I guess this is the peak

I only had one goal for this weekend, and that was to do a lot of biking. This was my weekend to "peak" my rather scattershot training for the White Mountains 100, but I figured it was time to finally buckle down and put some long hours in the saddle. I tried to get all of my chores done during the week just so I would have all day to ride and all night to relax and visit friends on Thursday and Friday. I was aiming for 12-14 hours of pedaling over two days. And since the weather was forecast to be less than stellar (read: truly miserable — heavy wind, sleet, 32-35 degrees), I had to nix any kind of snow riding in favor of tagging some dead ends, which is what we here in Juneau are referring to when we go "road biking."

On Thursday I set out in hard-driving snow. I rode about 10 miles south into the wind with my eyes practically clamped shut, then decided to loop north instead. I stopped and grabbed my goggles just in time for the snow to deteriorate into steady rain, and continued out Glacier Highway toward the ultimate dead-end prize, "The End of the Road." Somewhere during this time I became fixated on the idea of tagging all of the major dead ends in town, which I once figured would net about 150 miles of riding. I've never ridden every road in Juneau in one day, or even in two days. It started to seem like a good goal — a way to give some sense of purpose to what was, in all honesty, long hours of pretty miserable riding.

I made it to mile 28, but the construction crew flagger on Glacier Highway told me they had just blasted and said I couldn't go any farther. When I protested and pointed out the truck she just let through, she said, "No bikers." I said, "But I'm wearing a helmet." She held her ground. "We'll be clearing the road for two more hours," she said. I turned around, frustrated that I wasn't going to be able to tag even my first dead end. But as I rode past the Herbert Glacier trailhead, I realized I could burn up some time attempting to reach the glacier by pedaling my mountain bike along the snowy trail.

The trail wasn't very snowy at all; it was literally a five-mile-long sheet of glare ice, with a few hundred yards of hard-packed snow and a tiny bit of dirt. The ice was thick and wet. I have a pair of studded tires on my mountain bike — Nokians, which are the best, supposedly — but I normally don't trust them as far as I can throw them. Still, I was feeling extra bold Thursday, and I figured the worst that would happen would be skidding out and landing in a clump of devil's club stalks. The studs actually got really good traction on the bumpy ice, and because the trail was so hard, I could ride as fast as I dared. As I neared the glacier, the trail shot up a steep embankment just above the Herbert River. I was nervous about the climb and didn't have much speed going into it. Sure enough, the rear tire skidded out about halfway up the hill. I put my right foot down but quickly realized my overboot had absolutely no traction on the wet ice, and both my body and bike were starting to slide backward. I lunged at the cliff to my left, grabbing a handhold and planting my left foot on a tiny rock sticking out of the ice just as the bike slid out behind me and skidded sideways all the way down the hill. I clung to the cliff, almost entirely supported by my hands, until I finally decided there was no way I could walk or climb down the trail. So I slowly lowered myself, sat on my butt, and slid down with my feet in front of me like a child on a slide. You'd think I'd be intimidated enough to turn around at that point, but I stood at the bottom assessing the short climb and finally decided I just needed more speed. I slipped and fell on the ice just walking my bike back to the point where I wanted to start. But I got back on the bike, gunned it with as much strength as I could muster, and powered up the ice with the studs crackling like bacon on the greasy surface. And I made it. I was seriously proud of myself. It was the best part of the whole miserable training weekend.

I went to the glacier, rode the ice-coated moraine for a bit, and returned to the highway. The flagger lady was still there, blocking the way. I wasn't quite ready to give up yet, so I formed a new brilliant idea about bypassing that section of highway on the beach. I have ridden long stretches of Eagle Beach before — however, never at high tide. I splashed through several sloughs before I landed in one that was a lot deeper than I had anticipated. Suddenly, the water was over my top tube, the bike stopped dead, and I put my foot down into hip-deep water. Not only did I get all of my food and extra clothing wet, but I soaked my feet and legs as well. At these temperatures, I have learned that soaked feet can go about an hour before things become seriously uncomfortable. I had at least 90 minutes of hard pedaling just to get home if I turned around right there, which, obviously, I did. I wasn't able to tag my dead end, but it was one of the more adventurous "road rides" I have ever done. And I still rode for seven hours, about 70 miles total.

