Right place, right time

During the three days I spent in Southcentral Alaska last week, the weather was absolutely gorgeous. Temps in the 40s, sunny, no wind. I felt a bit reluctant to leave it all behind for April in Utah - the one (and only) time of year this state is even the slightest bit wet. But when I talked to my roommate in Anchorage today, she informed me that the city had been inundated with a 10-hour blizzard that left 6 inches of snow, with 4 more expected tonight. It was all I could do to bite my lip to keep from saying, "Ha, ha, guess where I am? 70 degrees and sunny! One day after a spring snowstorm that's keeping the mountains quite pretty. I'm going to go ride some singletrack!"

This is Ashlon. He's my Facebook friend who's letting me borrow his bike (his old bike. The new one is completely pimped out.) We had never met face to face before Sunday, but because we share a common passion for cycling, we got along like old friends. He recently moved to Sandy from West Virginia, so even though I'm the visitor, I felt more like the guide, pointing out the places of interest and we traveled through my childhood stomping grounds. That all changed when we reached the trailhead in Alpine. People who know me mainly through my blog tend to have this preconception that I'm an expert cyclist. I may be a passionate cyclist, a dedicated cyclist, even an obsessive cyclist, but I am anything but an expert. I'm flailing and timid, sometimes at the same time, and I can't roll away from even the simplest singletrack ride without a few cuts and bruises. But it doesn't mean I love it any less. It's a lesson I'm going to tell my children (or at least my nephew) someday: You don't have to be great at something to pursue it with all your heart, and even get your name on an ultra-endurance records list somewhere.


We had a great, relaxing late afternoon ride. I complained about the elevation and the alarming shortage of caffeinated beverages, and we both complained about how dry the air is. (Ashlon: "That crap that builds up in your nose, what is that?") Ashlon made fun of my tights and wool socks. (Me: "I rode up to Snowbird yesterday and it was really cold! How was I supposed to know it was so warm today?") I casually listed my weekend plans: Snowboarding in fresh (if now a bit slushy) powder on Thursday, river trip on Saturday, hiking in the desert on Sunday. Gotta love Utah.

Spring storm

When I was a kid, I loved April snow. It always came after a bunch of 70-degree days coaxed new colors out of the shadows. Spring painted the grass with vibrant greens, buds opened up on the trees and daffodils sprouted from sweet-smelling mulch. Then, suddenly, almost without warning, I'd wake up one morning to a fresh coat of winter.

Adults liked to stand at the window and complain loudly, but it was like Christmas morning to me. I'd rush outside into the moist air, infused with the same sharp coolness as a glass of water full to the brim with ice cubes. The cold made me feel alive, and I'd often break out in a run along the wet sidewalk, trying not to disturb the pillows of snow that covered the bright green grass. I'd bend down and grab a handful of wet powder, letting it drip through my fingers. I'd return the seashell-shaped snowball to the grass and giggle about the novelty of it all. April snow wasn't just unique and fun; it was a completely different way of looking at the world - an affront to time itself. Sometimes I would stop and pretend that I had actually traveled back in time, to some happy day in the winter, in a place where I was free of the march of seasons, of obligations, of the inevitability of growing up.

Every time I return to Salt Lake City, I feel the strange and halting sensation of traveling back in time. But it's different than my childhood daydream. It isn't a feeling of freedom, exactly, but more like a disorienting awakening - as though the last five or so years never even happened. Alaska, Homer, Juneau, snow biking, endurance racing, Iditarod, Anchorage - it's as though all of it was a crazy dream I concocted during an extended nap, and I've recently woken up to my real life. I have dinner with my family, I visit my college and high school friends, I go to shows downtown and dance around like a 23-year-old who doesn't have bad knees. I feel like I'm me again. I feel like I'm home.

So when I woke up this morning to an inch of fresh snow in my parents' front yard, many of those childhood feelings returned. I was giddy and I couldn't wait to get outside. Only these days, I put on all kinds of specific clothing. I hop on a bicycle and pedal away from the neighborhood, up to the foothills that in my childhood seemed impossibly far away, and into the canyons that were once mystical and unknown places - only now, they're close enough for a quick afternoon ride. And coated with fresh snow, the mountains are stunning and inviting, but mostly they fill me with longing for the place I now call home - Alaska.

Since I returned to SLC, just about everyone has asked me why I moved to Anchorage when I could have just moved back to Salt Lake City. It's a good question, because Salt Lake City does have most everything I love about Alaska and more - my family, good friends, easy access to the desert. My answer so far has been, "I don't know. I guess I'm just not done with Alaska yet."

