frostbite is forever.”) But I feel lucky — I strongly believe that grace alone prevented me from plunging into the lake and drowning. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgArbsvbuyamYIRbiztexSRVbzw3G0N6qV1QyxaBI1OPbZ3VpXhyYIZGRcWFbIUoArHOs6Ro7Z75lIlJ3_NgNDElcF_BGULO0SPCiMzwwDaiRMlMJhnX6FasVjYaiFk4hp2lmzRr9YoCJeqlgty73QAgTI4p5iTPeUTNC6vWGDLaXMnTUuGbg/s4898/DSC00344.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgArbsvbuyamYIRbiztexSRVbzw3G0N6qV1QyxaBI1OPbZ3VpXhyYIZGRcWFbIUoArHOs6Ro7Z75lIlJ3_NgNDElcF_BGULO0SPCiMzwwDaiRMlMJhnX6FasVjYaiFk4hp2lmzRr9YoCJeqlgty73QAgTI4p5iTPeUTNC6vWGDLaXMnTUuGbg/w640-h426/DSC00344.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crossing the Little Su River.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I’ve retained a deep phobia of ice ever since, but I’ve also had some success in overcoming my fear. After all, at least a quarter of the Iditarod Trail crosses directly over ice, and I’ve traveled a lot of Iditarod Trail since 2009. Still, I could barely contain a gurgling panic as Bobbette, Becca, Amber, Beth and I balanced our bikes across a thin strip of hardpacked snow surrounded by slush on the Little Su River. It felt like balancing on a slackline in big boots while dragging a bike through hub-deep water. The other ladies were laughing. The stakes seemed low — the temperature was still a balmy 25 degrees and the checkpoint was less than 10 miles away. And yet, when are the stakes of wet feet in subfreezing temperatures ever low? </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPzGPSoci09dFcKN6VPLcaLcJvW4wlnRlxB7_qepaY_JoFCBGcf46vraoDLJ5PQpK8I8W-3eDfR7JaU9MWln3rA9O3EZqfD4d-HuV0rdw_ve27pLdl01OBkbj215jhA2uol9Yk0dD8V0cRU3bU4NbXucfut-s7l2vGWDnaM5S7xs8wvF6jyA/s4898/DSC00346.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPzGPSoci09dFcKN6VPLcaLcJvW4wlnRlxB7_qepaY_JoFCBGcf46vraoDLJ5PQpK8I8W-3eDfR7JaU9MWln3rA9O3EZqfD4d-HuV0rdw_ve27pLdl01OBkbj215jhA2uol9Yk0dD8V0cRU3bU4NbXucfut-s7l2vGWDnaM5S7xs8wvF6jyA/w640-h426/DSC00346.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beth is happy that she made it across the Little Su with dry feet.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Our trail choice became continuously less traveled and softer until we had to hike the final three miles to the checkpoint. I was becoming tired, more so than I thought was justified. My fatigue was justified, though — I’d only managed a few hundred miles of bicycle training since October, and almost none on a loaded fat bike, so I don’t know why I expected better fitness. Some people can put in impressively long efforts on limited training (Beat), but that has never been my mode of operation. I’m often accused of overtraining, but geez, why is it I only feel like shit when I’m “well-rested?” </p><p>We reached Butterfly Lake around sunset, probably about five hours past the start, at mile 35. After walking the trail in 2018 and 2020, I’d grown accustomed to a consistent 2 mph pace, so I found this to be blazing fast. Amber, who had also only walked and skied the trail before this year, agreed we were flying. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipOgmSVW3b0pbHe2wObwIw0WMuHGtpIuOVOA8h7HxvK5EqtF8nolWOeYrC9POzElJEAidWW7N40yo7TwHYod_8bHxTvDUx8Qf1A9YvI4KD1UHzGx-e_iHIw-VQ3teMMPEgE6UWwyjpwYXQMBC36yRRh5MmSys_H1SKcsTAQ77l6myqGwmYgw/s4898/DSC00341.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipOgmSVW3b0pbHe2wObwIw0WMuHGtpIuOVOA8h7HxvK5EqtF8nolWOeYrC9POzElJEAidWW7N40yo7TwHYod_8bHxTvDUx8Qf1A9YvI4KD1UHzGx-e_iHIw-VQ3teMMPEgE6UWwyjpwYXQMBC36yRRh5MmSys_H1SKcsTAQ77l6myqGwmYgw/w640-h426/DSC00341.