October already

As I tiptoe toward some semblance of training, I'm having a bit of déjà vu for last October. There's this realization that Winter Is Coming, I have less than five months to get my act together, and my workouts are still completely unpredictable. There are days I feel great and charge up hills. Other days I stumble along, convinced that I am irreversibly out of shape, and perhaps I should concede this fact and stop trying so hard. Embrace the sedentary life. What's so bad about that, really?

These episodes would be more disconcerting if I wasn't in such a similar place last year.

I followed up with my allergist today, and my lung function tests measured a fair amount lower than they did in August. The numbers are more similar to October 2015, which is when I first went to see an asthma doctor in Palo Alto. It's difficult to say why I haven't improved. Unfortunately I was bad with my medications in September, so there's no way to gauge whether they're working or not. I will start immunotherapy in two weeks, with an accelerated treatment that sounds particularly unfun. It requires sitting in a room at the clinic for three hours, writhing in discomfort with an epi-pen ready in case of anaphylaxis. BUT, the main treatment will be over soon enough that I can still go to Alaska for a month in March. Priorities.

So that's where I am in "training" right now. Since I'm still having difficult days, I've been taking it relatively easy. I think my dad is worried my fitness is so poor that I won't make it across the Grand Canyon for our annual rim-to-rim (and back the next day), which is just over a week from now. I don't think my fitness is that bad. But I do acknowledge that once these fun diversions are done, I really need to focus on the Iditarod. I'm going to join a small gym in town, with a plan to put more emphasis on weight training this year. If I am having "overtraining" issues (which seems unlikely, as this past summer has been my laziest in years), weight training will be a good way to build strength while minimizing impact on my weak little lungs.

Still, I'm glad I can manage regular outdoor outings. It has been a beautiful couple of weeks. Autumn color and light give everything a new richness. A cold winter wind has been blasting through the valley. Crawling up Bear Peak this evening, I could see a thick layer of snow on the Continental Divide. I guess I missed my window to climb a 14'er this year, but no matter. I'm excited. Winter air is the best air.

Also, thank you to those who purchased my photo book. I actually had a rush of orders and sold out my first batch, but have another on the way that should arrive by the end of the week. So if there's a small delay, I apologize. Sending another book into the world is always a little nerve-wracking. What if it's terrible? What if everyone hates it? You know, the usual concerns. This in conjunction with fitness angst is apparently bad for self-esteem, which is the main reason I've been mostly avoiding my blog and social media since I returned to Colorado (except for book promotions. Sorry about that. Necessary evil.)

But yes, October is here! Everything got a lot better around this time last year. I'm confident it will again.

There are still more books available at this link: http://www.arcticglasspress.net/agp/?wpsc-product=into-the-north-wind

Thanks again!

Idita-spectating

I fell off the training wagon after my mountain bender last week. I've just been focusing on priorities elsewhere, but I have found time for a couple of short rides and a couple of trips to the gym. I also got out Friday for my first mountain bike ride in what feels like ages. I splashed through the muddy trail system of the Mendenhall Valley beneath a thick mat of fog, craving snow. February was basically one long thaw, and Juneau's sea-level trails are nearly back to their mossy, spongy summer condition. I miss snow biking. So I went home, put on my ice-cleat boots, and pushed Pugsley up the treacherously icy Lake Creek Trail, knowing I was likely to find little more than a slushy, long-faded snowmobile trail at the top. As I expected, I was able to ride for short stints in the shade, but mostly I spent the afternoon going for a long walk with my bike - which is actually great training, though not terribly fun. I did find the sun. I always enjoy the sun.

I am really excited about this year's Iditarod Trail Invitational, which kicks off Sunday at 2 p.m. I participated in this event in 2008 and 2009. I finished in 2008 and later that year wrote a book about it. I dropped out last year with frostbite on my right foot. Before I even started the 2009 race, I had already decided I wouldn't participate in 2010. I had plans to ride the Great Divide in summer 2009, and I knew I would spend a long summer entrenched in the planning and training for that undertaking. Preparing just to survive the 350 miles to McGrath can be even more arduous and all-consuming than the Divide (in my opinion), so I figured I'd need the winter off to take a physical and mental vacation from cycling. I did use my lax winter to try some new things - winter mountain trekking and to a lesser extent, skiing - but mostly I spent this winter wishing I was training for the ITI. It's such an intoxicating experience in ways I couldn't begin to explain. I've started having dreams about lining up with the group on Knik Lake. When I wake up and it's not true, I feel disappointed. So am I going back in 2011? This race fills up in like an hour these days, but you better believe I'm going to try.

I excited just to spectate this year's race. It's going to be an exciting one. There are a lot of strong cyclists to watch for — Pete Basinger, Jeff Oatley, Jay and Tracey Petervary, Rocky Reifenstuhl, Louise Kobin and rookie Chris Plesko. There are runners I'm cheering for too - Anne Ver Hoef, who developed painful frostbite on her face in 2008 and who I bonded with at the Hurt 100 in 2009, and Tim Hewitt, who has completed the walk to Nome and almost unthinkable four times, and who as far as I'm concerned is the patron saint of the Iditarod. He is the first person who was willing to look me in the eyes at Yentna Station last year and say, with a touching amount of empathy and understanding, "You know you can't go back out there."

There's also rookie Lorie Hutchinson, who wrote me an e-mail some months back and said "Your book is the reason I entered this year." She's a runner who is riding the Iditarod on a bike. This statement alone made writing and publishing that book worth it.

And there's so many other great people - Phil Hofstetter, the Nome resident who's quietly fast, and Sean Grady, the former New Jersey mountain biker who never said quit last year (even when the rough trail conditions kept him out there for 10 days.) There's Brij Potnis, the self-proclaimed (but undeniably speedy) "tourist" who toughed out minus-72-windchill at Puntilla Lake in 2007. They're all great. The community is half the reason to experience the Iditarod. I'm cheering for everyone. I'm hoping to see the strongest finish yet.

Trail conditions will likely make it interesting — there's everything from fresh snow at the race start to "sidewalk" hard trail on the Yentna River to bumpy horrible trail along the Skwentna River to no snow, open water and frozen tussocks in the Dalzell Gorge and Farewell Curn. I still think there's a good chance for a record this year, which right now belongs to Pete Basinger - 3 days, 5 hours in 2007.

I'm also tracking a similar and yet very different endeavor by Mike Curiak. Mike's human-powered experience on the Iditarod is nearly unmatched. He's come to Alaska nearly every February since 1997, including his first trip to Nome way back in 2000. His statement about that trip perfectly echoes my feelings about riding to McGrath in 2008: "That trip, and the lessons it taught about my own adaptability and capabilities, remains one of the brighter defining moments of this lifetime." Mike still holds the bicycle record to Nome, which has stood since 2001.

These days, Mike no longer races the Iditarod. He "tours" it — under self-imposed conditions that we "racers" can hardly even fathom. He travels under a strict self-support credo, which means for 1,100 miles of some of the harshest, most exposed conditions on Earth, he is completely self contained. He has no resupplies. He enters no buildings. He is completely, truly, in a way few modern experiences can even touch, on his own.

When he starts, he is carrying 24 days worth of food and fuel, and his bicycle weighs 145 pounds. If something goes wrong — and things always go wrong — he has to deal with it himself, with no outside help, out in the elements. Interestingly, the first time I ever met Mike Curiak was when things started to go wrong for him in 2008. His tent poles broke and his stove wasn't working. He made the hard decision to stop at a house in McGrath. I had just finished my own crazy, humbling - and not even comparable - experience when I first encountered Mike standing in the front room wearing only long johns. Because all male cyclists look the same to me, whether they are wearing spandex or Arctic gear, I had no idea who he was, at first. I mumbled a generic, "So are you headed back out there?" "The future is uncertain" he replied. Later, I realized who he was. I still kick myself over not chatting with him more within the context of that truly unique circumstance.

