Should've known I gotta get this off my chest

Friday, Nov. 4, 2022. On my way to Bear Peak

On Nov. 3, 2022, this blog turned a staggering and somewhat embarrassing 17 years old. I distinctly remember the day I launched it, from a desktop PC wedged into the corner of our cabin loft in the bluffs above Homer, Alaska. It was a blustery November evening, a Thursday, and I was still thawing out from an evening flail through the darkness on cross-country skis — a sport I was never going to mesh with. My then-boyfriend had taken a gorgeous photo with our shared 2.1-megapixel digital camera, that showed fresh snow coating the forested hills behind our house with the sunlit Kenai Mountains glistening in the background. I wanted to share the photo, but my strategy of mass e-mailing everyone in my address book had recently been blasted by an acquaintance who admonished me to stop “bragging all of the time about your great new life in Alaska.” 

But that was exactly what I wanted to do. And 2005 offered the most perfect social media platform ever created, before or since. After 10 minutes of online searching, I landed on Blogger.com, and within 30 minutes had a brand new Web site, “Arctic Glass” — my own misinterpretation of a Modest Mouse lyric that I’d grown to love for its simple evocation of beauty. 

 “So this is my new online journal about moving to Homer, Alaska — a place where it snows in October, where moose traipse through my backyard, and where everyone can spell my last name but if you can’t spell “Xtratuf,” well, so help you God.” 

 I’d been an Alaska resident for all of two months and was already certain I’d live there forever. My life was going to be amazing, full of summer’s endless sunlight, autumn snow, coaxing my underpowered sedan along snow-packed roads, weekend adventures, and moonlit skis … although I still hoped to find a winter sport that was better balanced between the tedium and terror of skiing. Fat bikes weren’t yet a gleam in my eye, nor was endurance racing, the Iditarod Trail, the Tour Divide, ultrarunning, Montana, California, Colorado. Launching this blog, in many ways, launched all of that. 

Friday, Nov. 18, 2022. Ethereal November snow returns. 

Exactly 17 years later, I was sprawled under a weighted blanket on the floor of my current loft in the foothills above Boulder, Colorado. It was a cloudy November dawn, a Thursday, and I’d been awake for sleepless hours searching online for therapists in the region. The prospect is bleak right now — so many people are in crisis and no one is available to help. The weighted blanket was a paradoxically comforting embodiment of the way I was feeling — pinned down, flat, vaguely anxious about nothing and everything all at once, and tired of myself. So tired. Bone tired. I wondered how anyone can aspire to live forever when I couldn’t even make it 43 years without daydreaming about a future when my molecules will become rocks or trees or rabbits or anything else. 

A poet I admire, Elisa Gabbert, recently wrote on Twitter — the worst social media platform ever created — “I think writing gets harder as you get older for the simple reason that you’re sick of yourself.” 

 This. So much this. There’s no rule that anyone has to write *about* themselves, but I think writers are in denial if they believe they’re not projecting self into any genre they pursue. Still, what am I if not a writer? It’s the one identity I’ve always held. Even before I could read, I’d grasp Richard Scarry books and see myself in their pages. I could quit anything else in my life — cycling, ultrarunning, adventuring — and still be myself. But without writing, without a narrative thread to weave through the chaos of life, I may as well just be a rock or a tree or a rabbit. Therein lies the intrigue. 

Elisa tweeted, “I may fantasize about quitting writing (a kind of self-indulgent death wish), but what I really want to do is quit striving. I want to try not giving a shit.” 

 I hovered over a button on the neglected and decaying UI of Blogger.com. It read, simply, “Delete blog.” That’s all it would take. One click. Seventeen years. Poof. The thought was so enticing that I felt a dopamine rush, one of my first in a while. Sure, I’ve written much more than just blog posts in the past 17 years, but here in one place is my core, my history, my sanctuary. Thousands of hours of work. Removing it all would be a step into the unknown, an acknowledgment of a fresh start, not unlike dropping everything in my life to move to Alaska. But I couldn’t do it. I chickened out. I scrolled to a different button and changed the blog’s settings to “private” as a way to temporarily step back.  

Unsurprisingly, few people noticed that I knocked my blog offline. Since Nov. 3, I’ve received about three dozen messages, some personal and touching, mostly from people I’ve never met. After 17 years on a blog that once received upwards of 10,000 hits a day, the hiatus showed just how few readers remain. Even friends and family don’t check in anymore. But as I said, this was not surprising. No one reads blogs these days. All of that time, all of the tears, all of the joy and sadness — everything could be distilled into an unreadable string of hashtags over a pixelated image destined to disappear from Instagram Stories and no one would notice or care. 

 This is also a frequent source of angst for me, because seriously, why do writers bother? Any of us? There are a few who scrape income from their writing but the vast majority don’t. Even Elisa, a published essayist and poet who writes reviews for the New York Times, doesn’t think writing is really worth it. Writing is a compulsion. A sad one. But what choice do we have? 

Wednesday, Nov. 9, 2022. Not my best moment.

On Nov. 9, 2022, I laced up my favorite pair of trail runners and bounded out the door. It was a bright November morning, a Wednesday, moving into my favorite time of year. Daylight is short but gorgeous, saturated with rich color even in the middle of the day. The cool air is refreshing, the cold air invigorating. There’s no more pollen, no wildfire smoke. I can draw deep breaths into my lungs and luxuriate in this wealth of energy. 

Despite the inexplicably poor mental health that clouded most of the past month, I’d been running increasingly well. Waking up each morning to awful anxiety combined with a suffocating schedule — thrice-weekly allergy shots, medical and car appointments, chores, and an afternoon work shift — meant I had almost zero motivation to run. But I knew I needed it, so I created a routine. On Mondays, I ran Green Mountain. Fridays, SoBo or Bear. On weekends I usually rode my bike trainer, which yes — judge me because it doesn’t fit the narrative I’ve created for myself, but I needed the physical release without the mental stress of planning and executing a real adventure. 

Wednesday was swiftly becoming my favorite day of the week. On Wednesday, I ran Walker Ranch. My Wednesday Walker follows a 10-mile lollipop loop along a trail that I consider “mid-tech.” It’s entirely runnable but it’s not a stroller ramp; there are steep grades, tight switchbacks, and like any trail in Colorado, a whole lot of rocks. This makes it the perfect mental health run — I can’t fixate on daydreams or ruminations; I need to be present for all of the obstacles. As I push my pace, I slip into flow, each step finding its place until there’s nothing else. 

