Bikecstacy

Rain was hitting the window sideways when I suited up for my ride - polar fleece, plastic coat, hat, neoprene gloves, rain pants and Xtratufs. Dry feet are important to me these days, but I dislike wearing Xtratufs. I know it's going to be a rough day when I have to resort to Xtratufs.

I wheeled my bike out into the hard wind and driving rain, not stoked about riding but determined to at least try to rebuild my saddle callouses and spinning legs ahead of a planned Golden Circle tour at the end of the month. Too much hiking/running makes bikers' butts soft. Time to get it in gear. Just in time for beautiful weather - 51 degrees, 30 mph east winds, and a 100 percent chance of rain.

I put my head down and rode up to Eaglecrest because, well, it's a place to go. As I climbed, the wind picked up force until it was swirling all around in apocalyptic proportions. I clenched my teeth and plowed into the deafening roar as it pushed me left and right and I sometimes, I swear, backwards. Rain stung my cheeks and poked my eyes and I started to feel nervous in that way that I do when I'm out in weather that is clearly much more powerful than I am. Fog was streaming through the air like a fire hose. I swerved to and fro in the water blast, with my front tire scraping the toes of those stupid giant Xtratufs, just trying to keep it in line until it was finally time to turn around.

Gusting air pushed at my back as I bounded down the rough gravel, picking up a momentum that rivaled the wind speed. The parking lot below the gravel road was shrouded in a thick cloud, so much so that I couldn't see the pavement until I was on it. As I began to drop down the canyon, a roaring gust of wind barreled up from behind me until it was right on top of me, pushing me, faster and faster, until the wind and I reached an eerie sort of equilibrium. Everything went quiet. It was right at that moment that I blasted out of the fog, with a sweeping view of the canyon and the mountains across the Channel, through a curtain of sideways rain that made everything look like it was shimmering. All around me, tree branches were whipping; grass was flattened against the ground; and I was floating through a bubble of calm. I felt weightless, freed of all friction and resistance, riding in perfect harmony with the wind. My odometer registered 43 mph. My heart pounded. I sucked in fast gulps of air. My whole body vibrated, consumed by an almost overwhelming feeling of elation ... bikecstacy.

The best part about it is that it always hits when you least expect it.

My new trail column

The Juneau Empire is bringing back its weekly Outdoors section after a yearlong hiatus, part of our effort to regrow the newspaper after a long, difficult period of cutbacks. Most of this growth has been hard - it means more hours in the cubical for me, more stress for my design team and more work in general. But the good thing about our new section is it gives me an excuse to write a weekly trails column, something I have always wanted to do. Juneau is surrounded by great trails, and information about them is limited (meaning there's not much on the Internet.) But I could write about a different one every week for a year, and not run out of places to write about.

Klas and I headed up Mount Jumbo today to do a little recon for my first column. Actually, he just wanted to get one more climb in before the Klondike Road Relay, and I didn't actually need to do any recon because I was just up there on Sunday. But when a friend suggests a fun outing, I'm not inclined to say no. Even when the weather is terrible, as it it was today - windy, rainy and mostly fogged in.

I always have a hard time making the transition from summer to fall in terms of clothing. This is the time of year that I keep dressing for summer and pay for it when I reach wind-blasted ridges, where air temperatures are in the 40s, soaking wet. I always come down with my worst bouts of hypothermia in the fall. Then I wise up and winter becomes quite the cozy season. But I finished up my first column, still unedited, and thought I'd stick it up on the Internet for Google to crawl, and maybe inspire someone else in Juneau to trek up this cold, cloudy peak.

Jumbo-vision: Standing on the top of Douglas Island

By Jill Homer
Juneau Empire

Do you hear that pitter-patter on your roof, the slow drip on the sidewalk? That’s the sound of autumn. It’s here.

