Tasty Thursday

Date: Sept. 3
Mileage: 32.5
September mileage: 85.8

Brian and I had a successful day out at South Island - three silvers and a baby halibut, and enough failed action to keep us rushing around the small boat for the better part of the day. Part of the draw for me was a chance to motor all the way out to a point 20 miles south of Juneau, down Stephens Passage and along the Glass Peninsula - places I have never seen, as close as they are to my home. New space is always appealing, whether I get there on a bike or in a fishing boat, and if I can venture outside the all-inclusive border of the City and Borough of Juneau, all the better.

On the way back to town, the prop on Brian's motor spun out and broke. Brian was pretty bummed about it as we limped back into port at trolling speed. "This probably ends my season," he said. Special-order part that could take a couple weeks to come ... then the fix ... and by then the big storms of fall will have settled in. Just as I started to say something sympathetic, Brian said, "This would be like someone running over Pugsley." The quieted me down, because I finally understood what he was losing with his broken boat. It's interesting how much happiness stock we put in our toys - not that I think that's a bad thing. Just interesting.

But even Brian agreed today wasn't a bad way to end the fishing season - drifting through the mist to a point in the world that you can still have all to yourself for an entire day. That we caught a healthy number of fish during a time when no one's been catching much was a bonus. I grilled up a halibut fillet for dinner. Since Geoff left town in mid-August, I'd have to say that halibut was the first real meal I cooked for myself, and one of only about three home-cooked dinners I've eaten. There are few things more satisfying than coming home wet and cold from a long day of fishing, changing into something soft and dry (with thick wool socks), tossing up a big veggie salad with a fruit salad on the side for dessert, and pan-frying a two-hour-old halibut slab to perfection. I use safflower oil and a little lemon, salt and pepper. That's all you need. Then purposely undercook it, just a little. It's like eating a moist, warm cloud ... a cloud that's tart, rich and satisfying. Fresh halibut is hard to wreck, so for someone like me who doesn't cook, preparing something that's so delicately delicious is especially enjoyable.

I renewed my gym pass tonight and spent 80 minutes after dinner running intervals to try to burn off the pound of halibut I inhaled. I had hoped to save my money and do all of my fall training outside, but I had a change of heart and decided not to be a hero about it. I'm recognizing that training 100 percent outside during the fall is probably just a quick road to burn-out, so I'm going to take indoor breaks from time to time.

Then and now

Top of Mount Juneau, looking toward the Treadwell Gold Mine and the Gastineau Channel; U.S. Geological Survey Photographic Library, circa 1906.

Top of Mount Juneau, looking toward Douglas and the Gastineau Channel; Aug. 5, 2008.

Sometimes, we I feel like I'm approaching a threshold of change, I like to step back and think about the things that don't change.

Transitions

Date: Sept. 1 and 2
Mileage: 25.0 and 28.3
September mileage: 53.3

I blogged last week about my goal of trying to put in a heavy-duty week of harder training to see how my fitness is holding up. The training didn't go quite as planned - I had a little mental burnout in the rain on Thursday and being called in to work prevented me from completing a long ride on Friday. But overall, it has been going well. I have been seeking out hills and riding them harder, heading out earlier and riding longer, and recovering well after long hikes, which is where I get my real climbing in (and build those oh-so-under appreciated hike-a-bike muscles.)

Why am I doing all this? Well, I mentioned a month or so ago about my interest in heading down to my home state in October to ride Trans Utah. I still want to do it. My big obstacle is still acquiring the time I need off work, which I am working on (gently) with my boss, but that's still a huge 'if.' If I can get the time off work, though, I've decided I want to do it. There are a lot of reasons why I shouldn't do it, and a few more reasons why I probably won't be able to, but still the desire lingers. I have yet to get my redrock fix this year, and imagining the warm glow of evening light sweeping across sandstone vistas as I roll along a rim on my mountain bike makes me more than wistful - it makes me jittery. Until the desert isn't just something I want. It's something I need.

But since Trans Utah is hard and will kill me if I don't get the best gauge I can on my base fitness level, I have to train a little right now on the off chance I can go.

