Backpack or sled?

Group shot at the start of our Glacier Point run. Martina skied and laughed at our poor mode of snow travel as she glided past.

Our training trip to Yosemite gave me a chance to test out a system to use in the Homer Epic 100K, a race that I haven't really started training for yet (still doing more biking than running) and that seems like a long time off but in reality is less than eight weeks from now. I have almost as much fun mulling the strategy of these types of races as I do running them (mainly because winter races are so dependent on weather and quickly changing trail conditions, that any rigid strategy is bound to fail. Creating multifaceted strategies based on a large number of possible outcomes is a fun challenge.) But I'm still undecided on one fundamental aspect of the Homer Epic — how to carry my gear.

Beat on the freshly groomed ski trail. Conditions would have been perfect if it wasn't 50 degrees out, turning the snow to slush.

One thing I knew was that I don't love pulling a sled. In the past, pulling sleds in the range of 30 to 40 pounds absolutely prevented me from running in all but the best trail conditions or fairly steep descents. I'm just not strong enough; the anchor clamps down and I end up expending double the energy for perhaps 25 percent more speed. It's not sustainable at all. I'm effectively locked in at 3 to 3.5 mph, with an energy expenditure and muscle strain that feels more like 6 mph would on dirt trails.

I looked out over this vista and all I could think of was summer ... and miles and miles of wilderness trails.

I just assumed I'd want to carry a pack in the Homer Epic, so on Saturday I loaded up a Salomon pack with the gear I'd likely carry in the race. The rules require a few common-sense pieces of clothing that I'd carry either way — a big down coat and windproof pants to keep me warm in case I am injured on the trail and have to stop or slow way down. And of course I'll need several changeable trail layers — hats, gloves, mittens, extra socks, etc. The race support includes water only, and even then there are only three checkpoints in a hundred kilometers, so I packed two liters of water and 2,500 calories, although for the race I will probably carry 3,000 or even 3,500. (And honestly believe even this is on the hungry side. I'm a big eater in the cold and bonk quickly when I slow the consumption.) Then there was my safety gear, GPS and camera, foot-fix stuff, headlamps and batteries, knife and duct tape, and med kit. And to top it off, trekking poles and snowshoes strapped to the outside. The final weight was startling. I couldn't weigh it at the start, but my guess would be 17 to 20 pounds. Which makes sense, because it was all of my Susitna gear, minus the emergency calories and sleeping bag bundle.

Yosemite Valley doesn't see much direct sunlight in January

I did not like running with a 20-pound pack. It rubbed on my shoulders to the point that my collarbone felt bruised, and felt more awkward and tedious than my heavier sled ever did in Fairbanks. I ran a fair percentage of the first 11 miles out to Glacier Point, but lost my steam after that. The stats from my GPS were 22.5 miles, 3,245 feet of climbing, 5:43 trail time. The Homer Epic is 62 miles with 6,470 feet of climbing, and has a 24 hour cut-off. Last year's two finishers on foot, who are both faster snow runners than me (and much faster than me off the snow), finished in 21:30 and 23:10 respectively. Finishing the Homer Epic is far from a given; it's going to be tight and it's going to be tough.

Group leaving Glacier Point.

Obviously I will need to do more training with that pack if I am going to carry it. And of course I can look for ways to lighten the load, but most of this gear has been mulled extensively over multiple excursions. Even if the warm gear weren't required, I'd still carry it. I'd rather stay alive in the event I can't move, than move slightly faster when I can. The snowshoes are the most expendable item, but even those I'm quite attached to. If I don't wear them the entire race because of marginal conditions, I'll probably still wear them for half of the race just to ease the strain on my undertrained ankles and knees (because I can't train by running on snow.) Beat has suggested he might make a small sled with the same design as his large Nome sled. I'd still carry my water on my back, so presumably I could get my total sled weight below 15 pounds. This might be the best option.

Ditched the pack as soon as we stopped. Photo by Beat.

Either way, it's been fun to scheme for my only winter race this year. I really do wish I had a full 100-miler to look forward to, but the simultaneous newness and nostalgia of the Homer Epic is motivation enough. Now to get to more consistent training. Ah, training. The best snow race training I can do here in the Bay area is hard jogs up steep, sustained climbs. I have all those snow bike tours I want to do in Alaska, so I should keep riding my bikes, too. 

Right place, right time

As early morning's shadow crept like a curtain down the granite cliffs across the valley, I walked across the ice-crusted snow and found a rock outcropping to claim as my exclusive seat for the show. 

