This is my kind of bike race

That title is misleading. There's been no bike racing yet. The event actually starts Sunday morning. Keith and I seeded ourselves in the bottom half of the recreational racers, so we begin our 30-kilometer, 1,300-meters-of-climbing time trial in Fernie at 11:15 a.m. After that moment, this week is going to be hard; real hard. I look at the elevation profiles and kinda wish I could just leave my bike at home, because it's going to be a heavy thing to carry. But it will be fun. I'm really looking forward to TransRockies.

Meanwhile, I am already settling into the posh lifestyle of the race. I drove up to Banff on Friday so my car would be near the finish when the race ends. The drive between Missoula and Banff is one of the more spectacularly scenic 400-mile stretches of road I've ever had the privilege to gawk at while creeping in a line of 50 vehicles behind an oblivious 70-year-old driving 35 mph in a red Mustang. I stopped in Kalispell to have lunch with Danni, and borrowed several jerseys from her (including one Good-n-Plenty jersey; not quite as appropriate as Sour Patch Kids, but close.) Ate steelhead and stuffed mushrooms with Keith, Dave W. and Jason the Ski Stop guy in Banff. This morning Keith and I made our way back to Fernie, but not before stopping for four hours at his friend's cabin on a lake in southern British Columbia. We swam and tried out the standing paddle board and went on a boat cruise around the lake amid perfect temperatures and sunlight. It's been a small taste of what it's like to go on a normal vacation; I've almost forgotten. The gorging and relaxation has been short-lived, but appropriately so. I can't wait to start the bike adventure.

Yes, this is going to be quite hard, but don't cry for me. There will be plenty of grilled salmon and massages at the end of the trail.

Dear Canada, fear me again

My TransRockies partner, Keith, and I during our top-secret, race strategy building retreat in Glacier National Park

A couple of years ago, before heading north to Whitehorse, Yukon, to ride solo in a 24-hour race, I wrote a letter to the country at large called "Dear Canada, fear me." Since I seem to attend a summer mountain bike race that begins in Canada at least once a summer, I decided to update it.

Dear Canada,


Jill Homer again. I’m sure you remember me. I’m the 2008 solo women’s winner and current women’s record holder of the 24 Hours of Light. What do you mean you haven’t heard of that race? It’s in Whitehorse. You know, the capital of the Yukon. It’s a burgeoning territory that is home to more than 30,000 Canadians. Yes, I realize that’s a population density of 0.11 people per square mile, but I’ll have you know that the 24 Hours of Light is brutal enough for the masses. Competitors sometimes ride wearing nothing more than fairy wings and tighty whiteys when it’s 33 degrees out, through thigh-deep mud, dodging sheets of lightning and sleet, in June. Teams also used to receive a bonus lap if somebody raced the midnight lap completely naked. I think the prudish ways of the south crept up and the Yukoners did away with that practice, but you get the picture. The 24 Hours of Light is the real deal. And among the at least five women who have raced it in the solo category, I am clearly the best.

Why should you care? Because I am returning once again to race in your beautiful — if gapingly empty — country. You may have heard of this one — TransRockies. I’ve committed to pedaling 400 kilometers of punishing, harshly elevated trails across the Canadian Rockies in seven days of structured stages. They used to bill this stage race as “The Toughest Mountain Bike Race in the World.” That was probably before self-supported endurance racers called them out for serving steak and grilled salmon and offering "relaxation expos" where racers enjoy nightly massages as personal mechanics clean their bicycles. Now TransRockies is just billed as “Canada’s Best Mountain Bike Adventure”

Despite the downgrading of overall hardcoreness, TransRockies will be, by far, the largest race I have ever participated in. There are about 500 people signed up for the partner-team race and its less-social, three-day offshoot, TR3. I’m pretty sure I could count all of the participants in every race I’ve ever competed in — foot, ski and bike — and combine them, and still not net 500 people. Plus, TransRockies has something like $30,000 in prizes. There will probably be pros there! That should make me feel all sorts of intimidated; and I’ll be honest — it does. But I am pushing that sentiment aside, because I’m not coming to Canada to be intimidated by people whose motto for the 2010 Winter Olympic Games was “With Glowing Hearts.” (Seriously? That’s just a sharp jab away from “Wimpy Bleeding Hearts.”) That is become I come from a city whose 2002 Winter Olympic mascots were named “Faster! Higher! Stronger!” (USA! USA!) And that is what I shall be!

