Shoring up optimism

"But with Saturday fast approaching, I'm going to have to decide beforehand how far I'm willing to 'swim' without quitting. I've decided that as long as I feel healthy and am not suffering beyond reason, I should have no reason to quit the race before the official cut-off time (48 hours. That's right.) I have the option of sleeping along the way. I'll have enough food to stuff a luau pig. And if there's one athletic talent that I have, it's plugging along — even when the going is insufferably slow. How long will it take me to swim 100 miles? I don't know. But I'm fairly certain I could walk 100 miles given 48 hours to do so. Not that I'm about to enter this race in the foot division."

I wrote the above paragraph on Feb. 14, 2006, a few days prior to lining up at the start of the Susitna 100 with my bicycle for my first-ever race. I was referring to a weather report calling for temperatures in the high 30s, sleet and rain, which sadly came to fruition. I finished after 25 hours and a lot of bike-walking through the slush (probably in the range of 35 miles with my skinny-tire mountain bike). I was shattered, but yet somehow hooked on endurance sports. And here I am, five years later, expecting to walk "run" the whole damn way!

Spring came to Missoula this weekend. It may not stick around for good, but when it's 55 degrees and partly sunny, and you're climbing a mountain in a cotton T-shirt as the sweet aroma of thawing dirt swirls in the air, you can feel confident that you're at least getting a taste of spring. The warm weather did somewhat squash Beat's and my plans for one last White Mountains snow-bike training weekend together before I have to ship the bikes off to Fairbanks. On Thursday night we got a slow, strenuous six miles of soft snow running with the sleds. On Friday we climbed the slush and dirt up to South Sentinel, and on Saturday braved the deep slush with snowshoes to the top of University Mountain, which at 6,000 feet was fairly cold and windy, but otherwise nearly scraped clean of snow. I think it's going to be an early year for Missoula mountain biking.

We had a lot of fun not working out this weekend, just sauntering along, taking lots of photographs of the wind-sculpted snow formations, and even building a snowman on the trail. Beat really emphasized the need for "taper," and it was good to have his voice of reason, because the weather was so fantastic that it felt strange not to at least try to go big, not that the conditions really warranted anything reasonable. Even the five-mile snowshoe to University Mountain at casual pace was fairly strenuous thanks to the soft snowpack. We did have lots of extra time to pack and repack our gear, make last-minute lists and switch things out, discuss options for airplane baggage and shipping, and stock up body fat stores via generous servings of Big Dipper ice cream and pasta.

When we weren't occupying ourselves with little chores or hikes, we did have occasional "freak-outs" where we would just grip each others arms, clench our teeth, and make distraught faces. Even these open displays of distress weren't quite enough to satisfy Beat. He thinks I should be more freaked out than I am. After all, this is my first 100-mile run attempt, and six months ago I wasn't even remotely a runner. But for some reason the physical effort doesn't seem as daunting to me as it probably should. Just as I did five years ago, I still feel confident in my ability to slog. I think that the Susitna 100 is fairly dissimilar to a regular ultramarathon in many ways. Even though it's "flat," two overwhelming forces — the friction of snow and the drag of a ~25-pound sled — conspire to really make it "uphill" the entire way (this is the way it feels on the bike, and based on my sled runs so far, even though many of them have literally been uphill, I believe the force is something that should be heavily factored into the effort needed for the run.) Add the below-freezing temperatures and scarcity of checkpoints, and it's really nothing like running the Western States 100 or Wasatch 100. It may seem like convoluted logic, but in my mind the uniquely difficult conditions of the Susitna 100 alone make not being a runner not all that much of a disadvantage to finishing the race on foot. If anything, it may be an advantage to be a rookie runner with previous Su100 course experience. Unless you're an extremely strong runner (and yes I am thinking of Geoff and his 21:43 course record finish in 2007), if you show up at the Susitna 100 expecting to run the whole thing as you would a typical ultramarathon, you're probably in for a rude awakening. We're all out there fighting the same forces, whether we're dragging a bike or a sled. The key, in my mind, is to show up fit, show up prepared, and, most important of all, keep the right mindset: "Just keep swimming."