Behind me, the rising sun projected a stream of golden light, creeping down the high peaks of Yosemite and illuminating the backside of Half Dome. I watched previews of color form on sparkling ice and distant snowfields, waiting patiently for the main attraction — the moment the angled light of sunrise touched the frozen mist of Yosemite Falls. 

A faint crimson was the first color to emerge, followed by a hints of yellow and green. As the sun climbed higher into the crystal blue sky, the falls burst into a full spectrum rainbow, with colorful mist floating through the air before freezing into snow and settling gently onto the slope below. Nature's version of Hawaiian shaved ice, striped with every flavor on the shelf. I smiled at the memory of eating a multi-color snow cone in the January heat of Honolulu on top of Diamond Head, on Martin Luther King Jr. Day no less, and ricocheted back to the awe that the present moment brought me to the top of an 8,000-foot granite mountain, and this colorful ice swirled around a waterfall that was 2,425 feet high. The world is continuously doling out beautiful gifts, but the most spectacular go to those who find themselves in the right place at the right time.

Not many people would consider the wind-exposed summit of Sentinel Dome in the predawn cold to be a right place, and even fewer would view the snowbound month of January to be the right time. We would likely have never found ourselves in this spot either if Beat and Steve hadn't been training for the Idiatrod, and looking for tough conditions to trek with heavy sleds and camp for a night. We headed to Yosemite National Park for the long weekend, mainly because the park is our closest access to snow. On Saturday, we ran the 22.5 miles out to Glacier Point and back as a training run, and hoped to find another packed trail to stage our camping trip the following night. But on the way back, we encountered a group of skiers who informed us they were planning to stay on Sentinel Dome that night, and recalling a wonderful hike last May, I said to Beat, "You know, spending a night on Sentinel Dome would probably be amazing."

The following day, we learned our options for sled-draggable trails were actually quite limited, and decided to return to the Glacier Point ski trail for the ten-mile trek to Sentinel Dome, elevation 8,127 feet. Steve and Beat seemed not totally stoked about making virtually the same trip twice, but I stuck to my conviction that a Sentinel Dome camp would indeed be amazing, and possibly, on this warm holiday weekend, even windy and cold.

Our mid-afternoon start put us at the top right at sunset, and we broke camp just as a wash of pink light spread over the mountains.

Photo by Beat Jegerlehner

The Sentinel Dome is the tallest landmass for many miles, offering a full panorama of a large cross-section of Yosemite, from the higher peaks to the east, to the sheer granite walls of the Yosemite Valley, to the flat expanse of California's central valley to the west, to (I'm convinced, although my friends disagree) the far-away Bay area landmark of Mount Diablo. It's nothing but views, and a whole night up high gave us nothing but time to look at them.

Photo by Beat. The landform I thought was Mount Diablo is directly to the left of my head, behind the city lights.

We fiddled with Steve's new stove as Beat melted snow for hot drinks and three revolting freeze-dried meals (honestly, I never find any of these that I like. I'm just about to give up on hot dinners when camping, which is something I've been saying for 15 years.) Despite the relatively warm temperature (around 30 degrees), the wind picked up after the sunset, and I had a difficult time staying warm without running in circles around the dome at frequent intervals.

It gave us an excuse to dance around in the snow and play with the settings on Beat's camera — also important training for his Iditarod race next month.


The wind howled through the night, but I got great sleep while curled up in my -40 sleeping bag. We woke up a half hour before sunrise to melt snow for coffee and drinking water, as well as a freeze-dried raspberry crumble dessert that I bought, because I know better than to mess with freeze-dried breakfast foods. (Or oatmeal. Not a fan. I'm usually a breakfast Clif Bar eater.)

Photo by Beat

 But I do think stoves are useful for more than just winter drinking water. True happiness is hot coffee at the top of a mountain.

The sunrise views were every bit as startling as they were at sunset, in lighter hues of red and blue.

And the Yosemite Falls light show — truly an incredible work of art.

After the show was over, there was nothing left to do but pack up the sleds and trek back to the valley with full bellies and hearts.

This isn't to say the trek back was easy. But positioning oneself in the right place and the right time rarely is. There's a good chance we'll return someday for an encore. Training makes the best excuse. 

Beat shot a short video of the waterfall rainbow, linked here.