What do you mean it doesn’t work like that? My TransRockies partner, Keith (who is Canadian, by the way, so don’t accuse me of being a nationalist), already discussed our strategy in detail during our top secret strategy meeting, strategically held on U.S. soil. “All we need to do,” Keith said, “is go faster than everyone else.” It seemed simple enough to me. I can ignore my pedestrian technical skills, my overwhelmingly relaxed style, my penchant for avoiding pain and crashing, and a summer of training that consisted solely of long slow distance, because all I have to do in TransRockies is go faster than everyone else. All 500 of them. Easy.

Actually, I was hoping Keith would haul me with a tow rope, but he just informed me this is no longer legal in TransRockies. What gives, Canada? When did you start demanding personal accountability and independence? That doesn’t sound like a good socialist strategy at all. Oh yeah, that’s right, you’re not really a socialist country even though Glenn Beck says you are. Whatevs.

Anyway, you’re probably thinking by now that I don’t sound like all that scary of a race threat. That’s because I’m not. I mean, I am the women’s record holder of the Tour Divide, which also, it just so happens, to bill itself as “The Toughest Mountain Bike Race in the World.” But all that makes me good at is turning a half pound of Sour Patch Kids and seven packages of Grandma’s Cookies into 150 miles of race nutrition, and at carrying my bicycle on my shoulder through endless miles of mud (come to think of it, this skill may come in handy in TransRockies.) But the point is, I’m just another ’merican who simply wants to come to Canada to have a great mountain bike adventure and a lot of fun. And as long as I accomplish that, I win.

Sincerely,
Jill, formerly from Juneau, now comfortably settled just below the crushing, terror-inducing terrain of the Canadian Rockies

I take crashing way too personally

My friend Dave Nice from Hurricane, Utah, is in town for a summer vacation to the "cool" temps of the "north" (to which I laugh and mop pools of sweat from my arms before applying more SPF 50.) I returned to Missoula on Sunday, still sleep deprived and a bit addled from the weekend, but rallied for a scorching mid-afternoon ride on the Lolo Loop.

I like this loop because it allows me to hide my secret shame — that my very most favorite thing to do on a mountain bike is climb long dirt roads into pleasantly tired legs and huge views. I can spin up the dirt track for hours, happy and content, and my friends have no idea I'm enjoying myself so much because they think we are just putting in the obligatory elevation gain in order to rip rocky singletrack down the long descent. Then, after 3,000 or 3,500 vertical feet, Dave Nice can launch into his crazy fixie finessing of rugged rock gardens, I can creep gingerly around hairpin switchbacks and step around rock ledges when no one is looking. In the end, we both ride away happy.

I have not yet developed the mountain bike pride. I didn't even learn the meaning of the word "dab" until earlier this summer, when a friend in Anchorage mentioned my usage of this most useful move whilst ascending a small, nearly vertical wall at Mooseberry Mesa. "Are you kidding?" I replied. "If I couldn't dab, I wouldn't even bother. " The way I saw it, I at least had tried and rode halfway up the hill, and I wouldn't have tried at all if taking my feet off the pedals was absolutely forbidden. Same goes with hike-a-bike. Who cares? I have walked behind people as they pedal for many hundreds of yards. They're absolutely dying and I'm breathing easy, and we're both moving the same speed, 3 miles per hour. As I said, I lack the mountain bike pride. I love wheels for their advantages, but I shrink away from their difficulties. I while I have gleaned enormous personal satisfaction from "cleaning" a "gnarly" move, at least 95 percent of the time, I am too timid to try. So my mountain bike technical skills have been extremely slow to develop.

(Photo stolen from Dave C.)

