Prince George to Vancouver

Still lots of driving and a little riding. Hopefully I'll find more time to write soon. I found a little crust biking outside of Quesnel. I have a feeling this will be the last I see of snow for a while.

The hills of central BC. Looks a lot like central Oregon.

Geo's first taste of spring along the Fraser River.

"Road biking" near the Vancouver airport with Jenn, one of my Whitehorse friends who now lives in the big city.

Dike trail with Ben. It was an amazingly nice day in Vancouver. What can I say? Canada loves me. Hopefully the weather will hold as we drop into the States.

Dease Lake to Prince George

A lot is happening right now and there's been no chance to process much of it at all. It feels like someone hit the fast-forward button on my life, and I've felt numb to all the miles behind me and terrified of the miles steamrolling toward me. Meanwhile, I've been working hard to churn out the requisite number of miles each day, both in the car and on the bike. There's not much space to summarize right now ... life in fast forward contains a lot of static ... but the trip, as road trips go, has been eventful ...

Up at 7 a.m. to ride out of Dease Lake. The temperature was low enough to turn fairly deep puddles into solid ice ... probably 25 or 27 degrees. My Camelbak hose froze. I, despite layering up as best I could with the "summer" clothes I have with me, also froze. I haven't been that cold in a long time. Definitely since before the frostbite incident.

The ride was hilly and high, as northern BC rides go. I rode hard and felt little in the way of pain or reward until I realized I couldn't feel much of anything, including my arms or legs. Brrrrr.

We rolled south. I shivered. We talked.

The deep snowpack persisted even as we dropped to latitudes equal with the southernmost tips of Southeast Alaska - just a few miles to the west. We made jokes about driving to Prince Rupert and getting back on a ferry bound for Juneau. It was hard to watch the road-level snow finally fade away. I've been sad about the prospect of leaving the North, even temporarily.

We spent Friday night with friends in Smithers. Had a great dinner, late night sipping tea and not worrying so much about everything, when we got an 11:30 p.m. knock on the door. "River's flooded," said the woman holding three huge flashlights. "It's comin up about a foot a minute. I'd take stock of what you'd take with you and be prepared to get out of here quick."

We hadn't received any official evacuation calls, but as we looked out the window we saw flashing lights stretched across the neighborhood. "They're doing rescues," the woman told us. "There are people over there in trees." We ventured outside to survey the scene. The RCMP had most of the neighborhood streets blocked, but we followed one street until we could see the alarming swell of the river. This photo is taken at the head of a neighbor's driveway, about two blocks and an equal number of feet of elevation from Kelly and Adrian's house.

Sleep was restless and I half feared ... and half hoped ... that I'd wake up to find that my car had headed downstream without me. But the flood had started to recede. I set out on my bike and rode non-blocked streets on the outskirts of the flood plain until I found the source ... a big ice jam that was starting the break apart. Our friends' house was spared. And luckily no one was hurt, but we learned there really were people in trees and property damage looked extensive.

I continued my ride through the morning, seeking higher ground. It was a beautiful day in a beautiful region. Rolling river valleys and shimmering satin peaks.

The drive south continues. Maybe tomorrow we'll hit spring.

Whitehorse to Dease Lake

Juneau to Whitehorse

Oh, Canada.

Roll south

This will be my last night in Juneau for a couple of months.

We board a ferry to Skagway tomorrow morning, and from there it's on to Whitehorse, then down the Cassier Highway to visit friends in Smithers, B.C., and Vancouver, then Seattle, Portland and San Fransisco. Geoff has a race on May 2, but we have just a little over a week to get there. I'm hoping the old Geo makes it.

I really don't have the words for how I feel about leaving Juneau at this time. Life moves faster than I do. Sometimes there's not much more to say. I'm excited but apprehensive, too. I've been having deep doubts about the Great Divide. Like maybe it's not the right place at the right time, this time, but this may be my best and last chance. Even everything after San Fransisco is looking a little hazy. But it will be an adventure. Life's always an adventure. Usually the biggest things happen when you least expect.

I expect to post as much as I can along the way. I'll likely cling to this blog as my window home; it has always been a great place to both dump thoughts at random and organize them into a sense of perspective. So don't worry about radio silence. :-)

Wish me luck.

A sonnet

"Ode to Spring Snowshoeing"

With sunscreen slathered on winter pale skin;
I approach a sea of snow, smooth and wet.

Glistening ice crystals invite me in.
Snowshoes hold me above slushy depths.

In the calm of a warm Sunday morning,
Lethargic mosquitoes buzz by my ear.

Avalanches could drop without warning,
So I seek out places open and clear.

Open, so open in rich April light,
I run hard; my legs and lungs gasp for more.

On a canvas where creation takes flight,
I could leap off a cornice and soar.

White spires line paths to the great beyond;
It’s how I’ll remember you when I’m gone.

Nearing an

Date: April 17 and 18
Mileage: 37.4 and 32.2
April mileage: 656.6
Temperature: 46 and 40

I was still stoked from all of my Tuesday snow biking when I pounded out 60 miles in less than three and a half hours Wednesday, and since then, I just haven't been able to get my legs back. I've gone out looking for them, but mostly coming up with nothing. Lack of enthusiasm; dull ache in my quads; urge to lie down and take a nap in the boggy, ice-crusted grass.

"Maybe you're coming down with something," Geoff said.

"I'm not sick," I said. "Just tired."

Sometimes life catches up with me. And sometimes it just rushes by.

I struggled under a crush of boxes and bins as I hauled another carload of crap to the storage unit. One of the benefits of moving often is that it allows you to regularly assess your worldly possessions and realize just how little they mean to you. I can't manage to completely part with this stuff, but yet I can leave it all behind. I lifted the only light bin in the mix and peeked inside. My winter sleeping bag fluffed up and tried to escape the rigid confines of hard plastic. I slammed the lid back down and smiled. That sleeping bag has been my lifeline in hard times, and yet its only real worth is in the places I carry it. I stacked the bin at the top of a small pile in a plywood-lined closet, turned off the light, and left.

As I dug through my car, I found an old piece of paper stuffed in the door. A long list of numbers filled the faded sheet, front and back - a score card from a series of Gin Rummy games that Geoff and I played as we meandered across the country in 2001. I fingered the old paper, ripped and crinkled with rain drops, ballpoint pen faded yellow, and followed the long string of numbers until they petered out, final score 1,993 to 1,926. Geoff won. He was the one keeping score, adding numbers in his head beneath the labels "J-Pod" and "G-Pod." I smiled, because I didn't even remember referring to each other with that kind of nickname, and it was long before the days of iPod, but, either way, it was probably looked just as geeky then as it does now. But that was more than 120,000 miles ago; the Twin Towers still stood in New York and we were still innocent; or, at least, we hadn't discovered ultra-running and cycling yet.

Every time I approach a life change, I'm met with all sorts of regret and unrest. It's not focused negativity; it's just there, reminding me that, regardless of what happens, I can't return to the same situation as the same person. It reminds me that I didn't do things perfectly, that I don't always treat my life with the awe and love it deserves even as I struggle with powerless legs as the rain dissolves the snow and exposes a winter's worth of decay. That maybe Geoff and I haven't been spending as much time together as we should because we've been so caught up in our own lives. That maybe it will be strange to get in a small car and travel across the continent together, again.

But I found this old scorecard, and maybe now, eight years, 120,000 clicks on the Geo's odometer, and countless running, biking and hiking miles later, we can pick up the Gin Rummy game where we left off. There's adventure in that, too, in an innocent way that all the ultras we pour our hearts into can never fill.