Ghosts of Outdoors Past

It's probably one of the best things about social media — at least in my view: Every so often, a person or image from long ago or far way pops up at a random time and suddenly redirects your thought stream. I was all set to continue my 2013 goal list this evening when my friend Jen uploaded an album titled "Oldies — College Days" to Facebook. And of course I got completely lost in them, flipping through all 250 re-photographed glossy prints, digesting the scenes and trying to remember the placement and people in any picture I was remotely involved with. Too much fun — only for me, of course. But then again, everyone has these kinds of photographs — pictures of their youth, quick captures of incredible life moments. They're always relatable, these pieces of the storyline, and I usually enjoy looking at friends' old photos. And anyway, I couldn't help but move a few to my blog.

The top photo is a group shot taken before a hike down Quandary Canyon in the San Rafael Swell, in October 2002. It's probably my favorite shot ever taken of our old "D Street Crew," but if I look sorta grumpy in that picture, it's because I was (reference: scowling person in big gloves and hat.) I had reached the point where I was certain I was terrified of canyoneering, and knew I was headed into a slot canyon that involved a rappel, a few swims, and some sketchy downclimbs on loose boulders and near-vertical slickrock. I gave it my best shot, though. Then, much like now, I was easily coerced into adventures that were well beyond my skill set.

March 2000 group shot of the University of Utah crew who headed out to Arcata, California, to do volunteer work as part of a program called Alternative Spring Break. The bulk of our work was unearthing nonnative lupine plants from the sand dunes along the coast. So if you live in Northern California and like the pretty purple flowers on the beach — it was once my short-term mission to destroy them all. What was great about this trip, is this is where I met several people who are still pretty good friends.

Fall 2000, hiking Pinnacle One in the San Rafael Swell. This picture is notable because, as you can see, I am wearing jeans and platform Sketchers, which is what I used to wear on all of my hikes back then. And Pinnacle One isn't exactly a stroll. I'd rate it as a solid Class 3. The kind of hike where you use your hands almost as much as your feet.

Lower Black Box of the San Rafael River, also sometime in Fall 2000. This box canyon hike involves something like ten miles of rock scrambling and river hiking, varying from ankle-deep to over our heads. There were several stretches of at least 500 yards that required swimming, which is why we're wearing wet suits. This outing was humorous because I decided it would be a great idea to load a fanny pack with a jar of peanut butter and a zippy full of Triscuits as my entire day's worth of food, because river water can't get through the plastic, right? Wrong. After the first swim, my peanut butter jar had filled the rest of the way with muddy giardia water, and the Triscuits were mush. My friends had a few nibbles to spare, but it was a long, hungry day.

I'm guessing this is sometime during the winter of 2001-2002. I couldn't quite place the location or circumstance of the photo, but it was notable because Beat commented, "At least I don't have to drag that sled across Alaska," followed by a pause, and then, "Well, I guess I am building a six-foot sled." (Yes, I know this is a boat.)

Summer 2002. While I was working as an editor-slash-feature writer at the Tooele Transcript-Bulletin, I made it my mission to visit every single ghost town in that large and remote desert county, and write a newspaper article about them. Under the guise of adventure, I invited friends to help me document Ophir, an old mining town in the Oquirrh Mountains. I remember this town had strange graveyard that had been cut into a narrow ridge, and a spooky cabin with a real estate sign out front, which we all resolved to buy someday.

Jen also posted a bunch of pictures from our Alaska adventure in the summer of 2003. My friends Jen, Chris, Geoff, and I traveled in a van from Salt Lake City to Alaska, where we spent the better part of three months. I don't remember the location of this camp, but I do remember being incredibly happy because we stumbled on a spot with a great fishing hole (Arctic grayling) and a ton of already split firewood. Probably somewhere in northern British Columbia.

We traveled up the Dalton Highway "all the way to Prudhoe Bay" in early June 2003, when daylight was endless but the air was still crisp, cold, and largely bug-free. This was our jalopy vehicle — a 1990 Ford Econoline Van with two spare tires strapped to the roof (they were needed), a trailer built out of a Datsun truck bed with a ton of gear inside, and four mountain bikes on a roof rack (mine is the red one on the right, a Trek 6500.)

In Prudhoe Bay, we paid for a long and boring tour guided by BP, just so we could say that we stood on the Arctic Ocean. The guide alternated between BP propaganda and bogus stories about polar bears, but I'm still glad we went on that tour. Hey, I stood on the Arctic Ocean. I hope I can go back someday.

The van was always breaking down. Big surprise. But it was maddening and I grew to dislike this vehicle so much that upon returning to Utah, I happily disowned my quarter stake in it while refusing a buyout, just so I wouldn't have to deal with it anymore.

