Mountain bender, days 4 and 5

The sunny stretch of weather was forecast to break Thursday, just in time for my weekend, and to be honest, I was a little bit relieved. Hiking three to six hours a day, then working for nine, was getting exhausting. To top it all off, I was coming down with a cold. That's when I got a late Wednesday night call from Sean with an ambitious proposal - wake up early, head up Blackerby Ridge, traverse to Cairn Peak, up and over Observation, then across Salmon Ridge and out Olds, Clark, Sheep and Roberts, with a bivy thrown in there somewhere. Lots of peaks and lots of climbing. It would be crazy to say yes - and also crazy to say no to someone who was actually willing to try something like that with me.

But the weather was supposed to be bad so I thought I would just head up Blackerby with the guys and then back down. I packed my bivy gear for good measure. Both of my real backpacks are in storage, so all I had on hand was my Camelbak H.A.W.G. Who goes on an overnight alpine hike in Southeast Alaska in September with nothing but a Camelbak? I've never thought of myself as an ultralight kind of a person, but there I was, packing mine with rain gear, my bikepacking sleeping gear, an ice ax, a headlamp, dry socks and gloves, iodine and energy bars.

And, as promised, the day started out rainy and cold. We were all pretty pessimistic about our chances of even making it to Cairn, let alone overnighting in the alpine. But Sean was pretty determined, and he nudged his friend, Burke, and I along.

Fall is in full swing on the tundra. I was amazed at how much it had progressed just since Monday.

The rain started to let up, but it left behind a bitter cold wind, blowing about 20 mph. I was dressed well for the weather, but well aware that what I was wearing was all that I had.

I set my turnaround time in my head even as Sean urged me to stay. The prospect was enticing, but I knew before I let the house that my bivy gear was inadequate. Since the weather was marginal and Observation Peak seemed like a long shot, Sean and Burke started discussing the possibility of staying in the base camp of the Juneau Icefield Research Program, supposedly located just below Cairn.

We started up Cairn Peak in a thick fog. "Are you guys going to be able to find that camp in this?" I asked. I was answered with a chorus of tellingly uncertain "Sure's."

We crested the peak and began wandering around at the head of Lemon Creek Glacier. As the fog swirled around us, I began plugging waypoints into my GPS, certain that little screen was now my only hope of finding my way out while Sean and Burke spent the rest of the afternoon looking for camp.

But, amazingly, the clouds lifted. The guys realized the were on the wrong ridgeline. We traversed the rotten talus across Cairn and worked our way to a veritable palace - JIRP's Camp 17. The round building, equipped with wire-spring bunk beds, foam mattresses, and a cache of seriously questionable "Emergency Food," is left open yearround for hikers and skiers.

This was the view from the front door - Ptarmigan Glacier.

Earlier in the day, Burke shot three ptarmigan with his .22. Sean cleaned them with his bare hands, no knives in sight, and Burke fried them up in butter for dinner. They were surprisingly delicious - very much a red meat, almost like pot roast.

Before dinner, Sean and I bagged Vesper Peak.

Then we walked a little way down Ptarmigan Ridge.

I didn't want to admit that I wanted to keep hiking solely because I was too wet and cold to sit around the cabin. The guys didn't criticize me for packing as light as I did, but they should have.

Still, it turned out to be a beautiful evening. I've never spent a night above treeline in Juneau. The feeling was incredible, like being perched on the edge of a different world.

As night descended and Burke fried up ptarmigan, I donned Sean's down coat and sat on the edge of camp for a while, looking across Lemon Creek Glacier and the barren spine of the ridgeline beyond it. The wind blew hard and steady; the stark intensity of the place cut through in a way that felt close to the soul, and I was mesmerized.

The rain came back that night, coupled with strong winds and temperatures in the high 30s - all I can say is I would not have been a happy camper inside my bivy sack. But Camp 17 was cozy. I curled up in my bag and fell into the best night of sleep I've had all week. As wind and daggers of water pounded the metal roof, we all opted to sleep in rather than show any sort of optimism about our chances on Observation. But when we finally did wake up, we were met with rainbows.

We climbed back up Cairn and wavered a bit on the dream of Observation, the large peak at the left. We wanted to climb that peak, then down on the other side, traversing Salmon Ridge at the center before banking left and possibly dropping down into Granite Creek Basin. But we finally decided the weather was too sketchy to attempt a route that was unknown to all of us. We had a good window here, but clouds were closing in on all sides.

During an expedition across the icefield in March 2008, Sean had cached a gear sled at Camp 17. It was still there a year and a half later, so he decided to carry it down.

Coupled with the (diminishing) wind and scrambling, the sled made for some funny moments.

But the guys took full advantage of it on the snowfields. We made it back to sea level just as the weather was really starting to clear up again. But what a great adventure! What an amazing week!

Mountain bender, day 3

I almost feel like the sun is taunting me now: "Good morning. I'm out again. What are you going to do today?" And I have to pull my sore legs and blistered toes out of bed and squint at its gorgeous light: "I can't waste it. I guess I have to do something."

Today was Heinzelman Ridge. It's perhaps the most prominent ridge of Juneau's skyline, with jagged cliffs that loom over Lemon Creek and the Mendenhall Valley. The views up there are striking.

I am so enamored with these vistas.

Fall colors are already erupting on the tundra.

On a Wednesday morning I have to adhere to my strict work timeline, so I turned around at an arbitrary point on the ridge rather than working my way to a peak. I ended with, according to GPS: 3,740 feet of climbing, 7.5 miles, about four hours.

I thought of a poetic way to describe my stroll over Heinzelman, but I don't have much time for this blog post. Still scheming ... still planning ... still sore.

Meanwhile, back in the rainforest ...

Mount Juneau

Another sunny day, another peak in the bag. My friend, Klas, and I headed up Mount Juneau because I had a meeting to attend in the early afternoon and Mount Juneau is "short." It's still six miles and 3,500 feet of climbing. My legs are kinda tired right now.

The high point on the right side of the photo is Cairn Peak, where I stood on Monday morning.

Klas hauled about 15 pounds of camera equipment to the top, and no food or water. You have to respect a guy who knows his priorities.

We saw more mountain goats! Actually, three different groups. This group was lounging on the ledge of Juneau's north face. Then, one by one, they all got up and scampered down the scree, spacing their retreat so as to not rain rocks down on each other. Smart animals.

Klas had 15 pounds of camera equipment with him, so he got much, much better photos than I could. This is one of Klas's photos.

On the hike down, Klas felt thirsty so he drank out of waterfalls. He assured me he has been doing this since he was a little kid in Petersburg. You gotta respect those real Alaskans.

Now I'm left with the dilemma of where to go tomorrow morning. I love a good binge!

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."