As for the weather in the Susitna Valley, Alaska, it's currently -4 degrees and clear. It's supposed to remain fairly clear and dry all this week before warming up into the high 20s toward the end of the week. There's a 40 percent chance of snow showers on Friday and 30 percent on Friday, but no big storms on the radar as of yet. High in the 20s and lows in the single digits with some sunshine during the day and stars at night would be ideal, and so far it's looking like a real possibility rather than — as it was in 2006 — a distant dream.

But whatever the conditions, I really am looking forward to the swim run.

Gear junkie

"If you always use a compass to draw a circle and a ruler to draw a square, you will always remain a slave."- Song Zijing

"Next life, trail runner. One pair of shoes. Maybe one of those water-bottle holder fanny packs," Eszter Horanyi, talented endurance mountain biker, adventurer and skier extraordinaire, musing on the paradox of gear geekery.

I like to say it was the inspiration of the Swan Crest 100 that did it — but really, it was the frustration of TransRockies. With a mountain bike dangling precariously on my shoulder and my legs buried to my knees in mud, I resolved then and there to take up trail running.

The mountain bike stage race in the Canadian Rockies last August was a ton of fun, but after four and a half hours of dragging the bike through foul-smelling, cow-stomped sludge to gain a mere 25 kilometers of ground, I had an epiphany: I carried this bike over mountain passes. I carried this bike down headwalls. I carried this bike across rivers and up impossibly steep trails. I carried this bike through a seemingly endless bog of mud. This race would be a whole lot easier without this bike.

I love riding bikes. I like the flow of smooth trails, the quickness of pavement, the crunch of gravel, the challenge of climbs and the exhilaration of descents. But there are times that bikes feel like anchors — riddled with mechanicals, demanding endless maintenance, clogged with mud, limited by skill and strength and the restrictions of wheels. During the Bear 100, Beat asked me about the farthest distance I had traveled on foot in one day. I started to cite my Grand Canyon hikes, at 26 miles, but stopped myself when I remembered the Iditarod. “I pushed my bike over Rainy Pass,” I said. “About 50 miles in the deep snow. It took me 27 hours.” And the whole time I was dragging that heavy, suddenly useless anchor.

I had this fantasy about being free from all of it — free from gear, free from responsibility, free from expensive and highly breakable bike parts, free from trail restrictions and rules, free to just lace up a simple pair of shoes, fill a simple bottle with clear stream water, and just run. There would be nothing to break down, nothing to maintain, nothing to hoist over awkward obstacles, no restricting myself to staying within the lines if I didn’t feel like it. There would just be me, running up the mountains, down the mountains, wherever I felt like running. Free.

And then I entered the Susitna 100.

I couldn’t have picked a more gear-intensive trail run. Sleeping bag. Bivy. Closed-cell foam mattress. Down coat. Wind shell. Fleece socks. Gortex shoes. Hydration vest. Sled. And on and on. The list is quite long. When I throw it all together, it’s downright shocking. I scour my list for things to cross off, but I can’t. I need it, I tell myself. All of it.

(Click on image if you want to actually read it.)

The other day, Beat accused me of being a gear junkie, because I always manage to choose the most gear-intensive versions of the outdoor sports I enjoy. I had to concede. Once, way back in a far-away but simpler life, I was just a hiker. I owned one pair of hiking boots. Then I started multiday hiking with grotesquely heavy loads of camping gear on my back. Then I got a road bike, panniers and a bunch of extra gear so I could go road touring, followed by yet more bikes and yet more gear for mountain biking, working my way up to the most heavily laden of them all, snow bike touring, along with snowshoeing and mountaineering … then GPS units, small and large backpacks, bike bags, poles, crampons, ice ax, clothing layers, coats, mittens, shells, socks, more socks, boots, trail-running shoes, more shoes, and finally all of this Susitna 100 crap.

“But I need it,” I reasoned. “I’m a frail human who wants to run across Alaska’s Susitna Valley amid the ghostly beautiful scenery of winter. I need it to survive.”