It's difficult for me to explain how the place itself has become a part of me. How Utah is beautiful but Alaska can be downright otherworldly sometimes. How I know many of the state politicians by name and all of their quirks. How I appreciate those quirks and all the other funny customs that make life interesting. How it's relaxing to live in a place where judges wear Xtratufs and snow pants beneath their robes (right, Craig?) How I feel connected to other Alaskans in a way that never resonated for me as a Utahn. How those Alaskans have almost convinced me to use the word "snowmachine" (although I polled my Utah friends, and they agree with me that a snowmachine is a device that manufactures snow for the purpose of covering ski slopes.) And, most of all, how there are so many places in Alaska I have yet to explore, that I long to explore, that I have to explore.

They ask me if I'll come back to Salt Lake City someday. I probably will, just as I'll probably go back to Juneau, and even Idaho Falls. I never leave these places completely. They become a part of me, a part of my story, and like April snow, they sometimes return at surprising times that really make the passing of time seem more like a circle than a straight line.

Leaving spring behind

My first two days in Anchorage were an exercise in overcoming disorientation. On my bike, in my car, standing in line at Starbucks - if I drifted off into daydreamland for even a few seconds, I'd be rattled awake by sensory overload. Smog! Traffic! Moose! Strip mall! Traffic! Where am I? Smog! I thought I'd have a lot to do, but since I knew I was traveling to Salt Lake City soon, there wasn't much I could do. I admit I wandered aimlessly. After two hours of bike wandering on Friday afternoon, my knee started to bug me again. At the same time, the weather was amazing, low-40s and sunny, and I was feeling stir crazy to get out, even though I was already out. "I'll go for a walk instead," I decided.

I don't really know where to go walking in Anchorage. I Googled the name of the one mountain I could remember, just because it happens to be the most-hiked mountain in all of Alaska - Flattop. "At least there will be a good trail to the top," I thought. Google gave me directions to the trailhead, and didn't pack much gear because, you know, popular hike, good trail ...

Most of the hike on foot-packed snow was a piece of cake, but near the top there was a near-vertical step that had been packed slick by other (often spike-wearing, pole-wielding) walkers. I wasn't too keen on downclimbing it, and wasn't even going to go up for that reason when another hiker told me it was possible to descend the other side of the mountain.

I traversed across Flattop, dropped down into the back gully and decided to climb the next peak on the ridge (which I later learned is called Peak 2). Below that peak, the ridge narrowed with fun scrambling along the edge of the knife. I dropped a bit until things started to get gnarly, but the place afforded me a great view of other accessible areas in the front range - Powerline Pass and so many other places I have yet to learn about. It was an exciting moment of discovery for me, even on what has to be one of the most-traveled mountain ridges in Alaska.

After that I started dropping, down, down, down, and beginning to notice that the trail showed no signs of looping back around the mountain that I was on the wrong side of. I finally stopped a snowboarder and asked him where the tracks I was following led to.

"Um, the parking lot," he said.

"Is it the main parking lot?" I asked.

He looked confused. "Which parking lot?"

"I don't know, the state park parking lot. I think it had Alps in its name?"

"Glen Alps?" he asked.

"Yeah, that's the one."

A strained look swept across his face, like he didn't want to be the one to deliver the bad news. "That parking lot is nowhere near this one," he said.

A frown crept into my own face. "Oh, crap."

I turned and started running back up the mountain, because I had a barbecue I wanted to go to at 7:30, and it was already 6:45. I didn't follow the tracks; I went straight up the mountain, ascending a 50-degree slope in shin-deep snow as fast as physically could. A waterfall of sweat poured down my cheeks and neck, my lungs burned and my vision blurred. It felt amazing to be working so hard, and I completely forgot about that step I had to downclimb.

Until I reached it. It was about 100 vertical feet of sheer terror, because I'm really not a climber and I felt like every tentative step was going to sweep me down the face, into the rocks or off the edge of the shadow side of the mountain. And I admit I watched two guys wearing sneakers purposefully sit and careen down the slope on their butts, spinning out of control in a cloud of powder. I watched them not only live through it, but get up at the bottom and walk out. I still couldn't coax my body to move any faster. I kicked steps and dug my bare fingers deep into the hard snow. It got me down, but it was so slow that by the time I returned to my comfort zone, I really had to run. I felt pretty wasted, because my mellow afternoon walk had turned into something close to 3,500 feet of vertical on snow with 20 minutes of all-out effort and a terror downclimb thrown in.

By the time I reached the barbecue, the party had moved inside due to cold (it may be spring, but temperatures still drop into the teens during the night.) By midnight, I was at the airport, and by 1:55 a.m., I was in the air, jetting south.

