Just for the halibut

Today I was finally indoctrinated into tourism side of Homer, which is known far and wide as the "Halibut Fishing Capitol of the World." (Note the addition of the word "Fishing" to that motto. If you just want to eat a halibut around here, you still have to dish out $12 a pound.) I hooked up with the Chamber of Commerce crew to tag some "little guys" for the annual halibut derby. After we tagged the requisite number of fish, they let us catch a couple of our own.

Compared to the rest of the boat, I had an awful morning. I caught three cod, had four incidents of snagging other peoples' lines, and then nothing - for hours. I just stood out there in the wind and blowing snow, wielding a fishing pole that weighs as much as my road bike and practically tap dancing to maintain an on-board (as opposed to overboard) position in the rising swells. I had taken two Dramamines to ward of seasickness but wound up feeling pitched and druggy instead. After a while it was hard not to ask myself - "and this is fun, why?"

At about noon, I was reeling up what I was certain was another cod, and I was thinking about the Popeye forearm muscles I could build if I did this kind of fishing everyday, when my first flatfish finally surfaced. No sooner had I reeled him in the boat and dropped my line back down when I felt another familiar tap-tap-tap. Second halibut, within seconds. And just like that, I was done. Four hours of nothing. Eight minutes of fishing. Done.

But there is a certain satisfaction, a feeling of warmth and independence, in pulling up your very own "little guy" - one that will net you a cool 10 pounds of moist, melt-in-your-mouth fillets. It makes the whole morning of mindlessly bouncing a four-pound sinker with frozen fingers seem entertaining - even exhilarating. In this way, fishing can be a lot like bicycling. Or mountaineering. Or hitting yourself repeatedly in the head with a hammer. It doesn't feel good until you stop.

On the Arctic Blast

Date: April 19
Mileage: 18
April mileage: 270
Temperature upon departure: 29
On the iPod: "Grey Ice Water" ~ Modest Mouse

"You're standing by the grey ice water
out in the wind above ground out in the weather
you had yourself a crazy lover
becoming frozen trying hard to forget her
you got a job up in alaska
it's easy to save what the cannery pays
cause there ain't no way to spend it

at home on a boat, it's a fish trap

You're standing by the grey ice water
out in the wind above ground out in the weather
you took the path of least resistance
on the phone cutting out talking
short to long distance

at home on a boat, it's a fish trap

you're standing by the grey ice water
out in the wind above ground out in the water
you had yourself a crazy lover
become unfrozen trying hard to forget her
you got a job up in alaska
it's easy to save what the cannery pays
cause there ain't no way to spend it

on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast"

Picture: Chris on the Sagavanirktok River; June 5, 2003

Me vs. All

Date: April 18
Mileage: 56
April mileage: 252
Temperature upon departure: 45
On the iPod: "To the Sea" ~ Razorlight

After several days of snow, it felt warm out today. Downright balmy. I forgot about windchill. Now my throat hurts. But I wasn't the only one who emerged for spring's first, best gasp.

Ever have one of those days when you feel like you're in a constant competition for space? I wanted to put in a 50-mile day while it was nice out, but I didn't have any interest in venturing into the great beyond just yet (North Sterling Highway. Fresh snow banks. Scary.) So I did my favorite 17-mile loop - thrice - with an extra 5 miles to say hi to Geoff. The problem with this strategy was that I had to ride out and back the Homer Spit, thrice.

It seemed like everyone and their dog took to the Spit today: the walls of walkers; the precariously swerving mountain bikers; the streams of cars; and the road riders donning their shiny new lyrca, which had obviously been stuffed in a dark closet since Christmas. I had the most fun with the road riders. They were probably out for their first or second ride of the year, whereas I've been riding all winter, but they don't know that. All they see is this awkward cyclist clad in baggy fleece and riding a roadie with flat handlebars, fat touring tires and a Subway cup full of watered-down Diet Coke stuffed in the water bottle cage. I must have looked ridiculous out there, which is why it was that much more fun to blow by the roadies, humming some silly song as if the process was effortless (although, I have to admit, I was huffing a little myself. Some of those fair-weather roadies must have indoor trainers.)