Since I do, honestly, enjoy mountain biking immensely, even downhill singletrack, I often wonder what my problem is. And then, eventually, I mess up even when I am well within my comfort zone, and I tumble over my bike and bash myself on things, and I lay in the dirt with all the rage of a hundred bully punches coursing through my veins, and then I realize, I remember — I hate crashing.

Even when I am not really all that hurt, as I usually am not. But yesterday, while riding with Dave Nice, Dave C., and my co-worker Casey, I was blissfully pedaling down a fairly mellow, off-camber trail along a side slope when my right pedal bashed flat smack into a boulder. The exact mechanics of the crash elude me, but my left pedal somehow took a big bite out of my shin before I tumbled sideways a few feet down the slope. (And while I do deserve criticism for continually using platform pedals whilst trying to develop my technical skills, I really do believe that if I had been riding clipless and hit the boulder with the same force, instead of bashing my shin on the pedal and tipping over into the brush, I would have taken a full header over the rocks.)

Either way, I was not badly injured, or even too hurt to jump right back on the bike and continue riding; but I was bleeding, and my shin ached with a deep-set bruise from bashing against a large metal object at high speed. It hurt with every single pedal stroke, and with every hurt, the doubt bit in. "You're terrible at this. Why do you bother? Mountain biking sucks. You really should take up trail running." That inner grumbling seems to color the entire rest of the ride, until even if the rest of it is perfectly fun, on a beautiful evening, with great riding partners, I can't quite pedal away the grump.

As we pedaled home last night, I admitted to Dave Nice what a big baby I really was. "I feel like one of those little kids whose friend just pulled her hair, so she gathers up all of her toys and storms home."

"Crashing is just part of riding," Dave said nonchalantly.

"I know," I sighed. "I know."

The question is, how do I embrace it?

Diary of a race volunteer

Dear Diary,

It's about 5 p.m. Friday afternoon, July 30. I am packing up my car for a trip to Bigfork, Montana, to volunteer for the Swan Crest 100. It’s the first 100-mile ultramarathon ever in the state of Montana, and I’m pretty excited to share even this tiny role in the impressive undertaking. This will be my first time participating on the volunteer side of a race. I admit I never really had a desire to serve as one of those long-suffering volunteers until the White Mountains 100 last March. I arrived at the mile 80 cabin half-frozen and completely shelled, and a race volunteer made a special cup of coffee just for me, and then gave me the rest of his own hot pasta dinner because they had run out of ramen. I never even got his name, but the gesture filled me with so much gratitude that I decided someday, somehow, I would pay it forward. Well, just last week I met Danni, who is one of four race directors for the Swan Crest 100. She told me she could use my help in the race. I’m not exactly sure what she wants me to do, but I am packing my mountain bike just in case I am lucky enough to get the job of riding sweep. :-)

6:14 p.m. Friday: Just passed Seeley Lake. Holy cow, this summer weekend traffic is terrible. But at least the drive is scenic. I’m pretty sure the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route paralleled this highway. I wish I could remember exactly where it was.

7:47 p.m. Finally arrived at the Jewel Basin checkpoint, mile 68. There are at least a dozen other volunteers here right now. Some are just drinking beer and building a fire in the shooting range field across the road and others are setting up a tent. It seems the supplies have not yet arrived. No runners through yet. The race began 12 hours ago, at 7 a.m.

8:23 p.m. Danni and I drove to the next checkpoint, Strawberry Lake, mile 74, which is on the private property of this awesome caretaker named Pete, who is a former Marine pilot and Vietnam vet. Pete is taking a sabbatical in the Montana wilderness to write a book about his life, and has been hugely generous with the Swan Crest 100. We loaded up Danni’s car with boxes of food and water to take back to Jewel Basin.