Utah has been great so far. I met my 7-week-old nephew, visited all of my grandparents, and went to church with my parents, which allowed me to see a lot of familiar faces from my childhood, from my former piano teacher to a woman whose journalist daughter followed a similar path to mine and pulled it off successfully.

I borrowed my dad's Trek 820 to ride to the top of South Mountain and check out the trail conditions. Yeah, lots of snow and mud (don't worry, Draperites, I did not ride my bike on the muddy trails.) It was crazy windy, with Juneau-esque gusts (probably 40 mph), and brought with it a thick and ominous-looking storm that is forecast to drop snow at fairly low elevations. So much for spring. Today, however, it was on the overly warm side today for my Alaska blood - high 60s.

I learned a bit too late that the Trek's cantilever brakes on wet rims don't work, well, at all - not a super fun thing to find out when you are trying to descend 2,000 feet of elevation on pavement. The bike works fine for what my dad uses it for - exercising and to commute to trails where he can hike - but it's a bit rough for me. I put out a Facebook appeal for a loaner bicycle, and within an hour had an offer from a guy who recently moved to Sandy who had a mountain bike for me to borrow. I drove the two miles to his house and we talked for an hour about Utah, Alaska and snow biking. He lent me a DVD of "The Flying Scotsman" and gave me maps to some nearby trails in Lehi that he thought I would enjoy. If the weather somehow doesn't turn to snow, we may meet up to ride them on Wednesday. People can say what they will about blogs and Facebook and the deterioration of society, but my experience has been just the opposite. Social media has put me in touch with more great people than I can even count anymore, many of whom I have since become friends with in "real life." I'm really grateful for that. And all y'all, those of you who have made it this far in what have recently been pretty rambling blog posts, I am grateful for you, too. :-)

Go Anchorage

I arrived in Anchorage on Wednesday evening. For all the times I have visited here, I still have no concept of the layout of this "big city." I drove in increasingly larger circles for nearly 20 minutes, looking for my new place. The street I live on is called Juneau Drive. It's fitting.

I arrived at home just as the setting sun cast its pink light on the Chugach Mountains. It only took me an hour to unload my car. By midnight, I had my room mostly arranged the way I will probably keep it. In four hours, my whole life, transferred. This is who I am, and for the most part I love living a somewhat transient, simple lifestyle. But I also must cope with the uncertainty and perpetual disorientation of it all, which is where I am right now.

I set out on my bike for most of the afternoon Thursday, trying to get a sense of the place. The greenbelt trail system is mushy with slush and soft snow, but for the most part still rideable with my "skinny" studded tires on my Karate Monkey. Although I tried to force myself onto the busy streets so I could get an understanding of the different parts of town, it was difficult not to drift back onto the trails when I saw them. And just like that, I was back in the quiet part of Alaska, birch trees and snow-swept muskeg.

I followed the Coastal Trail from end to end, but got stopped just short of Kincaid Park because there was a cow moose on one side of the trail and her calf on the other, and neither of them were moving. Earlier, I had waited for 10 minutes for the moose in this photo. I couldn't bring myself to pass her until I watched three joggers do so. Moose don't live near Juneau, so that's another thing that's going to take some getting used to.

So what will I do now that I'm in Anchorage? It's an excellent question, and one I'm pretty freaked out about right now because I'm not even sure. I intentionally set out into the unknown without much of a plan, and now I will have to forge a path. There are a lot of directions I can go. I plan to meet with several editors I have already been in contact with, in Utah and in Anchorage, and get a few projects set up. I hope to pursue an outlet for this book project I already have going, because I think it's a worthy project and it's not getting any better just sitting here on my computer. I'll probably peruse job listings daily and keep my ears open in case something awesome opens up. But I do hope to find the time to tour around and do several of the trips I have always wanted to do, especially as summer opens up new terrain. I hope to do some bike tours, visit Homer and Valdez and Fairbanks. I am the type of person who needs a job - or at least some kind of structure, even if it's just training for a big bike race - to stay happy, so I have to keep reminding myself that I am taking this chance because, for better or worse, I have to freedom to do so right now, and even if I fail it won't be the end of the world.

Right now I am still having problems with my right knee. It gets unhappy after just an hour or so on the bike, and after four hours yesterday it was downright livid. My knee became stiff and inflamed enough that the swelling came back for a few hours. I'm a little frustrated about that, but I'm trying to keep some perspective on it. Long bike tours might be out right now, but at least I can ride a little, and hiking and even mild running doesn't seem to hit it too hard.