His goal is to ride all the way to Nome without breaking his self-support code. It really is quite unimaginable. But every year, I follow his SPOT tracker (his only form of communication; he carries no satellite phone), and I try to imagine what it would really be like. Which is why I was truly flattered when he contacted me this year and asked if I wanted to help Scott Morris provide color commentary for his blog. I'm really looking forward to it.

I'll probably also do plenty of sportscasting on my own blog for the ITI. You can track the results of the race here.

Days at home

I was loping through tall grass on a fading forest road when it occurred to me what I miss most about cycling. I'd been pondering this since I walked past my mountain bike with its sad deflated tires that haven't been touched since January, yelled at my fingers while fumbling with the laces of my running shoes, and stepped outside into wind-blast of grass pollen and heat to go for a run that I felt strangely not enthused about, at all. I say strangely because nine days passed after my surgery before I felt stable and pain-free enough to venture back to trails, and I thought I'd be more excited about it.

I've been feeling down this week. It's not just about my hand, although I'd be lying if I didn't admit that pain and lack of instant-fix (which nobody expected) weren't a large percentage of my sour mood. There was also, of course, the latest batch of world news, mass shootings and this debacle of an election year. There was the onset of spring allergy season (my second of the year thanks to moving from California to Colorado.) There was some concerning news about Cady, the sweet cat who lived with me for 11 years and now resides with a friend in California. An acquaintance died. This woman and I were close in age and shared similar passions, so her candid writing about her battle with cancer over the past twenty months always struck a chord. Her illness had progressed to the point where the news might bring the platitude, "At least she's no longer suffering." But she remained grateful every day. She was never unrealistic, but she was also never resigned. She was grateful when she could hike; and when she could no longer do that, she was grateful when she could take her young son to the park; and when she could no longer do that, she was grateful when she could get out of bed; and when she could no longer do that, she was grateful she could still draw; and when she could no longer do that, she sent out a final goodbye. She was gone just over a week later.

So I was a bit sad and I was stuck at home, unable to drive to town with my bad hand, and canceling an interview and a meet-up with a friend because of this. I do love the place where I live, and enjoyed some beautiful sunsets and humorous interactions with birds, rabbits, and deer. I'd take my laptop outside, but the allergy fog would drive me indoors before too long. The heat ramped up to nearly ninety degrees. I ventured back into running slowly — 4, 5, 6 miles on the dirt road, extremely careful because tripping and falling would have been a disaster.

I did get a lot done with my Iditarod book project, which I'm happy about. The first draft is nearly finished. I just have one more chapter and a few details to add, and then it will be time to sort through it and determine whether it makes any sense. Thematically the storyline is quite similar to "Be Brave, Be Strong" — about failure, kindness, and overcoming self-doubt. I'm thinking about combining the story with a full-color photo book, because designing such a book would be a lot of fun — even if not so lucrative. After this I need to find less esoteric subjects to write about. Maybe. I'm not sure it's that important.

A follow-up with the surgeon brought a lecture about not using my hand enough. Although the nerve still has a long way to go toward healing, I can improve my strength and dexterity with hand exercises. Great. There will surely be more pain and mistakes down the road (I already broke the screen on my phone because I dropped it), but maybe someday soon I will stop screaming at my shoelaces.

The surgeon basically gave me the go-ahead to live my normal life, so I celebrated today by exploring a new trail near my house, Twin Sisters Peak (a small rocky outcropping in Boulder County, not to be confused with the popular summit in Rocky Mountain National Park.) The heat index was high but there was a nice breeze, and despite allergies I begin to feel more peppy after slogging out the first mile. By accident I veered off the main trail onto a disused forest road. After realizing this, I decided to keep following it all the same. Suddenly caught up in the prospect of new discoveries, I realized that this is what I miss most about riding my bike — exploration. There's a large scope beyond this small radius where I've run and hiked since moving to Boulder two months ago. Wheels give such an empowering sense of freedom, when it's possible to cover dozens of miles in a few hours. Sure, there's still tons of new space to explore on foot — including the mysteries of my own back yard. But I can't help but look out toward the snow-capped Continental Divide, and want to go there right now.

The old forest road largely petered out, but I did run into some no-trespassing signs, so I turned around. I hadn't planned to climb all the way to the peak, fearing a scramble, but upon return from my "adventure," I changed my mind. Tentatively placing my stiff, weak fingers around holds — but refusing to put any weight on them — I managed to gain the summit. Atop that rocky outcropping were incredible views of every space I've explored so far, and so many more I haven't. I may be down sometimes, but I'm still grateful. Every day.

My Iditarod history

Today marks one decade since I started the Susitna 100 — my first-ever race — on February 18, 2006. As I gear up to return to Alaska next week, I thought it would be fun to mark this tenth anniversary with a timeline of my endeavors on the Iditarod Trail. 

 2006: They say there's nothing like your first — which is why I look so shellshocked at the finish line of the Susitna 100 after 25 hours of wrestling with this mountain bike through soft trails, driving rain, and slush. My thoughts at the time were definitely along the lines of "what the hell just happened?" But, like most who deign to dabble in endurance sports, I was irrevocably hooked by the sheer intensity of the experience, and already knew I'd be back to race again. I wrote about this in my most recent book, "Becoming Frozen."

2007: I returned the the Su100 a second time with slightly better equipment — an old Raleigh hardtail with 26" Snowcat rims that I called "Snaux Bike." After only three miles, I tipped over and twisted my right knee. By the finish, every pedal stroke caused sharp pain. Shortly after I stopped, the joint locked up, and stayed that way for the better part of the next four months. I was eventually diagnosed with severe softening of the cartilage, a degenerative condition caused by overuse. My Ironman-triathlete doctor told me I'd have to deal with osteoarthritis for the rest of my life, and all but said my endurance racing days were probably over. I was 27 years old.

 2008: Ever since I moved to Alaska I'd been mesmerized by stories from the Iditarod Trail Invitational, and longed for my own experiences on the trail to McGrath. After the knee debacle of 2007, I knew I had to get out there before my knees gave up on me altogether. I was still young enough to overlook the true long-term implications of osteoarthritis, but I'd actually been convinced I had bad knees since my early 20s, and figured there wasn't much left to lose. Healing and training had for the most part gone well, and I was a bundle of raw anticipation when this photo was snapped on Seven Mile Lake, shortly after the start. The next six days were jarring and surreal, one of the truly transformative experiences of my life. I wrote a book about this race a few months after I finished, "Ghost Trails."

 2009: I went back to the Iditarod Trail Invitational to revisit the experience and perhaps correct the myriad of mistakes I made during my first run. I had more confidence and hubris this time around, and was almost in disbelief when I put my right foot through a hole in the ice on Flathorn Lake and plunged my whole leg in cold water. Temperatures were already below zero and I knew this was a serious setback just 25 miles into the race, but made a poor decision to continue to the next checkpoint before addressing it. The temperature would plunge to at least 30 below (and by many reports lower) as I pedaled up the Yentna River. By the time I reached Yentna Station, my foot was frozen, forcing me to withdraw from the race on the first day. In the years since this happened, my supposedly incurable knee pain has gone away completely, but I've come to believe that frostbite is forever. I kept all my toes, but still have nerve damage that causes poor circulation and pain.