9:05 p.m. We set up Jewel Basin tables with lots of good stuff — brownies, cookies, Swedish Fish, grapes, crumbled bacon … I think there might be some Hammer Nutrition stuff thrown in, too. Rumor has it that the Swan Crest 100’s main opponent, Keith Hammer, is lurking around with a video camera and a clipboard, hiding in bushes and documenting the environmental misdeeds of the race. The guy fought this race venomously during its planning stages, threatening litigation and forcing the organizers to return all of the entry fees and hold the race on a donation-only basis, with no more than 75 participants and volunteers. His main argument was that these runners were going to disrupt grizzly bear “security zones” and cause other unspecified environmental damage. As far as affecting the land, I'm not sure if you can be much lower impact than a person traveling light and fast on foot, but whatever. Basically, Keith Hammer seems to think he owns the Swan Mountains and opposes anything resembling a commercial enterprise, as well as activities that don't fit into his paradigm of a good wilderness experience. I hope his troll-like lurking will reveal the truth about ultramarathons and the unique and incredible experience of pushing the limit of human endurance in a beautiful landscape.

11:30 p.m. The first runner just came into Jewel Basin! Dan Barger. I think he’s from California. He doesn’t even look winded yet.

12:45 a.m. Saturday: Back to Strawberry. I think Dan beat us here.

1:10 a.m. Starting to get really cold and hungry. I left all of my own gear at Jewel Basin. I felt bad about it but I ate some of the race food and wrapped up in one of the race blankets. I’ll give it back if a more deserving person stumbles in.

2:30 a.m. Two more runners in. We made hot chicken broth but one guy turned it down; he’s doing the whole thing on Hammer products. Rough. The runners look frazzled but I envy them. You can tell they’re deep in that special place where physical pain gives way to psychological elation.

3:15 a.m. Most of the other volunteers are taking catnaps. Danni and I are starting to fade, too. We’re giggling hysterically at pretty much everything. I feel like a 12-year-old girl at a back-yard sleepover party. Oh yeah, I ate a few more Swedish Fish. I’ll reimburse the race directors later.

4:00 a.m. The first woman just came in, a Czech woman named Eva. She actually started the race a half hour late because she unknowingly set her watch to the wrong time zone — Pacific instead of Mountain. She’s doing really well. I heated a bowl of ravioli for her and she was so giddy about it. It gave me a warm fuzzy feeling because I’ve been there before, or at least close to there, but I know when you’re there, nothing beats a bowl of steaming hot mush.

4:30 a.m. Danni and I just went back to check on Jewel Basin. Everyone was asleep except for one woman, Kim, who looked a little stressed.

5:02 a.m. We drove back to Kalispell to pick up Danni’s husband, Ted, who’s going to man the last checkpoint by himself. We’re hoping we beat the lead runner, Dan, to it, because right now there’s nothing there. We dropped off Ted with a camp chair, a few coolers of water, and a box of food. The wind is howling and the temperature is in the mid-40s. I hope Ted has a coat.

5:55 a.m. Just arrived at the race finish, a private campground outside Columbia Falls. The sun is coming up. Danni and I still have the giggles, but we’re asleep on our feet. Coffee does nothing. We’re going to take a nap.

Justin Yates finishes in third place after 27 hours.

8:23 a.m. I woke up and Danni was gone. This huge thunderstorm just blew in —heavy rain and lightning. I stumbled outside and the other race directors were there. Brad, the main race director, informed me that my job is to now accompany him around town on errands for the after-race party. I think longingly about my mountain bike back at Jewel Basin and wish I could ride it on the race course, but I’ve already accepted that my job is race director lackey. It is not a bad job.

12:11 p.m. Brad and I just ran around all over Northern Montana picking up coolers, paper towels, a keg, 45 pounds of elk steak, 12 bags of spinach and romaine lettuce, salad fixings, a big garbage can for the keg, 50 pounds of ice, cups, plates, forks, 10 gallons of ice cream and dry ice. Now we’re at a little coffee shop in Whitefish waiting for an order of crepes. I realize that except for the little bit of race food that I stole, this will be my first meal since lunch, 24 hours before. Brad informs me he’s been awake for more than 48 hours. His face is pale and he has that crazy-eye thing going on. We both ramble on and on in a mutual stream-of-consciousness full of silly nonsequitors; it’s OK, because neither of us is going to remember this conversation in a few hours.

2:45 p.m. Brad just dropped me off so I could pick up my car. Driving behind him, I see his truck is moving a little wobbly on the gravel road. We both roll down our windows and wave at each other, mutually confirming the other's consciousness.