But for now, right now, I am going to take advantage of this transitory period to travel down to Utah to visit my family and my new nephew. I'm actually leaving Saturday morning. Pretty soon, but that's just the nature of the available standby tickets. When I get back here, I'll do something. Still not sure exactly what. I guess that's a big source of the anxiety, and the excitement.

At least Cady seems happy at home. All is forgiven.

Tok to Palmer

Skagway to Anchorage really isn't that long of a drive — it's about 700 miles, and can be done in a day by a motivated person behind the wheel. I'm managing to stretch it into closer to four days, much to the chagrin of my cat, just by stopping to visit old friends and new places.

I managed a short bike ride in the morning before I had to check out of Tok, and then it was time to rumble southwest. After my trip from Skagway to Vancouver last year, I've decided that April is a wonderful time of year to travel the Al-Can Highway. The pavement is clear, the sun is out, wildlife is abundant and the road is almost devoid of traffic.

I was driving down the Glenn Highway on Tuesday, thinking I was making better time than I really needed to be, when I saw this mountain that looked like it would be a fun thing to climb. I'm assuming this is Sheep Mountain? I'm not entirely sure, but it was the most prominent geographical feature in an area called Sheep Mountain.

The mountain was ringed with snowmobile tracks — too soft to ride, but nicely packed for snowshoeing.

I was only going to go out an hour and back. But the top of mountain kept looking closer than it actually was, so I kept ascending. I ended up out for nearly four hours, wearing jeans and running shoes with my snowshoes as the windchill easily touched 0 degrees on the early evening descent. (I spilled a bunch of water down my fleece jacket and it froze immediately.)

Just when I got this idea in my head that I might be able to climb to the top, I started to think, "Well, I don't really know what the snowpack is like up there." The snowmobile tracks petered out and the pitch got steeper. I had already decided it wasn't a good idea when I was walking across the flat saddle and a huge snow slab collapsed loudly underneath my feet. The sound was heart-stopping, even on nearly flat ground. I turned and scuttled quickly down the well-used snowmobile trail, not willing to breathe easy until I was back in the valley.

Looking back at the Glenn Highway.

A snowstorm rolls in from the west. It snowed a little as I drove the narrow, winding stretch of highway near the Matanuska Glacier, but for the most part, I enjoyed idea weather the whole time. And Geo made it to Palmer! Only one more hour of driving to go!

This is the look of one truly miserable cat. Don't worry, Cady, it will all be over soon.

Juneau to Tok

Henry David Thoreau wrote, "It's not what you look at that matters, it's what you see." It seems that every time I am in some kind of transition, both positive and negative, everything around me becomes more vibrant and memorable. Light intensifies, colors sharpen, and seemingly rare or unlikely events stack up, as though the universe itself is nodding its approval in my direction. This trip, which has the simple purpose of shuttling my belongings from Juneau to Anchorage, so far has been spectacular.

I woke up at 4:30 a.m. Easter Sunday to three inches of fresh snow. I drove to the ferry terminal feeling as though I was emerging from deep water, slow and breathless. I tried to shake off the two hours I had slept and gazed dreamily at the ghostly trees, powder-drenched and glowing in the pre-dawn moonlight. Juneau has had so little sea-level snow in 2010 that I had almost forgotten how beautiful the city becomes when washed white.

When I pulled my car up to the boat, the purser asked me where I drove from that morning. "Douglas," I replied. "Wow," he said, "You actually managed to get that here?," referring to my overloaded, small and old, low-riding car that I had to plow through three inches of wet snow along 15 miles of uncleared streets. I realized that new snow in Juneau likely also meant new snow in Skagway, which did not bode well for Geo's ascent of White Pass. I tried to put that fact out of my mind, hoping providence would intervene. I stood out on the side deck as the ferry pulled away, watching as my former house at Fritz Cove, Thunder Mountain and the Mendenhall Glacier faded into the distance. It was all so fantastically beautiful, dusted with snow and wisps of clouds. I indulged in a few tears because I was having a much harder time leaving it behind than I'd expected, and it felt good to physically acknowledge it.

But a six-hour ferry ride injected with several unsatisfying 10-minute naps will dull even the sharpest heartbreak, and by the time I reached Skagway, I was just glad to see that the clouds were breaking up and there didn't seem to be any new snow on the road. White Pass, miles 0 to 14, was one of my biggest worries for making this trip with my car, because it's steep with regular bad weather and limited maintenance. Happily, the road was clear and I reached the top without any mishaps. The first sunlight of the day broke out right at the top, where I stopped to take this picture at the U.S./Canada border. I think I was more proud of Geo for making the climb than I ever have been of myself for doing the same on a bicycle.