2010: This is the only year of the past ten that I didn't revisit at least some portion of the Iditarod Trail. In December and January I'd fallen into a big funk — I think it's fair to call it depression. I finished writing my book about the 2009 Tour Divide — "Be Brave, Be Strong" — and through the reliving of that experience, decided endurance racing was to blame for the dissolution of my previous relationship as well as most of my unhappiness. These adventures were such encompassing and intense experiences that they resulted in a kind of disinterest and absenteeism in my everyday life. I had quietly, genuinely resolved to quit endurance racing for good, when I received an e-mail from an acquaintance, Ed Plumb, who was organizing a new race called the White Mountains 100. I thought, why not? I signed up, then didn't really train, didn't feel all that much dedication, and showed up in Fairbanks for what turned out to be another perspective-altering experience. After that I left Juneau, regathered my life in Anchorage, found a great job in Montana, and met Beat. The rest is history.

 2011: During the first year of our relationship, Beat and I had a pattern of daring each other away from our respective comfort zones into bigger and better adventures. The 2011 Susitna 100 was this for both of us — Beat's first winter race, and my first ultramarathon (not counting three 50Ks I ran as training for this 100-mile sled-dragging endeavor.) It ended up becoming, by far, the most epic of my four Susitna 100s — temperatures never rose above zero, and 30 mph winds drove the nighttime windchill down to -50 (and believe me, I'm one who strongly believes that "windchill counts.") Beat and I had the first big test of our relationship during this race. Shortly after the first sunset, my hands froze to the point that I couldn't use them at all, and needed Beat to help me zip up my jacket. This jarring experience prompted me to not stop moving until we reached Luce's Lodge, as Beat fell behind with his own issues. He was understandably upset with me about leaving him behind after we agreed to travel together, but I hadn't realized how far back he was (I thought when I looked back I could see his headlamp, but on the open river this can be quite far.) Later, around mile 70, after realizing that completing 100 miles on foot in one go is indeed *very* difficult, I had a huge meltdown about being in too much pain to finish. Beat took my bawling in stride, hung back and waited for me as I plodded along at 1.5 mph, and was very patient and sweet even after I abandoned him the night before. You could say the trials of the Susitna 100 cemented our bond. I moved to California a few weeks later.

 2012: True to my pattern, I wanted to return the the Susitna 100 on foot to correct the mistakes of the previous year. Beat was already irrevocably hooked on winter racing and preparing for his first Iditarod Trail Invitational. For a variety of reasons, I didn't think I'd return the ITI again, but the Su100 and White Mountains 100 had become great "nicotine patch" races to feed my addiction without diving in too deep. My fourth Susitna was a lot more relaxing and fun than the previous year, except for a poor decision I made in my footwear that resulted in badly swollen, macerated feet. I still met my goal of finishing under 36 hours.

 2013: This year was largely about supporting Beat in his first journey to Nome. Not actual support — which isn't allowed — but being there on the sidelines, sending him supply boxes, taking his sat phone calls and reporting his progress online. Really, it was an excuse for me to spend a month in Alaska doing fun things like a Denali Highway bike tour, the Chena River to Ridge marathon in Fairbanks, and the Homer Epic 100K. As Beat neared the finish, I flew to Nome for my first visit to western Alaska, with enough time to go for a few day rides on the Iditarod Trail. I'd always thought of western Alaska as this stark, featureless place — and admit it looks that way in this photo — but I was in awe of the rawness and beauty of the Bering Sea Coast. I was also humbled by its fierce weather. During the first ride, over Cape Nome and back, the temperature was -20. The following day — the day Beat finished — it was at least as cold with a strong north wind. I was shaken to the core by these rides. And sure enough, after all of my years of Alaska winter racing addiction, this is the first time I truly became interested in going all the way to Nome.

 2014: One again I signed up for the Iditarod Trail Invitational, this time traveling the first 350 miles with Beat on foot. It was strange to return to a rapidly-changing region that now sees frequent mid-winter rains, long snowless stretches, and heat waves that boost the temperature to 50 above, in Interior Alaska in early March. Don't get me wrong, we also experienced temperatures down to 20 below, but the heat presents unique challenges — especially when it comes to my biggest fear (open water), and the strength one needs to tug a 45-pound sled over dirt, roots, and tussocks for 50+ miles. Still, this was my most enjoyable experience on the Iditarod Trail. What really made this trip special is sharing it with others — Beat, our friend Steve, and Tim and Loreen Hewitt. Later in the year, Tim and I finished up a collaborative project about all of his amazing Iditarod adventures — "8,000 Miles Across Alaska." So there you have it — all of my books are effectively centered on the Iditarod Trail. I really should branch out.

2015: With the Nome dream firmly implanted, I decided to embark on a solo test run of sorts along the Bering Sea coast, starting in Unalakleet. From the outset I encountered the amazing north wind, which I expected, but the short version of the story is that it took me four full days to travel 60 miles to Little Mountain Cabin, and I was demolished by the time I reached it. Fighting shin-deep drifts into a 40-50 mph headwind all day drained every last molecule of energy from my body. I now feel like I have a better understanding of what it's like to walk to the South Pole, and why most Antarctic skiers only cover 8 to 15 miles a day. But because the work was so strenuous and taxing, and the windchill allowed for no stops whatsoever, I strongly doubted — and still do — my ability to survive a 40-mile sea ice crossing in that weather.  The thing about weather is that if one is patient, one can wait it out. I'd already decided to return to Anchorage and reconnect with Beat following a tragic event, but when I woke up the following day it was -5 and the wind was absent. It was a bright, beautiful, warm day — perhaps perfect for a run across the Norton Sound. Instead I turned around and pedaled the 60 miles back to Unalakleet in about 14 hours — which isn't record-breaking, but it was a lot more enjoyable than the four-day outbound trip.

I'd managed to re-boost my energy with some random items I'd purchased at the Shaktoolik village store after two dozen Iditarod mushers cleaned it out during the storm that had everyone hunkering down. As it was, I'd left Unalakleet with four days of food to travel, by bike, 100 miles to Koyuk. It wasn't nearly enough. I thought I'd erred strongly on the side of too much. But I had no real perspective of just how hard one mile can be, or how long it can take, even after ten years of this.

I learned a lot on my coast trip, and the main gist of that lesson is Alaska is very big, and I am very small and very, very weak — which is really the same lesson I've been re-learning since 2006. The difference is, before I always felt some empowerment by my ability to mentally muscle my way through problems and overcome obstacles, but my recent breathing difficulties have added a new, much deeper layer of uncertainty. Still, I feel better equipped to head out there and make better decisions, even if they're not the preferred decisions. Any day on the Iditarod Trail is a gift, because many of the days I've had out there are among the best of my life.

November is lovely

Date: Nov. 10, 11, 13 and 14
Mileage: 17.0, 28.4, 60.3 and 22.1
November mileage: 401.4

November is one of the many months of Juneau in which you can have it all within the span of a three-hour ride: Rain, sleet, snain, snow, full-on blizzards, wind gusts that will suck the air right out of your lungs, more rain. That's essentially been the theme of my training this week: Mastering the art of the all-weather ride. After getting knocked around by wind on the Glacier Highway today (literally knocked around, in way that threatened to blow me into traffic), I opted to head up the Perseverance Trail even though I was riding my ice bike. I got caught in a blizzard and about six inches of new, wet, unrideable-with-skinny-tires snow. Common sense would dictate I turn around, but I thought - "eh, need to get a feel for these conditions. It'll make me tough." So I slogged through it to the top even though the work itself wasn't as strenuous as the activity level I was shooting for would have been. Now I'm headed to the gym for weight lifting and a more strenuous, less punishing interval session on the elliptical machine.

But I just wanted to write a quick blog post and thank everyone who bought my book so far. The response has been better than I anticipated given there was no build-up for it ... I pretty much just dropped it out there on Thursday. I've always been a bit dubious about the idea of bloggers writing books - the whole "why buy the cow" philosophy. But the support so far has been encouraging. You guys are the greatest!