These past two days have been relatively mellow, but I am going to try to ramp it up again for the rest of the week. Dave H. posted the ride stats today, so I have a lot to motivate me:

Elevation. The low elevation is 2,500 feet. Low elevation. Where I live, if you're at 2,500 feet, you're above treeline. I do almost all of my bike training below 1,000 feet. Which means the high elevation of 10,200 feet is going to hurt. Probably a lot. Not much I can do about that now; just hoping my formerly-mountain-dwelling cells have some kind of biological memory.

44,700 feet of climbing. That's just crazy talk. But I actually think I'm in pretty good shape for climbing. Not that I've put in any 10,000-foot days lately, but I'm recovering well from my harder climbs, and I am also pretty good at maintaining a steady (read: slow) pace through varying grades. If I can somehow put up with the heat, hydration and altitude, I think I'll be OK for the climbing.

320 miles. I'd like to do it in six days or less. If I go into it and this doesn't seem at all possible, I'll go as far as I can reasonably go in six days and take the most convenient bail-out. I can honestly say that I am not headed to Utah for any kind of supreme personal challenge or race. I am headed to Utah to go to Utah. The fact that Dave H. spent the past year drawing up a specialized mountain bike tour through some of the most beautiful country in the world is the big draw.

Gear. Lots of fun stuff to acquire. There is still the question of whether or not Geoff is going to do this ride. If he doesn't, I have nearly everything I need. But I am still hoping he has a change of heart and decides to ride with me. He's worried because he's not in any kind of cycling shape; he's had a pretty tough fall training season for the Wasatch 100 and a tough one ahead for the Iditarod Invitational 350. I keep trying to convince him that even my ambitious cycling pace is still supremely mellow compared to what he does. But if he doesn't go, I'll be able to use his sleeping bag, SPOT tracker, water filtration system and my own Epic Designs bags. All I'll need to figure out is food.

Bike. I have to figure out how to get my Karate Monkey in prime shape and in Utah. Given how much I despise Fed Ex, this is not going to be easy.

I have prepared much less for much longer bike tours and made it through OK. I think this could be a humbling and exhilarating experience, whether I do it alone or with Geoff. So I really hope it can work out.

Lost on Blackerby Ridge

There are a lot of gray areas to the state of being lost, but the moment of realization is always definitively clear. Gut-piercingly sharp and as heavy as lead, it's the moment you realize what it means to have absolutely no idea where you are.

To have no idea whether you're moving forward or back the way you came.

To have no idea which way is safe and which way is going to drop you straight off a cliff.

To have no idea what's more than five feet in front of you, because everything beyond that is fully shrouded in fog.

And it's hard not to panic. It's hard.

And I probably would have panicked, however briefly, however unjustified it would have been. I probably would have panicked had I not been hiking with a friend who I had invited (i.e. tricked) into heading up with me early this morning because "the fog is supposed to burn off. It did yesterday. It will today." I would have panicked if he hadn't been there, having equally no idea where we were, and following me with full faith.

I did not want to lose face. So I gulped it down. I death gripped my GPS. Even viewed from the 500-foot setting, my dotted path was a mess of curvy, crossing lines created when my friend and I lost each other briefly. There were times we double-backed. Then we would move forward a little more. We were so close to the base of the peak I have wanted to reach since 2006, but it was always too far away. Today, we were close. So close. I could see it. On my GPS screen. But everything else was fog. Just fog.

But it wasn't until shortly after I decided it was still too far away for today and turning around that the reality of the fog sunk in. The line of the wide ridge was invisible. Its rising and dropping contours were distant memories. We were nowhere. And it was so disorienting that I only had to turn around once, and suddenly I didn't remember whether I had made a 180-degree turn, or a 360. I did not know if I was facing up the ridge or down it, or maybe looking off to the side toward an unknown drop-off. There was no discernible trail, no landmarks. There was only my GPS, and its confusingly erratic dotted line that marked the way we came, so I had to follow it.

After a mile or so of successfully sticking to my electronic "trail," I became overconfident and stopped paying attention. We diverged off a side ridgeline and walked down it until we came to a sloping dead end. We were dropping too far. I held up by GPS and saw the big "Y" it had drawn. I had no idea how far the ridge dropped below us, or whether it was possible to reconnect. So, with panic bubbling back up my gut, we backtracked.

