October sunlight and snow

Date: Oct. 7
Mileage: 22.7
October mileage: 168.9

So my Olympus camera is not broken. What happened is some mud somehow jammed down into the lens area and held the lens cap shut, which is why the camera kept turning off. I finally cleaned it out and it works again. Mud, salt water, snow, ice, falling out of my handlebar bag at 20 mph ... it all just goes with the territory of being my camera. Which is why I don't own expensive cameras.

Geoff is in theory going to be back in Juneau on Wednesday (I say in theory because the last I heard he was leaving northern Idaho on Friday in his rustbucket of a 1989 Honda Civic with 310,000 miles, and I haven't heard from him since.) Anyway, I was going to take a rest day today and knock off a bunch of chores to prepare for his possible arrival (clean the house, call the DMV, mail back that Netflix DVD that's been sitting unopened on the desk for two months, and dig out my big backpack so I could bike commute over to the grocery store and buy just enough food so it doesn't look like I've been eating canned beans and rice for three meals a day.)

Anyway, I crawled out of bed this morning, all pumped up for my mundane plans, when I looked out the window to this completely clear, sunlight-streaked, deep azure sky. And when you wake up to that, in October, you don't fret about covering up the embarrassing evidence of just how deeply you neglect your real life because you spend all of your time outside. No, when you wake up to a sky like that, in October, you go outside.

But because there were chores I really couldn't neglect today, I compromised and went out for a quick mud-and-beach ride with Pugsley. We hit up the Treadwell Ditch Trail until we were thoroughly splattered with cold mud, then went down to the sea to wash it off. The beach riding was great fun. A mid-tide covered a lot of the sand and forced us up in the gravel. We dodged boulders and crunched through fields of frozen seaweed, still frosty where the sun hadn't quite broken through the shadows. I had forgotten just how much Pugsley loves frosty stuff.

The municipal election made for a late night at work, and I found myself riding home at about midnight. Not many people in my small town are on the road at that time of night, and the air hangs heavy with an eerie silence. My breath swirled in a thick cloud around my headlamp and obstructed my vision, so I turned it off. With only a little handlebar headlight casting a thin white beam in the darkness, I pedaled along wet pavement glistening with flecks of ice. I'm still trying to get the hang of my bike commuting routine and still pack the way I did in the summer ... I had only a thin rain shell, cotton socks, no gloves. But I didn't feel cold. White flakes started to swirl through my headlight beam and I realized they were snow flurries. Sun and snow, even light snow, are both rare occurrences in October, and I felt privileged as the only person on the road at the moment, maybe the only person to have had the rare opportunity to pedal through both. It's simple moments like that, that remind me why I actually do enjoy bike commuting. Just like blowing off my daily chores in the morning, it's a regular opportunity to experience simple, satisfying moments that I otherwise wouldn't have.

Another beautiful day on Jumbo

Date: Oct. 6
Mileage: 12.1
October mileage: 146.2

It's hard to overemphasize just how inspiring/healthy/revitalizing the mountains around Juneau have been for me this summer. I haven't focused on training for any specific event since the 24 Hours of Light in June. (Well, OK, I did have a few weeks in August where I labored under the delusion that I could climb my way to adequate fitness for Trans Utah. I have since learned that, even if I had gotten the time off work to participate in this event, I would have showed up for it woefully, woefully undertrained.)

But, in general, no training means I can wake up in the morning and do whatever I feel like doing. If the morning has hints or even tiny flecks of possibility for nice weather, I head up high. The result has been lots of time in the mountains, working up a deep sweat in the woods until I reach the alpine ceiling with its vast spread of open space. I spend as much time up there as I can manage, devouring a feast of color and light until I'm convinced I'll never feel hungry again. When I come back down, I feel stronger and more fit than I think I ever have.

It's hard to compare my fitness right now to what it typically is in, say, February, which since I started serious training has always been my peak month. But compared to the end of any summer I can remember, I feel like I'm at my strongest right now. I can hold an 80-minute pace up Mount Jumbo comfortably. I used to just survive my way down the mountain, but now I can practically run. My formerly wobbly knees have finally achieved strength and stability that can take all the hard downhill pounding (too bad the rest of me is still as clumsy as ever.) But beyond just the hiking, my cycling fitness has stayed strong. My experiences on the Golden Circle proved to me that I have come a long way since last year - despite my lack of any real focus on endurance cycling throughout most of the summer. Who needs training when you have mountains?