I arrived to my friends' house in Whitehorse just in time for an Easter Sunday barbecue, with Arctic char and grilled vegetables. Talk about good timing! Sierra and I went for a walk along the ridge above town in the warm, calm air of late evening (it stays light here until nearly 10 p.m., already.)

I also learned that in Canada, Easter Monday is a holiday as well. Which meant my friends were available for a Monday morning ride on a tight, rolling loop of foot-packed snow singletrack. I actually haven't ridden my bike once since returning from Fairbanks. My knee still bothers me when I turn pedals, but I could hardly resist such an opportunity.

I felt sorely out of practice and had a difficult time finding a flow. Even taking it easy off the back of the group, I still hooked one tree, and another time dropped into a rut and flipped over the handlebars into a mercifully soft snowbank. The trail was quite icy and really encouraged speed, not always a good thing. But it was tons of fun. In fact, riding really doesn't get any better in the north in April. Anchorage is probably already well into its spring slush phase, and Juneau has been in that phase since November.

After the ride, it was time to roll northwest. It was a beautiful day for driving, about 35 degrees, partly cloudy with generous hits of sunlight. I kept my window rolled down and blasted the heat at the same time, both in an effort to keep my car from overheating and to breathe the crisp, sweet air. I happily drank can after can of Diet Pepsi (when I am driving, I let myself drink as much caffeine as I want. I will worry about the cavities and cancer when I am not operating a vehicle.) I was in a great mood and even let my cat, who has been in a perpetual state of annoyance since I moved her out of my old house, out of her kennel so she could sit on my lap. Shortly after I did this, we came upon a lynx prowling alongside the road. "Look Cady," I said to my cat as though I was cooing at a 2-year-old, "Big Kitty."

I stopped the car and watched as the lynx repeatedly dove into the snow and sometimes emerged with a small rodent in its mouth. It would gulp down the tiny gray morsel and continue on its way, not caring in the least that I was inching my car down the road beside it like the worst kind of gawking RV tourist. Luckily, there was no traffic. Cady propped herself up on the windowsill and mewed quietly for several seconds before deciding to crawl below the driver's seat. I followed the lynx for about five minutes, completely enthralled as it hunted and prowled, watching its giant feet move effortlessly over the crusty snowpack. Every few steps, one of its thick legs would punch all the way though, and I felt emboldened by the realization that even lynx posthole sometimes.

Here's a pixilated shot with the digital zoom. As much as I love photo-documenting, there are actually relatively few times that I feel truly cheated by the fact that I do not own a "real" camera. Today was one of those times.

The wildlife sightings stacked up heavily throughout the Yukon. I saw a bull moose standing alone in a field. I watched two small groups of caribou dart across the road. Near Destruction Bay, I came upon a coyote standing in the middle of the road. I had to hit the brakes and slow to a near halt before it finally moved out of the way. As I began to drive forward again, it trotted alongside me - obviously, this poor coyote had been fed at some point, and thus has become unnaturally interested in cars.

It was a beautiful creature, though. Big ears, shiny fur. Even habituated as it was, it is a special experience to look so closely into the eyes of a wild predator. I continued driving to keep it from actually approaching my window, and it kept running alongside the car. Cady, who emerged from the seat after we slowed down, even crawled onto my lap again to see what all the commotion was about. When she saw the coyote, she hissed loudly the same way she does when she sees a dog. The coyote jumped back, obviously startled, and I laughed out loud. Some animal interactions know no boundaries.

I made it to Tok before sunset and decided to stop here for the night. I wanted to camp, but the low temperature is supposed to be 14 tonight and I didn't know how well my cat would handle that inside the car. I'm hoping my knee will loosen up for a short ride in the morning, maybe on the famous "bike path to nowhere," before coaxing Geo the final 350 miles into Anchorage.

A weekend of goodbyes

Friday and Saturday were wonderful days. Juneau put on its best early spring face: Filtered sunshine, sharp wind and warm rain. There were many goodbyes, many parting words, but for now, there is only time for photos.

Spring snowshoeing in the slush: Short sleeves and trench foot.

Mount Jumbo in repose.

Ready Bullion, polished by the sun.

Downtown Juneau.

Looking north, to the future.

Rainbow over Douglas Harbor.

Gulls at the mouth of Sheep Creek.

Waiting for that next hit of rain.

Finally, crust after 45 minutes of postholing.

Smiling in the wind.

My last alpine stomp before I leave town — the bowl beneath West Peak.

Wind, sun and snow, all at once.

Loaded up to go in downtown Juneau. The ferry leaves at 7 a.m. Sunday. That old car could probably use a few Easter prayers.