Mount Jumbo to Mount Troy

Date: Feb. 18
Mileage: ~12

Total climbing: 6,284 feet
Time: 7 hours, 13 minutes
Weather: Sunny and hot! 34 degrees at sea level, hotter higher; Light winds
Details: Ridge trek, 40-90 percent

Today I did something that I have always wanted to do, which is connect two prominent peaks on Douglas Island via the mountain ridge. In doing so, I walked from downtown Douglas to Eaglecrest Ski Area, the hard way. I will eventually talk more about observations regarding yesterday's post, but for today I am just doing a quick photo blog.

An inversion coated Juneau with thick fog during the morning and part of the early afternoon. This airplane was flying in circles, waiting for the fog to clear so it could land at the airport. You have to think those passengers are grumbling about the unfairness of a weather delay as they coast through clear blue sky.

And it was hot! So, so hot. I don't know how hot it was. 80 degrees? Maybe 90? It was actually 34 degrees at my house before I left for the morning. Probably mid-40s above the inversion. My shirt became drenched with sweat on the way up Jumbo so I took it off for a while, until my pasty white belly started to burn. This is the obligatory self portrait on top of Mount Jumbo, elevation 3,337. I've hiked this peak many times during the summer, and it felt every bit as warm today. You'd never know it wasn't July. Seriously. Except for all the snow and rime ice.

After that, it was time to set out toward unknown territory. This is an overlook of Stephens Passage and Eagle Peak on Admiralty Island.

Douglas Island Ridge is fairly broad, which allows non-technical passage but can make route finding more difficult.

And there was lots of route finding to do beyond Mount Jumbo. I was hoping I would see old ski tracks I could follow, but no dice. They probably melted.

Looking back on Mount Jumbo after looping around a small secondary peak, elevation 2,800.

Self portrait on top of an unnamed prominent peak, elevation 2,900, above the Dan Moller bowl.

Ah, look, it's downtown Juneau. Above town you can see how high snowline is on Mount Juneau. All joy about July-in-February weather aside, it's sad to see our snowpack this dessicated.

Yeah! Made it to Mount Troy, elevation 2,950. Lots of climbing to reach these high points - the ridge dipped as low as 1,800 feet at times. I had originally thought Ben Stuart might be an good, ambitious goal if the trek went really well, but it took too much time and energy to reach Troy. I'm not sure how I feel about trekking through the ski area anyway. But my next goal is to link up Mount Meek and Ben Stuart.

Lots of good thinking today, as well. I am very pleased with how the day went ... good goals, good introspection, good weather, good scenery, good workout. Good day.

A lack of color

Date: Feb. 16
Details: Rest day

Date: Feb. 17
Mileage: 24
Time: 95 minutes
Weather: Steady rain, 38 degrees, southeast wind 15-25 mph
Details: Tempo ride; intensity 65-90 percent

So today I'm going to post about two things that I don't talk about very often on my blog - writing and discontent.

I feel like I have to preface this post because I'm not going to talk about bicycle riding, trekking or training today. It's actually still somewhat humorous to me that for the past four-plus years, I have been updating what is essentially a bicycle and photo blog. I found out recently that "Up in Alaska" was nominated for a "Best Sports Blog" Bloggie for the third time (I found out too late to solicit votes, but that's OK, because I didn't stand a chance of winning against Fat Cyclist and BikeSnobNYC anyway.) But, yeah, I have a sports blog. This idea still makes me giggle. And photography! I was essentially anti-photograph four and a half years ago, the kind of person who put her hand in front of her face when cameras came out and had only recently acquired a 2-megapixel Fuji digital camera because I was moving to Alaska and "you have to take photos of Alaska." No, if you asked me on Nov. 3, 2005, what I wanted to do with a personal blog, I would have said that I wanted to be a writer, without the drudgery of actually pursuing a career in writing.