 “It takes concentration and a quiet mind to run well without any splats,” I wrote in a Nov. 2 description on Strava. “I had a few close calls so I was slower and more tentative this week, but still, a worthwhile two hours of meditation.” 

The following week, I decided I could earn a new PR. I’ve been running this loop for seven years, but it was within my grasp. I just needed to not think at all. I fired up my Shuffle. Recently I’ve been listening to a lot of Tom Rosenthal during my runs, which is funny because his own daughter once told him that his music made it sound like “everyone in the world had died.” Honestly, sad or contemplative music when you’re a little bit depressed can become hopeful and inspiring. Still, PR runs require something more upbeat, so I started the new album from the Silversun Pickups — a band I discovered while living in Homer. By mile four, I was in perfect flow — unencumbered molecules in motion — and vibing to “Empty Nest.” 

Did you notice, did you notice, I’m feeling uninspired? 

I think I’m crossing wires. 

How’d we get here? How’d we get here? Did we get here on our own? 

The seeds are overgrown. 

There’s a strange rhythm in this song, a skipped beat. I’m not sure I can blame the music, but I noticed these blips. One moment, my feet were dancing over the rocks as I rocketed through the universe. The next thing I noticed was the rough surface of a boulder, mere inches from my eyes. 

I must have tripped. I don’t remember catching my foot or losing my balance. I don’t remember the Superman launch through the air that must have happened to put me in this position. My arms were still at my side. Mere moments had lapsed, but these were important moments. Blissful flow instantly collapsed into “oh shit” terror, and then I smacked down, chin first. My chest slammed into the rounded side of the rock. A weird combination of my right elbow and left knee took the rest of the impact. 

Flooded with shock and humiliation, I scrambled to my feet and crawled up the hillside. I couldn’t risk anyone finding me in this crumpled, embarrassing state. Nausea swirled in my gut and I staggered wildly, punchdrunk from the hard uppercut. My jaw throbbed and I couldn’t draw a breath. It felt as though my chest had been crushed, though I understood this to mean that the wind was knocked out of me. I supposed it could have been something more serious than that, but my initial instinct was to fear a broken jaw, not a collapsed lung. 

I lay in the dry grass for some time, drawing thin, high-pitched breaths through clenched teeth. Finally, my chest relaxed and I could draw enough air to sit up. Blood had splattered all over my favorite shoes. There was a mile of climbing to the nearest trailhead, but this part of the hike wasn’t that hard. With the exception of a shallow scrape on one knee, my legs were fine. My arm was drenched in blood. I tried to hide this from the two hikers who passed along the trail. A quick phone selfie assured me that my chin didn’t look that bad. It is humorous that my first concerns were appearances and dignity. I felt like a deer after a car collision, shambling into the woods to die. 

Another way I felt like road kill was complete bewilderment about what hit me. Yes, I know it’s easy to trip and fall while running. Yes, I know I do this a lot. But this time was particularly strange, a total lapse in consciousness before I left the ground. I complain about balance and proprioception, joke about how I don’t know how to use my body, and haha I’m such a klutz. But I admit that underneath all of this, I fear something more sinister. Something that can’t necessarily be fixed by yoga or dance classes or anything I could control. I remember my father describing strange episodes, skipped beats while we hiked together. I remember when he was rushed to the emergency room after inexplicably falling off the trail on Mount Olympus. I remember how he died. 

 I called Beat from the trailhead, but he didn’t hear his phone ring. I left a message, knowing I wouldn’t have cell reception for the next 2.5 miles. I started the limp home. Endorphin-suppressed pain cracked open as I walked, encompassing my body like a dark cloud. I decided I hadn’t broken my jaw, but damn, things weren’t right. I staggered and gasped, drawing into myself, focusing on each shallow breath until I found peace beyond the pain. Just like running — a return to a quiet mind. 

Monday, Nov. 14, 2022. Trying my best to smile while walking to a physical therapy appointment.

Wednesday afternoon was a work day. I didn’t want to deal with the embarrassment of calling in sick because of a splat, so I dissuaded Beat from taking me to urgent care. A couple of days later, my mother begged me to visit a doctor. My clinic couldn’t squeeze me in until 15 minutes before closing time on Friday afternoon. The doctor seemed rushed but assured me that my jaw wasn’t broken, brushed off my chest bruising, and made me feel like the hypochondriac I was. Beat, wonderful husband that he is, bought 15 different kinds of soup and reminded me regularly to ice my injuries. I visited a friend who had been injured much more seriously in a head-on car collision. Sitting next to her in her wheelchair, I felt silly, sad, grateful, angry, lucky, all of the emotions that arise after yet another realization that life can change swiftly and permanently with the skip of a beat. 

For the next month, I did no running or writing, even the regular writing practices I’d committed to — my gratitude journal and sorting through the contents of my childhood trunk (that trunk is a whole other can of worms that I probably should not have opened.) I continued to languish in pain, struggling to sleep and do daily tasks, and lacking an exercise outlet beyond slow hobble-walking and upright spinning on the bike trainer. My jaw is still bruised. I probably broke a rib or two. And seriously, what is going on with my sternum, am I having a slow-rolling heart attack? 

Thursday, Dec. 1, 2022, at South Boulder Creek with Danni. Chin is looking better, no?

Inexplicably, my mental health continued to improve. I no longer woke up feeling like the world was collapsing in on itself, even after terrible nights of sleep. I no longer felt sick of everything about myself, maybe just sick of my usual bullshit (why can’t I stop thinking about signing up for races?) I spend less time ruminating about the unknowable future, the skipped beats. 

 I resolved to start the New Year with yoga classes and regular strength training at a gym that I have yet to join (I’m going to be one of those people, because there’s almost no chance I’ll be up for lifting weights before Jan. 1.) Beat and I drove home to Utah for Thanksgiving; it was lovely. The following week my friend Danni flew out from Montana for a mellow visit of hobble-walking and laughing. (She reached out in November when she knew I was struggling and offered to plan an adventure. True to form, the very next day I fell on my face.) 

December arrived. It’s my favorite month. The light is beautiful. The promise of Alaska awaits. I have no races on the calendar. I’ve let go of my fitness. I am free. 

