Cairn Peak

I set my alarm for 7 a.m. based on this forecast: Monday, mostly cloudy with isolated showers. Chance of precipitation 20 percent. If that isn't a promising weather forecast, I don't know what is. "Monday's the day," I thought. "The day to bag my biggest prize so far - Cairn Peak."

The sound of the alarm dragged me out of bed feeling the way I usually do in the morning - like someone stomped all over my head while I was sleeping. I shuffled over to the window to see nothing but a gray blank slate - a thick bank of fog. I groaned and went back to bed. The snooze button went off nine minutes later, and again nine minutes after that. Alertness began to creep in to my grumpy daze. I remembered that during high-pressure systems in the late summer, fog tends to settle low while clear skies open up high. Maybe ... maybe it could be done after all.

I set out in the haze with nothing but faith to guide me. Sure enough, after I climbed 1,800 feet out of the Twin Lakes neighborhood, the fog started to break up. And above the clouds was sparkling blue sky.

I gained the ridge and started the march toward Cairn.

The peak always appears closer than it actually is. One you reach the first "summit" of Blackerby Ridge, Cairn is still nearly two hours, four miles and ~3,000 feet of climbing away.

I have been shut down on three separate attempts of Cairn. The first was due to a shortage of time. The second was foul weather. The third, about this time last year, happened because I went on faith and the fog never cleared. My friend and I became so hopelessly lost in a zero-visibility cloud bank that we had to put all of our faith in my GPS unit to guide us out. As Juneau mountains go, Cairn stands apart as my most consistent failure.

I did not want to fail today. I had set an "absolute turn-around time" that I knew I had to adhere to if I was going to make it to work on time, clean and fed. That time approached quickly. Cairn crept closer. The clouds rolled up to the ridgeline and gathered. I picked up my pace through the patchy fog, wondering if I'd need GPS to get out this time, too, but still determined not to give up.

My "absolute turn-around time" came and went. Cairn was right there. Looking up at the summit, I figured I only needed an extra half hour, maybe 45 minutes to go there and back. Maybe I could fudge the clean and fed part of getting to work on time. I didn't know how. I would worry about that later.

I surprised a herd of mountain goats as I crested a small knob. They looked up, turned, and glided over the loose talus like it was flat, solid pavement. Their movements were so fluid that their climbing seemed effortless. In a few graceful steps, they galloped over the ridge and disappeared. Amazing. I know what I want to be in my next life.

Cairn Peak rises above the western edge of the Juneau Icefield. From here, I have a great view of a long line of "someday's."

The summit, 4,537 feet above sea level. Finally, I've worked my way to an elevation in Juneau that is higher than my parents' Sandy, Utah, home. And I was so happy to be there. Really, really happy.

And thus began the mad rush back to sea level, both to beat the clock and beat the fog, which was starting to worry me.

Looking down the ridge from near the summit. It is always farther than it looks.

I reached the trailhead very close to (OK, maybe after) the time that I was supposed to be at work. But the trail also is only a half mile from my office. I had some clean clothes in a suitcase in my car, and a bottle of soap. I gathered them up, walked a little ways off the trail, stripped to my skivvies and took a quick bath in the creek. I dried off, put my hair in a ponytail, put on some work-appropriate clothing, and rushed to the office, where I bought a pile of delicious offerings from the vending machine for lunch. Clean and fed! And only a little bit late. Tour Divide skills come to the rescue, again.

The total hike was about 12 miles with 6,400 feet of climbing. It took me just under six hours. It was a great day. Life doesn't get much more satisfying.

No agenda

"What are you training for right now?" is a common question I hear from my friends.

"Nothing," I answer. "I'm not training at all."

They usually look perplexed. As long as they've known me, I've had some sort of epic event marked in red pen on my calendar, even if it was months away. Right now, smaller goals are only penciled in, lightly, and in the meantime I don't have any tangible motivation to ride my bike.

So I just ride my bike.

On Friday, I followed a sucker hole to the Valley, giggling out loud when I first glimpsed my shadow amid the swirling clouds. Tourist traffic was light that day, and the Steep Creek trailhead was closed due to bear activity, so I had the rare privilege of having the Dredge Lake Trails all to myself. I laughed and sang along with my iPod and looped the moss-covered corridors as filtered sunlight flickered through the trees. Two hours passed in what seemed like a dozen rapid heartbeats. I returned home soaked in rainforest bliss.

Recently, my friend Dan, whose sole bike is a Surly Cross Check equipped with ~38c tires, drop handlebars and a homemade rack that could support a small deer carcass, asked me what "mountain biking" was like around town.

"Let's go riding on Sunday!" I said. "I bet you could ride your Cross Check on the Perseverance Trail."