The pedestrians, however, often presented an insurmountable obstacle. When the Spit is busy, it's impossible to win as a cyclist. If you take to the road, cars will honk and swerve and generally act more aggressive than usual because There Is A Bike Path Right There. But if you use the bike path, you will undoubtedly approach a group of oncoming walkers, as I did today, strolling side by side and taking up the entire trail with no intention of moving out of your way. Today I approached four women on a narrow part of the trail, after a long straightaway - which meant they had a chance to see me coming for several minutes. Within about 50 feet of them, it became apparent that my only options were to: hit the guardrail, drop off a 15-foot embankment, slam directly into one or more of them ... or stop. I practically had my foot down on the pavement before one woman reluctantly slipped a little ways to the left, giving me about a 10-inch space to wedge through. Grrrrr.

I guess I can deal with it if it means the weather stays above 45 and sunny. It's not likely, but still - I'll take the pedestrian clog over sleet any day.

Easter ride

Date: April 16
Mileage: ~25
April mileage: 196
Temperature upon departure: 27
On the iPod: "Back to the Earth" ~ Rusted Root

When Dutch explorer Jacob Roggeveen "discovered" Easter Island in 1722, he Christened it with a name that evokes images of a springtime oasis with chirping birds and flowers. Then he wrote in his log:

April 5, 1722 (Easter Sunday) "We originally, from a further distance, have considered the said Easter Island as sandy; the reason for that is this, that we counted as sand the withered grass, hay or other scorched and burnt vegetation, because its wasted appearance could give no other impression than of a singular poverty and barrenness."

April 16, 2006 (Easter Sunday)
9:20 a.m. "The goal"
So the plan is to take advantage of the crust snow to find a trail through the wilds of Crossman Ridge to the oasis of Bridge Creek. All of the kiddies and their snowmobile-riding parents are down in town combing the muddy fields for half-frozen eggs and those individually wrapped marshmallow things that taste like glue. There should be no disturbances. I anticipate smooth riding.

~9:35 a.m. "No Water"
Still five miles from the trailhead, I realize in the midst of my first climb that I forgot my water bottle. Shoot.

~10:20 a.m. "Hit snow"
Long climb to the trailhead only to discover several hundred yards of thick mud before I can climb on top of the snowmobile trail. I find it to be glassy and as solid as concrete, if a snowmobile had torn through the wet cement prior to its hardening. It's a technical mess of ruts and divots, but it's fast. So, so fast.

~10:35 a.m. "So Fast"
Despite several snow drifts that stop me altogether, it only takes about 15 minutes to whittle away all the elevation I gained in an hour. I am bouncing and turning, rolling on top of ruts and dropping back in. I am unstoppable.

~10:50 a.m. "Hmmmm"
The snowmobile trail I was following has mysteriously petered out into the woods. I don't see any opening through the trees, so I'll have to turn back and find a different trail.

~11:20 a.m. "Hmmmmmmmmmm"
I've found remnants of a summer trail - an interpretive wooden marker. But no sign of a main trail. Just snowmobile tracks heading in every direction.

~11:30 a.m. "I forge my own trail"
I have an idea of the general direction of Bridge Creek, and the crust snow allows me to ride atop it through the woods. I weave in and out of trees but the woods become too thick. I'm off the bike and walking, tripping over stumps and the emerging skeletons of bushes until I arrive at an impassable ravine.

~11:45 a.m. "Climbing back"
I follow my own trail back to the snowmobile tracks I originally left, only to realize that they seem to go in all the wrong directions.

~11:55 a.m. "I pick the wrong trail"
Still hoping to find the magic route through the woods, I follow a single snowmobile track downhill, again flying, bouncing, having a great time ... until the trail dead ends.

~12:10 p.m. "I'm thirsty"
It's hard work walking back up these trails. They're steep and what little traction they provide make it nearly impossible to ride, so I get off the trail and mash my way through the breaking crust as I pedal uphill.

