Reaching the summit of Mount Whitney with my dad, August 2001: The summers of my early adulthood were marked by long hikes with my dad. He got me started on Mount Timpanogos in the Wasatch Mountains when I was 16 years old and each summer included a progressively more epic outing. In the summer of 2001, we scored a permit for a day trip on Mount Whitney. It was an intimidating prospect — 22 miles, 6,000 feet of climbing to an elevation of 14,500 feet. It was by far the most difficult single-day effort I had ever planned. I was also approaching a big intersection in my life. I had just returned from my first big adventure — a cross-country road trip followed by a two-week rafting trip down the Green River. The travels left me with a lot of conflicting feelings about adulthood, freedom and relationships. And just two days before our hike, I had interviewed for a career job as a newspaper editor in Tooele that I was poised to get. So I had a lot on my mind as my dad, his friend Tom and I marched up the barren slopes of California's highest mountain. In the process I started to open up to my dad, and he helped me feel secure when my head spun and heart raced in the thin air. Practically crawling onto the broad peak and looking out over the sweeping ridges of the Sierras was a particularly meaningful moment for me. I'll never forget the smile on my dad's face.
What I learned about myself: I feel most at home in the mountains, I relish big efforts, and I value shared accomplishments.
Cresting Bayview Hill over Homer, Alaska, September 2005: In late August 2005 I made the spontaneous and rather terrifying decision to leave my home and job in Idaho and follow my then-boyfriend Geoff to Alaska. We decided to move to Homer nearly sight-unseen because I managed to land a job at a weekly newspaper in the quirky fishing village, population 3,000. We drove directly from Idaho to the tip of the Kenai Peninsula over three long days. I felt deeply fatigued and uncertain when we rounded the sand bluffs at Bayview Hill, where I caught my first glimpse of the Homer Spit and Kachemak Bay. I remember the calm water was glowing gold in the late afternoon sunlight; yellow birch leaves lit up the hillsides and the impressively rugged Kenai Mountains wrapped around the bay. My jaw just dropped in an "I get to live here?" kind of disbelief, and I felt a wash of strong conviction that I had landed exactly where I needed to be. Although I don't regret leaving Homer and following the path that I did, my heart still flutters when I think about that place.
What I learned about myself: I thrive in the excitement of new beginnings and I love dramatic outdoor landscapes — and Alaska.
Climbing toward Rainy Pass, February 2008: Entering the 2008 Iditarod Trail Invitational, a 350-mile snow bike race to McGrath, was simultaneously the worst and best idea I ever had. I was so far in over my head that even now it's difficult for me to understand how I got through it with the knowledge and personal experience I had at the time. Everything about that adventure was so much more remote, intense and absolutely frightening than I ever anticipated, and I did the whole thing almost completely alone. I struggled and struggled and achieved small triumphs followed by crashing blows, but I just kept chipping away at it even though I was plagued with a fair certainty that I was probably going to die. (Yes, I'm more confident of my abilities in extreme conditions now. But I certainly wasn't at the time.) Despite all of this, I'm not sure any of these moments I've listed quite reach the level of pure ecstasy I felt as I plodded into the Alaska Range early on a sunny, frigid morning in February. I was so, so happy to be alive, just simply alive. But I also recognized that I was alive in one of the most overwhelmingly beautiful places I had ever seen — stark white mountains, deep blue sky, sprinkles of dwarf spruce trees and absolutely nothing else.
What I learned about myself: I really am stronger and more resilient than I ever imagined I could be, and I deeply love the wilderness — and Alaska.
Rolling into Antelope Wells at the finish of the Tour Divide, July 2009: The 2,740-mile mountain bike race was full of intense, ecstatic and triumphant experiences that all seemed to condense and collide when I coasted past the last mile marker and approached the waving arms of my mom and dad at the border. Finishing that race was a beautiful personal accomplishment, one I can never really repeat because I can never return under the same circumstances. But I can always cherish the way I set out to do this thing that genuinely seemed impossible to me, and finish with flair — arm raised in the air and a smile on my face.
What I learned about myself: I value solo accomplishments and also adventures infused with difficulty, daunting challenges and suffering, because they make the experience that much more vibrant and meaningful to me.
Standing in the moonlight with Beat during the Bear 100, September 2010: The circumstances surrounding Beat's and my "first date" at the 2010 Bear 100 are almost too convoluted to list, but we had ended up together in the most unlikely spot and we both knew it. I set out to travel 50 miles with him even though my 2010 running miles up to that point probably didn't yet total 50. Beat was fresh off a five-day, 200-mile, sleepless epic in the Italian Alps and practically flew directly from Italy to Utah to run yet another 100-mile race a week later. We barely knew each other but agreed to the meeting because to both of us, it almost seemed like our only chance. I joined Beat right at sunset and we worked through our "first-date" introductions, discussions of physics, favorite places and meaningful adventures as we ran through the night. After a couple dozen miles, we stopped for a break in the midst of a large alpine meadow. We turned off our headlamps and let the bright moonlight illuminate the mountains surrounding us. Beat said he brought something for me, reached in his pack and fished out a golf-ball-sized gray rock infused with flecks of gold and pearl. He told me he thought of me when he collected the rock early in the Italian race and carried it the entire 200-mile distance — and 70 miles of the Bear 100. I was deeply touched by the gesture, and immediately understood what that meant for both of us.
What I learned about myself: I cherish these shared moments of clarity. And Beat is a great person to share them with.
That was fun — and provided some good personal insights that I can carry into the Tahoe Rim Trail 100 next week. What are some of your great moments?