After that, I did not take my eyes off GPS. Hiking was like playing a video game, trying to trace the existing line as perfectly as possible and losing hard-earned anti-panic points any time I veered too far away from it. I loved that dotted black line. I love my GPS.

And I hate being lost. It's interesting how unsettling it is even when you have a GPS or compass - it's the sinking feeling that you are no longer able to rely on yourself. You are no longer in control of your situation. I have no doubt that had I not had the GPS with me, we would have been wandering in circles on top of that ridgeline until the clouds lifted or night fell, whichever came first. And I can all-too-clearly imagine the urge to panic in a situation like that ... well, did I mention I love my GPS?

I love my GPS.

And I've learned my lesson about hiking in fog. I had no concept before of just how truly disorienting it is. Plus, it's pointless. Nothing to see, no reason to go. GPS told me that we ended the day with 5,700 feet of vertical elevation gain and about 12 miles of hiking (its slow-moving mileage readings never seem even close to accurate, so I usually go by map estimates.) The whole debacle took seven hours, but it was pretty mellow aerobically. Add to that my three hours of Mount Jumbo on Saturday, with 3,300 of climbing and five miles of walking, and I've had a full weekend. Feels like my "high-impact" fitness is right where it needs to be - knees feel strong, legs feel strong. Hip flexors are a little sore (my hips seem to be a particularly weak point in my weight-bearing fitness. Need to work on those.) But the thing I feel best about is just being off that $%&@! mountain.

I love my GPS.

Obstructed view

There has been this ongoing theme this week of rain, mist and fog in the mornings, followed by beautiful afternoons. It works well for most people. Not so much for me. But September is nearly here and I've come to the troubling realization that I've spent precious little time in the mountains this summer. My high ambitions are slipping away with the approaching snow. I hoped to get up early and try to reach Cairn Peak today, but after my alarm went off at 6:45 a.m., I looked out the window to a low bank of fog obscuring even the tops of buildings downtown. So I went back to bed. Hiking for the sake of hiking is all well and good, but not at 6:45 a.m.

I woke up again at 9. It was still foggy. I no longer had enough time to push for Cairn. But I figured I might as well make the most of what was supposed to be a dry day, and head up Mount Jumbo. No new territory there. But I like Mount Jumbo. I can walk out my front door and be on the trail in less than five minutes. Climbing 3,500 feet in 2.5 miles is a brutally efficient workout. Plus, it's always scenic ... even in the fog:

Sure sign of fall: When the devil's club leaves begin to wither.

At the peak. I purposely made myself look like a marmot.

Just below the peak, the big cloud finally moved out of the way.

Come September, I'm always on the lookout for those first hints of termination dust. I've seen dustings of new snow already on 5,000-foot peaks, but it's a little early at 3,500 feet.

Cruise ship in the clouds.

And all along in the city, the sun was shining.

Maybe Cairn Peak tomorrow. There's always tomorrow.

Big day for Alaska

Date: Aug. 28 and 29
Mileage: 36.2 and 76.7
August mileage: 748.3

"Six hours," I told myself. "I should ride at least six hours today." After a failed attempt at a long ride on Thursday, lead legs, scattered rain and an actual doubleback while deciding to quit twice, I was all set to go at 9:30 a.m. I had slammed down a quick breakfast, browsed the morning paper, packed up my backpack and had even cinched on my helmet when I remembered I hadn't checked my e-mail yet. It was mostly junk and a one liner from Geoff: "McCain is picking Palin as his running mate!!!! busy day at work on saturday for you."

He had to be joking.

So I started to make the full rounds - CNN, New York Times, Anchorage Daily News, the Juneau Empire (to make sure they picked up the story.) Then it was on to all the inane little Anchorage Daily News reader comments, the political blogs, the Alaska blogs. There was an electricity to the air, even in my dark room in front of my computer, the kind of buzz you get when you realize you're witnessing a little piece of history. Because regardless of what your politics are, or how you feel about Sarah Palin (and believe me, I'm not a cheerleader), this is big for Alaska. We are a small state in political terms - 670,000 people, about the same as Memphis (where's that?) Veep nomination in a major political party is a big step for this small state, and it's exciting.

