So much for the leisure tour

One of my favorite things about bike touring is its ability to bring out my rare superpowers of sleep. You see, I'm a sometimes insomniac who often dreads crawling into bed at night. And when I'm in endurance mode, whether riding or running, I'm often so strung out that I can't coax my body to shut down at all without the help of powerful sleeping aids. But under the influence of more reasonable activity, I can drop away from consciousness for hours, double-digit hours, without even getting up to pee. I love this. Leah was probably less thrilled when she crawled out of the tent at 6:30 a.m. and waited for me, and waited. Finally when I rolled out after eight, I said, "I forgot to ask you to wake me up in the morning. Tomorrow you should throw water on me or something." I'm my own principle of inertia. When I'm moving, I like to stay moving. And when I'm asleep, I like to stay asleep.

I also have eating superpowers, at least when sugar is involved. In endurance racing, eating is such a distasteful chore. Stuffing even simple carbs into a sour stomach is just about the worst self-punishment there is. But bicycle touring revs up my appetite without cranking it into overdrive, and the result is a wide-eyed appreciation of edibles everywhere — especially calorie-dense sweet edibles. Our first stop of the day was Honeydew, just eight relatively flat miles from breakfast. But when I discovered the general store sold homemade baked goods, I immediately had to try ALL OF THE THINGS! Sugar mania led me to buy up as much stuff as I could fit in my frame bag, but restraint kept me to eating only one Honeydew Hummer before we hit the road.

We turned up Wilder Ridge Road and began the long up-and-down grind through the King Range. Leah had issues with her panniers, in that they wouldn't stay hooked to her rack during the jolting descents. She finally found extra straps to tie them down, but the multiple breaks were a good opportunity for me to stuff more sugar into my mouth. Despite the difficulty of our route, I'm pretty sure I still managed to inhale more calories than I burned. Given how I often feel under my usual activity-induced deficits, this was a welcome indulgence. So much sleep! So much food! Oh, and we rode bikes too.

The King Range surrounds the longest stretch of undeveloped coast in California, often referred to as "the Lost Coast." The mountains themselves are mostly conservation area, where Douglas fir and Redwood forests are vibrantly working to fill in the scars left behind by decades of aggressive logging. After a dozen miles, I found it difficult to believe we were still so close to California's coastline. The region feels very wild and remote, even by the standards I came to appreciate in Alaska and Montana.

The King Range Road dealt our first real lesson in humility, when even I — with all of my snow-biking-Tour-Divide-forged expectations of difficulty — had to accept that we were going to work a lot harder and move a lot slower than we expected. The problem wasn't overall climbing, of which there was plenty, or road surface, which was not bad. No, the problem was excessively steep grades, and the fact that mashing a loaded bike up a twenty-percent grade at 2.5 mph is more rapidly exhausting than, well, most anything else I've tried in my repertoire of activities. Coasting down similar grades also doesn't pay real dividends, either, because we had to apply the brakes considerably just to stay in control. At one point during a climb, I watched my GPS speed display drop below two miles per hour. Yes, I was still turning pedals. Later, when my heart rate dipped below 180 and I caught a bit of breath, I said to Leah, "Guess how slow we've been going?"

"I don't even want to know," Leah answered.

We descended a fun and brief section of pavement on Chemise Mountain Road. Then came the Usal Road, adorned with multiple warning signs such as "Closed to Through Traffic," and "Use at Own Risk." Of course, I was still thinking, "Aw, it's just a dirt road. How bad could it be?" Thanks to a lunch break ("We're touring, right? We're allowed to take lunch breaks!"), we didn't reach the Usal Road until after 3 p.m. Leah noticed a mile marker indicating it was 26 miles to the end of the road, where we anticipated stopping for the night. Leah already suspected our pace was not up to snuff and asked how long that might take. "I'll be honest, we're probably averaging about five miles per hour," I said. "We can probably do it before dark, but we can't dawdle."

So much for the leisure tour.

Here's a little background info about Leah: She's a cyclocross racer, a fast one. She's good at holding the red line and staying competitive in one of the most painful bicycle racing formats yet devised. She's also an enthusiastic mountain biker. I believe she's dabbled in a few endurance events. I don't think, however, that she's spent that much time truly slogging. Slogging is really my specialty. I try not to drag others into my madness because even though I enjoy it, I wouldn't expect anyone else to feel the same. There's really no reason why riding bikes at five miles per hour on dusty, steep, clay-covered roads should be fun. But Leah had a smile on her face the whole time, even when every tiny break invited a swam of mosquitoes, and even when the sun drifted low on the horizon while we were still miles from camp, and even when the coastal fog moved in and dropped the temperature into the low fifties. I wish I could be like that and be fast when I want to be. Leah is awesome.