~12:20 p.m. "Snowmobile maze"
I begin to wish I didn't use the trails at all. My tracks are indistinguishable from the ruts and divots of the snowmobiles. I have no idea which trail is mine. I have no idea where to go.

~12:25 p.m. "I'm lost"
I begin think I'm not on my original trail. I'm veering way too far north. I think I may be dropping into another valley all together.

~12:40 p.m. "Definitely on the wrong trail"
Now I'm practically to creek elevation, in the wrong canyon. I thought the downhill would be a shortcut back to the reservoir but I was so, so wrong. Time to climb again.

~12:45 p.m. "I'm thirsty"
Need ... water.

~12:50 p.m. "I eat snow"
It tastes like dirt.

~1:00 p.m. "These woods are a wasteland"
I never really noticed how many of these spruce trees are dead, or how many skeletal branches clog up the woods. And what's underneath all this snow? Probably a bunch of dry grass that's going to ignite into massive wildfires come summer. But would it really be so bad for someone to build a cabin down here?

~1:05 p.m. "I begin to regain my sense of direction"
I'm pretty sure I'm heading due south, so if I can just push through these woods, I should come to the trail just above the reservoir. Just walk in a straight line.

~1:10 p.m. "I hit drifts"
Beneath the trees, the crust hasn't set up as much. I think the sharp ice shards are cutting holes in my pants; doesn't help that I'm sinking up to my thighs.

~1:15 p.m. "I find the Homestead trail"
Rejoice! Rejoice!

~1:25 p.m. "I make it back to the reservoir."
I pedal as hard as I can while mud splatters everywhere.

~1:45 p.m. "I make it home."
And drink about a gallon of water and weak Gatorade.

Happy Easter!

Enough already

Date: April 14 and 15
Mileage: 23 and 27
April mileage: 171
Temperature upon departure: 28 (Friday) and 33 (Saturday)
On the iPod: "Modern Romance" ~ Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Yesterday was Geoff's 30th birthday. Today is tax day and I can only hope my tax prep skills are up to par. Tomorrow is Easter. Talk about a strange holiday weekend.

I sure do get lazier on the weekends. I blame stressful weekdays. And late Friday nights. And disconcerting weather. I'm starting to understand why many Alaskans, even us soft-skinned southcentral types, start to become a little, well ... touched ... as time goes by. I mean, we do live on the edge of the world amid vast amounts of uninhabited space. But I think it's the whole nine months of winter that really gets to our collective psychological health. Pretend for a minute you're a person from California, approaching this place on a plane. Outside is a brilliant, burning sun, still hours from setting at 7 p.m. On the ground, you see people milling around in shirt sleeves, which makes sense to you because, well, it's April and it's an incredible sunny day. Then you see this crazy cyclist bundled to the nines in full winter gear and face mask, and that makes sense to you too, because, well, Alaska is known for its crazies. After the plane lands, you step outside to the full blast of gale-force winds whipping freezing spray off the ocean, the temperatures hovering in the low 30s, the 25 mph wind driving the chill to bone-freezing depths. Suddenly, your entire first impression is flipped.

What's the deal with those short-sleeved pedestrians? The answer: It's the driest, and therefore sunniest time of year in these parts. They've been bundled up in Carharts and flannel for seven months. So as far as they're concerned, it's summer. They'll thaw out their digits when they get home.

So what's the deal with that cyclist? She's fighting this freezing blast of headwind with just about every piece of gear she remembers using during some of her tougher December rides. Now that it's April, she has to admit that she's a little tired. She's learning to adapt to this cold place. She even thinks she's doing a good job of it, but she has to admit it's gotten to her, just a bit. She hasn't seen an outdoor thermometer reach 50 degrees since her first month in Alaska, in September. She came from a place where April meant new life, tons of green, chirping birds ... the whole package. Then she moved to a place where April means dry wind and dust and crusty snow that refuses to melt beneath a glaring sun that refuses to give warmth.

Maybe she just needs to get used to it. Maybe she, too, will be tooling around in minimalist clothing within the year. Maybe her problem is she's just not crazy Alaskan enough.

Bedroom view, 9:38 p.m.