For those who were thinking of purchasing a copy but found the shipping costs to be restrictive, I have an idea. Shoot me an e-mail at jillhomer66@hotmail.com and tell me where you live. I'll look up exact shipping costs from Juneau to your home and send you back a quote. If you decide you'd like a copy, you can pay me directly through Paypal (same e-mail address, or gold button in the sidebar of this blog) and I will send out for a bulk order on Monday. I can get a bulk discount that will offset the original shipping costs to me, so I think that should reduce the international shipping price quite a bit. Plus, I'll sign it.

Also, if you have a blog and are interested in reviewing the book, send me an e-mail or leave a comment with your blog site/contact info and I'll send you a low-res version of the eBook. (Not as nice as the one offered on the Web site, but perfectly readable on screen.)

I think an amazon.com listing is about six weeks away. But the publisher marketplace site really isn't so scary. Just think, for the price of a Subway extra value meal (or two, in the case of the paperback), you can have a month's worth of quality "Up in Alaska" material right at your fingertips. And you'll make me so happy. Go now! What are you waiting for? If you like the blog, you'll probably like the book. And if you don't like the blog, well, what are you doing here? (Click here instead.) ;-)

OK, that's enough of my marketing pitch. Back to you regularly scheduled bike punishment tomorrow.

Saturday again?

Time again for a weekly blog update? Occasionally I wonder if I'm going to become another one of those dinosaur bloggers who quietly fade to black (or that one post from six years ago that stays at the top of the page forever and ever. They always begin with: "Wow, so I haven't blogged in a while." And that's how it ends.) Most of the outdoor and cycling bloggers I used to follow back in the day now only update their sites infrequently if at all. I used to write in this space nearly every day; now it's closer to once a week. The blog is a dying medium, and I mourn that fact as much as anyone (As much as I use social media sites, they're all really just blogs with fewer choices in worse formats. I genuinely despise Instagram.) Still, it's admittedly become more difficult to maintain momentum, perhaps because of waning interest from readers, and departures of friends. Why must I love only outmoded communication mediums? (Oh, newspapers. I will stay loyal forever.)

I am finally getting to a point where I'm mostly done and satisfied with my latest book project (I have not yet written the final chapter. I like to wait until I've cut through all the previous chapters so I can try to wrap up the loose ends.) As usual, I'm unsure what I should do with this book. Should I move toward publishing? Should I pitch the manuscript to publishers? From a financial standpoint, I actually think self-publishing is the way to go. Traditional publishing advances have become almost laughably small, and the digital marketplace works best with fewer middlemen. Over the past few years, my books have brought in a small but steady income that multiplies with each book I release, because the older books' sales have stayed consistent. If I just had like ten or twelve of these out, rather than four, I might no longer need to work on spec or on contracts for newspapers. (Just kidding, newspapers. I love you, newspapers.) At the same time, I'd like to branch out to a different and possibly wider readership, and I think this project has that potential. But query letters — for anything — can seem like such a waste of time. Time that could be spent writing. (I should have finished so many more books by now. But I really do agonize over these projects. I'm not quite capable of just cranking them out.)

On the Jill Outside front: My resolve to ride Snoots throughout the month of February prompted me to discover a few new backyard trails. I routinely ride my road bike during the week, but didn't want to slog out my usual pavement routes on the fat bike. Instead I headed to Fremont Older, which is a small open space preserve only 2.5 miles from my building. Despite its proximity to home, I usually just pass by here en route to other places, and in four years I'd never even visited the southern half of the park. As it turns out this was an unforgivable oversight — Fremont Older offers a tight little network of swoopy singletrack, rolling hills, and lovely overlooks. There are also some quad-busting climbs. The access trail gains 550 feet in one mile, and I plan to return at least once a week to ride hill repeats on that segment. After all, the purpose of riding Snoots in California is to build better big-bike strength. Churning through loose gravel up steep hills is the best I can do to mimic difficult snow conditions in Alaska. However, it's tough to pass up everything else Fremont Older has to offer — contouring grassy hillsides and gawking at the Santa Clara Valley bathed in evening light.

Recently, discovered that I'm higher on the White Mountains 100 wait list than I expected to be. I'm second on the list and there are twelve runners, which means that if I show up in Fairbanks in late March, I have a reasonable (but not certain) chance of landing a spot in the race. I'm almost embarrassed to admit how excited I became upon learning this. If I had to make Vegas odds, I'd place the chance of honing in on a no-show at about 20 percent. And it involves planning travel to Fairbanks (although this trip would be fairly easy to make as an extra leg between Nome and Anchorage.) So ... it's a long shot. Still, my reaction was, "Oh, I need to start training!" And suddenly, I had invented a valid excuse to embark on weekend long runs. Yay!

Between Sunday and Friday I managed 40 miles this week, starting with a great 18-mile loop along redwood-shaded singletrack above Woodside with Beat and Steve. Beat and I embarked on another superb run together on Thursday — 10 miles to the 2,800-foot summit of Black Mountain and back amid 40 mph gusts. A Pineapple Express storm was barreling toward the Bay Area, and we were plowing directly into a wall of wind. I ran a fairly easy pace and managed to keep up with Beat until the final steep pitch, and logged my fastest time yet (1:56 — first under two hours) for the round trip.

On Friday the storm rained down with a vengeance and I ran seven miles in precipitation falling at at rate of 0.5 inches per hour. I was so drenched that my baggy running shorts rode up above my underwear line and would not go back down, and I had to wring out some things before I could walk back into the building. I can't say I want to go back to having this kind of weather be a part of my life most of the time (cough, Juneau) ... but I sure do miss it. And every Californian knows we need it.

Beat and I signed up for the Golden Gate 50K on Sunday, which is expected to see a combination of this heavy drenching rain and high winds (two inches of rain and 60 mph gusts are both in the forecast for the coastal mountains north of San Francisco.) I am also inexplicably excited about the prospect of a long muddy slog amid all this interesting weather. Being drenched in 55 degree weather with that kind of windchill is sure to provide a tricky gear challenge. I might even need to pack a hat and gloves.

Some people train so they can race. I'm the kind of person who races so I can train. I realize that I could "train" as much as I want without needing an end goal. But I maintain that the end goal is the best part. It keeps a sort of narrative playing in the background — a promise of great adventure that lies just beyond the end of this 5.6-mile Tuesday loop that you really don't feel like doing this week. But if the promise of adventure is out there, you can feel yourself running toward it, relishing the sweet spring flavors in the air, feeling the soft mud give under your feet, and scheming an intriguing 50K route for Valentine's weekend. Because, training.

Even if the White Mountains 100 doesn't pan out, I'm already pretty stoked on February. 

Updates

Beat and I went mountain biking today. It was blissful. The hills were green and alive. The trails were tacky and muddy. Biking felt great after all the running. I ran five days this week, 36 miles total (slowly, but it was all running, even up steeper hills.) Now my legs are finally sore, which is a definite improvement over inexplicable shiftlessness. Biking is hard, too. I just want to have power again, to pedal strong, and to run until my muscles actually hurt, rather than feel like my body isn't listening to me and is instead being defiantly lazy. Beat is in great shape compared to me; I just have to conclude that walking to Nome is good for you.

I'm not sure what's wrong with me. I don't think this is a rest issue, necessarily. I felt worse after a full day of rest (during a 6.5-mile run Wednesday) than I did today during a three-hour bike ride, one day after a hilly 9-mile run. Plus, it felt great to get out today, and breathe some fresh air after what feels like a week spent indoors (it's strange that I feel this way, given that I went outside for at least an hour most every day. But compared to my lifestyle last month in Alaska, this is a readjustment to a more anchored and indoor-based routine. Essentially, I need to go outside to stay emotionally healthy. The physical stuff is not as big of a concern for me, although I'd like to figure out why I feel so weak. I think it might be time to get the heart-rate monitor out and start doing some short bike intervals, to give me a chance to push the red line without that looming injury threat. Maybe that will get the adrenal system back online.