The Usal Road largely routed through densely forested hillsides — sun-filtering oak trees at higher elevations, and a Jurassic-Park-like density of redwoods and ferns near sea level. Occasionally we broke out into a brilliant view of the Lost Coast, vibrant and blue on a rare clear day. I loved it. Even at five miles per hour.

We hit Usal Beach five miles earlier than we expected, which was lucky, because given the major climb one mile later, there's no way we would have made it to the end of the road before dark. We wrapped up our day at 53.3 miles and 8,535 feet of climbing, with a solid eight hours of time in the saddle and an average moving speed of 6.7 miles per hour. I think Leah would agree it was a tough day. I later found a detailed description of our basic route whose author also acknowledged the difficulty. "If you are used to 100-mile days on a road tour, expect only 30-mile days on the Lost Coast," he wrote. I concur.

We set up camp in the eerie remnants of a closed state park campground, shut down due to budget cuts in California's parks and recreation department. At least it was quiet, save for the antics of some ATV'ers up the road. Back in Honeydew — that place where I wanted to buy ALL OF THE BROWNIES — I also managed to purchase a container of Cup Noodles and a tin of herring for dinner. As I dug in to the styrofoam container of yellow noodles with chucks of gray fish skin floating on the surface, my eyes widened again. "Wow, Cup Noodles are way better than I remember them being," I said.

"Yay for bike touring," Leah replied.

I concur. 

Not a bad way to live

I love bicycle touring. But whenever I try to conceptualize what exactly it means to me, words mostly fail. Still, as I sat on the edge of the Mattole River soaking my shin during our first night at camp, an analogy drifted to the surface. Bicycle touring is like taking a hobo bath. You stand at the river's edge, skin caked in a paste of sweat and dust, wavering with uncertainty as the clear, cold water rushes by. With bare feet you wade into the cobbles, wincing at the initial pain of blunt cold and sharp rocks. Knees buckled, goosebumps prickled, you lather yourself in soap while absorbing the simultaneous thrill and discomfort. Your body is laid bare to the world, at the mercy of elements beyond your control. "There are so many more civilized ways to do this," you think. "Easier ways." With that thought, you take a deep breath and plunge into a swirling eddy. Cold shock electrifies every nerve as tiny grains of sand scrape along your skin, whisking away the excess grime. Everything else comes fully alive; you're floating, weightless, and free. For that moment, there's nothing more you need in the world besides a river eddy and a little bit of soap. The transition from civilized member of society to river-bathing hobo is startlingly quick, and yet so natural that you almost regret the need to come up for air. But when you do, you feel refreshed — a new person.

Yeah, bicycle touring is a little like that.

Leah and I planned this last-minute tour of California's Lost Coast and Humboldt State Park — last minute in that we sat down with her friend Dylan to map out a route on Sunday afternoon, and were crossing the Golden Gate Bridge on our way north by early Tuesday morning. There wasn't much time to plan or overthink things. We just packed what we had, and realized we didn't need the rest. We set out from Ferndale, California, for a free-wheeling girl's trip that would be "four or five days," "maybe 215 or 250 miles," "about forty percent dirt," and "probably really climby." Dylan pointed out good places to camp at our projected mileages, but none of us took into account the fact that the elevation profile matters so much more than mileage when it comes to pace in this type of touring. Even with the supposed advantage of wheels, you can only cover so many miles when your heart rate is maxed out at walking speeds. No matter. We had our bikes, food, water, and camping gear. Everything we needed in the world.

We parked my car at the Ferndale Police Department under the invitation of the friendly officers of that little Victorian village in the Eel River Valley. We were getting a later start than we hoped, about 2:30 p.m., and were already worried about chasing darkness to the first campground, forty miles down the road. As we described our route to the police officer on duty, he cut us off as soon as he heard how we planned to leave town. "Mattole Road is steep," he said. "And there are logging trucks on the road that drive fast and don't always move over. And it's steep. But if you make it up there, you'll be rewarded."