 So I decided to open up my slowly decaying blog once again. I wanted to explain where it went for a month, and true to form, vomited out a 2,500-word post in two hours after struggling for weeks to tap out even simple social media posts. No one wants to read all of this, no one cares, but that — at least until the next time I have an anxiety “flare-up” — doesn’t matter to me. I am free. 

Should've known I gotta get this off my chest 

I'm allowed to keep around this empty nest 

It's so much to clean up a clever mess 

Should've known, should've known

One last summit with Dad

Dad and I stand on the summit of Lone Peak on July 27, 2011.

Journal entry from August 27, 1999: 

Today I went hiking with my dad. Finally, finally, after two years of trying, I made it to the top of Lone Peak. We started up Jacob’s Ladder at 6:30 a.m. We were well up the serious incline when the sun rose. It’s such a grueling, unforgiving hike. When we made it to the valley at the base of the mountain, I was exhausted, but we kept going. 

It was beautiful — a vast meadow of grass and rocks at the cirque, before a long climb up the peak, scaling boulders where one slip would send me spinning down into oblivion. Thunderstorms were moving in but we kept climbing. The wind was blowing and the Salt Lake Valley was miles below. 

And then we made it, finally. Lone Peak is a tiny peak, just a point. Dad and I sat up there eating bagels and signed the guest registration — a Tupperware box bolted to a rock. All is beautiful at 11,250 feet: Scrawny trees winding down the mountain, the urban sprawl only a blur of lines. We watched lightning creeping into Sandy, so we had to book it down.

Dad and I pose at the Jacob's Ladder trail junction on July 27, 2011.

Lone Peak was my dad's soul mountain, so I made it mine. He spoke of the summit with reverence, calling Lone "The hardest hike in the Wasatch and also the most beautiful." We made at least two unsuccessful attempts during the summers of 1997 and 1998, turned back by the threat of thunderstorms and heavy fog. Dad was always cautious, and I felt completely safe when I was with him. After we finally reached the summit in 1999, I was understated in my journal but gushed about the experience to my friends. 

On my first personal Web page, which I designed for a class at the University of Utah, I displayed Lone Peak prominently as "my favorite place in the world." I told friends that if I married at all, the ceremony was going to be on that summit. I remember mentioning this wedding plan offhand to my parents. My Mom scoffed and seemed somewhat scandalized, but Dad didn't seem to mind. Years later, while Dad and I were hiking and somehow landed on an offhand discussion about death, Dad said, "I'd like to have my ashes spread over Lone Peak." 

August 20, 2017 — the last time I was on Lone Peak with Dad.

Blog entry from August 20, 2017:

If I could choose anything in the world to do on my birthday, high on that list would be "climb Lone Peak with my dad." Lone Peak is an 11,253-foot summit in the Wasatch Mountains. I consider it my "home" mountain. I grew up in its morning shadow; the peak is less than five miles due east from my childhood home — and 7,000 feet higher. As a hike, it's considered by many to be the most difficult standard route to a summit in the Wasatch, rising 6,700 feet in six miles along a chunder-filled gully of a trail called Jacob's Ladder, followed by boulder-hopping in a granite cirque, and finally a class-3 to 4 scramble up a narrow ridge of vertically-stacked monzonite slabs. 

I don't quite remember the first time my dad guided me to this peak. I believe it was the summer after I graduated from high school, 20 years ago. My early memories of Lone Peak's difficulty all surround the steep slog of Jacob's Ladder. There are fewer memories of the slabs that bother me today ... probably because I have 20 years of physical conditioning behind me now, and also two decades of risk and personal ability assessment, which have made me much warier of exposed scrambling. Much sharper than memories of difficulty are memories of amazement and joy — the quiet Alpine forest mere miles from my crowded suburban neighborhood, the sheer granite walls above the cirque, and standing on top of a peak barely as wide as I am tall, overlooking the entire Salt Lake Valley.

Lost in a boulder field in the Lone Peak Cirque on August 29, 2010.

From 2000 to 2002, I managed two or three more summits with my Dad and one unsuccessful attempt with a friend who succumbed to altitude sickness. Then I upended my life in multiple ways: becoming a cyclist, moving away from Utah, moving to Alaska. Eight years passed before I made my next summit attempt. The circumstances were traumatic. My grandfather — my father's father — was dying. I drove down from Missoula to visit him, clasping his frail hand with the understanding that this would be the last time I'd ever see him. 

I'd lost my grandmother — my mother's mother — in 1996, when I was still a teenager. Losing Grandpa Homer was my deepest experience with grief as a fully formed adult, and I was reeling. I chose to visit my favorite place in the world, my soul mountain, as a way to honor him. It's interesting because I remember embarking on this climb after he died. But that wasn't the case — re-reading my blog entry, I realized I climbed Lone Peak the day following my final visit with Grandpa. It was August 29, one week before he died on September 4. Grandpa was still in this world when I scaled a summit to send my final goodbye. 

I'd never summited Lone Peak without my Dad. I lost my way from the start, bashed through the brush, wove aimlessly along the granite slabs, got terribly off route, crawled through a minefield of boulders across the Cirque, and scared myself senseless on the exposed summit ridge. I kept telling myself I had to do this for Grandpa and also for Dad, who was losing his Dad. It was so hard. I was frightened. I wasn't meant to be here without him.

After briefly tagging the summit, I scooted back along the talus blocks, buffeted by a strong wind, barely keeping it together. When I reached the end of the scramble, I propped against a rock to collect myself and breathe. I wrote about this moment on my blog: 

Bracing against the wind along the summit ridge on August 29, 2010.

Blog entry from August 29, 2010:

Tears fill my eyes. I know the worst is over, but I can't help myself. I never feel so lonely as I do when I'm alone and afraid. I just want to see somebody, anybody, just so I know I'm not the only person perched on this wind-blasted vertical moonscape. But it's 4 p.m. and no one is left on the peak. I haven't seen anybody for hours. 

I think about the notepad in my backpack. I carry it with me sometimes to write down thoughts. I take it out and rip a corner off a sheet of paper. On the scrap, I write a note to my grandpa. 

"Dear Grandpa Homer, Thank you for your love, your example, and your kindness. Thank you for everything you've done for me. I love you."

I stick the pen in my mouth and in nervousness chew the end right off. Then I remember to add, "Please don't be afraid. Love, Jill." 

I muster up the courage to stand and face the full brunt of the wind. It roars in my face as I hold the note to my side and release it to the gale. I turn around quickly but I don't see it go.