Today, I aimed south again, but conditions were beyond brutal. The wind was driving the horizontal sleet so hard that it iced up my goggles within seconds, but without goggles I was entirely blind. Sideways gusts knocked me into traffic, and I couldn't look up for more than a couple seconds at a time. Luckily, I'm good at dressing for this kind of weather, so I was never cold. I was just miserable. There was nothing to see, nothing to do; I couldn't even listen to music because I had to rely on my sense of hearing to tell me where cars were since my eyes weren't working. The wind was blowing 25 mph, gusting to 45, with a mixture of snow and sleet and serious gray-out wetness. After two hours, I was 20 miles from home, thinking, "This is really quite stupid. I don't have to be doing this." I turned around right at that random point — 7-mile Douglas Highway — and rode the crazy tailwind all the way home. As the weather deteriorated even more, I put on a T-shirt and shorts and drove to the gym to finish out my last two hours of training on the elliptical trainer.

It wasn't what I thought it would be, but I got my 12 hours for the weekend. And because of the intermittent adventures and the fact that I managed to stay warm in complete crap weather, I feel good about how it went overall. I do think I'm physically ready for the White Mountains 100 — maybe not the best biker I could be, but I'm strong enough for most of what a race like that could throw my way. Hopefully.

ITI, day four

Photo by Sean Grady, Kuskokwim River area, March 2009

The two venerable veterans of the ITI, Pete Basinger and Jeff Oatley, on Wednesday night were battling it out on the home stretch of the 350-mile race, the Kuskokwim River. Temperatures were still warm, in the mid-20s. This year will probably be remembered as the "Pineapple Express Iditarod." I'll be interested to hear if the temperature even dropped below zero degrees, anywhere on the trail, in these first four days.

There hasn't been much chatter about the trail conditions out of Nikolai, but it seems this 50-mile stretch was expected to take the leaders 8-10 hours to ride. Pete left for McGrath at 4:50 p.m. and Jeff left at 6:19 p.m. Wednesday, and in eight to 10 hours, anything can happen. Still, Jeff has a big task ahead of him if he wants to catch Pete. A 90-minute head start is hard to make up if you have a determined competitor out front. Since I leave here in about 20 minutes, and hope to wake up early in the morning for a bike ride, I probably won't find out who won the race until more than a half day after it's finished.

It's interesting that the winner is going to wrap it up in three and a half days, after all of the reports of horrific trail conditions this year. In 2008, when conditions were supposedly relatively good, winner Jay Petervary took 3 days and 14 hours to finish. The race record is 3 days, 5 hours. It makes those of us watching the race from afar wonder what kind of magic Zen-Jedi power people like Pete and Jeff have over the trail, apparently riding when even snowmobile driver Craig Medred is complaining "at what point is a trail so bad it no longer qualifies as a trail?" and most of the other competitors are walking at a 2-3 mph pace. The third-place finisher may come in nearly a full day behind Pete and Jeff. Lou Kobin, who is still on great pace to take the women's record, will probably finish after the five-day mark. What is this magic that makes Pete and Jeff so fast? Is it their bikes? Are they running when nobody is looking? Did they learn levitation? Or is the secret just to grind, grind away without ever stopping?

So many factors of the ITI make it such a fascinating event. As a spectator, it is fun to speculate on weather and trail conditions and athleticism. But as racer — which, yes, I do hope to be again someday — to me, the ITI is about determination, facing fears, and ripping at the very fabric of your soul just to see where it shreds. It is such a different existence than to be here now. Just watching the ITI — very similar to the way I did in 2007 when I became irrevocably hooked on this race — feels surprisingly hollow.