The Ferndale police officer was not wrong on any account. Right out of the gate, we climbed from sea level to 2,000 feet in less than six miles. And not on a steady grade, either — the narrow road transitioned from fairly flat, rolling traverses to gut-busting, twenty-percent-plus grades, with nothing in between. Leah was riding a small Surly Long Haul Trucker — rigid steel with 26" mountain tires, front panniers, and a rear rack. I had my Moots, titanium soft tail with 29" mountain tires and bike bags. I like to think I balanced out my light mountain bike advantage by carrying the tent and water filter, but Leah's bike was still heavier. Getting those bikes up these hills was a real grunt, with an sustained level of exertion that felt decidedly punishing for a "leisure tour." But we did opt to take the hard way. And the police officer was right — the rewards were great.

For every thousand-foot-plus ridge we crested — and there were several — there was an equally incredible drop into the sea. Hurtling down seemingly vertical pavement at tear-inducing speeds, sparkling waves filled my frame of vision. Just when I was certain I was on the verge of splashdown, the road whipped around a hairpin switchback and flung me back toward the wall of mountains I would have to climb, yet again. It was incredible, punishing, exhilarating riding, that Mattole Road, made even better by the fact that we were pedaling toward bigger, wilder places.

Mattole Road dropped down to the coast for six miles. A stiff tailwind hustled us down the road at an effortless twenty miles per hour while we kicked back to enjoy the only easy miles we'd find for days. Whenever the route eased up enough for chatting, I often told stories from my cross-country bike trip in 2003. Much about our Humboldt tour brought back nostalgia from simpler times. After I mentioned that the trip from Salt Lake City to Syracuse, New York, took 65 days, Leah asked, "How did you manage that?"

"We were on a tight self-imposed budget, eleven dollars per day (each)," I said. "So whenever we stayed in a hotel, that cut pretty deep into our funds. We took hobo baths. We stealth camped a lot, sometimes hiding in the forest beside a road or sleeping in power-line right-of-ways. We ate a lot of beans, rice, and this terrible stuff called texturized vegetable protein. We mailed ourselves supplies via general delivery, so we also had to choke down pancakes that tasted like taco seasoning after sitting in the same box for six weeks. I think all of that is a whole lot easier when you're younger; I'm not sure I could stomach that kind of lifestyle for very long anymore." I paused and looked out over the waves crashing on the coastal rocks. "Still, it's not a bad way to live." 

We reached the campground with just over an hour to spare before sunset. Our day's tally was 37 miles with 4,200 feet of climbing — an "easy" half day that left us feeling plenty knackered. The A.W. Way County Park was fairly quiet on a weeknight, and offered a scenic perch next to a wide bend in the Mattole River, full of swimming holes. After the Stagecoach 400 left me with several unpleasant infections earlier this spring, I vowed to uphold a much higher standard of hygiene and a slightly better standard of nutrition on the Humboldt tour. We headed over to the river to scrub our chamois and take hobo baths. I soaked my sore shin as my wet skin absorbed the last bit of sunlight on the rocks, then we climbed back up to camp to cook dinner — pasta and tuna. We retreated to my tiny tent — a Big Agnes Seedhouse 2 that I had feared would be too cramped, but turned out to be a nice refuge for pleasantly tired bodies. I fell asleep with my Kindle on my lap, quietly contemplating words by Annie Dillard:

“What does it feel like to be alive? Living, you stand under a waterfall. You leave the sleeping shore deliberately; you shed your dusty clothes, pick your barefoot way over the high, slippery rocks, hold your breath, choose your footing, and step into the waterfall. The hard water pelts your skull, bangs in bits on your shoulders and arms. The strong water dashes down beside you and you feel it along your calves and thighs rising roughly backup, up to the roiling surface, full of bubbles that slide up your skin or break on you at full speed. Can you breathe here? Here where the force is the greatest and only the strength of your neck holds the river out of your face? Yes, you can breathe even here. You could learn to live like this. And you can, if you concentrate, even look out at the peaceful far bank where you try to raise your arms. What a racket in your ears, what a scattershot pummeling! It is time pounding at you, time. Knowing you are alive is watching on every side your generation's short time falling away as fast as rivers drop through air, and feeling it hit.” ― An American Childhood

On the road again

Well, Mount Whitney left me with shin splints. In truth it was a while coming, but after descending 7,000 feet of rocks last Tuesday, I was fully hobbled for a few days. Rest, ice, repeat. It's really only my right shin that's causing me grief, but enough that I had to cut running out of my routine. Ah, well — what better time to go on a bike tour?