Dad crosses the Jacob's Ladder meadow on July 27, 2011.

I didn't want to have to be the one to spread Dad's ashes over Lone Peak. That was the emotion I had about it, although it was difficult to determine why I felt this way. My experience surrounding my grandfather's death was more traumatic than I realized at the time: Exposing all of that unprocessed grief to ego-driven summit fever and fear. I had been to the summit three times since: in 2011, 2015, and 2017. But those were all excursions with my dad, who kept me safe on the mountain. I believed this unquestioningly, even when I was closing in on 40 and old enough to understand that this childlike comfort was more imagined than real. 

I wondered if this was the reason I was reluctant. Was I simply frightened of Lone Peak? But when I envisioned standing on the summit with dad's ashes, a prominent emotion I felt was anger. And when I probed this anger, I recognized its source. Dad died because he fell from the summit ridge of a well-loved Wasatch mountain. Could I really toss him off another?

The Jacob's Ladder meadow on September 3, 2022. It was a little heartbreaking to see it so dry.

This statement sounds callous, which is one reason I didn't bring up my conflicting emotions with my family. It was incredibly important to me to fulfill Dad's final wishes. He named three specific spots where he wished to have his ashes spread — two in Canyonlands National Park and the last on Lone Peak. He somehow had the prescience to point out the Canyonlands spots while hiking with Beat and me in April 2021, just two months before he died. Lone Peak had a longer-standing place on this list. I don't remember when exactly he brought it up to me, but he also discussed it with my mom. Lone Peak appears prominently on the mountain skyline east of her house. Whenever she steps out of her front door on a clear day, she can look up at the pyramidal summit and think of him. She said she took comfort in the idea that he'd be up there, looking back at her. 

Dad climbs toward the Lone Peak Cirque on July 27, 2011.

We spread Dad's ashes over his chosen spots in Canyonlands in April 2022. It was a beautiful experience that we all shared — mom, my sisters, and Beat. Lone Peak was different because the mountain is so difficult to access. As I described in the 2017 blog entry, there are nearly 7,000 feet of climbing in just 6 miles, and the upper section is technical and exposed. My mom wouldn't be able to join, and I felt my sisters weren't ready, either. Forcing it seemed likely to lead to an experience that would be more traumatic than peaceful, similar to my ordeal surrounding my grandfather's death in 2010. My sisters agreed, but it was difficult to not include them. 

Beat searches for the route along the granite slabs on September 3, 2022.

Thankfully, I had fantastic support from Beat — who flew out to Salt Lake just for this — and our friend Raj, a longtime hiking buddy of my dad. Raj also lost his father in 2021 and offered his support and empathy when I was reeling through the aftermath in Salt Lake City last summer. I also invited another longtime hiking buddy of my dad's, Tom. Tom was with my father in his final moments on Mount Raymond. He scrambled down a treacherous slope to reach Dad's body after he fell and spent hours awaiting a Search and Rescue helicopter. I'm endlessly grateful to Tom for his actions that day. Tom was unable to join us on Lone Peak but was with us in spirit. 

Dad points toward the summit ridge with Tom in the Lone Peak Cirque on July 27, 2011

I chose Labor Day weekend because I needed a reliable day after we returned from Europe that wasn't likely to be hampered by bad weather. There was also an element of continuity with the date. As I looked back through my old records, I realized that late summer was often the "time" for Lone Peak — my first attempts at the end of August in 1997 and 1998, finally reaching the summit on August 27, 1999, my Aug. 29 memorial climb in 2010, my 38th birthday ... 

What I couldn't plan for was the massive "heat dome" that settled over the Western U.S. during the first week of September. The bullseye of the high-pressure system sat directly over Salt Lake City. The temperature shot to 107 degrees on Thursday and nearly that on Friday. The forecast high for Saturday was 103 degrees. I read trail reviews online and learned there was no water, absolutely none, anywhere along the approach. It was a far cry from the Lone Peak climate I remembered — lush meadows, gurgling streams, and snowpack in late July.  

Beat points toward the summit ridge with Raj in a similar location on September 3, 2022.

I set the date but I wasn't ready. During the week leading up to September 3, anxiety consumed my thoughts. I stayed indoors and rode my bike trainer because I felt uneasy about even going outside. Many nights, I woke up at 2 a.m., drenched in sweat and reeling from nightmares about people jumping from cliffs as I helplessly watched from a distance. 

I'm currently spending most afternoons doing remote shift work for a newspaper. On Thursday, I had to wake up at 4:30 a.m. to carve out a window to drive to Salt Lake City. I essentially drove straight through without stopping, which gave me 90 minutes that I used to march up a brutally steep trail near my Mom's house. I hadn't planned to hike and only had a 16-ounce bottle of water to drink. It was 106 degrees. I angry-hiked up 1,500 feet of sandy trail in 40 minutes and had to blearily wobble-jog down, long out of fluid, still just days removed from hypothermia after being caught in a hailstorm during a long bike ride. Through a daze of early heat exhaustion, I wondered how I continued to make such terrible decisions, how I came to be so frightened of my soul mountain, how I came to feel so lost.

Caught in a haze of wildfire smoke at the top of Jacob's Ladder on August 6, 2021

Gratitude journal from August 6, 2021:

I have nothing for today. I'm done looking for the good in this awful year. I still don't feel ready to climb Lone Peak, but I thought since I'm out here, I could climb to the meadow below the cirque. It is such a beautiful spot; it used to feel like this secret place that only Dad and I knew about. 

The morning started out lovely, but as I crested Enniss Peak, I looked back to see a massive wall of brown fog enveloping the Salt Lake Valley. The fog was a cold front moving in from the north like a freight train — a train carrying wildfire smoke from Oregon and Idaho. Within minutes the smoke moved over me, reducing visibility to a few feet while spiking the air quality index to an intolerable 350. I couldn't breathe. It happened so quickly. My KN95 mask and a dozen inhaler puffs did nothing. I was gasping, wheezing, choking. I've never had such a scary asthma attack, not anywhere, and I was alone in the wilderness 4,000 feet above the valley floor. 