Yes, I hate to be the one to deliver the bad news, but summer is over. And it won’t be long now — just weeks, perhaps even days — before the first termination dust coats Juneau’s skyline. After that, the mountains become significantly less accessible, so now is the time to bag those peaks you didn’t have a chance to summit when summer was hot and spectacular and you spent your days lounging in your swim suit on Sandy Beach.

I can already hear the skepticism: “Mountains? Hiking? Really?” So let me point out another obvious fact: You live in Juneau, perhaps one of the best places in the United States to be a hiker. “Discover Southeast Alaska With Pack and Paddle,” an obscure guidebook published in 1974, proclaimed Juneau “one of the few places where the casual hiker can gain entry into the mountaineer’s mystical world without the climber’s skills and trappings, and may better understand the mountaineer’s love of high places and his urge to journey into otherwise unreachable wilderness.”

If you have time to bag only one peak this season, I strongly recommend Mount Jumbo (also known as Mount Bradley) on Douglas Island. All of Juneau’s prominent peaks are stunning, but Mount Jumbo has the added benefits of being readily accessible, a shorter hike than most, with a well-established trail that crosses a range of scenic landscapes including rain forest, muskeg and colorful, autumn-hued alpine.

The trailhead is located on Fifth Street in Douglas. The first mile is a moderately easy jaunt through the rain forest on a fairly wide trail, followed by a walk across muskeg on single-plank boardwalk (Beware: It’s very slippery when wet, and almost always wet.) After leaving the muskeg, the route climbs steeply up an eroded, root-clogged trail. I have heard it compared to “walking up a ladder,” or “an endless Stairmaster.” The roots do provide nice steps and handholds, which help limit sliding as hikers gain a gut-busting 2,500 feet of elevation in the next mile and a half.

The trail leaves the woods about a half mile from the summit. From here, views of downtown Juneau become apparent, and on clear days, the numerous peaks that dot the Juneau Icefield also pop into view. The trail crosses a saddle and continues climbing up a steep, rocky drainage. Look for piles of rocks, or cairns, as the route isn’t always apparent. The final pitch is a scramble to a false summit, followed by a short drop and climb to the summit, 3,337 feet above sea level.

Rewarding the effort are spectacular views of Admiralty Island and Stephen’s Passage, downtown Juneau, Gastineau Channel and the Mount Roberts ridge. Perched high on the narrow spine of Douglas Island, Mount Jumbo offers what is perhaps the best 360-degree panorama in town.

The trail can be slippery when muddy, and clouds can choke out the views, so it is best not to attempt to climb Mount Jumbo in the rain. Budget at least three hours for the five-mile hike if you are feeling ambitious, and closer to six if you’d like to take your time (that is, take breaks.) This time of year, plan for cool temperatures and sub-freezing windchills, and carry rain gear. There is no snow on the ground, but wet vegetation can be slippery, so trekking poles also are a good thing to have.

But whatever you do, don’t wait. Winter is coming.

Mount Jumbo
Distance: About five miles round trip.
Elevation gain: About 3,300 feet
Difficulty: Strenuous.
Time: Three to six hours
Getting there: The trailhead is located off Fifth Street in Douglas. To get there, go straight on St. Anns Avenue and take a right on Summers Street, then a left on Fifth Street. The trailhead is sandwiched between two houses on the right side of the street.
For more information: Visit www.juneautrails.org.

I forgot how to ride my bike

KiM has been sorely neglected in recent weeks, so today I pumped up her tires and greased her chain and took her out for a quick jaunt before work. I headed a couple of miles out the Dupont Trail, which is marginally rideable when it's dry, and late-season vegetation provides a nice cushion for falls. I was timid, as usual, but for the most part we rocked it, hopping over roots and dodging boulders.