My friend Leah, a school teacher in San Francisco, is all about making the most of her summer break. Even though she just returned from San Diego at about the same time I was limping home from the Sierras, she's raring to go again and the window is perfect for both of us to spend a few days pedaling through the ancient forests of Humboldt County. She outfitted her Surly Long Haul Trucker with mountain bike tires, dropped the stem, and installed a front rack for her own ideal bikepacking rig. We headed out to the Marin Headlands on Sunday afternoon for a test ride, and were treated to a rare brilliantly clear day.

Leah's friend Dylan, a former resident of Northern California and fellow Stagecoach 400 finisher, designed a dirt and backroad route for us. He even threw in the location of secret swimming holes and blueberry farms, and made sure to route us through the Avenue of the Giants.

This is a comfort tour; we're only riding about forty to fifty miles a day — tough and hilly miles, no doubt — but still, there will be actual down time. As such, I needed to load my Moots for "comfort touring," no easy task when you're not running racks. I figured out a way to hang my tent and sleeping pad off the handlebars, and packed plenty of warm clothing and a sleeping bag in the back. Leah is carrying the stove, and I managed to stuff my repair kit, pot, coffee, one hot meal, lunch, and snacks in the tiny frame bag. I took it on a test ride up Black Mountain and man, comfort touring gets heavy (I still have to carry my water, water filter, Kindle, and a few other small items in a pack.) I'll probably use my gas tank as well so I can pack my big camera and Sour Patch Kids. We'll be mostly out of cell phone range and entirely away from computers for the better part of five days. I don't often really get away like this, and I'm looking forward to it.

As for the shin, it manages okay as long as I mostly stay in the saddle and of course don't use pedals that I have to click in and out of. I'm also bringing a compression sleeve and bandage in case it flares up. Hoping for the best. I can't really afford a prolonged shin injury at this point in the summer, but I don't think the bike tour will put too much pressure on it.

Because I'll be out of range for a few days, I wanted to post a pre-emptive congratulations to Eszter Horanyi, who executed a brilliant ride in this year's Tour Divide. As I write this, she's only about 200 miles from Antelope Wells, and will undoubtedly come in somewhere in the sub-19-day range. Can't say I didn't call it. And if her call-ins are any indication, she's probably almost disappointed that the limitless smorgasbord of junk food is about to come to an end. Nice work, Eszter. Way to make the course record unattainable for the rest of us. Ha!

I also wanted to send my respect to the current "Red Lantern" of the 2012 Tour Divide, Tracy Burge, who is pedaling her way through southern Montana. Tracy battled flu and possible giardia infection early in the race, decided to scratch in Butte, and then suddenly changed her mind. A friend of mine in Missoula, Ed, camped with her the other day and sent me an e-mail:

"She is back on and while she won't finish the race in the 30 days, she is going to ride the whole thing. She is a wonderful woman. We camped with her, and I rode a bit with her the next day. We of course mentioned you and she admires you greatly, and has read your book. She has been thinking about you on the trail, knew a few places you bivy'ed, and admires your toughness even more."

I do hear from readers from time to time, and am always touched by their notes. If any words I write somehow inspire or boost others during great adventures, I consider that my highest success. Thanks, Tracy. I admire your strength and perseverance, and I'll be cheering for you all the way to Mexico. 

Mount Whitney

It was to be my most ambitious endurance effort yet — a single-day climb to the top of Mount Whitney, the tallest mountain in the Lower 48. Twenty-two miles, more than 7,000 feet of climbing, to an altitude of 14,500 feet. The date was August 2001, and I was 21 years old. My dad had applied for a permit back in January and invited me along. When he landed what was even then a difficult permit to get, he said, "It's once in a lifetime, but it won't be easy. Do you think you're up for it?"

I enjoy taking solo trips from time to time. Beat was in Switzerland on business, and I decided to spend two or three days in the Sierras for UTMB practice — working on techniques in uphill "speed hiking" and downhill jogging. But after two days of solid five-hour efforts at altitude, and a rough night in of sleep in camp, I woke up on Tuesday morning feeling partially shattered. Sunlight was just beginning to touch the floor of the canyon, and I felt a familiar empty-stomach anxiety that I still associate with waking up early to go on big hikes with my dad. "It's only hiking," I told myself. "Just 22 miles."