Keith taking a break from the daily grind of his job

In a recent comment, long-time reader Ingunn asked for a few updates about injured friends that I wrote about here. I suppose if I'm going to publicize the grizzly stories of my friends' injuries, I should follow up with the happy endings. The first is my friend Keith Brodsky from Banff, who was rear-ended by a motorcyclist while we were road biking in Yosemite last May. Keith suffered a lumbar fracture and a few other more minor injuries, and spent a quiet summer recovering from a broken back. But Keith made a full recovery and has been back at it for months. I believe he started biking again last October. He spent the winter working for a heli-ski company in the Canadian Rockies, and ski touring around Banff on his days off. Basically, Keith has been doing what Keith does best — living the dream in paradise. His wife, Leslie, completed her Pacific Crest Trail hike in November, and they have plans to bike tour around Utah in May.

Liehann at the 25 Hours of Frog Hollow

My friend Liehann, who crashed his bike on a pedestrian bridge and broke his femur in five pieces back in January, is also recovering quickly. He's back on the bike, although he's still taking it easy and mostly sticking to roads for now. It also will be at least three more months before he can run again. But he's still considering riding the Tour Divide in 2014, and may even feel strong enough for a longer bikepacking race later this summer.

And finally, Ingunn asked about my book projects. It will probably come as a surprise to no one that I accomplished close to zero progress on my books while I was in Alaska. I fear I may have even made backwards progress on my "Becoming Frozen" book project. After the Homer Epic, I spent a few extra days in Homer and had ample time to wander around on my swollen feet and ponder the words I've been writing about it. Of course I came to the conclusion that it's "wrong, all wrong." Since then I've been revisiting some of the early chapters to see where my visions diverge.

Oh, Homer. Why are my memories of you
so vivid and yet so hard to nail down with words?

This is an ongoing dilemma I've been having in my writing lately — I begin to disagree with certain aspects of it and want to dramatically change things around before I've even given my project a chance by simply finishing a draft. In other words, I hate almost everything I write. I didn't always have this problem, and I feel the need to do some serious self-evaluation about what's changed. I think part of the issue is the way I've turned myself into a "publisher" of sorts. Back before I wrote "books," writing was fairly effortless. "Ghost Trails" was initially intended to be a personal journaling project rather than a book. I wrote "Be Brave, Be Strong" as a sort of escapist coping mechanism when I was going through a tough personal time in early 2010. Those stories just flowed out and took almost no time to actually write. Now I can't look at anything I do without that intimidating "publication" threat looming over me, and it does create a mental block.

I need to get back to my roots of "writing for me," which is cliche but that's why I started these memoir projects in the first place. Who cares if they ever see the light of day? I mean, clearly I care, but that's not the reason I should be writing them. I do have some non-memoir nonfiction projects in the works, and also two potential collaborative projects, which I hope to start in the near future.

So there are my updates for now. I appreciate reader requests for content. They help me get around occasional blogger's block.

Winter of discontent

Cache Mountain Divide during the 2012 White Mountains 100: So bonked, so tired, so having the time of my life

In late February 2013, Beat is going to load up his sled and set out from Knik Lake, Alaska, and walk toward Nome — 1,000 miles on the Iditarod Trail. For many reasons, such an ambitious undertaking is well beyond my scope right now, and yet the desire to find an Alaska adventure of my own burns deep. On the whole, I'm an adaptable person who could happily change a lot about my life — but, as of yet, I feel unwilling to let go of my annual winter "pilgrimages" through the wildernesses of the Far North. Why this particular activity has become so deeply woven through the fabric of who I am, is still a mystery to me. But a winter without Alaska is still as unthinkable to me as a summer without mountain biking. If I *had* to choose one to give up, well ... most of my biking friends would probably not be happy with my answer.

Happily, Beat's month-long commitment to Nome will likely give me a lot of time to work with in winter 2012-2013. Less happily, my usual, convenient and fun solution of racing is not an option this year. The three races that have played the largest role in my personal development — the Susitna 100, the White Mountains 100, and the Iditarod Invitational 350 — are all unavailable to me this year. I do believe the Susitna 100 will be back someday, and I've mostly been able to let go of the ITI 350, but the White Mountains 100 lottery outcome has been hard for me to cheerfully accept. I admit I was one who didn't understand why some runners are so devastated when they fail to make it through the Western States or Hardrock 100 lotteries. What's the big deal? There are lots of other opportunities. But now I get it. It's hard when you've been part of a small community for three years, channeled so much effort and devotion toward one event, and suddenly you're shut out. I understand why it has to work that way. It's still hard.

So the question remains: What to do? I appreciate the votes on my blog poll. The results were interesting:

Rainy Pass during the 2008 ITI 350: So frightened, so destroyed, so loving every minute I'm alive

"Independent, self-supported bike tour of the Iditarod Trail from Knik Lake to McGrath," 107 votes (31%): A longer, self-supported snow bike tour in Alaska is something I've been considering since late 2009. The main reason I haven't followed through is because I moved away from Alaska, and now lack what I consider to be the necessary conditions to adequately prepare for such an adventure. Attempting 350 miles of the Iditarod Trail on my own would be, in my opinion, considerably more difficult than participating in the race. I would have to be absolutely prepared for every contingency because there are no bailouts. I would have to carry all of my food and fuel, at least seven days' worth, from the start. I would have to prepare for camping every night, in potentially horrific weather conditions. There are a few lodges in the early miles where I could book a room and buy a hot meal, but beyond mile 165, I would be deep in the wilderness and completely on my own. There's also the issue of the short window when such a tour is even possible. Basically, the whole Iditarod Trail only exists for a few short weeks in late February and March. It's almost impossible to plan an independent tour and not bump into either the human-powered or the dog sled races. These two race organizations do so much to facilitate the maintenance of the Iditarod Trail that I do feel it's important to not get in their way. For all of these reasons, I admit I'm still more intimidated by the prospect of such a tour than I am drawn to it.

One of my ideas when I first started considering this in 2009 was to launch an initial "shakedown tour" on the first 165 miles of the trail, closer to "civilization" but far enough out that I could still make a day trip over Rainy Pass and see a lot of amazing scenery. At this point, having never done a longer winter outdoor camping trip, this is probably a better idea. Another idea suggested by Phil in Nome was to fly out to a village much farther west on the Iditarod Trail, connect two points, and see some incredible and completely new-to-me country. This, in some ways, would be more manageable than a McGrath tour since I could mail myself food packages to all the villages along the way. I could arrange it to finish in Nome and wait for Beat there. This is also, of course, an intimidating and probably expensive prospect.

2012 "Pecha Kucha Mountain" fat bike weekend: All of the fun, none of the suffering.

"Snow bike or sled tour on the Denali Highway, Resurrection Pass, and other shorter routes in Alaska," 90 votes (26%): Yes, it is possible to have an adventure in the Far North without resorting to a big sufferfest. I admit I like the challenge of more "extreme" adventures, but I also like vacations that are driven toward fun. The awesome women who invited me on a snow bike tour of the Dawson Trail last March — Jenn and Sierra in Whitehorse, and Jill in Anchorage — are all interested in putting together another tour this winter. One idea I had was the Denali Highway, 135 miles of somewhat maintained snowmobile trail in the shadow of the eastern Alaska Range. There are two lodges along the way to help minimize the suffering, although there is one 65-mile stretch with no commercial structures. Depending on weather and trail conditions, this could either be a very long day or a long two days. I'm not sure how far my friends want to venture into the suffer zone.