Today's hike came in under three hours, probably a personal best. There was still plenty of time for pictures:

These ptarmigans are about halfway between their summer and winter plumage, which, as you can see, is still perfect camouflage for the season.

There was a light dusting of snow above 3,000 feet. I don't think this snow even made it through the afternoon.

As is usually the case with Mount Jumbo, the clouds didn't start to clear until I was on my way back down.

Why yes, now that you mention it, I do take a lot of pictures of myself on top of peaks.

I think my newer camera may be broken. I charged up the battery but the camera still shuts off instantly after I turn it on. I stuck the battery in my old Olympus today. I'm not going to be real happy if this one has to be my main camera again. The viewing screen is so scuffed up that I basically can't see the image in any kind of sunlight. It's hard to frame a shot with no viewfinder.

I have had friends ask me why I never take pictures of the city. There you have it - the city. We're expecting our first sea-level frost tonight. I just realized that I haven't yet purchased a set of 29" studded tires. Anyone have any recommendations for a set that can be used both for commuting and riding on frozen lakes?

Commuter struggles

Date: Oct. 4 and 5
Mileage: 38.2 and 43.4
October mileage: 134.1

I’ve jumped back into full-time bike commuting this week after a bit of a hiatus. I bike commuted nearly every day and everywhere for two months this summer. Then Geoff came back to town in July and tempted me with home-cooked meals during my short dinner breaks. I did half-and-half for a while, riding my bike to work and then home on my break, then driving the second leg. Eventually, I fell completely off the wagon, and didn’t get back on when Geoff left again. I felt so guilty about it, but being a car commuter is just so ... easy.

Well, this week, I’m back on the full-time bike commute by necessity. Here’s the part where I have to admit to an embarrassing personality flaw to explain my situation: I am, for whatever deep-set psychological reason, nearly incapable of dealing with bureaucracy. This means that any time I have to deal with anything that involves letters or forms - registering to vote, filing my taxes, paying my insurance, renewing my car registration - I put it off until the very last possible second, and sometimes beyond that. This often results in completely avoidable fees and consequences. I call these consequences “Jill Tax.” My latest mistake was waiting until Sept. 24 to send in my car registration renewal check. Then, on Oct. 1, my tags expired, so I’m banned from driving my car until the new ones come in the mail.

Predictably, the reintroduction to bike commuting has been a little bumpy. I’ve had to rush around. I’ve been late to work. I’ve forgotten crucial things like my headlamp and a clean set of socks. I’ve been completely stymied by the whole grocery shopping thing. I broke the rear rack on my road bike last month, so right now I can only carry what I can fit in a backpack. Since I haven't yet made a trip specifically for grocery shopping only, I can only carry what I can stuff in my Camelback beside all of my work clothing, lights and lock. I find myself buying small amounts of the same lightweight stuff I eat while riding. Today for dinner I ate almonds, yogurt, an apple and a Hershey Bar.

For me, there’s a lot about bike commuting not to like. I don’t like the extra planning involved in packing up an second set of clothing and a brown-bag dinner. I don’t like returning early from my more fun bike rides to make time for the commute. I don’t like taking sponge baths and blow-drying my rain-soaked hair in the office bathroom. I don’t like spending my dinner break at the office. I don’t like leaving work at 11 p.m. knowing I still have a six-mile ride home in the cold rain. I don’t like being wet three times a day. In fact, the only part about my bike commute that I do like is when I'm out there, riding my bike.

That should be enough, but it wasn’t to help me push through my first hiatus, despite the fact I had established a comfortable habit during my first go-around as a bike commuter. It may not be enough to push me past the temptation when my car registration stickers finally do come in the mail. I have to say, I am really craving a gallon of milk and a 24-pack of Diet Pepsi.

A cyclist who doesn’t like bike commuting is like a vegetarian who doesn’t like vegetables. They believe it’s the good and right thing to do. They recognize that they may not always be able to afford to eat meat. But deep down, when no one is watching, they still fantasize about devouring an entire bucket of chicken. Or, in my case, driving my car.