A lot happened in the interim between January and August 2001. I landed my first post-college, career-type job as an editor at a weekly newspaper in Murray, Utah, and then lost it and four weeks' pay when the publisher abruptly shut the doors. I started working as a graphic designer and convinced myself corporate logos and real-estate brochures were the right path for me. And I met a guy who convinced me that I should put the whole career thing on hold and see the world, or at least the United States, before I descended too deep into adulthood. I dropped everything and loaded up my Geo Prism in May. We trekked across Zion National Park, swam across lakes in Texas, and dug trenches around our tent in the torrential rains of North Carolina. I sprinted away from a pit bull attack in Maine, climbed the highest peak in Idaho during a July snowstorm, and helped row a raft more than two hundred miles down the Green River. After the trip was over, I emerged with an actual tan on my legs, definition in my biceps, and a conviction that I had never before and would possibly never again be so strong. 

My start was still what most people would consider late, around 8:45 a.m., which is a good time to begin a trek up Mount Whitney. Most of the day hikers leave much earlier but the backpackers haven't yet hit the trail. Despite a full quota of permits for the day, it seemed like I had the trail almost to myself. Because I felt so lousy, and because reaching the summit was the ultimate goal, I had already decided I wasn't going to focus on "training." I wouldn't stress when my paced dropped below 20-minute miles, and I'd stop and take more breaks if I had another coughing fit like the one I experienced early that morning. Mount Whitney really is a rare opportunity — the kind of experience one should savor.

Our hiking party was me, my dad, and my dad's friend Tom. We drove from Salt Lake City to Lone Pine on "America's Loneliest Highway" across central Nevada. My cross-country road trip had inspired me to purchase new high-tech hiking gear that I was quite proud of. The last time my dad and I embarked on a long hike, I was still wearing cotton T-shirts and jean shorts, and hoisting a school backpack full of refilled Gatorade bottles. Now I had convertible nylon pants, polar fleece, a Camelback, even a Katadyn water filter. I was styling. 


The weather was close to perfect, perhaps on the warm side of ideal, but it's hard to complain about sunshine in the Sierras. Even after I broke out of my morning funk, I wasn't in a rush to increase my pace. I set my legs on cruise control and gazed up at the granite walls rising thousands of feet over my head. The chiseled spires and crumbling slopes had an air of familiarity, much more recent than I knew them to be. I was surprised by how much I remembered from my first visit here, and it was interesting to revisit the memories through the vibrant filter of a decade of experiences.

For all of the strength I had built during the summer of 2001, I was still prone to making mistakes. For starters, I thought wasabi peas sounded like great trail food, and brought an eight-ounce bag. I managed two or three handfuls before I felt ill. I also had a half pound of banana chips. As I sat down next to my dad for our mid-morning snack, an opportunistic marmot scuttled up from behind and snatched them right out of my lap, the entire bag. Undeterred by my yelling and chasing, the marmot scurried away with most of my edible food. My dad took pity on me and handed me a granola bar. 

My legs' cruise control stayed steady until I reached the trail's infamous hundred switchbacks, and then my strength started to falter. GPS registered over 12,000 feet now, and my lungs began to burn.  Even with everything I've learned about appreciating life for its fleeting moments, there are still times, sometimes, when I just put my head down and trudge.

We passed through a notch and climbed over the sharp edge of the summit ridge at Trail Crest, elevation 13,600. It was already as high as I'd ever been in my life, and I paused to take in the vista. For what seemed like hundreds of miles, all I could see was stark granite, lifeless lakes, and snow. It struck me as eerie that a landscape too high to support most life was now far below. I wondered what it must be like to climb the world's truly high mountains — almost like touching the moon. 

From Trail Crest there are only another 900 feet of elevation gain to the summit, spread out over 2.5 miles. The trail runner in me wanted to write this stretch off as easy, but in Whitney's context, I was being pummeled. I don't know why I brought that GPS, because it only seemed to taunt me. My pace dropped to 31-minute-miles, and then 39. I actually felt like I often do at the end of a long endurance ride — vaguely nauseated, achy muscles, dehydration headache. I sipped on my water, but I didn't really expect it to help. Trudge, trudge, trudge.