Backpacking trip on Resurrection Pass in Alaska, July 2003.

In Valdez, Alaska, we rented a small motor boat and trawled around the Prince William Sound. Our plan was to sight-see and camp on an island where there were no bears, but as we motored along, we saw hundreds of pink salmon swimming close to the surface of the water. So with our lightweight trout-fishing gear and lures, we caught a few in a matter of minutes and cooked them over a fire for dinner. Alaskans tend to turn up their noses at pink salmon, but it was delicious, one of my most memorable meals of the trip.

Toward the end of our trip, we caught a ferry from Haines into Juneau in late July. We unknowingly set up our tents at a city-sanctioned homeless camp several miles outside of town, and then proceeded to get rained on for three days straight, without relief. The only thing I remember about that particular segment of the trip was battening down the tents again and again, cooking dinners in a musty hantavirus hut at the campground, hanging out in the library, and hating Juneau. It's amazing I ever returned.

Thanks to my friend Jen for posting the pics. It was a fun tour down memory lane.

2013 dreams, winter

Well, it's the middle of January and I'm well overdue in the blogger department of "listing my goals for the coming year." Because if you write it out, you're more likely to at least try most of it. And of course adventure plans have been on my mind quite a bit since the year started. I recently went to see my doctor about a large lump on my big toe. He diagnosed it as a ganglion cyst and used a giant shiv of a needle to drain out an impressive quantity of gelatinous goo. The cyst is benign but has the potential to come back and cause issues, so as a precaution he took me off running for a week (I talked him down to four days after asserting my need to be mobile during a trip to Yosemite this coming weekend.)

 I'd planned to start ramping up my running miles this week, as I have 100K race coming up in mid-March. But, ah well. I've enjoyed some wonderful afternoons on my road bike. Today I caught a wave of inspiration and veered off the pavement onto the Waterwheel Creek Trail, a scenic fire road that contours the hillside. It was a beautiful, frosty evening with the last wisps of sunlight refracted by a haze over the mountains, and I enjoyed the extra time up high. Also, it's invigorating to grind steep gravel on skinny tires. I can understand why my friend Leah likes to ride her cross bike so much.

 But yes, back to the 2013 dreams. I believe it will be another great year of pushing my limits in places far outside my comfort zone. This could draw out into a very long blog post, so I'll start with winter. Both Beat's and my focus for the winter is centered around Beat's plan to walk to Nome, a thousand miles on the Iditarod Trail. He expects it will take about a month, and I am planning to spend that time in Alaska. Still, I've had a difficult time formulating my own plans. I want to take advantage of that window to embark on some great adventures. But at the same time, I want to be present should Beat have any issues, and I also want to be aware of what's going on in his journey. This desire excludes the possibility of doing a larger trip of my own, and I'm fine with that. I plan to break my own trip up into smaller adventures, in hopes that I don't stay out of contact for too long. So I've drafted a list of "maybe adventures," most of them tentative and dependent on weather, trail conditions, and logistics.

February 24: Iditarod Trail Invitational starts. Of course I'll be there for that.

Week One: Iditarod Trail snow bike tour. It would be strange for me to go a whole year without venturing up the Yentna River at least once. Since there's no Susitna 100 this year, I'd still love to tour in the Susitna Valley. The quiet time between the start of the ITI and the start of the Iditarod Dog Sled Race would be a good time to embark on a short out-and-back bike tour of the Iditarod Trail. Even if I just ride to Skwentna and back, it would be awesome, but in good conditions I could potentially make it a little farther. I'm thinking two to three nights, Tuesday though Friday.

Week Two: Running and hiking in the Chugach. I also hope to embark on a two-day sled run on the Resurrection Pass Trail. The Res Pass run is highly dependent on weather conditions, and if I ran solo, would need to be an out and back — about 38 miles total either way. I'd love to reserve the cabin on the pass and run/snowshoe up to the high country before descending the next day.

Week Three: Snow bike tour of the Denali Highway. This is something I'm working on planning with two friends from Whitehorse — riding 135 miles in three to four days along the winter snowmobile trail in the shadow of the eastern Alaska Range. We'd likely "comfort tour" the trail and stay backcountry lodges at least two of the nights, with one night of winter camping. This adventure is dependent on whether my friends commit; there's no way I can attempt it alone (a long shuttle is involved, among other issues.) If it doesn't work out, one consolation prize would be a trip to Juneau. Tough break, I know.