There are other possibilities for great tours as well — the 48-mile wilderness trail on Resurrection Pass, snowmobile trails around Homer, and the Denali Park Road, although I'm not sure whether that's maintained at all during the winter. There's also the White Mountains loop in Fairbanks, and of course lots of options in the Susitna Valley. I could certainly spend a happy month seeking out 2- to 3-night snow bike and snowshoe/sled tours, working on my book, riding my Fatback around Anchorage, and hiking a few small mountains. Wait ... why am I considering anything else? Oh, yeah, because I would genuinely miss my annual slogfest. If nothing else, I'm likely to be very lazy the rest of the winter with nothing to train for.

The Dawson Overland Trail, home of the Yukon Quest and Yukon Arctic Ultra. It is beautiful.

"Suck up the exorbitant fee and run the Yukon Arctic Ultra on foot," 45 votes (13%): This is one race I would love a shot at running. Paying for it, however, is not nearly as enticing. For whatever reason, the YAU is considerably more expensive than any other winter race I've participated in, and I mean considerably. The price of the 100-mile event is basically insulting. The 300-mile or 430-mile events might be more justifiable, but again, these distances would be extremely hard, especially because if I race this winter, I want to do so on foot. The YAU is notorious for cold weather and bad trail, enough that winter cyclists have all but abandoned this race (I looked at the results from last year, and they were all runners and skiers.) Plus, it's in early February, so it takes place before I'm going to be in Alaska, making travel another considerable expense. As much as I'd love to run this race, it's out of my price range this year. Perhaps my Yukon friends and I will be able to organize another independent trip on the Dawson Overland Trail, which I'd love to see again. I will mention in this section that I am strongly considering registering for the Homer Epic 100K. It's an awesome course that utilizes the snowmobile trails where I used to ride my mountain bike when I lived in Homer. However, regardless of how I approach that race, I'm not sure it will become a focus.

Walking the Yentna River in December 2011: I will say this, there's a lot of time to think out there. 

"Buckle down and finish writing a book for crying out loud," 57 votes (16%): I'm happy that this option received even more votes than the single winter racing option in my poll. It means there are a few out there who care whether or not I ever actually finish my book project(s). With all the fresh inspiration I was seeking in Utah, I've been trying to sit down and work on it this week. It's tough to explain, but my mind feels so "mushy" much of the time and my writer's block persists. I'm convinced this is a result of devoting so much energy to my outdoor pursuits and travel, and also having what is in reality so much time to work on my writing. I'm a journalist; I honestly work better under impossible deadlines. Well, this winter I'm vowing to set some impossible deadlines for myself. Having no sufferfest to train for might, in the end, be the best thing for me. This isn't to say I'm giving up on the possibility of a longer tour. But maybe it won't be so devastating if it can't happen.

"Experiment with speed work and see if I have a 'fast' 50K in the old legs," 23 votes (6%): I mentioned in my last blog post that I wouldn't mind aiming for a ~5:30 50K, acknowledging that I would need to focus my training in order to achieve this. This and the Homer Epic 100K could the efforts I train for in California while planning other short Alaska adventures. The problem is, the race I'd like to train for, Crystal Springs 50K, is in early January — right after Beat and I return from a dark and cold training weekend in Fairbanks. It's not the ideal taper for a fast 50K. I might look into other trail races and keep this possibility on the table.

The Douglas Island Ridge in Juneau, Alaska, in November 2009: Fleeting beauty worth experiencing

"Nothing, winter is for hibernating," 15 votes (4%): We'll just have to agree to disagree.

All the live-long day

So what makes for a tougher, more physically taxing day: An eight-hour trail run or eight hours of hard-labor trail work? I got this question a few times during our Saturday stint with the Tahoe Rim Trail work crew. And honestly, unless you're better trained for the effort of guiding 600-pound boulders down a 50-degree sandy slope for 100 meters without losing them in a clattering tumble while screaming "Rock! Rock!" ... I'd be inclined to say the latter is the harder effort.

We met up with the crew in a casino parking lot in Stateline, Nevada, and made our way up a brand new, yet-to-be-opened connector trail to the TRT. We donned hard hats, work boots, and leather gloves and marched up the beautifully sculpted trail until we reached a point where it resembled more of a mountain goat track along a rugged sideslope. This is the point where we set up shop. The only trail work I've participated in the past all involved minor maintenance — clearing away brush, chopping out limbs, moving deadfall, that sort of thing. I've never actually built a trail. So when I was assigned to the "rock wall crew," I didn't think anything of it.

As it turns out, the on-trail construction of rock walls is nothing like I imagined it, which was admittedly more in line with laying perfectly symmetrical bricks in pre-mixed mortar. No, in real on-trail rock wall construction, you are given a pick ax and a very heavy iron prying tool, and pointed in the general direction of a very steep slope were you must gather all of your building materials, which you must move using brute force with a little help from gravity. And you can't use just any rock — they have to be rectangular, with flat bottoms, solid granite, and about the size of a carry-on suitcase. Eventually you have to go very far up the mountain to find such rocks. Then, not only do you have to guide them safely down the mountain, you also have to position them perfectly in place, somehow, without straining your back or scraping your arms or bruising your foot or jamming your finger. Beat and I were both unsuccessful in this regard, and sustained a number of small injuries.

Once all the big stones were in place, we had to gather up piles of smaller stones and crush them into fill for our trail. I dripped sweat and gasped for oxygen as I skittered up and down the steep slope gathering rocks, but Beat really had the tougher job with the sledge hammer. At least he looked good in the process.

Sweaty and completely coated in dirt at the end of eight hours, our crew of five paused briefly to enjoy our creation — about 50 feet of new trail. Fifty feet. I tell you, I am never going to look at a rock-lined section of trail the same way. It's truly amazing how much labor goes into trail creation, and I'm glad I had this fun experience to give me a new appreciation for trails and the people who build them.

The evening brought a beautiful summer sunset over Tahoe Lake that we were almost to knackered to enjoy. But we did rally for a short walk near the beach.

On Sunday morning we set out to enjoy miles of other people's labor on the Tahoe Rim Trail near Castle Rock. I saw an uncountable number of rock walls along the trail, and could only shake my head in disbelief. The trail was perfect for running — rolling and smooth with just enough rocks and boulders to keep you on your toes. The fact that this trail is so runnable, yet still fairly steep and somewhat technical, is going to make for a uniquely tough challenge for the Tahoe Rim Trail 100 next month. I'm probably going to be tempted to run more often than I should over that distance. Not to mention the elevation averages about 8,000 feet. I could feel the thin air more during the trail work yesterday than I could running today, but still ... this is going to be a fantastically tough race. I really need to log some running miles this week and start working on getting my head in that game.

Finally, I was amazed to come back and see how many people commented on my last post over the weekend. It was really fun to see the different connections — it seems a large number arrived here either through fat bike interest, my 2007 NPR commentary or the Fat Cyclist, and it's awesome to see so many of you stuck around all these years, even after I moved away from Alaska. It was also fun to see greetings from old friends and also familiar names from the "way back" days of my Homer posts. Thanks to everyone who took the time to comment. I used an online random number generator to draw three names for the book giveaway. I listed the names and comments below. If this is you, please e-mail me at jillhomer@arcticglasspress.com with your address and I will send you a copy of my new book, "Be Brave, Be Strong: A Journey Across the Great Divide," which, incidentally, just became available in paperback on Amazon. I'm awaiting my own shipment and expect to have signed copies available by the end of the week. Check back!

Winners of the book giveaway:

KB: "I found your blog in 2008 via a link on another mountain biker's blog. You probably don't remember but you helped me decide to buy a snowbike by answering my questions about how well one *really* works. I've adored it (a Fatback) and ride all winter long on the Colorado trails."

