18 miles of Marin

I have visited the Marin Headlands at least a half dozen times, and I have never, not once, been there when it wasn't encased in fog. I advocated aggressively for a trip to Marin this weekend, so I was thrilled when the famous California sunshine made a showing for our planned Saturday run. Even the insane St. Patrick's Day parade traffic in downtown San Francisco couldn't dampen my spirits for such a momentous occasion.

We met up with Beat's friend Jochen, who lives in the city. Jochen proposed a "little" run of about 18 miles.

Since it was to be only my second run post-Susitna, and following a fairly overactive week of mountain biking, I balked a bit at the distance. But then Jochen promised fantastic scenery — my weakness. OK, legs, guess you're gonna hafta cowboy up.

My Susitna pains still come back a bit when the mileage piles up — sore tendons in the outer sides of both feet, sore IT bands, and general reminders that running is quite hard — a fact that month of "rest" had managed to mask. I slowed up Beat and Jochen a bit, but they were also too busy enjoying the scenery to really notice.

The views were indeed awesome. The Headlands are a mostly tree-free ridge, allowing for sweeping panoramas from all angles. Trails routinely and quickly drop from 1,000 feet to sea level and then climb again.

The weather could not have been better — temperatures in the low 60s, a stiff sea breeze and abundant sunshine.

We dropped down to Pirate's Cove for a snack on the beach ...

Watched waves crash on the rocks ...

And checked out very recent mudslides, likely damage from Friday's tsunami.

On the way back into Tennessee Valley, we watched a bobcat hunt on the hillside.

And ran, ran, ran all the way back to the Golden Gate Bridge just in time for an evening of Thai food and cappuccinos in the city.

A fantastic day ... one much better served by pictures than words. Map and profiles at this link.

Woodside

First week in a new city always turns into a binge of sorts. I did this in Montana, too — spent nearly every free moment of my first week in town combing the nearby woods for fun new places to ride my bike. (Here in the Bay area, I'm also on the lookout for fun places to run.) If I was floored by my first look at options in Missoula, I'm completely incredulous about the Bay area. There is a lot out there. A LOT. It makes sense — heavily populated areas tend to spur a lot of trail development. Wilderness junkies would turn their noses up, but it is a great playground for bicycles.

For my Friday ride, I took a cue from a commenter (thanks, MattC!) and headed to Woodside to check out the Purisima Creek Redwoods region. It was a pretty simple plan — climb 1,800 feet of redwood-shaded pavement to the Skyline ridge, drop 1,800 feet of steep muddy doubletrack down to the sea side of the peninsula, climb back up to the ridge on insanely-steep-I'm-about-to-tip-over-but-at-least-I'm-maintaining-2.5 mph trail, loop through some of the muddy techy singletrack in the El Corte de Madera Creek area, then race the sunset home because I didn't bring lights and this loop will take a lot longer than I anticipated.

OK, that wasn't really the plan because I didn't even have a plan when I set out under a bright afternoon sun in the town of Woodside. But that is what happened. I had to stop many times to study my map because there were so many intersections and so many trail possibilities. The redwoods were gorgeous, the air smelled strongly of sweet grass and mulch, and I was loving the chunky roller coaster riding on the Madera trails. (The route was more technical than I anticipated, resulting in a couple close calls and one crash where I endoed over a mud puddle and punched a tree as I flew through the air.) But for the most part, it was a Zen ride — strenuous and quiet. After I veered off the Kings Mountain Road, I didn't see a single other person (besides an occasional car on the road) in three hours of riding. Not one. I know it was a Friday afternoon in March, but seriously, this is a region of 7.4 million people. Where are all the bikers? My theory: There are just more than enough trails to go around.

I was home late for dinner and a run, again — late enough (and exhausted enough) that we agreed to cancel the run. Beat has been very sweet about my biking binge this week, but I did feel quite guilty about it (I imagine this is how some spouses feel when they come home late from a night of bar hopping.) But it turned out to be a great ride — 24 miles and 5,000 feet of climbing on highly variable terrain (everything from smooth wide pavement to narrow, root-choked, side-sloping singletrack.) You know it's been a good ride when you come home covered in mud and blood.