Fast-forward four and a half years. Now I have a sports and photo blog with more than 1,000 posts and I spend some of my free time writing creative nonfiction that I develop in the form of books. Right now I'm in the process of finishing up the "2009 story." I've been polishing up the chapters I've written and for the most part I'm pretty happy with them - even the stuff I wrote while I had the flu, when I managed to evoke more than a few, ah, interesting metaphors (chalk that one up to Nyquil.) I really only have one more chapter to actually write, and I've been avoiding it. I pretty much know exactly what I want to do with this chapter; the reason I've avoided writing it is because I don't want this project to end. Oh sure, there's still tons of editing to do, and that horrible, laborious process of trying to get the thing published (I still haven't decided whether or not I'm going to try, to be honest.) But once Chapter 24 is actually written, that's it. The creative development that has provided me so much satisfaction will be done. There won't be any more opportunities to wholly immerse myself in words and images and shimmering pieces of the past until the present me, the one sprawled out on a bed in a dark little room in Fritz Cove, doesn't even exist anymore.

And this is the part where I want to talk about discontent. A vague restlessness has been needling at my senses ever since I stepped off the ferry on July 16 to rebuild my life in Juneau. This restlessness has been pronounced enough that I haven't tried very hard to actually rebuild my life here. I lived fully homeless until I finally rented my own room in mid-September (not an apartment, a room.) I've pushed away from or been unceremoniously pushed out of every new relationship I started. I won't even buy myself new hiking shoes or a trekking backpack - things I really, really need - because some mental block is preventing me from "accumulating stuff." And I have been surviving rather than thriving at work - mostly because I work at a newspaper in a bad economy; surviving is the most we can do. Meanwhile, I keep trying to do the things I love. I go to the mountains. I ride my bike. On rare nights off work, I go to parties and see movies. Life is still very good, very beautiful and very blessed. But something is missing. Something is definitely missing. I don't know what it is. If I was looking for an, ah, interesting metaphor, I would say that my life is like a half-eaten grapefruit. On the surface it's still whole and dimpled and delicious, but I've already mined the juicy center and what I have left on the inside is somewhat ... hollow.

I am happy when I'm in the mountains. I am happy when I ride my bicycle. I am happy in the company of friends. But if someone were to ask me that ever-vague question, "Are you happy?," my honest answer would be "no."

And I am blogging about this now just because it feels cathartic to admit it. I'm not necessarily looking for life coaching, although I always enjoy the random life-coach advice I receive (unsolicited comments are definitely the best part about keeping a blog, even if it can't be an "Award-Winning Blog" because it always gets stuck in the dang Sports Blog category.) But it is becoming obvious to me that I need to do something different. Make some kind of change. As they say, "If you do what you've always done, you'll get what you've always got."

I don't know what the solutions might be. They're as distant and daunting as the Great Divide, as close and uncomfortable as the prospect of finishing my book. My plan is to spend a lot of time in the mountains this weekend, thinking about it. I'm going to think about it.

Signs of spring

Date: Feb. 13
Time: 95 minutes
Details: Intervals on elliptical trainer at gym; intensity 65-95 percent.

Date: Feb. 14
Mileage: 31
Time: 2 hours, 15 minutes
Weather: Rain showers, 40 degrees, southeast wind 25-45 mph
Details: Pain ride into the wind and back; intensity 60-85 percent

Date: Feb. 15
Mileage: 46
Time: 3 hours, 4 minutes
Weather: overcast, 43 degrees, east wind 10 mph
Details: Mid-distance ride; intensity 65-90 percent

Note: Horrible ice break-up on the road north of Eagle Beach

My perusal of the weather report had me questioning whether I should even bother setting out for a "distance" training ride today. Not because the forecast was bad, but because it was so startlingly, unconscionably good. Monday's forecast called for light showers, light wind and temperatures in the low 40s. There was supposed to be a little more rain and a breeze on Tuesday, and then it just skyrocketed from there, turning from partly cloudy to mostly sunny to outright sunny with a 0-percent change of precipitation, light winds and temperatures near 50 degrees. Fifty degrees! High pressure like that often brings serious fog inversions at sea level. Which means I would almost certainly spend those days seeking out high places in the mountains, because it's going to be June-like in the alpine. A prolonged mountain bender will almost certainly wreck any bike training I've been doing with burning-quad, swollen knee, sore back overindulgence, so why even bother with the bike training?