So we met up in the morning. I had to pump the big ring to keep up with him on the pavement, and still had to leave it there as we shot up the steep trail. Dan followed my line, splashing through streams and weaving around wet boulders. By the time we reached the top of the canyon, we had already decided we were going to tack 22 more miles and 1,500 feet of climbing onto our ride with a dash up to Eaglecrest Ski Area, so I was surprised when he suggested we take the Red Mill spur down.

"I don't know. It's pretty technical. Not to mention choked with brush. We'll be soaked."

But Dan has this summer goal - which is right up my alley, actually - of running or hiking every trail in town. The fact that he was on a bike did not seem to be a hindrance to this goal. He wanted to check off the Red Mill trail. So we veered up the loose gravel and began our traverse of the steep sideslope. The narrow slash of a trail was littered with slippery wet rocks and roots. We both did our fair share of wavering and kicking off trees and the hillside. But when the downhill began in earnest, Dan locked in. He leaned way back, hovering over his narrow rear tire as we tackled a succession of dropoffs, our bikes harmonized in a chorus of clunking down the rocky pitch. I was nervous but determined; if Dan could ride a freakin' rigid cross bike down this trail, I told myself, then I could handle it. Clunk, squeal, clunk, clunk. A whitewater creek rushing beside us drowned out all other sounds. We skidded to a stop at the Perseverance Trail intersection, massive smiles spread across both our faces, and commenced the screaming descent in a blur of wind-induced tears and white noise.

Life's good when you have no agenda.

30 plus one week

This week, I have been getting out more often than I normally do - in a social sense - which means I have been sleeping later and getting outside a little less. It's a good thing, I think; after all, life is but a river that ebbs and flows. Autumn seems like the perfect time for an ebb. The rains move in; the temperatures creep down; life slows to a trickle. But come winter, the trickle begins to freeze and accumulate until it has transformed into something sparkling and new and almost electric, in a way that makes life come alive. I love winter. It truly is my favorite season.

It occurred to me today that I have been 30 for a week now. I'm supposed to be having some type of pre-mid-life/post-post-adolescent crisis, but to be honest, I've hardly noticed. I guess I do find myself looking in the mirror and thinking things like, "I'm 30 now. Maybe it's about time I started wearing makeup;" or, "Maybe I should buy some non-outdoors-specific clothing that isn't a hand-me-down from my 22-year-old sister;" or "I'm 30 and my worldly possessions amount to a few boxes of clothes, a kitty cat, a car that after being "totalled" by $700 in brake work is officially worthless, a road bike that has a similar status, a battered mountain bike and one beloved Pugsley." But my inclination right now is still toward less stuff and more mobility. I guess turning 30 hasn't done as much to spur me toward adulthood as I'd hoped.

And I won't even talk about my athletic pursuits right now. It's probably been pretty obvious from my blog that I'm all over the map, both demotivated and excitedly trying new things; both wrapped up in frequent adventures and discouraged by the "sameness" of the space I occupy. The sun came out yesterday afternoon and I watched it with bitter jealousy from my cubical at work. Today the rain rate was back up to a tenth of an inch per hour and I decided to go peak bagging anyway. Mount Roberts was my goal, with an ambitious hope for Sheep Mountain should the weather take a turn for the better.

The rain let up but it left behind a brutal, bitter cold wind. On the ridge, it was blowing 35 mph and easily gusting to 50 and even 60 mph (a speed where the wind takes your breath away, and pushes unsuspecting hikers nearly off their feet.) The ridge is somewhat narrow in spots, but not too exposed, so I layered up as best as I could with the random things I had stuffed in my Camelback over the past few weeks - a fleece pullover, a soft-shell pullover, winter mittens, a hat, a headband (which I pulled over my nose and mouth), and dry wool socks in a ziplock bag (lifesavers, those were.) Hard to gauge the windchill this early in the season. It felt below freezing, but then again the first real chills of the season always feel uber-cold. It was probably 45 or so degrees at elevation, not accounting for windchill.

The wind was relentless, and continued to get worse. Mount Roberts has a few steep, loose spots that were sketchier than I remembered, and I ended up turning back short of the peak because I had become consumed with the idea that I was about to blow off the mountain. I'm not really sure what the wind speed would need to be to actually blow a 130-pound person off a mountain - probably at least double the strongest gusts that hit today. But the wind felt intense enough that I was genuinely jittery. Every time a gust hit, I just crouched down and held my hat until it passed. I was certainly relieved when I reached the tram terminal and ordered the biggest, hottest cup of coffee they had, and "cheated" the rest of the hike by riding the tram down to sea level. It was a good day. That kind of hard, cold wind makes me feel alive. Like I said, I'm definitely a "winter person."