But, then again, I have been amazingly useless all week. Insomnia has been dogging me for about 10 days now, which usually causes me to sleep in really late, which then necessitates going to the gym so I can squeeze in 70-90 minutes of harder effort rather than the 2-4 hours of biking I generally like to do before work. When I can't sleep at night, I read from a big stack of library books about mountaineering and the craft of writing, which have both served to be somewhat depressing. (Seriously, at least three people die in every single mountaineering book.) I've also been going back and trying to revise my Tour Divide project, which for all practical purposes is completed in the first draft, but right now I am in a "dislike" stage with this project, and I don't feel like dealing with it. This often happens with me. Something turns my stomach for a while, but I usually go back to it, eventually.

It's not entirely pretty, but it's part of life — seems to be typical for me, a February/March slump. It does mean I have to make a hard decision about the White Mountains 100, which starts March 22. I'm going to make an effort to force myself into a long bike ride this weekend to see how I feel physically, and then I still have to decide — is it worth a $500 plane ticket? Is it worth all the logistics? Am I really ready?

I hate to turn my back on the only race I planned to do this season, but timing right now is not on my side. Hopefully, I will be more clear about it on Friday.

ITI, day three

photo by Cory Smith, Pass Creek, March 2009

This is the kind of weather I empathize with the most. I see it frequently in Southeast Alaska. It's 34 degrees. A gray mass blots out both ground and sky, and everything is swirling in a dynamic cauldron of slush. Gusting winds drive the sleet into skin like a thousand tiny bee stings; they needle into the tiniest imperfections in clothing until nothing short of an ocean-going survival suit is going to keep you dry. 40 mph winds drive the chill down to 0 degrees, and the frigid blasts of air find their way into your clothing as well, pummeling your wet skin until the entire surface of your body goes numb even as your core burns hot with the exhausting effort of pedaling. Ease up on the hard effort even a little, and hypothermia will find its way to you faster than all but the most sinister "freezing" conditions. Cyclists in this kind of weather pine for anything else, even 30 below. I know, because I have. You see, when it's 30 below, it's dry.

Now imagine you're walking out of a remote wilderness lodge, above timberline where the wind and sleet blows free, and it's 45 miles to the next outpost of civilization, 20 miles to the next scrap of wind shelter, and there's hardly a trail. Even if you're strong, even if you're the strongest, it's going to take you 12 hours to get there. You bundle up your coat even though you know it isn't going to do you a bit of good, and you head out into the cold, gray, liquid infinity.

"This is Alaska," Kathi Merchant says. "Crazy weather is normal here."

Pete Basinger arrived in Rohn, mile 210 of the Iditarod Trail, around 8 p.m. Tuesday, 54 hours into the 2010 ITI. He left Puntilla Lake, mile 165, at 6 a.m. Tuesday morning, in weather described as "warm and wet" with 25 mph winds gusting to 40. There were reports of driving rain. Seriously horrible. Pete powered through the deluge, up and over Rainy Pass, and is now at least five hours ahead of his closest competitor, Jeff Oatley, and 10 hours ahead of third-place Jay Petervary. In more than two days of racing, Pete's had a little less than six hours of down-time at checkpoints, probably only a fraction of which is actually sleeping. But Pete didn't stop to rest long in Rohn. As of 9 p.m., Pete was listed as "OUT."

As of 9, many others were still resting at Puntilla Lake, including Louise Kobin, the leading woman cyclist, who is in fifth place overall. Temperatures in the late evening at Puntilla Lake were listed to be in the low-30s with light snow. Fresh snow makes trails slower, but anything is better than slush.

Meanwhile, the weather in Rohn, on the other side of the Alaska Range, was comparitively pleasant — 29 degrees and overcast with light winds. Not bad if you're fresh and dry. But when you're soaked, strung-out and exhausted, even 70 degrees and sunny can feel extreme.

And what awaits Pete as he pushes on into the night? According to reports, there's little snow on the other side of the range. And what little snow there was has mostly blown away. The Iron Dog snowmobile race trailbreakers, those brave sled-runners who are essentially responsible for creating the Iditarod Trail every year, took this picture a couple of weeks ago:

Farewell Burn. No snow. Frozen tussocks. Glare ice in every crack. No white snowcover to reflect a little visibility in the inky darkness of the night. Even the most skilled technical mountain biker wouldn't touch this stuff with a 4-inch tire, but that's where Pete's going tonight, and where every other person who pushes over the pass will go tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.