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Riding with the ladies (and Graham) on day one. This was a fun afternoon.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Six of the seven women in the bike field were now clustered together at the checkpoint. Five of us stripped to our skivvies so we could hang and dry sweaty base layers in a sauna-like warming hut. We guzzled soup and coffee, laughing in our bras while a handful of more modest men leaned against the walls of the hut, seeming inclined to give us space. If it could only be like this in real life — six ladies on a fun bike trip, ready to tear up a raucous night. </p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-eGS60JYIdUfSgJnXAKpHGlzo8RuBzKp7fbRFN9SXGyZ7wvig1T2nPuf0u6UGBpSilwA963Gvqtg3E2c-R4qIqLUsHG1HTqOYFVLV-GoUckDzoB5ipN0Ckse2kf7ptJa3cf15n76XjLsKaDeXBwdmFH3XGmbj_PNTlfbkgRDFIujLqBYfYw/s4898/DSC00352.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-eGS60JYIdUfSgJnXAKpHGlzo8RuBzKp7fbRFN9SXGyZ7wvig1T2nPuf0u6UGBpSilwA963Gvqtg3E2c-R4qIqLUsHG1HTqOYFVLV-GoUckDzoB5ipN0Ckse2kf7ptJa3cf15n76XjLsKaDeXBwdmFH3XGmbj_PNTlfbkgRDFIujLqBYfYw/w640-h426/DSC00352.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dawn on the Yentna River.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Instead, we packed up and headed out into the darkness alone, facing softer trails and the prospect of truly scary, truly dangerous overflow on the Susitna and Yentna rivers. I’d used up the limits of my fitness in the first five hours and soon fell far behind the group. Bobbette and Becca were with me for a while, since their chosen route (Trail 11) was unbroken and I had a GPS track for the mysterious and unmapped Iron Dog route to the north. But as soon as we descended onto the Susitna River, they too left me in the dust. There was a lot of refrozen overflow along the river, mounds of bumpy crust and ice shards. There were a few liquid puddles as well. The temperature had plummeted to zero degrees and a stiff headwind rushed down the river. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3tCnSRnOl1-B3DN3Ws9RLzfBMUBIrR2PwRJ2yLZdbJrdRQ_4nwoUVTb8NBKH0U_jFU-PusWhFnaGtwZ66BP-A9MeI59CDZ5uRa7L6R9UPGWdMNfYfN7mhYKSvXOmNyfbD30TtGNi69vgcZQGmDFj5KLX_25RJfWtaQde8YEb_39kTcZVvMA/s4898/DSC00353.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3tCnSRnOl1-B3DN3Ws9RLzfBMUBIrR2PwRJ2yLZdbJrdRQ_4nwoUVTb8NBKH0U_jFU-PusWhFnaGtwZ66BP-A9MeI59CDZ5uRa7L6R9UPGWdMNfYfN7mhYKSvXOmNyfbD30TtGNi69vgcZQGmDFj5KLX_25RJfWtaQde8YEb_39kTcZVvMA/w640-h426/DSC00353.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking toward the Shell Hills on the Yentna River.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I was frightened. I didn’t want to be here — not in this volatile era of February break-up, and not on a surface that could easily collapse and swallow me whole.
The trail cut across a slough and turned onto the Yentna River, where the ice conditions seemed more stable. Hours had now passed since leaving Butterfly Lake. I had long burned through all of my anxiety matches and was now almost too tired to care what happened to me. The trail was well-packed but felt like Velcro under my tires. The stiff breeze amplified a deepening cold. We’d later determine it was “only” about 5 or 10 below zero on the river, but I hadn’t fully dried out my sweaty clothing at Butterfly Lake, and I probably wasn’t generating a lot of heat with my exhausted pedaling. I did not feel good. A few guys who’d dealt with early mechanicals — Matt Tanaka who had tire pressure issues, and Jay