If I cave in before my tags come and get a ticket, I will completely deserve it. But I have to admit, the thought of driving is so tempting. Someday, and probably someday soon, my 1996 Geo Prism with 155,000 miles on the engine is going to die. When it does, I’m not planning to replace it. So I better start liking vegetables, and fast.

Yep, still fall

Date: Oct. 3
Mileage: 22.4
October mileage: 52.5

It was strange to come home from my wintry Yukon bike tour to a place where the temperature was 62 degrees and partly sunny, as it was in Juneau on Tuesday morning. In retrospect, September was more like a summer month here than most of our actual summer months. In fact, I think September may have been my favorite summer month of 2008. That or June. Those were both good months. July and August ... well, we'll call it a wash.

Fall has been creeping in though, ever so slowly. Our first big Taku windstorm barrelled through last night - 126 mph gust on top of Sheep Mountain. I almost didn't notice. We had our big VP debate dinner and, after being disappointingly bored by the proceedings, went outside to sit on the deck and look at the stars (actual stars!) It was such a calm, clear night - good food and good friends. The strong winds came through while I slept. They were mostly gone again by morning.

I hoped to complete a more ambitious hike ahead of the Grand Canyon, but low-lying clouds just wouldn't allow it. I did a little cycling in the morning. Then, when the weather stayed dry, I headed up to Granite Creek Basin. Patches of clear sky rolled through, and fleeting streaks of freed sunlight cast the basin in startlingly rich colors - mostly greens. But the fall colors, the ground-level crimsons and golds, burned bright as well.

Alpine level is where Juneau gets its best fall colors, in my opinion. The sea-level trees try, they really do, but it's just too wet here. The moment any hint of yellow settles in to the leaves, they're overtaken by brown spots like a rotten banana. Then they fall off the trees like wet rags, so our roads are littered with soggy clumps of blah green/brown/tiniest-bit-of-yellow leaves. My opinion of fall color in Juneau is probably tainted by my childhood near the Wasatch Mountains in Utah, where aspens, maple, oak and crisp dry weather made for the most brilliant autumn collages. But I can still see those same hues in Juneau if I hike above tree line and look at the ground.

Then there are, of course, still places up there where winter never ended. I climbed up to the Juneau Ridge, where I could feel for the first time that cold, cold wind that started blasting through last night. I spent some time trying to scout out a route to the top of Mount Olds, but the cloud cover above the ridge was pea-soup thick and the wind chill was fierce. Clinging to the snow-streaked talus in those conditions, it wasn't too much of a stretch to imagine myself on the face of some extreme climb like Mount Rainier or Denali. I guess the thick air at 4,000 feet should have given it away, but eventually I spooked myself off of Olds and back down to the basin.

On my way back, a met a sow black bear and her two cubs grazing right next to the trail. There was a bit of a standoff where she stared at me and I stared at her and had no freaking idea what to do, whether to back away slowly or hold my ground. Eventually she deemed me not a threat and went back to eating - but showed no interest in moving from the trail. I turned and walked stiffly in the other direction (and did not stop to shoot this photo until I had put a fair distance between myself and the three bears.) I had few options for getting around her. Just off the trail was a large thicket of alders that would have been a beast to bushwhack through - not to mention probably crawling with more bears. I eventually decided to walk right down the middle of Granite Creek - frigid, fast-flowing, knee-deep Granite Creek. But at least it was on the other side of the valley.

Between that and the windy summit attempt on Mount Olds, I was seriously chilled by the time I returned to my bike and began the long descent home through an isolated downpour. I went to dinner and a play with my friend Brian tonight and spent most of the evening drinking things like hot apple cider and just trying to get my body temperature back up to normal. But all in all, it was a good weekend. Next weekend, I'm headed to a place that could very well still be locked in the deep heat of summer. Hard to imagine what that might feel like.

Moving on

Date: Oct. 2
Mileage: 30.1
October mileage: 30.1

My recovery from my Golden Circle ride seems to have been nearly instantaneous. The typical muscle rigor mortis never set in, and by Sunday morning I was raring to go again. I only had a five-mile ride to the ferry terminal, but I felt energetic and strong (the pseudo-hurricane of the night before had mostly let up by daybreak.) I took a day off Monday to deal with my wreck of a house and a bunch of other chores, and took advantage of a sunny window Tuesday morning to hike up Mount Jumbo. These pictures are from the quick Jumbo jaunt.