Is this fun yet? Why yes, actually, it is.

ITI, day two

It's 32 hours into the 2010 Iditarod Invitational, and the race leaders have been established — to no one's surprise, Jeff Oatley, Pete Basinger and Jay Petervary hold the top spots. Most reports point to somewhat difficult trail conditions this year, including fresh snow, warm temperatures (which make the trail surface slushy and soft), and somewhat hard-to-picture "holes," which I imagine are either sinkholes or trenches down the center of the trail.

It's interesting to me because the three leaders are turning in checkpoint times very similar to my first three check-ins in 2008 (which, again, point to the significantly increased level of difficulty on the trail this year compared to two years ago.) But the leaders were into Yentna Station at mile 60 around 10 p.m. Sunday, into Swentna at mile 90 around 3 a.m. Monday, and into Fingerlake, mile 130, at 4 p.m. Monday — my 2008 pace up to that point almost verbatim.

This fact is fun for me because I can mine my memory to conjure up images of approximately where they are right now, and it helps me feel like I am there again. I imagine climbing into the foothills of the Alaska Range just as dusk begins to cast its long, cold shadow over the open swamps. The trail is narrow and steep, wending tightly through the woods and sometimes dropping off veritable cliffs into the Happy River Gorge. Headlamps cast a warm, yellow light on the trail, revealing a stream of snowmobile tread, Endomorph tire tracks and the occasional, unique imprints of fellow racers' boots. As the miles plod onward, these tracks begin to tell elaborate stories of movement and struggle, triumph and pain. They become as interesting as movies, maybe because there's nothing else to watch, and the headlamp beam flickers like a film projector, a soft reflection of humanity against a bewildering expanse of darkness.

But this is just what I think about, when I think about 10 p.m. Monday night in the Happy River Gorge. The reality of the race leaders is they are probably thinking about sleep, and about warm food, and constantly looking over their shoulders, watching for the soft, warm headlamp glow that signals the approach of their closest competitor. Anxious competitiveness, rather than peaceful loneliness, is probably what drives those leading the race right now.

The good thing — perhaps the only good thing — about my current position in a cubical 700 miles away in Juneau, where driving rain and wind pounds the window, and where I am perched next to a space heater with a lukewarm water bottle and a fresh orange, is that I can imagine myself wherever I'd like to be.

Idita-spectating

I fell off the training wagon after my mountain bender last week. I've just been focusing on priorities elsewhere, but I have found time for a couple of short rides and a couple of trips to the gym. I also got out Friday for my first mountain bike ride in what feels like ages. I splashed through the muddy trail system of the Mendenhall Valley beneath a thick mat of fog, craving snow. February was basically one long thaw, and Juneau's sea-level trails are nearly back to their mossy, spongy summer condition. I miss snow biking. So I went home, put on my ice-cleat boots, and pushed Pugsley up the treacherously icy Lake Creek Trail, knowing I was likely to find little more than a slushy, long-faded snowmobile trail at the top. As I expected, I was able to ride for short stints in the shade, but mostly I spent the afternoon going for a long walk with my bike - which is actually great training, though not terribly fun. I did find the sun. I always enjoy the sun.

I am really excited about this year's Iditarod Trail Invitational, which kicks off Sunday at 2 p.m. I participated in this event in 2008 and 2009. I finished in 2008 and later that year wrote a book about it. I dropped out last year with frostbite on my right foot. Before I even started the 2009 race, I had already decided I wouldn't participate in 2010. I had plans to ride the Great Divide in summer 2009, and I knew I would spend a long summer entrenched in the planning and training for that undertaking. Preparing just to survive the 350 miles to McGrath can be even more arduous and all-consuming than the Divide (in my opinion), so I figured I'd need the winter off to take a physical and mental vacation from cycling. I did use my lax winter to try some new things - winter mountain trekking and to a lesser extent, skiing - but mostly I spent this winter wishing I was training for the ITI. It's such an intoxicating experience in ways I couldn't begin to explain. I've started having dreams about lining up with the group on Knik Lake. When I wake up and it's not true, I feel disappointed. So am I going back in 2011? This race fills up in like an hour these days, but you better believe I'm going to try.