And deep down, I am grateful for everything my gear has enabled me to do. It’s opened my freedom of exploration to realms I could have never dreamed to venture otherwise. Traveling 350 miles across Southcentral Alaska, over the Alaska Range and into the Interior in February? I wouldn’t have survived a night without my gear. 2,780 miles from Banff to Mexico in 24 days? I certainly needed my bike to help with that. Running the Susitna 100? I can’t wait for that challenge. If I need the stuff in my sled, so be it.

But in my next life, I’m going to be a barefoot runner in the Montana mountains. One water bottle. Huckleberries for food. Maybe some bug spray.

Either way, life is good.

Winter road rides

On Monday, I awoke to fresh snow.

I giddily packed my commuter bag with all the things I would need for a ride after work and launched my snow bike into the cold morning. The wide wheels glided through six inches of untracked powder like a swan in a tranquil lake. I grinned and pedaled faster, racing to match the bike's effortless glide. A wake of snow spray coated my jeans and I giggled out loud at the feeling of quiet weightlessness, floating in a fountain of powder, like an urban snowboarder.

Suddenly, the rear wheel swung sideways, launching my formerly weightless body into the cold air. It was one of those suspended moments, slow-motion terror. I remember the soft outline of the sun through the morning haze, and then the metallic taste of pain as my elbow slammed into the ground. I laid for a couple seconds, dazed, feeling the trickle of melting snow on my face, and then I stood up. The bike had spun a complete 180 and lay toppled beside a cleared half-circle of glare ice at least five feet wide. The contents of my commuter bag were strewn in wreckage — a full yard sale. I gathered the dented apple, the smashed bagel, the snow-drenched clothing, and the broken yogurt container sprawled beside an eruption of blueberry blobs. An orange had bounced a full 30 feet away. So much for lunch. Still shocked by the impact, I tenderly remounted my bike and soft-pedaled the rest of the way to work, terrified of hidden ice.

At 5:20 p.m., I left work to a full-blown blizzard. There would be no extra miles tonight. The wind howled as shards of snow stung my exposed neck and forced their way into my still-sore throat. I couldn't tell the street from the sky. The white out turns the cars and intersections and buildings into flickering shadows. Even with goggles I felt blind. I put my head down and ground the pedals toward the wind. On the other side of the bridge, I ran into my friend, Bill, who was also returning from work. "Man, commuting sucks," I grumbled in an open moment of weakness. I doubted Bill heard me over the wind. He had a huge grin on his face. "This is awesome," he said. "This is so much fun." I forget Bill likes blizzards. I can't say I understand, but he did manage to deflate my bubble of self pity. We churned in the general direction of home, hopeful we were still in Missoula on not on the top of some forlorn mountain, and plotted a bike ride for Tuesday.

A foot of new snow meant trail-riding was out. We decided to ride the Deer Creek loop from Pattee Canyon down to East Missoula, about 25 miles on packed snow and a bit of exposed pavement. The sky cleared up and the temperature dropped to the low teens. I have a bad habit of commuting to work with only the clothes I wear at work, a soft shell, liner gloves, and a hat. For the bonus ride I brought tights, gaiters, a thin balaclava and a fleece pullover. It still wasn't enough. I shivered on the climb, and I knew I was probably in for an uncomfortable ride down.

"It's 10 degrees," Bill announced at the top of the canyon. I mounted my headlight and put on the last of my extra layers, then followed Bill into the brutal descent. I was decently prepared for a run in those temperatures, but I had nearly forgotten just how cold winter bicycle riding can be, with the added windchill and periods of lower intensity. All of this is amplified tenfold when you have to coast for 15 minutes on a painfully long, gradual downhill, but can't crank up the speed lest a patch of ice meet you unaware. There's nothing you can do but clench your teeth and take your beating, bidding goodbye to the feeling in your toes and fingers as you dream about an anti-cyclist's-fantasy where there are no descents, only toasty warm sweaty climbs.