Date: April 13
Mileage: 23
April mileage: 121
Temperature upon departure: 27 (morning)
On the iPod: "History of a Boring Town" ~ Less Than Jake

Today's was a rough and windy ride. After I arrived at home, I tore off my helmet and balaclava, but my face still felt warm. The day was by no means warm, and neither was the house. Could it be? I walked toward a mirror. Red tint ... darkened freckles ... well, what do you know? The year's first sunburn.

It's like a rite of passage, a mark of my arrival into spring. I still associate the annual ritual with a sunburn I sustained almost exactly 10 years ago. I remember the date because it was tax day, April 15, 1996. My best friend and I walked out of our third period English class and kept on going. We were both car-less at the time and completely without a reason to leave school, but I remember that the sun was blazing overhead and it had to be at least 85 degrees out. Spring fever beckoned and we walked like zombies toward it ... just walked ... for hours. We must have covered nine or ten miles before we finally made our way home. When I walked in the door, my mom took one look at me and turned a shade of red that I had never seen before. That is, until I looked down and realized my arms resembled radioactive lobsters. Nearly every inch of exposed skin was a glowing marquee that said "I didn't go to class at all today." That year, I was punished twice.

This year's burn is decidedly subdued. More like a sunkiss, a spot of faint color in the narrow slit between the middle of my forehead and the tip of my nose. That's the year's first sunburn, Alaska style. I'll take it.

Holy bike gear Batman

Date: April 12
Mileage: 21
April mileage: 98
Temperature upon departure: 40
On the iPod: "We Are Nowhere, And It's Now" ~ Bright Eyes

eBay is an amazing thing. It brings the world's biggest garage sale to your doorstep, and whether you're a resident of New York or Alaska or Kalamazoo, it's yours for the taking if you want it enough.

Today Geoff stumbled across a listing for a huge lot of mountain bike gear. Absolutely mammoth. We're talking more gear than most ever dream of owning in their lifetimes, and then some. The seller is a chick who recently retired from racing, and she is unloading all of her stuff in one lump package. Her auction doesn't even list everything she is selling. It includes (and of course is not limited to):

* 10 different pairs of biking gloves
* 18 3/4 pairs of biking pants (don't ask me what the 3/4 implies)
* 20 pairs of shorts
* "Soooooo many tops" (her words)
* 3 vests
* 9+ jackets
* 9 half-tanks (what's a half-tank?)
* 10 hats
* 50+ pairs of socks
* and enough random maintenance stuff to get any century-a-day rider through the next decade.

It's excess in its most blatant form, thrown at the World Wide Web At Large for a starting bid of just $600. I gave it some serious thought. I mean it. There's a good chance this girl, a former racer, is smaller than I am. But I'm 130 pounds myself, so the difference is probably negligible enough that most of it would fit me, especially since some of the sizes are listed as "medium." But what in the world would I do with 18 3/4 pairs of cycling pants? Currently, I don't even own one pair. It's funny, actually. When it comes to consumer products, I inherited from my dad a kind of blanket practicality that borders on indifference. My current cycling repertoire (that is, my clothing that actually qualifies in the category of strictly cycling gear) includes:

* 3 pairs of well-worn bike shorts (well-worn in that every single pair went with me on a cross-country tour two and a half years ago, and I still have yet to buy new shorts)
* 2 long-sleeve bike jerseys, both generic
* 3 short-sleeve bike jerseys, also generic
* one pair short padded gloves
* one pair full padded gloves
* one helmet

Wow. That may actually be it. I don't even own clipless pedals, for crying out loud. I'm a sad case. Hopeless, as my mom would sometimes say when she tried to take me shopping. Not that I wouldn't like to own stuff. I really do appreciate the edge or comfort a really good piece of quality gear can provide. And I have been really diligent lately about buying stuff ... warm stuff ... stuff I needed to keep me alive.

But then this auction came along, and it was going to bring it all to me - more stuff than I could ever dream of using, and all I had to do was click a button. Alas, the auction ended this evening without meeting the reserve, so I'll never know how close I came. However ... she may relist. How much do you think a lifetime supply of cycling jerseys would be worth?