My dad and Tom were now far ahead. The peak looked close enough to touch, but the trail sign warned it was still 1.9 miles away. Other hikers were strewn along the ridge like refugees, leaning on their packs, sipping water bottles, waiting for breaths they knew they wouldn't catch. Part of me longed to sit down next to them, wait it out, not worry about seeing the top. I'd heard that, short of proper acclimation, most people have an individual elevation limit under which they operate just fine, and over which they fall apart. I suspected mine was right around 13,000 feet. It was as high as I'd ever been. 

Even with my slow pace, I caught and passed most of the hikers who were still making their way to the peak. I ended up reaching the top in the midst of a large group of young adults, likely college students. As a hundred-year-old stone summit hut came into view, the woman right in front of me blubbered, "Oh my god, I'm getting all emotional. Oh, I think I'm going to start crying." I kind of wanted to roll my eyes, but I couldn't deny the rush of energized blood that was sweeping through my own heart.

My dad waited for me for a bit, and the three of us walked to the top together. We shared hugs of congratulations, pictures of the geographic marker — with a reading of 14,496 feet — and more granola bars. "It's the top of the country," my dad said. "Well, except for Alaska." I grinned with a sense of accomplishment. It was a struggle to get there, which I realized made it all the more rewarding. I'd never been so high, or felt so strong. 

Standing at the the highest elevation of my life yet for a second time, I suddenly wished that I hadn't climbed this mountain alone. It would have been better to share this moment again with my father, or with Beat, who I guiltily remembered was still busy doing actual work on the other side of the world. As much as I enjoy and need my solo outings to re-energize, my best memories remain with the people I love. Just then, a coughing fit erupted, and for a moment panicked that I might see blood on the rocks. I didn't feel all that bad, but I also know that I've spent a lot of energy over the past decade conditioning my mind to ignore my body's warning signs, and I don't have any real experience with pulmonary edema to know when it actually hits. But no, my cough was clear. I was fine. I was as high as I'd ever been.

We were less than three minutes into our descent when disaster struck. As a large group of hikers approached the peak, my dad stepped off the trail to let them pass. He caught his foot on a boulder and tumbled into the rocks. Tom helped him up as my dad clutched his own hand. His thumb was grotesquely twisted, almost dangling off the joint. We still had 11 miles and more than 6,000 feet to descend. Tom collected snow in a plastic grocery bag, and passed chunks to my dad so he could ice his broken thumb as we worked our way down the rocky trail. I don't even remember our pace slowing all that much, and my dad still chatted amicably through what I can only imagine was excruciating pain. 

Even though it was at the time my most difficult endurance effort yet, I still didn't remember this trail being so difficult. It was steep, strewn with rocks, and the footing was bad, which made for equally slow descending. I couldn't believe my dad had hiked all the way down here with a badly broken thumb. Sometimes I tell the "Whitney broken thumb" story to my friends to illustrate where I got my clumsy gene, and why I have to be so overcautious. My dad laughs about it now, but his injury took many months to heal, several surgeries, and I'm not sure he ever got his full range of motion back. On the trail, my dad didn't complain once. He's strong like that.

I felt a little better as I lost elevation, but by this point my possible shin splints were acting up, and it was all I could do to not limp, let alone try to run. The 22-mile hike took me 9.5 hours, a pace that, sadly, would amount to a big DNF at UTMB. Not that I viewed these much higher elevations as a realistic gauge of my fitness, but the experience was eye-opening about difficulty of the goals I've set. Sometimes I think I'm so much stronger than I was a decade ago, and sometimes I wonder if that's really the case. But then I remember that I'm exactly as strong as I need to be, when I still have the opportunity to visit places like Mount Whitney.

Give me oxygen

 My car thermometer registered 102 degrees when I arrived at the Eastern Sierra Interagency Visitor's Center in Lone Pine. A furnace wind whipped through the air as a motorcyclist pulled in beside me. His face and helmet were coated in ochre dust that was streaked with sweat, and he was wearing a leather jacket despite the heat. He told me he just rode in from Death Valley, where the mercury topped 120.

"Wow, I've only been to Death Valley in January," I said. "I should head out there just to see what it's like."

"Are you going that direction?" he asked.

"No, I'm here to get a permit for Mount Whitney," I said. "I'm hiking there tomorrow."

"In one day?"

"Yeah."

"Have you heard of that race where people run from the bottom of Death Valley to the top of Mount Whitney in a day?" he asked.

I laughed. "You mean Badwater?" I found it humorous that this random motorcyclist had heard of this esoteric 135-mile ultramarathon. "Yeah, I've heard of it. That's too hellish for my taste. I'm only interested in the last 11 miles on trail, which I get to climb tomorrow. I'm excited."