But it was such a beautiful day for a ride, why give it up? As I rolled my road bike down my dusty driveway, there was a strange and yet deeply familiar aroma in the air - a thick, moist sweetness infused with fresh dirt and hints of decay. The smell of spring. And sure enough, as I pedaled down the road, I saw new life emerging from the alder branches:

On Feb. 15. In Juneau, Alaska, latitude 58° 18'. Just when the eastern weather blitz is pretty much guaranteeing snow and ice in places as far south as Alabama and Florida. Could this be the strangest winter ever?

Ha ha!

Received this in my e-mail inbox today:

"Greetings from the weather capital of the world. Phil is resting and getting ready for mating season now that his big prediction is over, but fear not. Groundhog Day is about the coming of spring, about frivolity, about curing cabin fever ( and my guess is that you and your neighbors understand cabin fever) All that being said, spring is coming… granted we may have a bit more snow, a bit more cold and a bit more wind, but alas it will come followed by summer and fall and winter again and then again next year Phil will predict the weather for the world for the 125th year. So until then Warm regards on a cold day…..

From the prognosticators of prognosticators…

And please note, we are only 2 weeks in to Phil's prediction of 6 more weeks of winter weather….."

— Ben Hughes, Official handler of Punxsutawney Phil

Addendum:

Dear Punxsutawney Phil,

I am forwarding you the weather forecast for the next week in Juneau, Alaska:

'Nuff said! Enjoy winter down there!

Into February

Date: Feb. 11
Mileage: 35
Time: 2 hours, 17 minutes
Weather: 38 degrees, overcast, east wind 5-10 mph
Details: Another tempo ride, with three intervals until my right knee started to ache a bit; intensity 60-95 percent.

Date: Feb. 12
Mileage: About 10
Elevation gain: 5,237 feet
Time: 6 hours, 54 minutes
Weather: (alpine) 26 degrees, partly cloudy, east wind 20-30 mph
Details: Blackerby Ridge walk; intensity 20-90 percent.

On Friday, I woke up to beautiful blue skies, so I postponed my planned distance ride and set out for a climb up Blackerby Ridge instead (I've been biking a lot lately, anyway. I needed to give my legs a break by stumbling up and down an incredibly steep mountain with a lot of gear on my back, thereby beating up my entire body equally.) So here goes my latest mountain photo post:

I tried to figure out what kind of animal made these tracks. They looked more feline than canine - maybe a lynx?

And the requisite snowshoe track shot. The brown spot in the upper right is the Juneau International Airport.

The view of Blackerby Ridge from the far end. It doesn't look like that long of a ridge, but it always takes me a surprising amount of time to reach Cairn Peak, the high point in the center - or in the case of today, the knife ridge just below the peak.

Looking out over Salmon Creek reservoir. Usually this is a great bowl for skiers, but probably not during this low-snow year.

The entire ridge was lined with incredible cornices. The one near the top of this photo overhung by at least 30 feet. And you can see in the center right where the entire cornice is starting to crack off the ridge. I made a concentrated effort to keep my feet on top of rocks.

The cornices continued to the point where the ridge narrows, giving literal meaning to the term "knife ridge." I spent about 30 minutes working on this particular spot, punching my way up one side, feeling queasy, backstepping down, trying the other side, etc. The snow was fairly well packed and the angle was never more than 45 degrees, but eventually I'd hit a crux where I had no choice but to side-step along the edge of the cornice with scary exposure on both sides. I just don't deal well with scary exposure. But as I analyzed the traverse, I started to become more confident in both the stability of the cornice and my ability to skirt along the top without falling. As I was reaching these conclusions from a perch on a spot that was not nearly as exposed, I took a careless step backward, missed the snow-step I was aiming for entirely, and slipped. Even on a 45-degree slope, I plunged downward with surprising speed and lack of control. I was quickly stopped by the ice ax I had stabbed into the top of the cornice, so there was never any danger. But it was such a strange sensation - the only thing anchoring me to the mountain was five fingers wrapped around an ax, while my body just dangled like a windsock over a precipice. Had I continued to fall, I probably would have slid about 100 feet into a bowl - certainly not a catastrophic fall. But a similar fall on the exposed section of the cornice would be a different story. It was enough to make me lose my nerve entirely. So, like I usually do, I turned around.