I did my first ride since the bike trip today. My finger numbness and saddle sores have almost entirely abated. This surprised me, actually, because the pavement along the Golden Circle is seriously rough. I'd say gravel road rough, in many spots. By the end of the trip, I was really wishing for full suspension, or at least rear suspension. After I rode the Golden Circle last year, my pinkie fingers were numb for at least 10 weeks. I expected the numbness to linger this year as well, but it's almost entirely gone already. In fact, it seems the only "injury" I have left over from the trip is an itchy chafing rash around both knees, caused by wearing knee braces all day long. Sometimes I wonder if those things cause more maladies than they prevent, but I've gone more than a full year now without knee problems, so I'll continue to hold on to my placebos, even if chafing is the cost.

I think my lack of need for recovery time shows I really am becoming better at pacing myself for multiday endurance trips. Although my Golden Circle trip was pretty lax by "ultra" standards - 10- to 12-hour days as opposed to 16- to 18-hour days - I think I have found a moving pace and a comfort level that I can maintain day after day after day. Of course it would be nice to find ways to go "faster." But, for me, "sustainable" is a pretty good victory.

My final stats for the trip:
Mileage: 367.45
Total ascent: 15,624 feet
Maximum elevation: 3,451 feet
Minimum elevation: 0 feet
Moving time: 29 hours 59 minutes
Stopped: 3 hours, 26 minutes (this is only the time I was stopped while riding. I turned off my GPS at the end of each day.)
Moving average: 12.2 mph

My next big trip is a hike across the Grand Canyon with my dad and his friend on Oct. 11. After I voiced my frustration about not being able to get time off in early October to ride Trans Utah, my boss pulled some strings and helped me take a few days off over the second weekend so I could do this annual trip with my dad. It's a fair compromise, and I'm really excited to take a trip down to the desert, even if is a brief one. Trans Utah, as it turns out, was first postponed and then moved ahead to deal with a major storm that is supposed to move through the area this weekend. I believe some of the riders are out there right now. Here's wishing them the best of luck and the driest of weather.

I'm hoping to get out for a longish hike tomorrow, depending on the weather here, just to make sure my hiking muscles are still in good shape for a long trek across the Grand Canyon. After I return from my desert trip, October is typically my "speed work" month. I hope to spend more time on hill intervals this month, as my Golden Circle trip proved I still have a lot of work to do on my climbing. Then, after that, who knows? The season is young. :-)

Golden days on the Golden Circle, Day 3

Date: Sept. 27
Mileage: 105
September mileage: 893.0

I woke up to the horrifying noise of something chewing on what sounded like bones, directly below me. The wooden platform I had set up my bivy on was propped several feet above the ground, and something was down there, shuffling around and gnawing away. My first reaction was to freeze with fear, but I knew I couldn't live like that all night, and figured whatever it was already knew I was up there. It didn't sound too huge and grizzly bear-like, so I decided I would have to scare it away. I unzipped the layers of my bivy sack, turned on my headlamp and started to yell. A streak of gray fur darted through the light's beam and scampered away. I never got a good lock on it with my headlamp, but I figured it was a fox or possibly a coyote.

The animal continued to terrorize me throughout the night, creeping back under the deck multiple times and crunching away until I stirred from my restless sleep, wrestled out of my bivy and jumped up and down on the deck in my socks until it ran away. Toward morning I was more irritated than scared, and sick of watching its gray butt disappear into the darkness as a cloud of condensed breath swirled in my spotlight. Thick frost was forming on everything and the night had become deeply clear. I could see stars behind stars behind stars. I was glad I had packed Geoff's -20 degree winter bag, even if it was overkill. After the fox/coyote/baby-wolf-from-hell ran away, I could slip back into my cocoon of total warmth and slowly drift into oblivion.

After the animal's 7 a.m. breakfast call, I decided it was time to finally get out of there. As I packed up, I checked the thermometer inside my Camelbak pocket. The red line hovered right around 20 degrees. Which meant, yup, my water was frozen. Should have slept with it. I also decided the night officially counted as my first winter camping trip of the season.