"I wouldn't even want to do that," he said. "It's cold in the mountains. I'm all for the desert, love the heat, even when it's 120. But a couple years ago I was driving through when those Badwater people were running. And I just thought, damn. Yeah, that's what I thought. Damn."

 Damn indeed. I'm endlessly intrigued by the world's extremes, even the scorched desert, although it frightens me even more than deep-frozen tundra. In a way, this fear makes the desert all the more alluring. After the motorcyclist left, I collected my Whitney permit and mulled what I wanted to do with the afternoon. Should I head out to the sun-baked lowlands of Death Valley, or stick with my original plan of another acclimation hike? I was genuinely torn. But I just didn't have time to do it all, and this short trip was about mountains. I purchased a map at the visitors center and studied nearby options. There was a trailhead right at the campground where I was planning to stay called Meysan Lakes, which climbed the next major drainage over from Mount Whitney. Perfect.

 Despite its proximity to Whitney Portal, the Meysan Lakes trail was almost deserted. I only saw two other hikers, both solo like me. The first was an older gentleman who lectured me for starting so late in the day, for wearing "sneakers," and for not carrying bear spray. He told me to watch out for a European man who was farther up the trail, and who would surely be half-dead when I came across him because, "He has no shirt, no hat, and he's not carrying any water."

"Perhaps he's drinking out of the streams," I said. "They do that in Europe."

The older gentleman just shook his head. "I can't believe how far up the trail he made it. I'm worried about him." A few miles later, I crossed paths with the European man, who I think might have been German. He was indeed shirtless, deeply tanned, not carrying a single bottle or backpack, and looked as happy as can be.

"Hallo," he said after I greeted him. "Is very nice, beautiful here."

Indeed.

 The Meysan Lakes Trail had a consistently steep grade, and since it started at 7,500 feet, I couldn't process enough oxygen to run. Still, my hope was to hike up and run down, which was about the pace I'd need to keep in order to reach the upper lake and make it back to the campground by sundown. The European man was right about the beauty of the canyon, surrounded by sheer granite walls and filled with bright wildflowers. It's still spring up here, and early spring at that. Even at 102 degrees in Lone Pine, the weather was great above 10,000 feet — low 70s, calm breeze, and sunshine.

 I scrambled to the upper lake, which filled an entire basin at 11,400 feet. There was a lot less snow than I expected, almost none, and I wished I had the forethought to bring overnight gear with me and allot an extra day. I felt so comfortable that I wished I could stay for a long while — on this windswept moonscape of crumbling granite, devoid of habitable terrain, and barren except for the icy water of a snowmelt lake. And yet, I felt content. What is it that's so endlessly intriguing about these extremes?

 What was left of the faint trail technically ended at the lake, and even though the sun was drifting lower on the horizon, the allure of extremes tempted me higher. I scanned the ridge for weaknesses that would allow easy passage for a clumsy solo hiker like myself, and found what looked like a ramp cut into the cliffs. As I approached it, I saw tracks in the talus that did not look like human tracks. They were too small and close together, and I wondered if I had found a goat trail. I followed the tracks, which turned out to be the perfect route to the ridge. Not harrowing at all. Thanks, goats.

I reached the ridge at an elevation of 12,300 feet, next to two peaks that definitely looked like the domain of more sure-footed mountaineers than I. Plus, it was getting late — and yet the forces of desire pulled at me to climb higher. The wind was fierce now, and noticeably cold. From my perch I could still see the 100-degree valley 9,000 feet below, bordered by the red Inyo Mountains, and beyond that the scorched desert. I pulled a jacket out of my pack to stave off shivering and gazed at the unknown peaks above me, wishing I was a climber.

 Still, the ridge afforded a stunning vista of Mount Whitney, with its steep and intimidating east face. It was also a sobering view of just how far I'd have to climb the following day.

 Looking back on the Lone Pine Valley and the approach to Mount Whitney. My lungs burned as I breathed the sharp wind, and for the first time I noticed that I was struggling with the altitude — which was encouraging, because I was already above 12,000 feet.

As soon as I descended the talus, boulders and more technical trail from the ridge to the lower lake, I tried running. My legs were strong and it felt great to move quickly down the trail, even though the downhill exertion necessitated gasping breaths. I finished with 45 minutes of daylight to spare, 12.5 miles and 4,900 feet of climbing — just a little warm-up hike. My lungs were burning. I set up my tent at the campground, altitude 7,700, and hoped I'd be able to get some sleep. 