There's a map of this ride and elevation info at this link.

Are there any more commenters in the Bay area have some good suggestions for bike and/or running routes? MattC's route turned out fantastic, so I'm hoping to get some more good ideas. Thanks in advance!

Me and the beast

I know I vowed to buckle down and begin work on writing projects, but I'm in a new place and the urge to explore is just too enticing. I feel I should be able to allot ... let's say three hours ... each day for bikesplorations and/or trail running. That should maybe scratch the itch enough that I can concentrate on my work. And after all, I'm still training for the White Mountains 100, right? Tapering doesn't have to begin until, well ... next week.

Speaking of training, it is now looking like I'll be riding Beat's Fatback in the White Mountains. Since I haven't really ridden the Fatback before, I decided I should take it out for a few good rides beforehand to make sure I'm comfortable with the bike. Beat has adopted my penchant for giving bicycles uninspired pet names, and we've take to calling the Fatback "Fatty." Fatty is a beautiful aluminum fat bike with a carbon fork and 70mm Speedway rims. It weighs substantially less than Pugsley, at least seven pounds less; it also handles better and has vastly newer parts than Pugsley. Only catch is I have to make sure it "fits" me.

I picked a route that looked good on the map. Turns out around here, if something looks good on a map — even if it involves a mixture of singletrack, pavement and fire roads — it's probably an established route. This one is called the "Stevens Creek Loop." From my house, it's about 24 miles and 2,900 feet of climbing. It was the perfect snow-bike training route for California — a long, gradual climb on mixed terrain, including plenty of mud of splashy creek crossings.

A light, misty rain fell for most of my ride up the canyon. Beneath the satin cloud cover, as I passed silver droplets hanging from branches and tree trunks wrapped in green strands of moss, I was hit with another pang of Juneau nostalgia. It's actually been a while since I visited one of these: "Places That Make Me Miss Southeast Alaska." I guess I am back on the Pacific Coast now, even if it is a couple thousand miles too far south.

The final fire road climb to Monte Bello Ridge was a grind, on soft mud at a 10-percent grade. You feel every millimeter of a climb like that on a fat bike, especially when you are maybe not in top biking shape, but I dug in and spun away at it. As I rose, the clouds closed in.

I'm pretty stoked about the Fatback. As I crested Black Mountain, I mulled how I was going to possibly fit all my gear on the bike ... sleeping system on the rear rack, water and food in a backpack, spare clothing hanging off handlebars. Maybe I should just go with my original plan to only carry a down coat, a few spare layers, fire-starting supplies and an emergency bivy. I'm genuinely torn with the decision of gear for this winter race — whether to go light and fast, or safe and secure. I know the terrain and feel fairly certain that, barring major injury, I should have no issues traveling the entire way without the need to bivy, even if it's quite cold. However, my brushes with "too cold and not enough clothing to combat it" during the Susitna 100 have scared the insecurities back into me.

But for now, I'm a chick on a fat bike in coastal California. One construction flagger on the Stevens Creek Road called the Fatback "creepy," and another transient near the freeway yelled "nice motorcycle!" But I was lucky today to otherwise have that entire lush, misty trail to myself, whooping and singing along with my iPod as I wended around tight corners through the woods. I have to admit, it's kind of awesome to be able to get out for rides mid-day during the week. I'm starting to feel like I "own" that Monte Bello trail system, and I'm almost afraid to return on a sunny weekend day.

The plan keeps coming up again

I know what a lot of my friends, especially those in Alaska, are thinking — "Oh, it's so sad, she's stuck in California. You have to drive everywhere out there. There's all those restrictions on open space. There's people on the trails. We like to gripe about our six months of winter, but at least we have winter. She's probably going to cry when December comes and it's still 60 degrees outside." That last part is probably true. But I am actually a very adaptable person. I weather change well, and get better at it with every major life upheaval. I have every intention to survive and even thrive in California. I have a plan.