Cable who had to pedal standing (!!) because of a fully snapped seatpost — flew past me like I was standing still. </p><p> I eventually made it to Yentna Station around 1 a.m. I assumed everyone else would be in and out at this point, but the place was packed. I’d originally hoped to reach a more accommodating lodge about 20 miles upriver, but that was far too much to ask of my legs tonight. Yentna only had a single bunk bed remaining — as in a narrow, precipitously high top bunk — for Beth and me to share. We would have to spoon. I didn’t care. I just wanted to put my legs up for a while. Still, it was extremely uncomfortable inside the overheated and overcrowded bunkhouse, so by 5 a.m. I was up and pedaling again. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRDn-DIznnynaoB-GSgZ2f05Da0KEvaIVmFh1i3h-HZuZ_RpNpE3rEDjnQXB3qhYUc-Im1JhubNz-WhcBmW4yMM-bh42RfL6kD4aYw27jKuu0FhyBVpm0hBTJCtEqm_t9l-86yOsBgAYQtn5_LeN7qjj4LwK0-KGIYMvGNWY3p4QIp9_XN_Q/s3264/PXL_20220228_163958951.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRDn-DIznnynaoB-GSgZ2f05Da0KEvaIVmFh1i3h-HZuZ_RpNpE3rEDjnQXB3qhYUc-Im1JhubNz-WhcBmW4yMM-bh42RfL6kD4aYw27jKuu0FhyBVpm0hBTJCtEqm_t9l-86yOsBgAYQtn5_LeN7qjj4LwK0-KGIYMvGNWY3p4QIp9_XN_Q/w640-h480/PXL_20220228_163958951.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morning on the Yentna River at 10 below.</td></tr></tbody></table><p> I didn’t feel strong. That was all there was to it. My legs had no power. I tried to remember if I’d felt so rundown so early in a race before. Probably not, but what could I expect? It was unprecedented for me to enter the Iditarod Trail as lackadaisically undertrained and unmotivated as I’d been in February 2022. My laziness felt sacrilegious. I know this trail and its dangers too well, and I should know better. </p><p> “Well, we’re here, not much we can do about it now,” I said out loud, mostly to my legs. </p><p> Frost collected on my eyelashes and cheeks as pale morning light appeared in the overcast sky. I arrived at the detour for Bentalit Lodge and decided to take the long way and have some breakfast. Even a couple of hours of stalling over multiple cups of coffee didn’t perk me up much. I zombie-pedaled most of the way to Skwentna. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjSuKPkJ7o1swUqikFa-u_L_ENRscdaC_hdCIn_F5HqFWpENK69kLOsvVZEOjw21PheXWddAxFfwQdNlGAV3Ofr-266xFKyzHwOU6F7NvI-7EeE3pyIFNLH-u4-3hx8AnEwrye0U7Xwf4Ap-Zw1BDVSYN_ePHnSaNhc1YTmhz0UsvaivmgoQ/s4032/PXL_20220225_211803920.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjSuKPkJ7o1swUqikFa-u_L_ENRscdaC_hdCIn_F5HqFWpENK69kLOsvVZEOjw21PheXWddAxFfwQdNlGAV3Ofr-266xFKyzHwOU6F7NvI-7EeE3pyIFNLH-u4-3hx8AnEwrye0U7Xwf4Ap-Zw1BDVSYN_ePHnSaNhc1YTmhz0UsvaivmgoQ/w640-h480/PXL_20220225_211803920.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is a few days earlier during a "boot test" on Big Lake. The Skwentna River was deeper than this.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Four miles before the checkpoint, the trail forks into two choices: a trail that follows the Skwentna River and one that cuts overland. The overland trail is hillier and usually softer, so I turned toward the river. I watched the distant silhouettes of two cyclists step off their bikes and take diverging paths. One crashed hard when he tried to get back on his bike and ride — a sure sign of tricky overflow. Sure enough, there was a quarter-mile-long span of open water and slush. The cyclists, Ethan and Robert, were now past the overflow. They waved their arms and pointed toward the direction they went, but I know how this