Carol: "Hi Jill, I found your blog the summer of 2009 while doing a Google search on Alaska for places to live. I was wrapping up nursing school at the time and live in the brutally hot city of Phoenix. I was overwhelmed with endless assignments and clinical rotations and unable to make the trek to the mountains in Flagstaff to cool off. I found your blog while you were riding the Divide. I went back and read every posting you had written. Being stuck in school at the time I was so envious of your freedom and sense of adventure and was able to live virtually through your blog. Thank you so much for sharing the incredible stories and photos of your adventurous life with all of us!"

Shannon P: "I've been following your blog since um, not sure really! it was still "Up in AK" back when I found it, and I was researching fatbikes (aren't pugs grand?)...loved the pics, attitude, and exploits and have been reading every since!"

In this trembling moment

“In this trembling moment ... is it still possible to face the gathering darkness and say to the physical earth, and to all its creatures, including ourselves, fiercely and without embarrassment, I love you, and to embrace fearlessly the burning world?”

— Barry Lopez

I'm still not sure what I want to do with this old blog, but I still feel compelled to check in from time to time if only to record my slow descent into madness. Friends have asked me if I'm doing better, and the truth is, I'm not. Insomnia and anxiety have been a major battle, and don't know which one leads to the other or whether it even matters. Each morning arrives after a fair to poor night of sleep, and I immediately feel overwhelmed with irrational but powerful negative emotions that I must wrestle with to get through each day. I believe I'm still succeeding on a functional level. But I am so very tired, and it's becoming harder not to, say, burst into tears during Saturday morning yoga class. 

A physical comparison I could make is that it feels like I am at mile 10 of a difficult 100-mile ultramarathon and my legs are already screaming at me. I am still able to effectively say "shut up legs," but it's almost impossible to conceive how I'm going to push through this pain all the way to the end. Similarly, it's difficult to conceive how I'm going to remain fully functional through the end of this year unless I can turn things around. I don't want to be overdramatic, but this is genuinely how I feel, and I want to convey as well as I can that no, I'm not okay. 

I have been working on myself. The beginning of 2023 spurred changes to my wellness routine including twice-weekly weight training and once-weekly restorative yoga (I love yoga. I'm about 6% competent but I love it and wish I could make room for more in-person classes.) I've been meeting online with a therapist who prompted me to cut my caffeine intake to one cup of coffee per day (about a third to a quarter of what I was taking in before) and do a nightly muscle relaxation exercise, which generally works better for me than sedentary meditation. 

She also encouraged me to start wearing my Garmin watch all of the time to better track my body metrics. I've only been doing this for a week, and while many metrics are not surprising (yes, I believe I'm starting each day with my body battery at 30% and yes, I would rate that sleep as "poor"), it did show a sharp drop in my oxygen saturation while I'm sleeping — sometimes as low as 83%. While I don't know how accurate this is, now I have sleep apnea or another form of sleep hypoxemia as another concern. It's another question I intend to bring to my doctor when I finally see her for all of the 15 minutes I'll probably get after waiting for an appointment for three weeks. Also on that list of questions are perimenopause, subclinical hypothyroidism, and antidepressants. 

I'm dreading this conversation more than I can convey and almost wish I could just ask for a medically induced coma to get me through my 40s. This daydream leads to admonishing myself for wishing away my one wild and precious life. But when you can't sleep, when you really can't sleep ... there's nothing in the world you wish for more. 

I have been leaning a little hard on exercise; physical activity is still the one state in which I feel mostly "normal." I'm not spending more time exercising than I was back when I was training for things, but I am already so very tired and admit that I am not fully listening to my body when it tells me I should dial back the intensity of my efforts. 

A couple of weeks ago, there were rumors of stellar trail conditions in the local mountains, so I excitedly packed up my fat bike and set an early alarm. My total amount of sleep was about two hours when the alarm went off, so I turned it off and instead snoozed several hours of morning daylight away. Waking up, I was filled with loathing and dread and couldn't bear the thought of driving into the mountains. But I also needed something to cope, so I used the excuse of a hard-to-get Zwift "badge" to spend the entire day riding my bike trainer. 

I logged 110 "miles" of mindless spinning. It was great. I felt a lot better. But does this sort of thing come with a price? Undoubtedly it does. But don't worry about me just yet; there aren't many days that I can find the time and energy for such exhaustive efforts. My watch still records my training status as "productive." But when another sleepless night passes into a depleted-battery morning, I'm right back where I started. 

One week later, I successfully boosted myself out the door for an excursion in Rocky Mountain National Park. Morning sunlight saturated the mountain skyline as I drove through Estes Park. Just past the park boundary, I caught a glimpse of a bald white slope speckled with blackened stumps — remnants of the 2020 East Troublesome Fire. Seeing this burn scar sent a shudder of sadness down my spine. I was deeply affected by that fire even though it didn't touch me at all. But I was paying attention on the October night when a wind-driven flare scorched 100,000 acres in fewer than 12 hours and jumped two miles of treeless tundra across the Continental Divide. Countless people assure me that wildfire is natural, but these late-fall megafires are anything but natural. There is growing evidence that Colorado's warming climate will not allow burned forests to return to their previous state — at least at mid-range altitudes. I live in the midst of hillsides that burned in 2000 — 23 years ago — where the trees haven't even begun to grow back. I'm just not a person who can cling to hope without evidence. The evidence points to a landscape that is rapidly and permanently changing. 

Stung with unexpected sadness, I continued toward Bear Lake. The gravelly voice of my anxiety whispered that this was too much and I should just turn around and go home. My stormy mind was deep in rumination when a dog darted out of the snow bank and galloped beside my car. As I slowed, the animal veered in front of me and I realized it was a coyote. What was it doing? I slowed some more to allow it to veer back into the woods, but it also slowed its pace and looked back. As I sped up again to capture this photo with my phone, it also picked up the pace but held steady on the double yellow line. We continued in this push and pull for more than a mile before the coyote veered off to the left and I was able to safely pass. Was it playing chase with my car? I'll never know, but the interaction did bring my head back to center. 

"Existential loneliness and a sense that one's life is inconsequential, both of which are hallmarks of modern civilizations, seem to me to derive in part from our abandoning a belief in the therapeutic dimensions of a relationship with place."

— Barry Lopez

Sometimes I feel ashamed over the depth of sadness I feel when I see a wildfire scar or images of Juneau's Mendenhall Glacier, shockingly diminished from photos I captured myself in the recent-seeming year of 2007. After all, this is the nature of things. All is impermanent, and grief only arises from our unwillingness to accept change. Still, I feel these losses as though I've lost a piece of myself. I feel it in the way I feel my own time slipping away. 

Acceptance, I know, is the only path to peace, and yet it's so hard to find. But in searching for acceptance, I have come to better understand how my difficulties with my mental health are anchored in grief — for the people in my life who I have loved and lost, for myself, and for the land. 

I stepped out of my car into the hard wind that nearly always rakes these canyons on the sharp edge of the Continental Divide. The wind is such a constant that even lake ice freezes in a rippled pattern. It's such a constant that if you spent all of your time here, you'd eventually stop noticing the wind. It would become its own comfort, and calm would feel eerie and strange. I sometimes wonder — if I had to choose a single, small place to spend the rest of my life, where that might be. I fall in love with nearly every place I visit, so it seems impossible to choose, but Rocky Mountain National Park might be near the top of the list. It — like any place really — could offer a lifetime of exploring and still yield countless discoveries. The weather is fearsome year-round, the terrain steep and frightening, and it's difficult to imagine ever feeling fully comfortable here. And yet if all I had was time, I can imagine becoming burned into this land. 