Firstly and most importantly: Plans for adventures. Beat and I both function best with big challenges on the horizon. He's got a lot of big challenges planned for 2011, and I'll be lucky enough to join in on some of them while developing my own new experiences. First off of course is the White Mountains 100 on March 27 in Fairbanks. This is an incredible scenic loop through a fairly remote Alaska mountain range, with more than 8,000 feet of climbing in 100 miles of snowmobile trails, in temperatures that will likely range from 25 above zero to 25 below during the race. Beat has decided he wants to avenge the Susitna 100 by improving his sled design and completing the WM100 on foot. I of course wouldn't miss Fairbanks' fantastic snow-biking for the world, and Beat's switch-up means I'll get to ride his Fatback! Hooray!

In April, Beat's signed up for the Santa Barbara Endurance Race. It's 100-miles of tough trail running with a reported 35,000 feet of climbing. There's a chance I'll be in good enough condition to keep up with him as a pacer for a short portion of this race. Depends if I can improve several aspects of my running in a few short weeks. I intend to work on this.

In May, several of my Banff friends are riding the Mah Dah Hey Trail as a mountain bike tour. I'd love to join them, write an article for Adventure Cyclist, and perhaps see a few Montana friends and haunts in the process. This dream is TBD, because North Dakota is a long way from California, and Beat probably can't swing the time off.

In June, Beat's signed up for the San Diego 100. Another fun road trip south. I'm hoping I can go visit my sister in Huntington Beach for at least one of these weekend ventures. I'd also love to travel to Juneau for a summer visit. This is something I've been promising friends there since last summer, but I'm unsure whether I'll be able to swing it, and a Juneau trip is very TBD. There's also the ulterior motive that I'd love a chance to swing up to Whitehorse for the 24 Hours of Light. I really want to enter at least one solo 24-hour mountain bike race this season. For reasons I'll explain next, the timing is bad for the 24HOL. However, everyone knows that 24HOL isn't a race, anyway. It's a Yukon mountain bike festival where you get to binge on biking to your heart's content. It shouldn't be a setback at all.

I can't afford any late-June setbacks, because in mid-July, I'm signed up for my first 100-mile trail run, the Tahoe Rim Trail 100. This is a big deal to me. I want to nail it. I know the Susitna 100 counts as my "first" 100-mile foot race, but I still believe Alaska snow expeditions and summer mountain trail running are different sports, requiring different skills, and I have lots of work to do to get in shape for this rocky, climby, higher-elevation run around Lake Tahoe. It's intimidating, but I'm excited for the challenge and the training.

August brings the Capitol Forest 100, a 100-mile mountain bike race in Washington. Beat and I are both planning to ride it, and unlike the WM100 there is no running option, so I guess he's going to have to buckle down and ride. Beat's already a much faster mountain biker than me, so I'm guessing by August we'll be raring to "race" each other rather than hang back together.

In September, Beat's going back to the Tor des Geants, crazy man. This means while he trudges 200 miles and 80,000 feet of climbing through the rugged and pain-inducing Italian Alps, I get to support him by drinking cappuccinos in village cafes and hiking all day in these incredible mountains! Hooray!

In November comes to big crescendo for the year, a trip to the Himalaya with Racing the Planet in Nepal. It's a stage race, TransRockies style, but on foot and much more self-supported. You carry all of your food and gear for a week-long run across 250 kilometers of incredible high country. Basically, it's a fast-pack trip, but Racing the Planet does a lot of the groundwork to design a network of trails that outsiders seldom have the opportunity to visit. Since I've never even been outside of North America (Hawaii excepted), I'm very excited for the prospect of visiting both Europe and Nepal in the same year.

Whew, it's going to be a big year. And then there's the whole reason to sign up for goals like big races — an excuse to train together. Beat and I are hoping to get out on weekends to explore many of the open spaces and trails nearby — Marin, Henry Coe, Big Basin, Santa Cruz, and so on. And of course fast-packing and running trips in the Sierras, maybe climb Mount Shasta ... there really are a lot of opportunities around here. The consistently beautiful weather and dry trails will probably make it very difficult for me to not just ride my mountain bike all day every day, but that's certainly not the plan. I am happiest when I live a balanced life. Which brings me to ...