can go — venturing off the trail is always a crapshoot. One person’s lucky step can become your plunge into a knee-deep hole. </p><p> Still, the morning had warmed and I was close to a checkpoint. The stakes seemed low. I dismounted my bike and wandered toward their footprints. Almost immediately, I stepped through a hidden puddle and sank into blue slush. Water was just a centimeter from pouring over the top of my right boot. I yanked my leg but nothing happened — slush had fully entrapped my foot. I had no choice but to pull my sock foot — luckily shielded by a plastic vapor barrier — out of the boot. Balancing on one leg while holding up my bike with my left hand, I carefully knelt down and used my bare right hand to reach into the slush and claw at the ice that was rapidly solidifying underneath the trapped boot. It was all quite precarious, a little funny, and a little terrifying. What if I couldn’t free my boot? </p><p> Incredibly, not only did I free the boot, but it remained completely dry inside. Before the race, I’d purchased a new pair of Kamik snow boots. I have sensitive feet and shins and a lot of requirements for footwear — soft uppers, good traction, as warm as possible, but insulation actually isn’t at the top of my list since a good sock system can go a long way. My old Vasque hiking boots met all of these needs but were far from waterproof — and this year, waterproofness seemed crucial. Several tests proved that these boots leaked as well, so Beat came to the rescue with a gallon of seam-sealer. His modifications made the boots look like shiny black trash bags, but it worked. My feet remained dry.
I immediately turned around and detoured to the overland trail. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc4cpvEZPcJ-2VwTwYuF88xK3GDRjG8rBXvDdebYWl9keXfQNbF9Ykg1ODl0vRavv3CVTjQ2WzEFGEtU95wsTjPAB7H5g5lv2CfzlQetmR0dnpRf7sWDCjmVWjPbUuNog4HG0sA2XJASBL5z98uYbGNwH8qyzso8n-ddhzXRUJOGQE6dqDOw/s4274/DSC00354.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2942" data-original-width="4274" height="440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc4cpvEZPcJ-2VwTwYuF88xK3GDRjG8rBXvDdebYWl9keXfQNbF9Ykg1ODl0vRavv3CVTjQ2WzEFGEtU95wsTjPAB7H5g5lv2CfzlQetmR0dnpRf7sWDCjmVWjPbUuNog4HG0sA2XJASBL5z98uYbGNwH8qyzso8n-ddhzXRUJOGQE6dqDOw/w640-h440/DSC00354.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ethan and Robert with The Roadblocking Moose.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>At Skwentna I sat down and ordered a bowl of chili even though I didn’t really feel like stopping and wasn’t hungry after a big breakfast. All of this mucking around led to me leaving the checkpoint much later in the afternoon than I’d hoped. I had been aiming to reach Finger Lake, some 40 miles farther, before stopping that night. But did I even care about making good progress in the race? I will admit, it was difficult to care. </p><p>I pedaled up a short section of plowed road, ending in a cluster of utility buildings about a mile from the lodge. There I met a cow moose, who turned and eyed me warily. As far as I’m concerned, moose are the number two scariest thing on this trail, second only to overflow. In 2020 there were a number of incidents involving ornery moose. Several racers were attacked and injured. Volatile weather patterns and deep snow pointed to a good chance of even ornerier moose in 2022, so I was taking no chances. I stepped off my bike when I was still a fair distance away and stared at the moose. She stared back, making no moves. </p><p>About 15 minutes went by before I started to shiver, so