In the low light of morning, I could see another long descent into what turned out to be the Million Dollar Falls campground, so I bundled up accordingly. The road had, luckily, mostly dried overnight, but there were still patches of ice dotting the shoulder, so sometimes I veered into the rough gravel to dodge it. The sky also was beginning to cloud up again. I caught a few pink rays of sunrise before the gray hues closed in.

I never heard a car go by in the night, and didn't see my first one in the morning until nearly an hour after I hit the road. I would later learn the driver, a local rancher, mistook me in my baby blue down coat and balaclava for "an old Russian guy" who seemed to be in need of help (not sure what I had been doing to make it appear that way, besides riding a bicycle.) I guess the rancher didn't try to stop and help me himself because he thought I was a scary old Russian guy. Those Yukoners aren't like us Alaskans. We keep an eye on those Russians. Just ask Sarah Palin.

The landscape was beautifully frosty, with hints of Wyoming in early winter. There was even a ranch up there in the high plains below the pass, with horses dressed in green felt coats. I didn't like to imagine what their life must be like in January.

About 20 miles down the road I ran into another bicycle tourist, which completely shocked me. His name is Ed and he had originally planned to ride his bike from Anchorage to Denver. I knew this about him because I had randomly stumbled across his wife's blog just a week earlier during my regular Web surfing. My first reaction was that Ed was way off the Alaska Highway, and I wondered if he had intended to take a 70-mile detour. Turns out he ran into snowstorms at a couple of passes out of Alaska and decided to hop the ferry south from Haines to Bellingham, Wash., and ride from there. He told me the story about the rancher, who had stopped to talk to Ed after ignoring me. Ed said I did look a little extremely bundled up. But the temperature was still in the 20s! Ed was wearing the kind of get-up I put on when it's 55 degrees and raining in Juneau. But whatever. I get it. I'm a cold wimp.

Ed and I rode together for a while, talking about his trip and our bike set-ups. I don't think he was too impressed with my bivy bundle. I explained to him how I could just roll it out and crawl inside without any set-up, and how nice it was to tour rack-free. He told me he'd probably stick with rear panniers. Bicycle tourists. Such purists. ;-)

Ed decided he wanted to stop for a while and I told him I wait up for him later so we could pull each other through the always infuriating afternoon headwinds along the Chilkat River. Alone again in the highlands, I was riding strong and relaxed, my legs hardly noticing the 300 miles behind them, aware that I was probably riding what would turn out to be my favorite section of the entire trip. Throughout my life, my memories and experiences have been strongly influenced by the landscapes that frame them. I am a connoisseur of space. In the same way that some people cultivate gardening and cooking until they can't separate their hobbies from their more abstract values of growth and creation, I have come to view human-powered travel as the only way to read the language of the landscape. And what I understand, I fall in love with, unconditionally.

Although I live and love my life in the rainforest lowlands of Juneau, I find the landscapes I am most in love with are often high and barren. I sometimes wonder why this is. Maybe it's because they're more difficult to reach. Or because they're largely untouched by human interference ... places almost primordial in their wildness and wholly indifferent to my presence ... places I can move through freely and that move freely through me.

Just beyond the pass is the best 20 miles of road biking I have had the privilege to ride - the screaming descent from Haines Highway Summit to the U.S. border. I rode this stretch once before, in May, and was was completely enthralled by the way the mountains hurtled toward me like I was a spaceship about to crash into a snow-dusted planet. This time around, I was tearing through a blur of gold and green with tears streaming down my face in the cold wind. All of the weight on my bike gave me that extra bit of oomph to really push the limits of speed. The last 11 miles passed in a couple of blinks ... a few beautiful minutes of weightlessness. As I approached U.S. customs, I had this fleeting desire to ride back up to the pass and do it all again. But I am not crazy. OK, not that crazy.

I stopped along the Chilkat River and ate my lunch - which turned out to be what little I had left of my food: a few crushed rice chips, almonds, and my last Clif Bar. Since my horribly under-fueled first day, I had been eating well and a lot, and actually underestimated the food I'd need for the last leg of the trip when I left Haines Junction. I saved my last peanut butter cups as a special reward - a carrot to ride toward in case the Chilkat winds tried to break me. I waited for a little while for Ed, but eventually set out alone.