Career. It's obvious to most of my friends and family now that I'm not really a career-minded person. I value hard work and productivity, but I've never chosen to climb the career ladder at the expense of the aspects of life I value most: The outdoors, exercise, travel, friends, relationships, family, the pursuit of the sublime, experiencing all sides of life, and giving a voice to those experiences.

In the past decade, I worked hard and lived sparsely enough to develop a fair amount of self-sufficiency, and always wanted to take time off to write, really write — not just doodle away on my blog, which is a fantastic outlet but shallow in many ways. Last April, I pursued that dream by moving to Anchorage and setting up my "writing shop," but I struggled. I didn't struggle because I didn't find instant success, which I'm not even seeking — yet. No, I struggled because I lacked self-discipline. I rode my bike all day. I started working on my writing projects, only to burn out after a couple hours and recruit a friend for a four-day trip to Denali instead. When given perfect freedom, I can be a fantastically lazy person (in my own activity-motivated way.) I got scared of nothingness, and instead sought out a structured work environment to reign myself in. I applied for a job. I moved to Montana. I don't regret it, but often I wonder if I really gave myself a chance.

I love writing. Observing life and giving a voice to my experiences is who I am. I sincerely believe that if I were forced to give up bicycling, hiking, running, even going into the wilderness, that I could probably adapt, and go on living a rich and full life all the same. But if I somehow couldn't share anymore, couldn't write, the sun probably would cease to rise. I would no longer be me. Simple and plain.

So this is my long way of saying that I'm going to go back to pursuing the dream I left behind in Anchorage. I have a few ideas, a few plans. I am going to finish my Tour Divide book. Last December, editor Diana Miller gave my first draft a thorough and thoughtful edit that I can really spend some time with, to develop that story in the best way I can. And it really is a worthwhile story, worth sharing, that I need to get out in the world. I've been dragging my feet on it for more than a year, and at this rate it will rot in a drawer, which I really don't want to happen. I have some new "book" ideas that I want to develop, see where they go. I have a few freelance relationships that I developed last spring that I can pursue, and I have several article, blog and column opportunities with Adventure Cyclist that remain. I also hope to develop what would be the more lucrative career path — layout and design, for both hard-copy materials and e-publications. In the newspaper biz, this is where I shined — as a fast-working (and award-winning) graphic designer. I feel that I have a lot to offer small businesses, nonprofits, and outdoor-related companies in this regard, because I can develop content as well. Maybe I can even land some contract work for special projects at local newspapers (do they have those in big-city California?) That would be a dream.

It also could be a massive failure, but I doubt I will ever regret trying. I'm lucky to still have few obligations, a fair amount of self-sufficiency for the time being, support from Beat, and of course Google's awesome health insurance plan. As long as I can avoid the urge to ride my mountain bike all day, I feel I have a productive year in front of me.

Whew, long post! This is more for me than any of this blog's readers. It feels good to lay out the plan on screen. OK, back to work. Look away from the mountain bike, Jill. Look away.

The second day

For my first week in California, my only goal is to settle in as best I can. Despite these lukewarm ambitions, I had a surprisingly productive and fantastic first Tuesday in the Golden State. I spent the morning sorting through my belongings and managed to organize most everything, including my Parcel Post boxes. Then I worked for a bit on an article, made some lunch, and decided my afternoon reward for all of that encouraging progress should be a mountain bike ride.

Beat has a fancy coffee machine that he uses to make tasty and pretty cappuccinos. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to go back to the Black & Decker drip, but I was well-fueled for the thousands of feet of climbing in front of me.

I grabbed my Rocky Mountain Element and set out from the front door of Beat's apartment building. This was the mountain bike's first ride since the 25 Hours of Frog Hollow in early November. It recently had a fork rebuild and massive tune-up courtesy of Hellgate Cyclery, but it still had a bit of red dirt clinging to the frame.