I knew I deserved it so I could laugh about it. At the bottom of the canyon we still had five miles to pedal into town on ever-more-icy, flat pavement. It was impossible to work up any heat. I held my hands in clenched fists in my pogies, hoping brakes wouldn't be necessary anytime soon. Bill seemed perplexed, and admitted he too was painfully cold. "This is good acclimatization," I reasoned. "Like taking cold baths. Getting ready for Susitna." Bill did not laugh.

Remembering Bill's blizzard grin, I said, "This is one of the things I like about winter activity. You can't quantify anything. Sometimes it's really hard, and sometimes the same things are not all that hard. But it's never easy."

Bill nodded, and I think he understood, but his face was probably frozen. We parted ways and I followed my commuter route home, thinking only of warm showers, and nothing of glare ice.

Super Sunday

The first Sunday of February rolled around and it seemed prudent to continue my lifelong tradition of completely ignoring the Superbowl. After Beat and I went running at Blue Mountain yesterday, we determined the trail to be in excellent condition for travel of the wheeled variety. We've been so running-focused these past months that he hasn't had too many chances to really try out his Fatback. The Big Boring Game promised a whole afternoon of almost zero traffic on both roads and trails, so we set out for what we decided would be a "short" snow bike ride.

The lower mountain is still coated in ice, necessitating a spiked walk both up and down the first mile of road. Beat also took the opportunity to test out his Big Boots.

We felt relieved that Sunday's chosen mode of travel negated the city's promises of certain death on Blue Mountain. After all, bicycles are much safer than sleds.

Once we got past the glare ice, the trail continued to be intermittently icy and hard-packed. The tread and ski tracks left behind by snowmobiles had frozen into concrete-like ruts, making the riding surprisingly technical at times.

On the plus side, every open field was covered in rideable crust, making for fun diversions from the uphill grind.

The steady climb made us work hard for our miles, and Beat noted that we were consistently making slower time than we had during our run, when we not only lacked the advantage of wheels, but also were dragging ~20-pound sleds. Snow fell steadily throughout the day, and soon the ruts and divots were masked by an inch of fresh powder. I knew the descent was going to be equally slow and tough.

We made it seven miles up the road during our run yesterday, and wanted to see how much farther we could ride today. We passed mile marker 9 before the trail started to become too soft and punchy to ride more than a few yards at a time, about 3.5 hours, 2,500 feet of climbing and 15 miles total into the ride. So much for a short day. The ride down really was difficult — so many ruts and exposed ice that it really was impossible to just let go and coast. Sort of like riding a rocky road where the rocks are covered in really slick mud. But we took it slow and relished in the technical challenge, keeping the spikes on our boots just in case we had to bail.

But it is fun to be way up in the mountains on a snowy February afternoon when most people are stuck inside, gorging themselves with beer and nachos to stave off the pounding boredom that is professional football. I feel bad they had to miss out, but grateful for the silence that allowed me to really enjoy the crunch of fat tires on snow.

And, for comparison's sake, here are the numbers from the Garmin GPS. Running versus snow biking up Blue Mountain:
Saturday Sled Run
Sunday Snow Ride

Winding down

The Susitna 100 is now less than two weeks away. It's hard for me to believe it's suddenly so close. I'm struck by a strong sense of homecoming — of my first return to Alaska since I left the Great Land, of returning to the first part of the Iditarod Trail, and returning to the Susitna 100, the place where all of this really began. In many ways, these feelings seem to trump the fact that, in the midst of all this nostalgia, there is the ridiculous and daunting notion of running 100 miles. I feel strangely at ease with it. In past years, I remember the entire month of February shrouded in all of my dread and anticipation for the unknowns I was knowingly jumping into, head-first. This year is different for some reason. There is comfort in the things I know, and excitement in the unknowns. Unlike my surprisingly unsettling emotions prior to my failed Iditarod attempt in 2009, running the Susitna 100 is not something I feel I "have" to do. It's something I really want to do. I have no idea whether I'm capable of running 100 miles and therefore feel secure in the worthiness of simply trying.