Take me higher

Why is elevation so alluring? What is it about a distressing lack of oxygen, cold temperatures, rugged terrain, high winds, and harsh exposure that continually lure me to higher heights? I'm not even a rock climber and likely will never try to become one (too klutzy, oh so klutzy.) But like John Muir who once traveled these same granite mounds, the mountains are calling — and I must go.

Earlier this week, I went in search of ideas for two to three days of trail running possibilities around the Yosemite Valley, and stumbled across an open permit for Mount Whitney — a broad mountain that reigns over a beautiful cathedral of granite spires, and also happens to be the highest point in the Lower 48 United States. It was the sole Whitney opening in the entire month of June, a single day permit for June 19. Too serendipitous to bypass, I grabbed it and began scheming an acclimating/hiking trip instead.

I've been to Mount Whitney, elevation 14,505, once before, way back in 2001. That's also the only time I've been above 14,000 feet in my life — and I remember it being a harsh struggle, back when I lived at 4,500 feet in Salt Lake City. Now I live next to the ocean and know of other sea level dwellers who have developed high altitude pulmonary edema as low as 11,000 feet when ascending too quickly. I wanted to be cautious about the altitude and do a bit of acclimating on the way to the Eastern Sierras. Luckily, Yosemite National Park is right on route. On Sunday afternoon, I took on the climb to Clouds Rest. From the Sunrise trailhead on Highway 120, there's only about 3,500 feet of climbing in 15 rolling miles, and my plan was to run the runnable portions of trail. However, starting my run at 8,000 feet proved to be even tougher than I anticipated. I was sucking wind before the first quarter mile. After pushing hard for two miles I took much-needed "picture break," only to realize that I left the camera's battery plugged into its charger at home, 200 miles away. There was a spare camera in my car, but retrieving it necessitated four bonus miles. I debated it for a while but finally decided it was too beautiful of a day for no picture taking. I ran the two miles back and after that felt pretty deflated. It's interesting how quickly elevation can strip away my delusions of fitness — those four relatively flat miles could have easily done it for me in terms of perceived exertion. I knew I had 15 more miles in me, but it was getting to the point where limited daylight necessitated a continued strong pace.

I continued the attempted running until I surpassed 9,000 feet; then every breath felt like dragging a grater across my lungs. A pace I view as easy-going jogging at sea level just wasn't achievable for me at this elevation. Even hiking was extra tough. What that foretold for 14,000 feet in a day and a half, I tried not to imagine. I plodded to the top of Cloud's Rest, elevation 9,931 feet, and immediately lost all regret I had been feeling about my four-mile bonus camera run. It was a hazy day, but I still had great views of the Yosemite Valley, Glacier Point and Half Dome.

On the left is the area where I started running, Tenaya Lake, and a broad view of the eastern Sierras. As much as I love ascending to the top of mountains, my heart breaks every time I do so. From these heights I can see the true reach of places I will never experience, and realize just how insignificant of a bystander I am in this expansive world.

I ended with 19 miles in 5.5 hours, with about a half hour on the peak. But I had to work hard to average those 15-minute miles. I finished up about an hour before sunset and started driving east and south toward Lone Pine, in a slim valley wedged between the High Sierras and the low basins of Death Valley. I enjoy taking solo drives through scenic places, and the route from Yosemite to Lone Pine was one of the better drives I've had in a long time. This is Tuolume Meadows, a place where several long trails link together. Yosemite National Park is a trail runner's paradise, with an expansive network of runnable, scenic routes that stretch out for dozens and even hundreds of miles (John Muir Trail, Pacific Crest Trail.) I'm developing more interest in linking up these long routes someday.

I stopped for a restroom break at this stream near Tioga Lake. An outhouse with a view.

Ellery Lake.

Highway 120 at Tioga Pass.

Waterfall near Tioga Pass.

Descending Deadman Pass, this was the view from my dash of the Eastern Sierras — the drier and in my opinion more stunning side of this mountain range. My destination for the night was the unspectacular town of Bishop, elevation 4,200, because Lone Pine was still hours away and I wanted a little time at lower elevation to recover from my high-altitude Yosemite run. I had one more day to acclimate and I was almost as excited about the possibilities as I was about my Mount Whitney permit.