I excited just to spectate this year's race. It's going to be an exciting one. There are a lot of strong cyclists to watch for — Pete Basinger, Jeff Oatley, Jay and Tracey Petervary, Rocky Reifenstuhl, Louise Kobin and rookie Chris Plesko. There are runners I'm cheering for too - Anne Ver Hoef, who developed painful frostbite on her face in 2008 and who I bonded with at the Hurt 100 in 2009, and Tim Hewitt, who has completed the walk to Nome and almost unthinkable four times, and who as far as I'm concerned is the patron saint of the Iditarod. He is the first person who was willing to look me in the eyes at Yentna Station last year and say, with a touching amount of empathy and understanding, "You know you can't go back out there."

There's also rookie Lorie Hutchinson, who wrote me an e-mail some months back and said "Your book is the reason I entered this year." She's a runner who is riding the Iditarod on a bike. This statement alone made writing and publishing that book worth it.

And there's so many other great people - Phil Hofstetter, the Nome resident who's quietly fast, and Sean Grady, the former New Jersey mountain biker who never said quit last year (even when the rough trail conditions kept him out there for 10 days.) There's Brij Potnis, the self-proclaimed (but undeniably speedy) "tourist" who toughed out minus-72-windchill at Puntilla Lake in 2007. They're all great. The community is half the reason to experience the Iditarod. I'm cheering for everyone. I'm hoping to see the strongest finish yet.

Trail conditions will likely make it interesting — there's everything from fresh snow at the race start to "sidewalk" hard trail on the Yentna River to bumpy horrible trail along the Skwentna River to no snow, open water and frozen tussocks in the Dalzell Gorge and Farewell Curn. I still think there's a good chance for a record this year, which right now belongs to Pete Basinger - 3 days, 5 hours in 2007.

I'm also tracking a similar and yet very different endeavor by Mike Curiak. Mike's human-powered experience on the Iditarod is nearly unmatched. He's come to Alaska nearly every February since 1997, including his first trip to Nome way back in 2000. His statement about that trip perfectly echoes my feelings about riding to McGrath in 2008: "That trip, and the lessons it taught about my own adaptability and capabilities, remains one of the brighter defining moments of this lifetime." Mike still holds the bicycle record to Nome, which has stood since 2001.

These days, Mike no longer races the Iditarod. He "tours" it — under self-imposed conditions that we "racers" can hardly even fathom. He travels under a strict self-support credo, which means for 1,100 miles of some of the harshest, most exposed conditions on Earth, he is completely self contained. He has no resupplies. He enters no buildings. He is completely, truly, in a way few modern experiences can even touch, on his own.

When he starts, he is carrying 24 days worth of food and fuel, and his bicycle weighs 145 pounds. If something goes wrong — and things always go wrong — he has to deal with it himself, with no outside help, out in the elements. Interestingly, the first time I ever met Mike Curiak was when things started to go wrong for him in 2008. His tent poles broke and his stove wasn't working. He made the hard decision to stop at a house in McGrath. I had just finished my own crazy, humbling - and not even comparable - experience when I first encountered Mike standing in the front room wearing only long johns. Because all male cyclists look the same to me, whether they are wearing spandex or Arctic gear, I had no idea who he was, at first. I mumbled a generic, "So are you headed back out there?" "The future is uncertain" he replied. Later, I realized who he was. I still kick myself over not chatting with him more within the context of that truly unique circumstance.

His goal is to ride all the way to Nome without breaking his self-support code. It really is quite unimaginable. But every year, I follow his SPOT tracker (his only form of communication; he carries no satellite phone), and I try to imagine what it would really be like. Which is why I was truly flattered when he contacted me this year and asked if I wanted to help Scott Morris provide color commentary for his blog. I'm really looking forward to it.