Two weeks also means it's time to begin the official "taper." After Sunday, I'm hoping to spend the next two weeks finalizing my gear and food, resting a bit and riding my snow bike, because I do have to make the transition from 100-mile run to 100-mile snow bike ride in just a little more than a month. As for the White Mountains 100, I also have plenty of reasons to fear that race, but I am hoping my wide cycling base will get me through it — after all, that worked out OK last winter when I spent most of my free time hiking and working on my Tour Divide book, and still managed to survive that brutal cold 21-hour effort without long-term damage (for the most part.) But that's March; there's no time to think about it now. The Susitna 100 is the real deal; for whatever reason, it's the race I focused on.

Today, Beat and I got out for a sled run. This was one was more of a dread run, obligatory because after reworking the gear list we had to get some testing in with our fully-packed sleds, and also because we're still two weeks out and should be doing a bit more training. But I was dreading it because after the deep freeze, Missoula was hit with another thaw. It rained most the day Friday and was supposed to rain again on Saturday. There was nowhere nearby with good snow cover, so we had to settle on the ice-coated Blue Mountain Road. As we started up the slick, hard surface, my sled meandered back and forth behind me a like distracted dog. On top of it all, a very strongly worded sign warned us of the risks of "sledding."

But as we worked our way up the gradual climb, the ice turned to snow, which turned to softer snow. The sun broke through the clouds and heated up the already warm air. It felt like spring, and smelled like a clear mountain stream, with sweet pine and a faint hint of fresh mulch to jolt my senses away from the winter drudgery. The run was slow, hamstring-pulling work, but the warmth and sun made it feel surprisingly light and easy. I felt reluctant to turn around. At mile 6, I persuaded Beat into one more mile. Then at mile 7, only about 2.5 miles from the top, we stood for a while debating whether we should just go for it. But the trail was already quite punchy, becoming steeper, and the afternoon was waning. Plus, we had no intentions to put in a big effort today. Even though I had been dreading this training run, I wished I could find an excuse to keep it going.

But, common sense prevailed. Making it to the fire lookout would have been cool, but I'm satisfied with the effort and happy the run turned out as fun as it did. Sometimes you set yourself up for a slog, and when you discover something entirely different, you almost feel like you cheated somehow.

As the early evening approached, we found ourselves stopping frequently to absorb the changing light, from brilliant whites to soft oranges to deep pinks and reds. In the midst of a burn area, we took a side trip to climb up the mountain for a better view of the Rattlesnake and Mission mountains.

The light really was fantastic. Difficult to capture with any true detail with a point-and-shoot camera, but fun to photograph nonetheless.

Then it was down, down, back down to the ice and freezing temperatures. We ended up running 14.6 miles and about 2,500 feet of elevation gain while tugging our full race kit. It felt strangely easy. I hope this means I'm as ready as I can be for Susitna.

Return of Pugsley

I wanted to go for a ride this evening, but I had a lot of reasons why I should not. It's my last week to train and test running gear before I need to taper for the Susitna 100. It seems lately every time I go for a ride longer than my commute, my angry knee flares up. There wasn't enough new snow to cover up all the glare ice on the trails. I wanted to meet up with my friend Bill for dinner. And I caught a cold; my throat was sore, my ears were clogged and my sinuses were all gummed up. Oh, and it was -6 degrees outside.

But as I prepared for my commute to work, I grabbed my snow bike, Pugsley, anyway. The frigid air slapped me like an angry friend and the wheels seemed glued to the snow. I had neglected to add air to the tires, and they were down to 6 psi or less. I pedaled as hard as I could but still the bike moved like it was towing a truck. I forgot about the cold and concentrated on how much my legs and lungs hurt. My commute to work is 2.5 miles, and flat. "I can't ride tonight like this," I thought.

As the day wore on, I frequently walked past the windows to the courtyard and glanced at Pugsley tethered to a frost-coated pole with a pink cable lock. He looked like a puppy dog waiting patiently for me to come outside. I realized that Pugsley and I hadn't gone for a ride in weeks. In fact, we hadn't gone for a ride since Dec. 31, which meant I had yet to take Pugsley out in the calendar year 2011 - and it's February. Guilt washed over me. Not because I really think my bike has feelings, but because I'm also supposed to be training for the White Mountains 100, which is less than 7 weeks away. "I guess I can muster up some kind of ride tonight," I thought.