I strapped on snowshoes and started an audiobook. I had just finished "Arctic Dreams" by Barry Lopez, which I first read as a college freshman and remembered loving. The landscape, culture, and history of the Arctic were so alien to me at the time. Lopez's observations were enthralling. I wondered how I'd feel about the book as a jaded adult who had forged my own impressions of the Far North. I still loved the lyrical prose, but the book did leave me feeling more sad than enthralled. Perhaps it's just my current mental state, but there's also an element of "Arctic Dreams" — published in 1986 — that reads as a eulogy to a time and place already gone. 

Still, I enjoyed listening to "Arctic Dreams," so I purchased another book of essays by Lopez, published posthumously last year — "Embrace Fearlessly the Burning World." The title alone told me exactly what I wanted to hear, so I looked forward to diving in. 

"Evidence of the failure to love is everywhere around us. To contemplate what it is to love today brings us up against reefs of darkness and walls of despair. If we are to manage the havoc — ocean acidification, corporate malfeasance and government corruption, endless war — we have to reimagine what it means to live lives that matter, or we will only continue to push on with the unwarranted hope that things will work out."

— Barry Lopez

Life is easy when I am walking. Even when a cold wind sweeps down the mountainside, even when my snowshoe-laden feet bog down in stiff powder, even when hours pass and I run low on water and need to sprawl atop a precarious snowbank to dip my bottle beneath the ice of a swirling creek. All I had to do on this Friday was walk, listen to Lopez's soothing words, and believe they were written for me — a person who is trembling beneath the weight of life's uncertainties, who already feels crushed by grief while knowing so much more lies ahead, who can't take comfort in unwarranted hope. Lopez knew he was dying from prostate cancer when he wrote several of the essays in this book. The Covid-19 pandemic was already underway and the landscapes he explored in "Arctic Dreams" already drastically altered by climate change. His words read as those of a wisened elder exiting a breaking world — but also an optimist who is straining with all of his remaining energy to find the light shining through the cracks. 

While punching a trail toward a hanging lake called Sky Pond, I ventured too far up a steep slope and realized later than ideal that this was not a good idea. I had resolved not to hike into potential avalanche terrain or any slope that would require crampons and an ice ax. This was just such a slope. Normally my fear response would alert me sooner, but I am not receiving my usual signals right now. Feeling afraid of everything also means, in a way, I am afraid of nothing. Dangers and non-dangers alike fire the same synapses. Suddenly aware and humbled, I carefully picked my way back down the slope.  

"To survive what's headed our way — global climate disruption, a new pandemic, additional authoritarian governments — and to endure, we will have to stretch our imaginations. We will need to trust each other, because today, it's as if every safe place has melted into the sameness of water. We are searching for the boats we forgot to build."

— Barry Lopez

As real fatigue set in, my ability to concentrate flagged so I switched off the audiobook player. The roar of the wind returned — at first jarring, but soon it too faded to white noise.

"We can become accustomed to anything," I thought. "I need to keep that in mind." 

I descended the gorge below Loch Vale and veered up Glacier Gorge proper to tag Mills Lake and Black Lake. His Majesty, Longs Peak, loomed overhead. I find great comfort in mountains — visible reminders of what will remain long after our human machinations have flared and faded. But mountains are not eternal; even they are constantly changing. In a paradoxical way, I take comfort in this too. Everything is impermanent, forever in flux. This is the way of things, and that's okay.

“The central project of my adult life as a writer is to know and love what we have been given, and to urge others to do the same.”

— Barry Lopez

I put Lopez's book away for another week of busyness and anxiety, but Friday rolled around and I again craved his gentle urging to pay attention and respect the places I love, which are all of the places. The forecast also called for a clear day with mild temperatures and light winds, which inspired me to finally take my fat bike for that ride I couldn't get out of bed for two weeks earlier. 

While gorgeous and fun, riding a fat bike around the trails at Brainard Lake and Peaceful Valley is an endeavor I can muster the mental energy for only once or twice a year. Nothing comes for free here, absolutely nothing. The trails are ungroomed, ski-packed, narrow, and technical. Roots and rocks will catch you unaware in wind-scoured open areas. In the woods, a shimmy of the handlebars might leave you neck-deep in a tree well. I accepted long ago that I'm not a "mountain biker." I far prefer grinding the pedals on a mindless gravel climb over wrestling with my bike along a technical descent. Still, I do enjoy this activity in small doses. 

Brainard was a somewhat odd choice to make when I am battling so much brain fog and desperate to avoid stress. Still, I took advantage of the relative fearlessness of flatlined anxiety to rally for the twisting descent of South St. Vrain. A jolt of electricity buzzed in my veins. Is this adrenaline? Joy? It feels like it has been so long. I was beginning to worry I'd lost the capacity for such highs. 

The exhilerating descent and unfathomably blue day inspired another long climb to the edge of the wilderness boundary at Coney Flats. Really, it's only 1,500 feet of climbing in five miles, which my Zwift-addled brain tells me should take about 30 minutes. The reality of riding atop barely consolidated, narrow snow with < 3 psi in each tire was more than two hours, and I was expending far more calories than I realized. Despite temperatures near freezing with an afternoon breeze spiking to 20 mph, I had stripped to my base layer and was still dripping sweat onto my pogies. I loved losing myself in this demanding climb, but all things have their price. 

“Perhaps the first rule of everything we endeavor to do is to pay attention.”

— Barry Lopez

The fat bike made fast work of the descent, and then it was time to climb back to Brainard on the Sourdough Trail. A mere 1,000 feet of climbing in seven miles. Easy peasy. So imagine my confusion when, after a brief descent about two miles into the climb, I began to feel disoriented, dizzy, and nauseated. I stopped pedaling and took a few sips of water, but the woods continued spinning. What ... is happening? Is this a bonk? An actual bonk? It's been so long since this happened. Admittedly my base of endurance runs so deep that I didn't even think it was possible for me to truly bonk anymore — my central governor is very reliable and my body knows where to find the energy. But here I was, five miles from my car, utterly out of gas. 

I was too nauseated to eat much, but I did have energy chews in my frame bag and I was able to get most of them down. Still, the damage was done. I stumbled along dizzily, pressed against my bike as though this reasonably graded trail was a sheer wall. I took long breaks to gasp for air. I drank the rest of my water. Nothing was working. After several hours that my GPS told me was in reality just one mile, I threw both body and bike into the snow like the overtired toddler I had become and indulged in an absolute meltdown.

Yelling, swearing, crying. The works. But I got it all out and afterward, I felt an odd, peaceful sort of clarity. The day's light had grown rich, the shadows long. Was it already late afternoon? Was this 24-mile ride really going to take seven hours? Yes, yes it was. And I still had a long way to go. Four miles. An eternity. But that's okay. As in all things, we keep pushing forward because there's no other choice. 

I had long since turned off my audiobook when it became apparent that I needed all of my bandwidth to focus on the trail. But now that I was walking at a very slow pace, I took Lopez's advice to pay attention. I looked for tracks in the snow — rabbit and what appeared to be a fox or perhaps a bobcat. I listened to gusts of wind, rippling through the forest like sharp exhalations. I studied needles still holding onto flecks of snow despite days of wind and sun. This place is so very beautiful, and I was so lucky to be there, right there, experiencing this burst of life between dust and fire.

Just months before his death, Lopez watched as 170,000 acres of the land where he lived for half a century burned in The McKenzie Fire in Oregon.

"The land around us as far as we can see looks flayed," he wrote in a Facebook post on Nov. 5, 2020. "For 10 miles in both directions along the river from us, all that stands where a whole community once lived are bare chimneys. The devastation for some is catastrophic and irreparable."

It was the last post to appear on his public page.

 "It is more important to live for the possibilities that lie ahead than to die in despair over what has been lost."

— Barry Lopez, 1945-2020