Within two miles I was out of the suburbs and climbing into the moist, cool air of Stevens Canyon. I climbed and climbed on a narrow, paved road up to Monte Bello Ridge. I veered onto a rough gravel road and continued grinding to the top of Black Mountain, which, at just below 3,000 feet, is a downright Montana-worthy climb.

At the top of the mountain, a wide network of jeep roads and singletrack trails branches out to far-away points — I'm told all the way to Santa Cruz, although I only had a chance to scrape a surface of the trail system today. I looped through the ridge-top network for nearly two hours. The trails were moist and sticky from recent rains. The firm, tacky surface allowed me lean hard into turns until I felt like my nose might touch the ground, then fly up steep hills and plummet into descents without any fear of skidding out of control. Hero dirt. I felt like a hero, effortlessly nailing my first real mountain bike ride since November. I was the Lone Cyclist, racing across this quiet mountain ridge in a far-away, mystical land.

There was a ton of wildlife, however. I saw several groups of deer, lizards, and frogs. As I was grinding up a singletrack trail close to Black Mountain on the return ride, a coyote and the rabbit it was chasing sprinted across the trail just a few yards in front of me. They were so close I could see brown and gold nuances of their fur, sun-glossed and rippling as they raced across the hillside. As the coyote came within inches of the rabbit's powerful hind legs, they both disappeared around a corner. I never did see whether the rabbit got away.

As the sun drifted low on the horizon, temperatures drifted into the high 40s. Thinking myself in California now and no longer required to dress warm, I failed to bring any extra layers beyond the T-shirt and tights I was wearing. Brrrrr descent, but it was also winding and fun. The pavement was more slippery than the dirt.

I made it home just after Beat, and had to apologize for riding my bike for nearly four hours when we were supposed to go for a run tonight. I was tired but laced up my shoes and went out anyway. It was my first official run since I finished the Susitna 100 last month. We jogged out of the front door of the apartment, ran up the street, and within a mile we were in the Rancho San Antonio Open Space Preserve. We climbed into the mountains, crested along a sweeping view of city lights, and dropped into a narrow canyon beside a gurgling stream. We ran for about eight miles, running the entire way. I even made a solid effort to shuffle up the steep climbs, rather than walk. I was thrilled that my sore feet didn't bother me too much. Not only that, I felt surprisingly strong on the climbs. Yeah for fast recovery.

There is a lot of open space out here that I can access from my front door, both on bike and foot. Not to mention that across the street there's a Trader Joe's, a cool produce store with lots of fresh fruit, two coffee shops with comfy writing spaces, and a bike shop. It have to say, it's really not that bad here. Twice today, I stood in the quiet wind and gazed out over the sprawl of humanity surrounding me. Someday, I promised myself, I will explore the urban wilderness, too.

OK, tomorrow I will write a post about my upcoming plans. Tonight, I am just going to enjoy the lingering bliss from this awesome day.

I pack up my belongings and I head for the coast

"I move on to another day
To a whole new town with a whole new way
Went to the porch to have a thought
Got to the door and again, I couldn't stop
You don't know where and you don't know when
But you still got your words and you got your friends
Walk along to another day
Work a little harder, work another way."

- "The World at Large" by Modest Mouse

Last June, when I was anticipating a move from Anchorage to Missoula, I went for a 140-mile bike ride in an effort to make peace with life as a drifter. Seeking and embracing change is a big part of who I am. I move, I discover, I grow, and I move on. Anchorage held an unbelievable amount of promise, but the allure of change prompted me to take a chance on Montana. I left Alaska believing maybe I would find "my place," the place that would entice me to finally settle.

There are several reasons Missoula didn't quite work out; it wasn't just that I found a boy and dismantled my whole life for him. Although the boy, of course, was the overwhelming motivator for my recent move, he wasn't the only reason. It was starting to become apparent that I didn't quite fit in in Missoula. I regret that I had to leave a few truly great friends behind, not to mention some gorgeous terrain that I barely skimmed the surface of, but I knew that sooner or later I would need to choose between the few strands of potential woven into Missoula and the incredible potential of further developing my relationship with Beat. He couldn't move to Missoula for me. Even if I were completely dedicated to my life there, there were still no options for him. The ongoing joke in Missoula is: "How many Missoulians does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Only one, but twelve will apply for the job, ten will be electricians and eight will have doctorate degrees."