Breathing felt like sucking air through a straw, but if I focused on taking deep breaths and not hyperventilating, I could do it. In this moving meditation, I managed to pick my way down the mountain. Visibility was so low that I became lost and accidentally descended Jacob's Ladder when I intended to return via Cherry Canyon. For quite some time I had no idea where I was. Finally, I dropped onto the gravel road, still three miles from the trailhead, but at that point, I thought, "I'm going to make it!" And I was so happy. And I suppose ... I'm grateful for that. I'm grateful I'm alive, but also for feeling happy to be alive. It's maybe the first time I've felt this way in two months. 

Dad and Tom on the summit ridge on July 27, 2011.

On Friday night, Beat rifled through my overstuffed pack and pulled out a green dry bag.

"What's this?" he asked. 

"It's my puffy," I protested. "I need my puffy."

"You do not need a puffy," he scolded. "When are you going to wear this?"

"I don't know. Weather could turn. I just had hypothermia last week. It was one week ago!"

"It's going to be 100 degrees! You do not need a puffy!"

I grumpily tossed the jacket and other warm gear into a pile outside the pack. Beat is always looking out for me and my sore back, which still bothers me 11 months after the driver of an old F250 hit me with his side mirror while I was riding my bike home. Geez, 2021 was an awful year.  Little by little, my back becomes stronger and my heart more resilient, but the increments are difficult to notice.

Apparently, I wasn't going to be able to protect myself from surprise hailstorms, but I still carry an N95 mask in case of surprise smoke storms. At least now I'd have room for the six liters of water I'd actually need. While filling up my hydration bladders, I smiled at the memory of my dad's first time on Lone Peak. I was 14 years old and had already started joining him for shorter hikes, so I was enthralled as he described packing a plastic Coke bottle that he'd refilled with water, thinking two liters was a lot. It was so hot, he was so thirsty, and he thought the climb would never end. It sounded awful, but his eyes were wide and his smile stretched across his face as he described the view. I knew I'd climb that mountain with him someday. Someday. 

Beat and Raj on the summit ridge on September 3, 2022.

We met Raj in the parking lot of the Draper trailhead at 6:30 a.m. The Cherry Canyon Logging Trail instantly shoots upward, gaining the standard 1,000 feet per mile along a mostly bald west-facing slope. To the east, the sun rose behind the crest of Lone Peak, casting the mountain's long shadow across the valley. The morning was already warm. With each passing minute, the shadow grew shorter. Something — maybe the encroaching sunlight — spiked my anxiety, so I breathed in rhythm with the lyrics of "Sun" by The Naked and Famous.

But it keeps on coming,

And I stop, 

But it keeps on coming,

And I just stand still

But it keeps on coming,

It keeps on coming,

So I start running.

Dad and Tom pick their way along the summit ridge on July 27, 2011.

We made quick work of the 4,500 feet of vert to Enniss Peak and climbed onto the granite slabs as Raj regaled us with his tales from climbing the face of Lone Peak — meaning multi-pitch alpine rock climbing — earlier this summer. While descending from their base camp, Raj became terribly lost in the dark and had to bash his way into Suncrest after midnight.

I felt slightly lost on the slabs. It's easy to do — it's a white, blank slate of a trail with cairns everywhere because hikers seem to like creating their own chaos. Dad always seemed to effortlessly find the way through here, although I reminded myself that he, too, had been terribly lost on this mountain before. Once, while aiming for Cherry Canyon, he managed to descend into a different drainage and bashed through the brush for hours before emerging from an obscure side canyon.

Beat and I pick our way along the summit ridge on September 3, 2022.

Confused on the slabs and fully exposed to the unavoidable sun, my stew of anxiety neared a boiling point. I didn't quite notice how stressed I was feeling because my energy level had plummeted. I stumbled and faltered as Beat and Raj climbed along the bone-dry creek toward the cirque. It was here we encountered a large group — at least 10 hikers who clearly were mostly beginners. We did not see all that many people on the mountain, but the large group just happened to be clogging up a bottleneck on the route. Beat and Raj disappeared as I got stuck behind the group — 10 people crawling every possible way up a steep boulder field and nervously calling out to each other for help. It was fine. They were doing what they needed to do to get through this tricky terrain, but it was not where I wanted to be and Beat was nowhere to be seen. 

Scrambling over talus blocks with Tom on July 27, 2011.

I finally caught up to Beat and Raj at a crucial junction, where it's easy to continue straight following the drainage and end up in a horrific boulder field — which is what I did in 2010 — or take an obscure left turn around an outcropping to access a faint trail across gentle tundra. I didn't quite remember the correct way. The big group approached, we chose left, and Beat again took off impatiently. His action — as understandable as it was — was the hair trigger that shattered my frayed nerves. I tried to hold it in. I couldn't breathe. I tried holding my breath, but I lost it to a gasping, blubbering meltdown.

Beat hiked back down toward me as I doubled over and sputtered, "I can't do this. I can't do this."

Two of the young men in the large group passed and one asked in a mocking sing-song tone, "Do you need a hug?" He probably thought I was crying because this hike is hard and I was a big middle-aged baby. If there had been a cliff to pitch myself off of right there ... 

View from the summit on September 3, 2022.

Grief hits me like that still, after all of this time. It hurts so much; I'd almost wish for a cliff or a collision with a truck. Anything else to not have to feel that way, not now or ever again. These breakdowns tend to take everything out of me. The anxiety pot boils over and then there's nothing left. I thought I was done. Lone Peak wasn't going to happen today. 

Surprisingly, as I stood and calmed my breathing, I felt a sense of peace wash over me. I'd carried this particular anxiety monster for so long that I didn't notice the weight until it crushed me. But in doing so, it released me. 

As we continued toward the summit ridge, I felt as though a terrible burden had lifted. I felt light, free, maybe even a little bit sure-footed. We stopped near the talus blocks so I could put on my approach shoes — Beat had carried a second pair of shoes all the way up the mountain for me so I could avoid blisters in the brutal heat while still feeling more secure on the exposed scramble. He did this because he wanted to be supportive. Although I still felt a sting of irrational hurt for being "abandoned" in the boulder field, I was grateful for his presence. I could not have done this alone.

Raj, the experienced rock climber in the group, led the route through the talus blocks. I was grateful for his calm, confident presence as well. 

Spreading Dad's ashes on September 3, 2022.

The summit ridge was crowded with a few more groups. We moved through them quickly, following Raj's direction and not making a big deal out of scrambling along a narrow spine where hundreds of feet of exposure loom on both sides. Magically, we had the tiny summit to ourselves for a few minutes. We took advantage of the privacy to send Dad on his way. We each took a turn and said just a few brief words. 