The afternoon headwind, which is a near constant in this region, was extremely kind. It was strong, but mostly moved through in gusts. For long stretches, the air would be almost still. I was beginning to feel the physical effects of my ride - hints of saddle sores, tight shoulders, a kink in my back where the Camelback rested, mushy quad muscles. But for the most part, I felt good, and happy to be on my bike. When hunger pangs started to kick up, and when light sprinkles started to hit my face (the first rain I had felt the entire trip), I just told myself that cycling is fun and everyone should be so lucky to ride along the Chilkat on a beautiful Saturday afternoon in autumn. I was almost disappointed when the mile markers entered single digits and I realized I had less than 10 miles to ride to Haines. It's hard to really describe how much stronger, more relaxed and content I felt during the last 10 miles of my trip compared to the first. It was like day and night.

I rolled into Haines a little before 4 p.m. and got a hotel room downtown. I walked to the grocery store to pick up a bunch of snacks and breakfast. Not much more than an hour after I arrived, the wind picked up considerable speed and rain began to fall in force. The near-hurricane continued for the rest of the night. I just stood by the window, eating a bowl of cereal, listening to cable TV in my warm hotel room, watching daggers of rain tear sideways through the darkness and thinking, "wow, what would that be like to be caught out in that?" But that horrible storm just missed me, and I had overall great fall weather for the three days I was on the road. What did I tell you about me and the Golden Circle? Lucky, lucky, lucky.

Still, I thought about how I wouldn't mind another day or seven out on the road, with nothing to do but ride my bike and take in enormous amounts of beautiful space. I love bike touring. Adding the endurance factor, the distance and the long days, seems to make the experience even more rewarding. Last year after riding the Golden Circle, I had this huge sense of accomplishment. My feelings this year were more subdued - that I didn't overcome any great adversity. That I was already over the learning curve before I started. Still, I did learn new things about myself out there, and about cycling - especially the power and liabilities of riding alone. I'm sure I'll be back out there again someday, hopefully someday soon. But right now, I have visions of longer fast tours edging into my dreams.

Golden days on the Golden Circle, Day 2

Date: Sept. 26
Mileage: 154
September mileage: 788.0

"I guess I lied about it being light at 7:30," Sierra told me as we pedaled groggily toward downtown Whitehorse in the pre-dawn cold. "I swear it was two weeks ago."

"I'm sure it was two weeks ago," I said. Daylight fades fast this time of year; an entire hour can be taken away in two weeks time, and we were already facing more darkness and light. I could tell by the gray pall over the sky that it was significantly more cloudy than it had been the day before. I had planned for rain but really, really wanted it to elude me. This was, after all, my vacation. Not some endurance training death march.

We parked outside a small convention center and lined up at crowded buffet tables, piling paper plates high with pancakes, hash browns and eggs. I suckled caffeinated beverages and juicy oranges and all of the warm fuel I could stuff down. I was randomly visiting Whitehorse on a Friday morning, and managed to line up my trip with a huge United Way fundraising all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast. What did I say about me and the Golden Circle? Lucky, lucky, lucky. It was a great way to start day two.

And I really was feeling much better as I climbed away from the Yukon River and began the trek up the Alaska Highway. I had a tough day one, but I'm really not in all that terrible of shape for fast touring. I wasn't sore and my stomach was feeling much more calm despite the fact I had just eaten a large amount of greasy, sugary food (I usually try to keep my meals small and frequent when I am riding.) The rising sun filtered through breaks in the clouds and cast streaks of light over the valley. All around me were dark patches of scattered showers, but the road seemed to skirt all of them. I began to shed my layers as the temperature climbed comfortably into the mid-40s. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

Most of the trees along the river valley were barren, the grass dry and the road covered in brittle, brown leaves. I smiled at the idea that in a single 24-hour period, I had managed to ride my bike from a region where fall was still in its half-green infancy - Skagway - to a place where fall was pretty much over.

There still were patches of color among the grays and browns - holdout trees. Muted sunlight continued to find its way through an overcast sky. Traffic along the Alaska Highway was light, which surprised me. It is, after all, the main corridor between the Lower 48 and Alaska. But not that many tourists care to be up here this time of year. I can't figure out why.