I'll probably also do plenty of sportscasting on my own blog for the ITI. You can track the results of the race here.

Modern Romance, part three

My ongoing conversation with Thunder Mountain ...
Modern Romance, part one
Modern Romance, part two

Wake up to a new day, the fifth straight of sun. I roll out of bed in the same slumping way I have for days, bracing for painful impact on my tender body. Despite four hard and physical days, my legs spring back with surprising elasticity. My back straightens and my shoulders relax. I rub my eyes; the tear salt burns in dozens of tiny cuts in my hands. The stinging sensation jolts me fully awake, with eyes open to the bright new day, and I realize that not only do I feel healthy again — I feel strong. I wasn't expecting to feel this way on the fifth straight day of sun. Bodies, like lives, can be amazingly adaptable. And, like lives, only through struggle can they really grow.

I take my newly formed muscle fibers and return to Thunder Mountain. I've been wanting to go back here, and I knew the fifth day of clear weather may well be the last. A climb on Thunder Mountain is a true climb, up something only faintly resembling a route thinly notched into the steep mountainside. Hands must be applied before most steps, with fingers grasping roots and stumps to leverage a bottom-heavy body better adapted to turning pedals than swinging from trees. I press my hands into cold earth, wincing as tiny slivers of ice pierce my cuts. But through my fingers I feel a comforting softness — pillows of moss, tender leaves and spongy, decaying wood. I hoist my body up another step; the soft earth holds me like a bridge over a precipice.

Winter hasn't been kind to Thunder Mountain, and the mountain is littered in landslides and deadfalls. I hoist myself over the toppled trunks and wade through a morass of branches and needles. All of this decay — none of it was here four months ago. Avalanche debris is nowhere to be seen; this is simply a matter of the mountain slowly falling apart. It's a subtle reminder that one day Thunder Mountain won't be a mountain. It will be a desert, or a prairie, or the bottom of the sea. This is universal truth — entropy. Nothing stays the same. I feel this way about my life. I feel this way about my body. My molecules, my atoms, water and carbon, someday it will dissolve and it won't be me anymore. It will be a rock, or a fish, or a branch of a blueberry bush on Thunder Mountain.

But for now, I am me, and the blueberry bushes are prematurely reaching for new life. It is Feb. 22 and fresh green growth is everywhere. Days on end of sun preceded by weeks on end of temperatures that hardly drop below freezing will do that. But this time, it's at least two months early. I fear for the blueberry bushes, that winter's deep freeze will return and kill them all. Or maybe it won't. Maybe, in this ever-changing world, spring sometimes comes to Juneau, Alaska, in February.

I claw up another thousand feet of slush until I reach the sun-scoured summit of Thunder Mountain. Large patches of tundra have emerged from the snow and the mountain has already put on its springtime face, which, more than any other time of year, looks like old age and decay. I am not tired and sore anymore, but neither am I elated to be here, smug and prideful at having "bagged" another mountain. I am, simply, where I am supposed to be, where I need to be, at 11:45 a.m. Feb. 22. I am forever trying to explain why I do what I do, to myself as much as anyone, to try to gain a grasp on the reasons for this unconventional lifestyle, this frivolous hobby, this roadblock to the "real" life that my culture tells me I should be living. But I can't explain it. It's just something I feel, feel as strongly as the urge to wake up in the morning or eat dinner in the evening. So you see what I do — I go to the mountains.

I settle down on a rock, lingering for the few moments I have before my conventional work schedule dictates that I start back down. I don't mind this side of life — in fact, I, like anyone, thrive on the perception of structure and purpose. But I do feel that it's all perception. Our work is only as good as we believe it is. I am good at what I do, but I am easily forced into a corner. Dozens of decisions made from a distance, by people who aren't watching, slowly erode away at creativity and purpose, until we become drones, something like machines, and if we taste a little freedom, release ourselves from necessity, we are always going to ask ourselves, "why?"