4:03 p.m. Back at the finish. Grill is going, and there’s not much left to do until clean-up time. There’s only about a dozen runners in, and we’re 33 hours into the race and three hours from the race cut-off. This is a hard race; I think harder than anyone realized, even Brad.

5:06 p.m. Had a chance to chat with a lot of the runners. Several had just finished their first 100-mile attempt. Some had jumped right up from marathons or 50K runs. Their sense of accomplishment shines through their frazzled, stiff-legged demeanor, and it’s inspiring. They’ve all taken off their shoes, and I want to stay far away from those.

5:54 p.m. This cute Swiss runner, Beat Jehgerlehner, just finished. He still looks strong and smiley, and he’s already using up valuable energy to goad me into running the Swan Crest 100 next year. And the strange thing is, I kinda want to. I've never run a foot race longer than eight miles. I considered with great interest and seriousness how long the buildup to 100 miles would really take.

Brad and Zella deflate together at the end of two very long days.

7:01 p.m. The official race cut-off just passed. All of the finishers made it in with 20 minutes to spare. Twenty people out of 44 finished, including three women. All in all, the 101-ish-mile race had at least 23,000 feet of climbing, long wilderness stretches without resupply or bailouts and, according to the runners, a ton of blown-down trees over a rough and technical trail. Dan won the race in 24:34:00. Eva won the women’s race in 28:03:00. A huge wave of relief just washed over Danni’s face, because Montana’s first 100-mile ultramarathon ended without a big incident. A few people got lost for a little while, but everyone has been accounted for. No grizzly bears were harmed in the race, but one canister of bear mace was discharged accidentally near a checkpoint. That would probably explain why my nose has been burning like crazy all morning.

7:54 p.m. Brad just gave the big congratulatory speech. I’ve only seen the shiny surface of the big, dirty endeavor that encompasses planning a race, and even I feel a little like I’ve been run over by a truck. I can only imagine how hard these people have worked over the past many months, but I admire them. It really is a cool thing, and I am proud to have had a small role in it.

And then I forgot the name of the mountain

Expectations are an interesting thing. A collaboration of past experiences and future hopes, expectations cast such a strong light on the present that no single experience can really stand on its own. But when experience surpasses expectations, those "ah-ha" moments of discovery stand as singular mileposts on life's winding roads. Take moving to western Montana, for instance. A nice place, I expected, but certainly lacking in the varied terrain of Utah or the vast sweeping wilderness of Alaska. Then I came to Montana, and I saw great gray monoliths towering over the prairie, I watched bears amble through the spruce forest and I stood on the edge of rocky ridges overlooking vast tracts of rippled mountains. And I thought, "ah ha."

That simple realization that Montana is in fact an expansive, wild and beautiful place has been continuously jolted by six weeks' worth of small discoveries. And still, my expectations remain low. Take the Bitterroot Range. Straddling the Idaho-Montana border, the Bitterroots are a largely undeveloped range, cut off by a wide tract of wilderness protection. From Missoula's low perch on the northeastern edge of the range, I pictured soft, rolling hills with lots of spruce forest. I thought someday I would plan a long bikepacking trip on the Bitterroot periphery, but for now, there was too much else to explore.

Then, Dave suggested for our weekly Wednesday night endeavor that we go for a hike instead of a bike ride. He's in heavy taper mode for the Butte 100 this weekend; I'm in light taper mode for TransRockies the following week, and I think we're both starting to wonder, "what next?" As I seem to do every late summer, I'm already glancing deeper into the mountains for quieter adventures and more distant opportunities. Wednesday evening seemed like a good day to walk into the Bitterroot.

Thunderstorms and humid heat followed us out of town and into the Bitterroot Valley. We thought lightning would chase us out of the high country but we went there anyway, climbing into the white pine forest and the cool air and the barren ridge. Clear sky opened up around us and Dave pointed out places that seemed impossibly far away — the Pintlers, the Swan, and the beautifully sculpted, unexpectedly rugged mountains of the Bitterroot. We spent at least an hour on the windless summit, 9,300 feet in the sky, watching warm light flicker across a wild expanse.