One aspect that really stood apart for me on day two was how much strength I derived from the effort of cycling. Rather than feel weakened by the passing miles, I felt empowered. GPS indicated a respectable speed average, and I could feel the pleasant burn of my quad muscles firing with every pedal stroke. It helps that the climbing was much more easy-going than it had been along the Klondike Highway. The air remained almost completely calm, and the breeze was a tailwind when it was anything at all. My pace continued strong, relaxed but determined, as I paralleled the snow-capped mountains that I would eventually have to cross again. But with no definite plans about where to stop for the night and everything I needed strapped to by heavy-but-burly bike, I could sit up high, drink in the subtle colors, and enjoy life in the moment.

I stopped in Haines Junction for a late lunch, 100 miles already behind me and a mere 150 more to go. The comfortable routine of distance touring was sinking in, and 100 miles was already starting to seem like a short distance. I found a general store and walked around in a bike-addled haze, completely confused by the Canadian choices before me. Not only is everything wrapped in half-French labels, it's also weighed in grams, not ounces, and always seems to be just a little bit different than versions of the same food in the U.S. I wanted peanut butter chocolate chip chewy granola bars, but could only find raspberry ones in a box of six, not ten. I sought out more peanut butter cups, but they were horribly expensive given the equal exchange rate, so I settled on these strange giant Kit Kat bars, which offered more calories on the dollar. I couldn't find Clif Bars, so I bought almonds, then loaded up with fruit, vegetables, bread and Gatorade that I planned to devour at a picnic table out front before I headed into the remote, serviceless, "no fuel" wastelands of the Haines Highway.

As I climbed away from town, I decided I would keep riding until dark and then find a good spot to bivy. Even though I was carrying a magazine, I didn't think sitting around camp as temperatures dropped below freezing would be all that fun, even if I did motivate to build a fire. No, I was going to ride to nightfall and then sleep good and long - after all, the darkness still consumed more than 12 hours of the day. Fall color began to return to the trees as I pedaled south. It was almost like moving back in time.

By dusk, I was well beyond the spot where I camped last year - Kathleen Lake - and aware that I was somewhat close to a campground called Million Dollar Falls. The idea of trying to reach a campground was appealing. Yukon campgrounds are sometimes equipped with covered picnic areas, and I was still dodging rainstorms that soaked the highways and were starting to hit me peripherally as snow flurries. I decided to push for it. Darkness descended and the already extremely light traffic stopped altogether. My headlights cast an eerie white glow on the rough, wet pavement, which was glittering with flecks of ice. I began to develop an unsettling awareness of how alone I was. The old familiar feeling was frightening, almost debilitating, and to top it all off, the sleep monster had started to creep in. Ditches and small notches in cliffsides started to look like appealing places to take a nap. Still, I thought, the campground couldn't be far.

My pace slowed considerably because I couldn't tell wet pavement from black ice. The road started to dip into some long descents, and I realized a crash out there could be especially dangerous, since another car was not likely to drive by until morning. I listened to the creepy squeal of my wet brakes as I death-gripped the levers, actually praying for the downhill to end. When I finally bottomed out, I pounded at full, red-zone throttle up the next long hill, sucking air just to burn off the residual fear. I ended up at a scenic overlook, with a wooden deck built over a hillside. "This is perfect!" I thought. "It will get me off the ground and there's even a bench I can roll under if it starts to rain or snow heavily." You might think it's strange that with all of that beautiful forest surrounding me, I would choose to camp on a deck. But it's vastly lonely out there, and like I child who can't give up her security blanket, I find myself clinging to any outposts of human civilization.

I didn't know at the time that I was less than three kilometers from Million Dollar Falls. If I had ridden about 300 yards further, I would have seen a sign indicating the campground was two kilometers away. But the overlook wasn't a bad spot to bivy down. The time was just before 9 p.m. I looked up to the sky and noticed large patches of clear sky that were nearly whitewashed with millions of glittering stars. My GPS indicated I had stopped at about 2,900 feet - an elevation nearly as high as some of the alpine peaks around Juneau. None of this boded well for how low the temperature might dip overnight, so I bundled up in my sleeping bag and shivered nervously, hoping my heart rate would slow down for just a few minutes so I could fall asleep.