Of course the politics of the whole parade went through my mind, but first and foremost, I was enthralled by the notion. Here is a woman I see once in a while strolling down the streets of downtown Juneau. I even nodded at her once as I pedaled by, and she smiled back. There's a closeness to it, a sense of someone I know hitting the big time, and I couldn't pull away. Before I knew it, it was 11 a.m., and the phone rang.

It was my boss. Calling me in to work.

The Juneau Empire is a six-days-a-week newspaper, which means we don't publish a Saturday edition. Ever. But since this Palin thing is the biggest news to hit the state since Sen. Stevens was indicted, and this was actually semi-good news, no one wanted to wait until the story was good and stale for Sunday's paper. So they mobilized the staff to create a special Friday afternoon paper, an actual "Extra" edition. I can't imagine there are too many newspapers left in the U.S. that bother with extra editions anymore. I could almost see the paperboys in their wool caps and knee-length shorts waving papers around the streets of Juneau screaming "Ex-tree! Ex-tree! Read All About It!" And that was exciting. Even if it meant coming in to work on my day off. And forgoing my long bike ride.

So I rode into the office. The next four hours were a mind-numbing blur of stress and pressure. People breathing down my neck as I frantically dug around for archive photos and tried to make sense of the grand design. I rarely have high-blood-pressure days at work, but today was one of those days, and by the time we wrapped up the "Ex-tree!" edition by 3 p.m., my heart was pumping about 130 beats per minute and I was seeing double. But it was only 3 p.m. I still had time to get in at least some riding today. I headed north, planning to loop a few trails near Dredge Lake.

But when I reached the valley, I noticed clearing to the north. And, well, I am a sun chaser if ever there was a sun chaser. I amped up the effort and stayed on the pavement, burning the high octane as I raced out the road until I had a full shadow riding beside me. I turned around after two hours so I'd have plenty of time to make 7:30 p.m. dinner plans. But then I rode by Eagle Beach. And all around me was the intense sparkle of the sun contrasted against dark curtains of storms. And there was this rainbow, stretching like an umbrella over a patch of blue sky, and I couldn't take my eyes off of it. So I rode along the beach and stopped several times to take pictures. OK, dozens of pictures. OK, close to 60.

And of course, the pictures never come close to capturing these landscapes, but I have this tendancy - OK, this crazed desire - to try to hold on as long as possible, to hold on to these moments of color and light and sweeping vistas so startling that I forget all about my fatigue and my lead legs from Thursday and even about Sarah Palin and whether or not I've even given any thought to how I actually feel about it all. No, for a few beautiful minutes I'm just amazed. That's all that I am.

After my photo safari, I had to race toward home at even higher effort. I knew I was going to be late for dinner. I was becoming ravenously hungry, since all I had eaten for lunch was about a half pound of grapes, a bag of fruit snacks and two Quaker chewy granola bars, and that was all I had packed (I, stupidly, tossed a bunch of Power Bars out of my bag when I made the gear transition from "long ride" to "commute.") My friend promised to cook up a big lasagna for dinner and I started to think often about that, but as the evening sun descended, the color show moved forward. A sharp golden glow lit up the street, the spruce trees, the cars, the buildings, the devil's club-choked hillsides, until every color looked ultra-saturated, like an overeager Photoshop job gone awry. But it wasn't Photoshop, it was real life, so it was beautiful.

And even though I was hungry, and yes, probably tired, my pace never slowed. I was high on color and light, and I wasn't even all that late for dinner. And to think that I was almost out the door at 9:30 a.m., that I nearly missed out on all of it. Thanks, Sarah!

What the?

I know this isn't a political blog, but Sarah Palin? Hol-ee cow.

Two years ago, she was the mayor of Wasilla, population 8,000, and a long-shot primary candidate against an old guard Republican governor. Then she beat Frank Murkowski in the primary, beat a Democratic former governor in the general, came into town, and every once in a while I'd see her walking down the street as I was pedaling through downtown.

We're gonna miss you in Juneau.