It's always invigorating to get back on the bike after a longish spell away, and between that the stoke I had left over from my semi-successful traverse of the lumpy trail, I was pedaling hard by the time I reconnected with the pavement. At one point I accidentally lifted my foot off the pedal (yes, a platform pedal), and when I put it back down, inexplicably, the pedal was no longer in the same spot. I pressed my foot hard into dead space, which threw my whole body off balance. I banked hard right, swerved wildly, overcorrected, and finally went over, scraping pavement and skin beneath a thick fleece pullover, and ripping a seam in the shoulder of a cotton T-shirt (Most of my clothing is still stowed away and my access to laundry is limited, so I have been wearing a lot more cotton recently.) Anyway, damage was minimal, but I jolted back up consumed with deep shame, wondering if that was perhaps the stupidest move ever made on a bike.

I didn't tell anybody about it today, and certainly wasn't going to write anything on my blog, but I figured I already rode my mountain bike across the length of the Rockies. I can own up to a stupid crash now and again.

Mountain bender, day 7

It had become a challenge at that point - seven days in a row of Juneau alpine; a week of hard hiking and crisp air and the transforming tundra and snow and ice and sun. I already had all the physical signs of a tough week - bloodshot eyes, a grumpy post-hike demeanor and mushy, sore legs that even at the tops of stairs protested loudly for all the mean things I was about to do to them. Could I really pound down yet another mountain? But then Abby stopped me after work Saturday and asked me how I felt about Mount Jumbo. She had never been to the top of Mount Jumbo before. And I realized that a Juneau alpine binge just wouldn't be complete without a little bit of Douglas Island.

I drank four cups of coffee in the morning, in hopes that it would power me through. We started up the mountain, and as soon as I got going, my legs started to come around. All of it - the root-step climbing, the rock scrambling, the skidding and sliding, the downhill pounding - is starting to become routine. My legs protest for the first few steps, but quickly accept their fate and continue the march to happy heights. Abby said my pace didn't seem too slow, although I did lose my balance quite a bit more often than usual, even for me.

According to my GPS and a little bit of guestimation on the peaks where I didn't use GPS, I ended the week with 48.5 miles of walking and 27,200 feet of vertical. In there, I accessed four ridges and four peaks, one of them twice. It was a successful week in the alpine, and a fun challenge. But I think I'm about due for a mountain hangover.

Mountain bender, day 6

I had to clean up and clear out of my temporary room this morning; my throat is sore; my leg muscles are well-blended to the point of being mushy; and to top it all off, blisters are starting to form on the tops of my toes. But when I woke up yet again to clean, untarnished blue sky, and a call from Sean inviting me to try out a new route that I had never even heard of before, I couldn't resist. Bah! Out again.

The guys were going for the Grandchild peaks. I didn't have time before work to go all the way to the top, but I figured it would be fun to traverse a new ridgeline. The guys couldn't really remember where the trailhead started off the Montana Creek trail, and we ended up climbing out of the creek about a quarter mile too soon. We bushwhacked for a half mile through thick blueberry brush, devil's club and several steep drainages before we finally found what turned out to be one of the most well-marked trails I have seen in Juneau.

From there, it was a quick jaunt up to the bowl.

One of the advantages of nice weather in Juneau is a rare opportunity to hike with guys who aren't wearing shirts. :-) I think the sole reason these guys go hiking in the summer is to scout out ski lines for winter.

Time was running short just as the terrain was getting good.

But I did make it high enough to catch a satisfying glimpse of the imposing north faces of Stroller White and Mount McGinnis.

Looking out toward Lynn Canal and the Chilkats. The air was so clear that we could see Mount Fairweather, a 15,000-foot giant far away in the St. Elias Mountains. In Southeast Alaska, Fairweather is our "mountain," our Denali. I've never see it from the ground before.

Another great day! I really can't describe how stoked I am on this week - the challenges, the new experiences, the company, the views, the supreme fatigue ... but I think the mountain bender is starting to wind down. Maybe. Maybe I'll start using that thing again ... um ... it has two wheels and these feet platforms you turn in circles to move it ... what was that called again?

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 ...