March 16: The Homer Epic 100K. My only winter race on the calendar, but it's not an easy one. Still, the course was too intriguing to resist. I lived in Homer from 2005 to 2006, and back when I was training for my very first race ever — the Susitna 100 — I would ride my mountain bike on some of the same trails used in the course. It's an undeniably beautiful place, with great trails. I plan to compete in the 100K on foot, carrying a large day pack rather than dragging a sled. I still need to plot my plan of attack, but if conditions are favorable I hope to actually *run* on this course. And if trail or weather conditions are not favorable, it should be a wonderful 100-kilometer snowshoe hike. Either way, I'm there and can't wait.

Week Four: Trip to Nome. This one is more of a pipe dream. Airfare could be prohibitive, but I would love to fly with my Fatback to Nome and ride around the region as I wait for Beat to arrive in town. I might even be able to construct a bike tour on the Iditarod Trail if I have enough time. I've never been to Alaska's western coast, and would love a chance to visit.

Also, if you are going to be in Southcentral Alaska during this time and have any interest in joining me, or perhaps inviting me on one of your adventures, please get in touch. I'd love to have company. If all goes well it will be a fantastic, exhausting month ... all the better to kickstart the wide-eyed hopes for spring and summer. 

The short but full life of trail-running shoes

The blue heart is a patch Beat sewed into my tights after I ripped a hole in them during a fall. I'm hard on gear.

This weekend, Beat gave me a new pair Hoka Mafates, the fourth pair I've owned. It wasn't a special occasion; he's just sweet and orders shoes for me because he knows I'll probably continue to use an older pair until the shoes are literally in pieces. But I was surprised, because my third pair of Mafates aren't even that old. They were Beat's birthday gift to me before UTMB, in August, which was only five months ago. It seemed ridiculous that I should already need yet another pair of shoes, but when I put the new Hokas next to the old ones, the evidence was clear.

Apparently the Hoka Mafates once had lugs ... and weren't the color of a mummified rat

I have no idea how many miles the old shoes have on them, but I can think of more than 300 miles of racing they've been through (UTMB, Bear 100, five 50Ks, and a road half marathon.) Not to mention all of that rugged hiking in the Alps, a muddy fall here in Cali, and a life that's about 95 percent trail use. Still, relative to most runners who race ultra distances, I tend to log lower-mileage training weeks. A typical week of running falls in the range of 20 to 25 miles, with more if a race is involved. But the racing piles up, hiking scuffs soles too, and another 400 miles or so of training puts even a five-month-old pair of shoes well past their prime.

So yay, new Hokas. Even though I feel guilty for wearing through an expensive commodity at this rate, their price tag appears small next to the value of adventure and fun I've had in these shoes during the past five months (and also pales in comparison to cost of wear that I put on bike parts in a similar amount of time.)

Friends and others have asked me to write my opinion about Hokas, as I clearly am a fan, but I am reluctant to weigh in on this polarizing subject. For starters, I'm far from an expert on running shoes. Honestly, I find shoe science to be the most boring subject there is in the realm of my hobbies, and I can't bring myself to get excited about anything involving the phrases "heel drop," "rocker," or "toe splay." I've never analyzed my own running form, but others who have watched me flail about on trails tell me I appear to be a mainly a mid-foot striker, probably because I frequently employ the ultra-shuffle stride. But don't even try to drag me into the minimal versus maximal debate. I have no frame of reference; my feet find their way into hurty things when I walk barefoot around my apartment. And my feet are usually the body parts that hurt if anything hurts after a long run. If it weren't for feather-soft pillow shoes, I wouldn't run. Period. That's what wheels are for.

But if I could provide any endorsement for Hoka, it's this. Two and a half years ago, I wasn't a runner, even in the most basic sense. Then I decided to go nuts and run really long distances. Hokas aided me in this quest with few — and all relatively minor — issues. While some runners claim that Hokas lack stability, I haven't felt any notable difference in my footing with the Hokas versus my "regular" trail-running shoes. (Brooks Cascadias. And yes, I'm equally clumsy.) Especially since Mafate 2 is equipped with grippier lugs than the Mafate 1 (there, see, I used a quasi-shoe-science term.) Most of my typical runnerly injuries (shin splints, knee pain) developed after periods when I wore the Cascadias for the majority of my training runs, either because I wanted more reliable traction or was trying to "break my feet in." I always went back to the Hokas. They work for me. Why try to fix something that's not broken?

And, after this ringing endorsement, if you are dying to try a pair of your own, I'm including a handy Amazon affiliate link. Because, you know, every nickel toward Hoka pair number five helps. :)