I pulled on an extra jacket and mittens. As I was doing this, Ethan and Robert rode up behind me. They were in no mood for a standoff for a moose, so they began pedaling toward her, yelling and clapping. She’d take a few casual steps down the trail then turn back again as though to ask, “okay, what are you going to do now?” </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUu_hq_27YqmqfcPnIDvieYWacj6c9eqWs_X7ht7Zd76dZyPzxMnpCdgBylkMHleG5Ed8zhI6ARgye3Iz9F3btDoRhN5VS99j6DxGkwoQPoamGzTCAHIQzROYjsBSzek_QP-znxVt-7d0IPG61cFc8bF6ETLAkkSgvHIE0vzLZ2jKbJD-nA/s4898/DSC00357.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUu_hq_27YqmqfcPnIDvieYWacj6c9eqWs_X7ht7Zd76dZyPzxMnpCdgBylkMHleG5Ed8zhI6ARgye3Iz9F3btDoRhN5VS99j6DxGkwoQPoamGzTCAHIQzROYjsBSzek_QP-znxVt-7d0IPG61cFc8bF6ETLAkkSgvHIE0vzLZ2jKbJD-nA/w640-h426/DSC00357.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A growing pile-up and an obstinate moose.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>This went on for another half hour, with Ethan and Robert driving her bit by bit to a junction where the trail leaves the woods and turns into an open swamp. For the next five miles, there are no trees and nowhere else for a moose to go besides the trail. I thought for sure she’d do what moose normally do and leave the trail to return to the woods, but instead, she trotted into the swamp as the three of us shadowed her timidly.
Nearly an hour had passed when the Italians arrived — actually three Italians and a Spanish man who were traveling together. They were in no mood to wait either, so they tried to cut a path off the trail. The swamp was buried in many feet of unconsolidated snow. The trail itself was blocked by a three-foot-high berm. Breaking trail from here was all but impossible.</p><p>No way the moose was leaving the trail now. I knew it. I wished I could go back in time, turn around when I first saw her and return to Skwentna. I could sit in a warm lodge for the next five hours and drink coffee rather than drive an ornery moose to the end of a godforsaken swamp. I didn’t see how it could go any other way.
Our group continued to grow. Graham the New Zealander pulled up with a broken pedal, riding on the spindle and so impatient to continue that he was willing to use his bike this way until a new pedal could be flown into Puntilla. Beth arrived. Then Becca and Bobbette. At least a dozen cyclists had clustered together when the race director and photographer just happened to pull up on snowmachines. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7O-wfC7gwdhZiXwlO0JrREL3Msj43GAWbZY8JNPoOHR5d81emy7WVdmLysx412C1sZ72GVOQjxOdIHdIFC-yCk7UV0OLqEtpZM2EFXeFkAsWc7y__qvDpH9S__SaBf-eTRbllEKXOWJh3_dKJ-G4Dk_-nER24h2IRrIgzMnlbE6NYU-NUdQ/s4736/DSC00359.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3121" data-original-width="4736" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7O-wfC7gwdhZiXwlO0JrREL3Msj43GAWbZY8JNPoOHR5d81emy7WVdmLysx412C1sZ72GVOQjxOdIHdIFC-yCk7UV0OLqEtpZM2EFXeFkAsWc7y__qvDpH9S__SaBf-eTRbllEKXOWJh3_dKJ-G4Dk_-nER24h2IRrIgzMnlbE6NYU-NUdQ/w640-h422/DSC00359.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The group cuts away from the trail.