All is OK, though. I'm really not up here to bag peaks. I'm here to absorb beauty. Oh, and beat up my poor body.

I got lost on the way down. I had left the crampons on to deal with the steep ice patches at snowline, but it turns out they're mighty helpful when trying to crawl out of a partially frozen waterfall. You learn something new every day! I don't mind learning the slow way.

One week of spring, and already I miss winter

Date: Feb. 10
Mileage: 34
Time: 2 hours, 13 minutes
Weather: 37 degrees, mostly cloudy, SE wind 5-10 mph
Details: Tempo ride, intensity 70-90 percent; circuit around Mendenhall Valley area because that was where the sun was shining.
Note: Legs felt tired from the get-go, in a good way. More biking this week than in a long time.

Dear Mr. Marmot,

I bet you were pretty excited when the Alaska Legislature gave you your own day. Now, every Feb. 2, schoolchildren across the state are going to wish each other a "Happy Marmot Day." Frankly, I was excited about this, too. Passing the Marmot Day bill was about the only tangible thing the Alaska Legislature did in 2009. But I am not here to discuss politics. I am here to discuss winter.

As you may know, Feb. 2 was traditionally considered Groundhog Day, and still is Groundhog Day in the other 49 states (you know, “Outside,” that place we Alaskans generally avoid unless it is February and we have booked tickets to Hawaii.)

But what you may not know is that Punxsutawney Phil, the Pennsylvania groundhog famed for his winter weather forecasts, who has lumbered out of his den on Feb. 2 for who knows how many decades, did in fact still lumber out of his den on Feb. 2, and did in fact see his shadow, and did in fact forecast six more weeks of winter.

Now that forecasted winter is playing out across many of the 48 states (i.e. “Outside” without Hawaii, where it is never winter.) Just Wednesday, the second big blizzard in less than a week buried the most populous stretch of the East Coast under nearly a foot of snow. Conditions in Washington, D.C., were so bad that even plows were advised to get off the roads. They are calling it “Snowmageddon.”

And I am jealous.

You see, Mr. Marmot, since Feb. 2, we here in Southeast Alaska have seen nothing but spring: dry roads, wispy clouds, nearly-blue skies and temperatures in the 40s. Sure, I am enjoying riding my road bicycle during the winter. Yes, it is pleasant to wear a single base layer when playing outdoors in February. I think I am even starting to get a tan on that crescent of skin where my nose and cheeks poke out of my balaclava.

But I miss the snow.

This is Alaska, Mr. Marmot. We like to think we’re special. We like to think we’re tough. We like to think winter in this state was custom-designed to challenge our tenacity and steel our pioneering strength. But this winter has been different. This winter, we strong Alaskans braced to walk on nails and you handed us a cake walk.

Here in Juneau, our February snowfall to date is .2 inches. That’s not 2 inches, Mr. Marmot, that’s point-two. In other words, a fraction not even worth bothering with. Our seasonal snowfall has only been 50 inches, which means we’re currently below Baltimore, Philadelphia ... we’re now below Washington, D.C., for crying out loud. D.C.! The only place where lawmakers are more inept than they are in Alaska.

But I digress. They gave you the day — the special, winter-weather predicting day. Now I think you should do something about it. So here is what I propose. I will come to your den up on Mount Meek. Don’t pretend I didn’t see your furry face up there a couple weeks ago, poking out of the rocks at a time when you were supposed to be deep in hibernation. So, yes, I will come to your den with a big spotlight. Then, when you poke your head up again for another breath of fresh, warm air, I will blast you with so much light, you will have no choice but to see your shadow. And that will be that. Snow will fall. Winter will return. And all will be right in this crazy, new, Marmot Day world.

Punxsutawney Phil gets it.

When are you going to get on board?