The air was calm and cold at 5 p.m., but the sunset cast the mountains in a warm light. Trails were covered in a thin layer of snow, but it was hard-packed and faster than expected. I had aired up the tires and raised the seatpost to counteract my angry knee feeling, and the results were amazing. Instead of grinding along a flat river trail, I was able to power up steep hills and fly along the flats. I wended through the forest on tight singletrack and sweat profusely as I cranked up the soft-packed snow along the upper reaches of the mountain. By the time I reached Mount Sentinel's summit, my balaclava was encased in clear ice and my smile was as wide as the sprawling city lights stretched out in front of me. Behind me await a long descent, fast and frigid and euphorically exhilarating. I had nearly forgotten what that felt like, to coast free.

Oh, Pugsley. Yes I did miss you.

Gear for cold-weather running

(Today on my run: A quick Monday morning jaunt up to South Sentinel Summit. The temperature was -5 degrees with light windchill. I was wearing most of the clothing I'm blogging about today, staying comfortably warm but a little too sweaty. Plus, my hat got soaked. I wonder how that happened?)

“How do you dress to go for a run in the cold?” To me, this is as multilayered a question as “what type of bicycle should I buy?” There is no one-size-fits-all answer. Just asking what the temperature is won’t work. You need to ask whether it’s night or day, and whether there’s wind, what's the wind speed, and which direction is it moving. Is it sunny or overcast? High intensity, mid-intensity or low intensity activity? Packed snow or powder? Is new snow a possibility? Rain? There are really a lot of questions to ask, but I think people often forget what I believe is most important one — how long are you going to be outside?

Certain types of insulating clothing can often protect against a wide range of weather. But there is a monumental difference in a body’s needs when you add time. I can complete my 20-minute bike commute to work when it’s 10 degrees outside wearing only jeans, regular shoes, a cotton hoodie, thin shell, hat and fleece gloves, and still feel fairly comfortable when I arrive at work. But if I was going out for an eight-hour bike ride in 10 degrees, you can bet I’d be encased in fleece and Gortex, with huge winter boots and three layers of socks. If I wore my commuting clothes on an endurance ride, I would probably die. But why is something that’s good enough for 20 minutes not good enough for eight hours?

It’s probably both a simple and complex answer, but I think of it in simple terms. Take a 98.6-degree bottle of water and put it out in the cold. It doesn’t instantly cool down. It takes time, although the rate of cooling accelerates as temperatures become colder. Eventually, the water is going to freeze. Bodies react in a similar way. Humans have the added benefit of thermoregulation, which despite typical cold-weather complaints from our whiny species, actually works very well. Bodies want to maintain homeostasis and will do everything in their power to keep it, from burning up glycogen stores to burning body fat (although this is of course the heat equivalent of burning kindling versus old-growth wet logs. If your bonk in the cold and can’t recover your calorie stores quickly, your risk of hypothermia increases exponentially.)


But the problem remains — bodies start out warm, and because thermoregulation isn’t a perfect system, will eventually cool down over time. Physical activity helps stoke the furnace (like gasoline on kindling.) But even with an unlimited source of calories, muscles and motivation wear down over time, and the body is forced to slow to a more sustainable pace (big logs, slower burn.) Therefore, the practical way to dress for long periods in the cold is to start out as lightly dressed as possible, burn through the kindling, and then add layers to protect the slow burn as the body cools down.