These peaks are called the Heavenly Twins.

It's these quiet moments when expectation shifts toward possibility, and an entirely new experience opens up. It's an experience anchored in neither the past nor the future, only the extreme present, when "ah-ha" is nothing more than a deep, satisfied, "ah."

Into the taper

"Mountains should be climbed with as little effort as possible and without desire. The reality of your own nature should determine the speed. If you become restless, speed up. If you become winded, slow down. You climb the mountain in an equilibrium between restlessness and exhaustion. Then, when you're no longer thinking ahead, each footstep isn't just a means to an end but a unique event in itself."

~ Robert M. Pirsig, Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance

On Monday my lower body was mostly useless, blistered feet and fried quads, still cooked from a lot of walking downhill. I did my laundry and my dishes; I made me feel conventionally useful, but a little bit like I was somehow missing out. The sunset burned with deep summer intensity; I missed it in the way people often miss their spouses while they're away at work - it was out there, but not close in the way I was accustomed to. I watched it from my balcony, pleasant but distant, like calling on the phone to say hello.

Tuesday was the weekly ride with the Dirt Girls, the perfect solution to launch my taper 10 days prior to the next big adventure. The plan called for a mellow ride up the Rattlesnake Recreation Area with lots of chatting and resting, followed by a fast, fun descent. My legs were recovered and already feeling strong thanks to prior fitness; it takes more than a weekend's worth of pounding to really faze them for long these days. But my legs' strength made the rest of me feel restless and a little bit impatient. Big mountains turned gold beneath the storm-filtered sunlight; they whispered silver-tongued seductions that I had to ignore. I turned for home as the subdued sunset slipped beneath the rugged skyline.

I think about fitness and I wonder what it means, really means, to me. My body has never been a big priority for me; as far as I'm concerned, all it's mainly good for is carrying me through this world that I am madly in love with. It's a vehicle, like my bicycles, which in turn are an extension of me. And like my bicycles, sometimes I let my body get out of tune, and sometimes I leave it too long in the elements, and sometimes I bash it against the rocks. But when I feel fit, really fit, I feel like there's nothing in the world that can stop me from traveling relentlessly over the mountains and fields, through the valleys and streams, splashing, squealing, sprinting toward that blissfully elusive horizon I think of as freedom.

I plan adventures because their promise drives me. Adventures are a sublime sunset that I can chase. I grind my body into the dust and dirt and pavement toward the horizon, that elusive line I think of as fitness, which is really just a color-streaked threshold between my body and a borderless expanse of discovery. But as I approach that line, I discover there's nothing there but more horizon, more reasons to keep grinding away, and I realize that even if could somehow become exponentially stronger and faster, I would only chase sunset forever.

And I wonder what it means, really means, to me, to have no real destination. But instead of pressing for an answer, I slow down lest my body burn out. I take the breaths I badly need. I let the darkness surround me. And I steel myself for the next big cycle, because the sun is going to come around again, and again and again, whether I chase it or not. Bodies are limited but discovery is infinite, and somewhere therein lies the balance of life, the equilibrium between restlessness and exhaustion.

Pictures of Glacier

Temperatures in Missoula this past weekend were forecasted to climb to nearly 100 degrees. My TransRockies partner, Keith, was planning to visit one of his friends in Kalispell, about two hours north of this insufferably hot place. I've been wanting to visit Glacier National Park, which I've never really explored beyond the Going-To-The-Sun road. These three factors sparked a fantastically fun weekend, the kind that leaves me with a loss for words and an excessive number of pictures to post on my blog.

Keith's friend is an ultrarunner named Danni, who works as an attorney for a firm in Kalispell. She used to be a lawyer for a high-powered firm in Chicago, with prestige, salary, and everything that goes with it. Then, one day about four years ago, she attended a "Woman-to-Woman" conference put on by her firm, where topics ranged from "What Not To Wear" (basically, the things she wore to work most every day) to "How to Balance Work and Family," where a woman talked about forgoing dinner in favor of "nighttime snack" with her kids. Danni went home that day and immediately plotted her escape to the mountains, and landed in Kalispell, Montana, where she still has a good job, a beautiful historic home and a husband who cooks beingets (New Orleans fry bread) for Sunday brunch. Oh, and sometimes she goes out and runs 100 miles. And she's super funny. By the end of the weekend, I wanted to ask her if she'd be my new BFF, but I didn't want to seem too forward, given we'd never met before I showed up at her doorstep late Friday evening.