I said, "I hope you're happy here, Dad." It was sweet. Cathartic. I let myself feel my Dad's presence. I understood he was at peace, dissolving into everything, his last molecules becoming the mountain. 

Forever gazing over his home from this lofty place.

We stood on the summit for a few more minutes, enjoying the silence. A thousand-foot vertical wall fell away from our narrow perch, and I felt no particular emotion about that reality. I'd tossed Dad over a cliff because it's what he wanted. When I put it that way it sounds macabre and strange. But I had put it that way in my dreams and the thought stressed me out, so I was both grateful and surprised to realize I only felt peace in this place, this vertical moonscape. I had made an emotional mountain out of something simple and sweet — sharing a summit with Dad one final time. I scanned the valley until I recognized the bluff near my mom's neighborhood. From there I could almost pick out her house in the line and shapes. It was such a clear day, so blue, so warm. Dad will be happy here, and Mom can look up at the mountain and know he's happy here. I felt deep gratitude for a thousand moments of grace that made this possible. 

Scrambling down from the summit ridge on September 3, 2022.

As we descended from the summit ridge, Raj mentioned that I was a lucky person to have had all of the wonderful moments with my dad that we had. I wholeheartedly agreed. It wasn't enough time, but there's never enough time. What I still have are thousands of moments of grace, the little joys that I can carry in my heart, that can still lift me up when the burdens of life become too much. 

Beat descends the granite slabs on September 3, 2022.

I was bursting with energy for most of the descent. I'd finally released a massive burden and Dad was free. An oven of afternoon heat baked the rock. The air was eerily still. We saw almost no one after the summit ridge — the world had retreated under the September heat dome. I greedily slurped down liters five and six of my water, still cold thanks to a freezer strategy I'd carefully honed over the long summer.  The notion of needing a puffy or fearing hypothermia was a strange, laughable joke. We spent much of the winding descent describing to Raj what it feels like to sleep outside in the snow when it's 45 below. By the end, we had practically talked him into buying a house in Alaska. 

Still, I couldn't fight off the melancholy entirely. In the perfect world, Dad would be here with me. In this imperfect world, I'm still alone and afraid. While I feel bound to Lone Peak, I'm not sure I'll be able to face it again. The love runs deep, but so does the hurt. All I have left are my memories. Lone Peak will continue to be a mountain, just a mountain, beautifully indifferent to everything I love. 

Dad descends the granite slabs on July 27, 2011.

Blog entry from August 29, 2010:

It's too hard now, not to think about the end. I can believe that my grandpa isn't afraid, but I have to admit that I am. Everything that makes me who I am is wrapped up in the people, and the moments, that all seem to slip away before I'm ready. Life sometimes moves in fast-forward motion, spinning in a blur of color and noise. In my dizziness I look to the past for clarity, only to acknowledge that those moments are gone.

2021 in numbers

 

2021 was a weird training year for nearly everyone. Early in the year, a lot of us were still "virtual racing" and it wasn't clear that any of our scheduled events would actually go. I charged into 2021 with vigor and subsequently collapsed, more than once. I accomplished a couple of athletic goals that I could maybe feel proud about. But no ... not really. I'm in a strange place right now — do I still want to dabble in the occasional race? Do I want to go all-in for something specific so I can focus my training in a way that will at least be new and interesting? Do I want to quit racing altogether? 

One thing I do know is that "training" gives me a daily meditation and yes, a small sense of purpose, without which I may not have weathered 2021. After June, it stopped mattering whether I was training for anything. I just kept going, with whatever time I could spare in the day, working around whatever little physical injury I was nursing. I rarely felt tired or sore — managing everything else about life was more difficult by orders of magnitude, so exercise was a way to "rest." 

By early October, I realized I was on pace to hit a longtime goal, which is climbing one million feet in a calendar year (1 million feet is the cumulative total between all of my workouts.) I quickly let the idea go after being hit by the side mirror of a truck on Oct. 10, which resulted in back pain and limited my tolerance for cycling and wearing a backpack. Over Thanksgiving, when I still had nearly 100,000 feet to go, I swung around again and thought "why not?" Here was a ready-made excuse to stomp up and down mountains to my heart's content. So I formulated "Climb-cember" and set out to log at least 4,000 feet of climbing every day until the Solstice. (I wanted to wrap up the goal before we headed to Alaska.) 

I loved "Climb-cember." I didn't have to justify any of the silly things I was doing — marching up Ennis Peak in Utah a couple of times or repeats on the Eldo Canyon overlook trail in a subzero windchill. My daily meditation gained tangible purpose, which was of course just the purpose of an arbitrary goal. But it was all-around wonderful. 

It helped that December gifted me with unseasonal weather that made summer activities possible during the darkest month of the year. By December 19, I only had 5,000 feet left to go. With a glance at the forecast and consideration of the dismally low snow totals thus far this season, it occurred to me that I could log my final vertical mile with an audacious mountain bike ascent of a Colorado 14er, Mount Evans. I mentioned my plans to Eszter as we were ascending Green Mountain two days prior, and she was game to join. 

We started out from Idaho Springs on a 28-degree morning with a light breeze sweeping down the canyon. Neither of us was well-acclimated to the cold, and my back became stiff and sore early in the ride. I will admit, completing a seven-hour ride with 7,000 feet of climbing and three liters of water on my back after two months of minimal riding was not great for my ongoing recovery, but I deemed this adventure worth it (and still do.) 

We chatted and pedaled for hours, turned serious to fight the buffeting headwind above treeline, stopped to watch bighorn sheep until our hands froze, took one coffee break in the middle of the road, and reached the 14,265-foot summit one day before Winter Solstice. Ambient temperatures were in the low teens with an oh-shit windchill. We had nothing but two hours of descending in front of us. I brought all of my puffiest layers to weather the chill — Eszter said I looked like Michelin Man — and regretted nothing. I had reached my million-feet goal unceremoniously somewhere around 12,500 feet and looked forward to coasting through the rest of the year (in Alaska, dragging a loaded sled through styrofoam snow at 25 below.) 

With that, here are my stats for the year:

2021 in numbers:

Bike: 5,225 miles with 549,078 feet climbing

Run/Hike: 1,613 miles with 464,745 feet climbing

Total: 6,838 miles with 1,013,823 feet climbing

Total hours: 1,036 (43 days and 4 hours)

❅❅❅❅❅

Usually, when I write this post, I break down my month-to-month stats. I didn't feel like doing that this year, so for my own entertainment, I looked over my Strava calendar and chose a notable workout from each month. 