It makes sense in theory, but in practice, I detest the layering and de-layering process on the trail. I like to keep moving, so I tend to start hot, shed an excessive amount of sweat, and then fight for hours to keep my suddenly damp furnace from fizzling out. Simple folk logic dictates that "sweat kills," but it's never a cut-and-dry situation. There are degrees of manageability, especially when sweat gathers and refreezes on the inside of a Gortex shell, where it limits the fabric's (dubious) breathability but otherwise doesn't do much harm. It’s certainly not ideal but I manage to make it work for me most of the time, by favoring moisture-rejecting synthetic layers and vapor barriers. I can wring the warmth out of lightly damp fleece layer for eight or 10 hours, but as I learned last year in the White Mountains 100 and previous Susitna 100s, this doesn’t work so well for 20 hours or more. As time burns on, my body just keeps cooling, and after a while I am just really, really cold.

And again, this is all combatable by adding more layers, of which I am always carrying a few spare. My situation has never been dire, but I am always on the lookout for a system that’s fairly adequate for not only a wide range of temperatures, but also a longer period of time, without changing clothing or starting out too cool and never getting the furnace going in the first place.

Thus, my “one-size-fits-all” Susitna system for a decidedly not-one-size-fits-all world. This is an event that, if I finish, will take at least 30 hours and as many as 48, in temperatures that could range from -40 to +40 degrees, from dry Arctic cold to rain. Temperatures will likely fluctuate ~30 degrees or more during the event, and I'm more likely than not to see some precipitation.

Outdoor Research Gore-tex jacket: In the past few years I have gone from embracing Gore-tex to shunning it to embracing it again. I learned in 2006 that one must have to option of being completely waterproof during the Susitna 100, because it can rain a lot. Also, this jacket accommodates my layering laziness with two hem-to-bicep waterproof zippers, which allow me to essentially turn this jacket into a poncho if I need to do some serious sweat venting without the inconvenience of actually have to take it off. Plus, it blocks wind completely.

Skinfit waterproof pants (I’m just guessing with this link because the Web site is in German): Beat gave these to me after I brought a cheap pair of rain pants on our backpacking trip in Yosemite. They have a full-length zipper, so they can be applied without removing shoes, and the zipper can also aid in venting if needed. Windproof, waterproof, awesome.

North Face Windstopper tights: I bought these large enough to add a layer of microfleece tights underneath if needed. But even at -10 degrees, they provide a lot of warmth and wind protection while still venting moisture fairly well.

Sunice Alana Fleece Pullover: I won’t start out wearing this layer unless temperatures are quite cold, but it will offer the option for quick and effective insulation during slower-burn periods.

Underarmor Evo base layer: I’ve been using these shirts on a regular basis for three years, ever since my youngest sister bought me one as a birthday present at Nordstrom’s. It's always strange to receive a favorite piece of gear from your fashion-conscious sister, I don’t see any reason to change now.

Vasque Mercury Gore-tex shoes: Feet are warm and snow is cold, which can lead to melted snow and wet shoes and cold feet. Thus the waterproof shoes. I got a women's size 10 — 1.5 sizes too large — to accomodate lots of insulating socks. Comfortable and warm.

RBH Designs insulated VaprThrm socks: A full vapor barrier retains heat and moisture to keep shoes dry and feet warm. It's impossible to fully expel moisture in these kinds of conditions, so it's best to keep it contained.

Drymax socks: I realize that 100 miles of anything is going to wreck feet, and the only way to mitigate this is to keep them dry. Since the vapor barrier socks combined with Gore-tex shoes will retain most of the sweat moisture, I'm hoping Drymax will help hold it away from skin. I know there will be moisture against my skin, but in all of my testing, so far, so good. I will carry several of these so I can change frequently, as well as polar fleece and wool socks as backup insulation layers. Can't be too careful with feet. Blisters suck but frostbite is worse.

Mountain Hardware Microdome Beanie: I like this hat. It's warm and it doesn't make me deaf like my other Windstopper hat.

Pieces of gear I haven't yet dialed in exactly yet are a down coat, knee-length waterproof hiking gaters, several pairs of liner gloves, mitten shells, light balaclava, neoprene face mask, heavyweight balaclava, goggles, and the big one — a hydration system. I'm going to play with a few more options before I dial that one in. But the preparation is half the fun! (Not really, but I tell myself this because otherwise I have a bad habit of cobbling stuff together and hoping it works out. This is why I commute to work in cotton hoodies.)