Danni took me to her favorite spots in Glacier National Park, starting Saturday morning with Gunsight Pass.

The one-way hike is 20-21 miles (depending on what signs you believe) from the east side of the Continental Divide to the west. We parked at Lake McDonald Lodge and took the shuttle over the precarious, narrow, cliff-edge road to the Jackson Glacier trailhead.

The park's Web site had warned of lots of snow on the pass, and we were prepared with ice axes, but it turned out to be nothing more than a few short snowfields, not even long enough to glissade. We especially had to laugh at the minimally dangerous conditions after we passed a couple of backpackers near the trailhead who told us the snow had turned them around, and basically implied that we were probably doomed if we chose to continue on our epic attempt to traverse the entire trail in a single day.

I do think 21 miles is a decent day hike, but certainly within the grasp of most fit people. While we walked, Danni indicated which parts of the trail she would normally walk and which parts she would run. It was a little eye-opening, actually, to see that ultrarunning doesn't necessarily have to be about logging eight-minute miles for 100 miles straight. Many ultrarunners do a lot of walking, which makes it seem more obtainable for those of us who have leaned heavily on wheels for most of our "fit" lives.

While Missoula melted in the sun, the weather in Glacier was absolutely perfect, 70 degrees and clear.

Gunsight Pass.

Danni crossing under a waterfall below the pass.

We started to see lots of mountain goats right on the trail. This kid goat was so adorable. Both Danni and I wanted to reach out and pet it, but of course we did not. Funny how strong the urge is, though, when you see a cute fuzzy baby animal.

Then we encountered the billy goats who did not want to get off the trail. We herded a small group for several yards until they finally relented to letting us by. We finished the hike in about seven and a half hours (hardcore ultrarunners probably wouldn't even let you call that a day hike; more like a "half day.") We cooled down in the lodge with Diet Coke and beer in front of a sparkling Lake McDonald.

The next day we were able to enjoy a relaxing breakfast in Kalispell while we waited for Keith to make his way from the eastern half of the state, where he had been visiting friends. We all met up in East Glacier at 11.

Our Sunday hike was the Dawson and Pitimakin Pass loop, another favorite of Danni's. It wasn't hard to see why.

Starting at noon was a bit rough on both of us, tired as we were from the day before and struggling a bit as we climbed in 80-degree heat.

But it was minimal work for jaw-dropping views the entire time.

Keith lives in Banff, Alberta, and feels his home is the most beautiful place in the world. But he was willing to allow that maybe Montana is maybe kinda pretty, too.

The Sunday hike was strikingly different from Saturday's, just by nature of its location on the front range of the Rockies. Even though it's only a few dozen miles east of the Divide, it's a much drier and rockier place.

From the saddle where we perched to eat our lunch, we could even see the beginning of the American prairie, a flat expanse on the far horizon. I hadn't before really realized how close I am to the plains here in Western Montana. I'll have to get out there for a visit someday soon.

Instead of mountain goats, the Dawson-Pitimakin loop had bighorn sheep. We saw two separate groups — one all rams and the other all females.

The females were especially protective of the trail, but they eventually let us by.

The Sunday loop ended at about 17 miles, for a 37-mile weekend. I'm sore! But Keith agreed I could count it as a good training weekend, because there will be plenty of hike-a-bike in TransRockies. Only two more weeks! I'm officially in taper mode now. I'm hoping I can use that as an excuse to volunteer for the Swan Crest 100 next weekend. After spending 37 miles on my feet this weekend, I have this whole new fascination with Montana trail running and the possibilities therein (not that I'm going to start running on a regular basis all of the sudden, but I do admire the possibilities it creates, especially when you have the ability to travel 37 miles in one day as opposed to two.) But what a fun weekend! Thanks Danni and Keith!