So you see what I do — I go to the mountains. I am not trying to lift myself above it all, or escape the fog-drenched world below. I know I will always go back. But more than structure and purpose, I am in love with life, and everything life has to offer, even the pain and fatigue, the sunburns and the cuts, the anxiety and the fear. I love life with a voraciousness and hunger that can never be contained, even as I grow older, even as the spark that is me fades from my body, even as my molecules decay and disperse, even as the mountains erode and disappear, even as the sun engulfs the Earth, and the universe becomes something else entirely, this love will continue.

I won't apologize for loving life. I will struggle and I will contribute and I will do the best I can, but I won't apologize. I will hunt life. I will embrace it, and I will cling to it in all of its ever-changing elusiveness, even if it slips away from me forever, even if I know it will slip away from me forever. I love life all the more because it changes. And I will recognize when I need to change, too.

I know the mountains will be here. Long after I am gone, they will be here. But they won't always be here.

On happiness

Date: Feb. 21
Mileage: ~5
Total climbing: ~2,200 feet
Time: 2 hours, 7 minutes
Weather: Sunny, 42 degrees, light winds
Details: Hike to Ben Stewart, 40-90 percent

I didn't sleep well last night because my heart rate wouldn't slow down, something that happens to me when I am "overtraining," which to me means working my body at a consistently higher rate than it is comfortable with for an extended period of time. The kind of thing I do during an ultraendurance race. The kind of thing I'm actually seeking to do right now, with my "mountain bender." But after not sleeping well, I woke up late with a sun hangover, prickly quad muscles and legs that felt like they were stapled to the mattress. My hands are torn to shreds from my Sheep Creek bushwhacking adventure and I'm finally starting to get blisters on my toes. So I decided, "time to take a rest day." I knew, physically, that rest would do me more good than exercise at this point.

I did some cleaning and organizing at home, and at noon decided to go to the office a couple hours early and work on some administrative stuff that I've been putting off. As I drove south, the mountain peaks that envelope Juneau like a fortress became visible through the diminishing fog. As though emerging from a fog myself, my inertia slowly became supplanted by desire. "I have two hours," I thought. "What can I do with two hours?" I drove past my office building and kept going.

I had in my car a pair of running shoes and clothing I wear to the gym. Not exactly up to the standards of the winter trekking gear I traditionally use, but perfectly adequate for what I had in mind - climbing to Ben Stewart, a 3,366-foot-high peak on Douglas Island. I have actually never been all the way to this peak before, because it's a muskeg-slicked slog in the summer and in the winter it is usually the realm of skiers - located in the immediate backcountry of Eaglecrest Ski Area. But it's a good, fast peak to hike for two reasons - you can "cheat" by starting at the base of the ski area at 1,150 feet rather than the typical Juneau starting point of sea level. And snowshoeing snowboarders generally lay a good boot-pack trail that is sufficient for running.

But as I tried to kick-start my reluctant legs and adjust my sunburned eyes to the bright white snow, that nagging guilt, "why are you doing this?" trickled into my mind. So I thought about it. I coughed and clawed up the slush and ice and thought about it. I didn't think very hard, because mountain benders combined with my weekend work duties generally turn my mind to mush. But the only answer I could come up with, as I stood on the peak with the sun-drenched pinnacles of Southeast Alaska surrounding me, was, "It makes me happy."

But that started me thinking about the substance of happiness. To me, the question "what is happiness?" is the same as asking "what is food?" It is something that fills you up, energizes and replenishes your body and mind. It is something you need and something you seek after. It is not the same for everyone - some people crave lobster; others like peanut butter sandwiches. Happiness is organic in the same way food is, consumable and finite. One source will never be enough to satiate a person forever. We are destined to pursue it our entire lives, and eventually find fulfillment in the pursuit as much as the reward. The question "are you happy?" is the same as the question "are you hungry?" Happiness is hunger, the force and motivation of life. If I'm satisfied today, I'll still have to go searching the next day, and the next and the next, until I breathe my dying breath. And to stop searching is to starve, slowly but surely. This I believe.

Then again, I have been spending a lot of time in the sun this week. :-)