Goodbye to good shoes

Date: Feb. 9
Mileage: 21
Time: 1 hour, 31 minutes
Weather: 35 degrees, overcast, SE wind 10 mph
Details: Recovery ride; intensity 60-80 percent
Note: Lots of lightly sore muscles in the legs today

Last Thursday, I walked to a Dumpster in Banff and threw away my favorite pair of shoes.

I didn't want to. It's just that Canada has this irritating no-carry-on rule for flights into the United States, and I didn't have room in my checked bag to take them home. Plus, friends in Juneau had been urging me to throw them away for a while. But I wouldn't. Sure, the shoes were more than four years old. And yeah, they had more than 1,000 hiking miles on them, even more cycling miles, an untold number of soakings and freezings and days left out in the sun. Yes, they were cheap to begin with. Yes, they were two sizes too big. And yes, they were falling apart. But I loved those shoes. I trusted them. I didn't want them to grow old and die.

I am not much of a gear snob. In fact, I am the antithesis of a gear snob. I am a gear-a-phobe. My gear acquisition usually follows these lines: I develop a new hobby. New hobbies require new gear. Begrudgingly, I go out and find some entry-level piece of gear to meet my needs. Since I have disliked shopping since the days my mother dragged me into fabric stores for hours on end, I don't generally spend much time researching the different options. I buy the first thing I find. Then I use it. Then I use it a lot. Then, slowly, I come to appreciate it, and trust it, and even love it. And even as I become better at my hobby, more knowledgeable of the options out there, and more dialed in my needs, I refuse to give up the entry-level gear because I have become emotionally attached to it. The gear and I have been through a lot together. We have had many adventures. We grew into the hobby together. I can't imagine the hobby without this specific piece of gear.

Take my road bike for example. Yes, that is a road bike. It's actually a "light touring" bike, which I've owned since early 2004. It's an entry-level bike - worth about $600 when it was new. I have put lots and lots and lots of miles on this bike. It has been on a few long tours. The fenders were a Juneau addition, as were the fork bottle mounts. That is its original seat (yes, I realize it's tilted back in the photo.) Most of the other parts aren't original. I even had the wheels rebuilt at one point (new hubs and spokes, same rims.) Every year, I tell myself I am going to get rid of this bike and buy a "real" road bike. And every year, I find excuses not to. Last fall, I pulled it out of the apartment building basement where I expected it to be buried forever, and took it to my friend Dan for yet another overhaul. He replaced most of the drivetrain and coated all of the many rusty spots in battleship-gray primer. Thanks to an unseasonable warm spell that has left the pavement ridiculously dry, I've been riding my road bike all week. It feels so fast and light and comfortable. I can't imagine what ever made me want to give it away.

And then there's the shoes. They're a pair of North Face winter hiking boots, men's size 9, which I bought in 2005 specifically to use as winter cycling shoes. That's why they're two sizes too big - to accommodate several extra pairs of warm socks. They're also insulated with Thinsulate and were for the most part waterproof during their heyday, which was a long time ago. This is a picture of me wearing those boots before the 2006 Susitna 100. This picture makes me laugh out loud on so many levels. I don't even know where to begin - there's the fact I'm starting a 100-mile snow-trail race with a full-suspension, 26" Gary Fisher Sugar with 2.1" studded tires. There's the overloaded seatpost rack that scraped the rear tire on every single snowmobile mogul. There's the handlebar bag attached to the rear shock, stuffed with Power Bars that froze solid (and yes, the chemical handwarmers I brought to help thaw them inside the bag did nothing.) There's the stuff sack strapped to the handlebars, filled with who-knows-what. There's the fact I'm wearing rain pants and an old Burton snowboarding coat into a winter backcountry race in Alaska. And then there's the shoes. After my badly chosen food left me starving and my badly chosen clothing left me drenched and my badly chosen bike left me walking through slush the entire last ~30 miles of the race, the shoes worked. Out of all of that gear, they were the one thing I stuck with. I since bought a burlier pair of winter boots for cycling, but these became my go-to winter hiking boots for snowshoeing, frozen-root-scaling, sloppy-slush-slogging and crampon trekking alike.

And now they're gone.

My hiking companions will be so proud of me. But I feel lost. What will I hike in now?