January 8: Pb Pursuit

Snow ride

Leadville, Colorado

125 miles, 11,693 feet climbing

Elapsed time: 30 hours, 8 minutes

The Fat Pursuit, a 200-kilometer winter bike race in Island Park, Idaho, had been cancelled and moved to "virtual" status. A few friends and I figured we could mimic the conditions of a high-altitude snow race to near-perfection in Leadville, where deep snow and punchy climbs torn up by paddle-track mountain snowmobiles are the norm. It's exhaustively slow and difficult cycling, but the scenery is stunning! I proposed a figure-eight route that was 41 miles with 4,000 feet of climbing, to be ridden three times. Five of us started our "Pb Pursuit" at the crack of noon. I was the only one who stuck it out to the end, as the whole thing was quite silly, but I had so much fun. My favorite parts were riding through the zero-degree night around a moonlit Turquoise Lake, taking a four-hour nap in my big sleeping bag, and of course the first few hours when we all stuck together, laughing and sweating in the weirdly hot glare of a sunny winter day at 10,000 feet. 

February 11: Old Man Winter Bike Rally

Winter "gravel" ride

Lyons, Colorado

63 miles, 5,151 feet climbing

Elapsed time: 5 hours, 12 minutes

I am a fan of virtual racing. Not necessarily the type where you take something like the 2,800-mile Tour Divide and ride a similar distance over many months on your indoor trainer (come on, that's just a different thing altogether.) But when you can challenge a popular course without the crowds at your leisure, that's good fun! The morning I picked to challenge the Old Man Winter 100K route turned out to be a poor choice. It was much colder than it had been in previous weeks, so my water bottles froze. And the air quality was terrible, causing breathing issues that day and (I believe) a spike in anxiety and deterioration in mental health following the ride. Still, I tried. My stretch goal was five hours and I nearly hit it for the official course (5:03. I know that seems slow for 100K, but keep in mind I never train to ride flat terrain with any speed, my bike had studded tires to slow the paved climb, and then there were two full miles of hiking through rotton ankle-deep snow. So I consider it a good time for a winter ride.) Anyway, despite the consequences that in hindsight were quite bad, I did enjoy my "race."

March 5: Glacier Gorge explores, winter edition

Snowshoe hike

Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado

17.3 miles, 3,904 feet climbing

Elapsed time: 8 hours, 9 minutes

The weeks after February 11 were a rough time for my mental health, but mountain excursions in March helped boost my brain closer to baseline. This was one of my favorites — avalanche risk had settled several days after a storm but there wasn't much in the way of broken trail. I set my own track for a long solo trudge amid the stunning skyline above Glacier Gorge. 

April 10: Grand Staircase bikepack day three

Bikepacking

Grand Staircase Escalante National Mounument, Utah

50.7 miles, 5,246 feet climbing

Elapsed time: 9 hours, 45 minutes

In April, my friend Erika and I set out for a three-day trip around the Grand Staircase Escalante bikepacking loop, a 160-mile route through the incredibly remote southeastern corner of Utah. It's a gorgeous route that I would do again, but the terrain is difficult, the services are few, and the sand can be soul sucking. Erika and I were unintentionally separated the second night. She opted to ride the highway back to Escalante, so I ended up solo on what turned out to be the most difficult day of the trip — rolling along a high rim on barely-used doubletrack, far from any glimmer of a water source, in 85-degree heat. I had just four liters of water left from the 10 I'd packed from Big Water the previous day. In the late morning, miles from where I'd seen the last vehicle, I met a little dog who was alone, skinny and very thirsty. I gave him some beef jerky and water in a folded ziplock bag. After initially running and hiding from me, he lapped up my offering and then followed me for the next ten miles. He was visibly straining to keep up when I was moving at riding speeds, and darted into the meager shade for rest whenever I slowed to push. I still had 25 miles to ride to Escalante and feared what might happen if he followed me the whole way. I continued sharing water with him, but I didn't have much to spare ... at that point, I didn't even have enough to keep myself happy. Happily, I encountered a local couple in an enormous truck — the crumbling road was supposedly closed to vehicle traffic, so I didn't expect to see anyone. I flagged them down. The elderly man, who reminded me so much of my paternal grandfather, was initially surly about the prospect of rescuing this dog, but still spent 20 minutes working with me to corral the reluctant canine into his cab. A couple of hours later, I did end up running out of water, but thankfully rode by the single remaining patch of snow on the mountain exactly when I needed it most. It was, all in all, a most fortuitous day. 

May 14: Independence Pass from Mushroom Gulch

Gravel ride

Buena Vista, Colorado

118.6 miles, 7,759 feet climbing

Elapsed time: 10 hours, 14 minutes

I was meeting friends in Buena Vista for an 80-mile gravel ride, and decided to head out a day early and complete a long solo ride to log 200 miles in two days. What was I training for? I don't even remember, but I did have summer ambitions before everything fell apart. This ten-hour ride was particularly enjoyable — just gorgeous scenery and appropriate difficulty while mostly feeling good the entire day. I did a lot of ruminating about life and the universe while listening to a Carl Sagan book, and emerged with a positive outlook — easy to cultivate when Covid seemed to finally be waning, air quality was pristine, and prospects for the rest of the year looked bright. May 2021 was a good month. I miss it. 

June 13: Ride to End ALZ

Road ride

Fort Collins, Colorado

100.1 miles, 5,505 feet climbing

Elapsed time: 6 hours, 52 minutes

I had effectively forgotten about this ride before I scrolled through my Strava calendar the other day. It was three days before my dad died. A California friend recruited Beat and me to join his team to raise money for the Alzheimer's Association. We completed a virtual event in April, and then the organization invited me back to an in-person event in June. I signed up for the century, because of course, and managed to raise more than $3,000 for Alzheimer's research between the two events. This was a hot day with a huge climb in the middle, my time to shine. (Most of the ~four dozen 100-mile participants were from out of town and not acclimated to the altitude.) I rode steady but well and (I believe) finished in fourth position overall, but of course it was not a race so I will never know for sure. 

July 5: Evening LCC

Road ride.

Sandy, Utah.