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Kyle and Mark gunned their snowmachines and charged toward the moose. Seconds later, gunshots rang out. I hunched on the ground, braced for anticipated violence. As it turned out Kyle was trying to spook the moose, not shoot her — but the noise prompted her to wheel around and charge toward the group. We scrambled and plunged into snowbanks. Perhaps too smart to crash into a large group of humans, the moose turned again and ran back to her original spot, then laid down. Kyle continued to drive circles around her on his snowmachine. She didn’t even care. </p><p> “What a clown show,” I said to Beth. Sitting in the snow with 15 people and a single stubborn moose as a roadblock did not seem like the kind of thing that should be happening in a respectable Iditarod race. This moose was making asses of all of us.<br /></p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqLv3RpUCgpo8qoKEFji42bz_A92aHyTS4xvJT2IjHHkktaVwRZS76_Uvl7hLKVnUcs6k9qORjsCfT38CCSxiIafp5fSolSGVyH6fxNHcHkLp6wEkfPtDdeoovKmwiKccxGpTgsv-BHFuWHyoUqSkB2cZ3rJVF6ZsKgE8a1iaYQqJ-oElHCA/s4345/DSC00361.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2951" data-original-width="4345" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqLv3RpUCgpo8qoKEFji42bz_A92aHyTS4xvJT2IjHHkktaVwRZS76_Uvl7hLKVnUcs6k9qORjsCfT38CCSxiIafp5fSolSGVyH6fxNHcHkLp6wEkfPtDdeoovKmwiKccxGpTgsv-BHFuWHyoUqSkB2cZ3rJVF6ZsKgE8a1iaYQqJ-oElHCA/w640-h434/DSC00361.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The arduous detour.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Eventually, Kyle returned and said he had cut a detour so we could walk around her. The newly broken path still necessitated pushing our bikes through soft snow, but it was better than sitting in place. Like a diabolical mastermind, the moose stood and continued trotting up the swamp, ensuring no one could return to the trail. The single-file marchers kept a fierce pace; I was sweating profusely and bonking pretty hard, but I couldn’t slow or stall the others behind me. We pushed our bikes along Kyle’s trail for three miles; this alone took more than 90 minutes. By the time we reached the far end of the swamp, as the first person to meet her, I’d lost nearly six hours to the moose-jam. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGAdlIbfdYKu7ePuFYpl48N9NfHPureyPqSsmflONOlS0GduJlYLRxVl51RXpzmR2ftqGG-k2fsb7KyqaysBCnfAxRv8aihU3ceJzKolOPZ0CW4b1k4Wr7L0ftO3tPW8NmqaSbX3vqAXePjLOoX1u1wDyRV7cAa4xZXktiknUMOQBE6ejlnA/s4898/DSC00362.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGAdlIbfdYKu7ePuFYpl48N9NfHPureyPqSsmflONOlS0GduJlYLRxVl51RXpzmR2ftqGG-k2fsb7KyqaysBCnfAxRv8aihU3ceJzKolOPZ0CW4b1k4Wr7L0ftO3tPW8NmqaSbX3vqAXePjLOoX1u1wDyRV7cAa4xZXktiknUMOQBE6ejlnA/w640-h426/DSC00362.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The quiet forest in the Shell Hills.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Back on the trail, we began the climb into the Shell Hills. The group faded ahead and I was alone, feeling like crap but trying to embrace the surrounding beauty. Birch trees towered overhead, framing a patchwork of delicate pink clouds. I pushed my bike up most of the climb, then fought intermittent wind drifts over a smooth but soft trail. </p><p>I arrived at Shell Lake Lodge at dusk, feeling more exhausted than I was sure I’d ever felt. Although not an official checkpoint, the race director said he had rented a couple of cabins that we could use. Through the warm-looking windows, I saw much of the moose-jam group gathered around the tables, talking and laughing. I didn’t care about dinner, and even if I had, there was no energy left for socializing. I pushed my bike to one of the open cabins, crawled into a top bunk, and passed out without setting an alarm. Although not intending to do this, I would sleep like the dead for the next 11 hours.</p>Jill Homerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02983065990450931943noreply@blogger.com9