34.9 miles, 5,023 feet climbing

Elapsed time: 3 hours, 21 minutes

When I think of the weeks between mid-June and mid-July, all I remember is the hot heat, oppressive sun, summer haze and zombie daze that I could only shake myself out of, somewhat, during hard climbs on my gravel bike. I spent four weeks in Utah to help Mom transition to her new life without Dad. Much of the time was spent sitting in rooms, sorting through stuff with Mom and crying with my sisters. I barely slept and was often up well before dawn pedaling the empty streets of Draper and Alpine. In the evening, after dinner, I made a regular habit of climbing Little Cottonwood Canyon until the sun set and then descending into the twilight. The darkness, quiet and chilled mountain air brought me a measure of peace that I didn't find anywhere else. 

August 23: Orsières to Glacier d'Orny

Hike

Orsières, Switzerland

16.9 miles. 8,807 feet climbing

Elapsed time: 9 hours, 32 minutes

My father's death and subsequent life difficulties left me unexcited and anxious about traveling to Europe and Beat's plans to race another PTL (An extreme 200-mile mountain ultra with a lot of difficult terrain and exposure.) Luckily I was in a perfect position to turn to my best coping mechanism, marching up and down mountains. During the week of August 23 to August 29, I logged 111 miles with 48,968 feet of climbing, all on foot. PTL started the morning of August 23 in the idyllic Swiss village of Orsières. After Beat and his team took off, I marched away from PTL's starting banner and straight up the closest trail that would take me as high as possible. It was, for the most part, a dreary and foggy day with light rain and stiff winds. Beat's team was mired in low visibility as they crawled along the horrific sawtooth of a crumbling knife ridge on the other side of the valley. In the meantime, I managed to find the most brilliant sucker hole and then climb above the clouds for jaw-dropping views of Glacier d'Orny and the Trient ice field (shown with an impressive 3,170-meter mountain hut, Cabane du'Trient, in the foreground.) I was feeling sparks of real joy, an almost alien sensation that I hadn't experienced in more than two months. 

September 19: Rochers de Naye for our anniversary

Hike

Villenueve, Switzerland

13.5 miles, 5,561 feet climbing

Elapsed time: 5 hours, 24 minutes

We visited many stunning and scenic places in Switzerland and Germany during our month in Europe this year. But honestly, one of my favorite outings was a fogged-in summit over Lake Geneva during my final day in Switzerland. We were en route to Geneva so I could get a COVID test and catch a flight first thing in the morning, but I wanted to mark our anniversary. (Beat was pretty cute about it whenever I mentioned our anniversary. He asked, more than once, "So what is this? The tenth?" and I replied, "No, it's our wedding anniversary. Our first wedding anniversary. Remember how we got married last year?" After a solid month of ideal weather, we were finally hit with a typical autumn day in the Alps: Temperatures near freezing, high winds, spitting rain, sleet, and zero visibility. It didn't even matter. We had so much fun! How lucky am I to have this man in my life?

October 9: Top of the World with Lisa and Sara

Hike

Aliso Viejo, California

8.1 miles, 1,179 feet climbing

Elapsed time: 3 hours and 34 minutes 

The first weekend in October was supposed to be the annual rim-to-rim crossing of the Grand Canyon with my Dad. And for the first time, my sisters were on board to join. It was not to be, and this year was too soon for the three of us (although I hope it happens someday, perhaps next year.) Instead, we blocked out the weekend to spend together at Sara's home in Orange County. My sisters had long dropped their Grand Canyon training regimen so didn't expect much hiking, but we ended up out for an excursion every day. These hikes were really special — beautiful California hills, the Pacific, and great conversations with my sisters. Our final hike took us to a lovely overlook above Laguna Beach called "Top of the World." It's notable to me now that on October 9 I was on top of the world, and my very next Strava activity was titled “First time I’ve been hit by a truck.” Seriously, 2021.

November 26: Gobbler’s Knob with Raj and Beat

Hike

Big Cottonwood Canyon, Utah

8 miles. 3,176 feet climbing

Elapsed time: 3 hours, 57 minutes

Of everything I tried to help process my grief after Dad's death, this hike was among the most meaningful. For much of the past decade, Dad and I kept a Thanksgiving tradition of hiking to the summit of Gobbler's Knob on Black Friday. I wanted to carry on the tradition with Beat and a Salt Lake friend who was a good friend of my Dad's, Raj. The whole climb proved to be so much more difficult than I expected — all of the memories washing over me, followed by the suffocating shock of having to face Mount Raymond at close range. The emotional pain overshadowed what was already a physically painful endeavor, thanks to my sore back, sloppy trail conditions and a large backpack. I was a mess, but Beat and Raj were very supportive, and ultimately we did reach the top. The peace and gratitude I found was well worth the difficulty.

December 24: Colorado Creek cabin trip in

Sled-drag

White Mountains, Alaska

13.4 miles, 1,427 feet climbing

Elapsed time: 6 hours, 22 minutes

After a strange 21 months of absence, Beat and I finally made it back to Alaska. As the initial shock of grief wanes, it's been interesting to experience a seemingly longer-term shift in my psyche. My appetite for adventure just isn't there. I continue to crave the meditative benefits of movement — Climb-cember proved a huge success in this regard — but my head and heart seem to have lost the capacity for bigger, bolder endeavors. So I have made no solid plans for 2022, and am struggling with what to do about the Iditarod. 

Early in 2021, I signed up to bike to Nome (I'm now a definite no on that. It's a leap too far.) I'm currently set on sticking with the short race to McGrath, most likely on a bike, just because a week in the frozen wilderness may prove beneficial and wonderful ... or it may just be another emotional disaster, like the Utah Mixed Epic. I'm genuinely frightened about that prospect, especially now that my brain has rebooted to a setting that doesn't recognize any part of dragging a bike through the snow for 300 miles as particularly desireable. Seriously, what have I been doing for the past 16 years?

But ... I did enjoy our trip to Alaska. The weather was unworkable and we had to scale back our backcountry plans dramatically, but I still enjoyed being out in one of my favorite places in the world, the White Mountains, when it was 26 below and the only sound was the squeak of my feet on the cold snow, or a distant echo of footsteps from an animal seemingly miles away. 

It's difficult to feel ambitious right now, and even more difficult to feel optimistic. But I do look forward to the small moments in 2022, the simple pleasures, the beauty in my backyard. 

Happy New Year; I am grateful we've all made it this far.