I of course have no idea what the future will bring, but I sincerely believe I won't ever regret this move. I certainly don't regret moving to Alaska for Geoff, even if, in the end, neither Geoff nor Alaska became a permanent part of my life. It was still the best thing that ever happened to me. I strongly believe this is the right next step, the next best thing to happen to me.

This move probably seems to have come abruptly, but it has been a longer time coming than this, as most of my friends and family members suspected. The window opened after Susitna. There was no longer a need to stay so I packed up my stuff. It didn't take long — one of the benefits of moving around so much is you never have time to accumulate a lot of excess stuff. I can still fit most of my life in my 1996 Geo Prism, although my life is heavily weighted in a single direction these days. Inside my car this time were two people (Beat was out for the weekend anyway and gave up his return ticket to help me drive down), one annoyed but increasingly accepting cat, and five — yes five — bicycles. Also some clothing, outdoor gear, a few dishes, and miscellaneous items. All the important stuff was in there, or stacked on the roof, Beverly Hillbilly style (I even kept the bike box for Beat's Fatback. It did not survive the Biblical rains of the Sierras.)

We left Montana on Saturday afternoon, bound for Salt Lake City. (My parents took this recent move surprisingly well. I think my many years of drifting has worn down their defenses.)

I can't say I felt a whole lot of emotion about leaving Montana. I really didn't spend enough time here to get attached, although I imagine I'll be back as frequently as I can afford, to visit my friends, ride some epic logging road loops with Bill in the Bitterroot, hike some goat trails in Glacier National Park with Danni and Dave, and finally climb all three of the Lima Peaks.

The drive of course was grueling. Turns out a 15-year-old car with 191,000 miles loaded to the brim with gear — and with wheels and a box stacked like a sail on the roof — can't move faster than 70 mph, and that's only on steep downhills, with a tailwind. Geo was at the limit of his endurance, but he motored along, just like he always has, ever since he was a young buck of 38,000 miles and I loaded him to the brim with camping gear and hit the road for my inaugural drive across America, back in 2001.

We blazed through many of my old stomping grounds — Idaho Falls (2004-2005), Sandy, (1983 to 1998) Salt Lake City (1998 to 2003), and Tooele (2003-2004 ... the place where my cat Cady was born.) Then we kept on going west. I told Beat all of my stories of my experiences in the Oquirrh Mountains, the Stansbury Mountains, Skull Valley, the Bonneville Salt Flats, Wendover, Elko, and the Battle Mountain rest stop where my family was stranded for half a day after the car transmission died during a vacation to San Francisco in 1989.

The farther west we traveled, the fewer experiences I had to share, until we crested Donner Pass in a wet snowstorm, I told Beat what I knew about the history of the place, and held my breath for the newness and strangeness of California.

Today I started unpacking, but quickly got more wrapped up in an urgent need to go for a long bike ride. I put my fixie together and headed over to the Google campus to have lunch with Beat, then continued grinding into the wind along the gravel trails that line the San Francisco Bay. It was a strange sort of place, both muddy and dry, and guarded by a fortress of towering electric lines. I watched a chorus of shorebirds rip through the air, breathed the salty air with pungent hints from the Palo Alto landfill, and soaked in a lot of sunshine. The return tailwind was so strong that the fixie almost ripped my legs off. In a space that holds millions of people, I saw very few. I allowed myself to feel some sadness for the end of winter, the end of my time in Montana. And yet, I only saw positive potential on the path in front of me.

I'll write more tomorrow about my plan for California, and what Beat and I have planned for the upcoming year. For now, I will say that, yes, this is going to be quite different. I rode around all day in a cotton T-shirt and a single pair of socks, passing people on the bike path who were wearing down coats (in other words, I'm sweltering in the heat and it's not even hot.) Yes, for the foreseeable future, the snowy photos in my blog will have to come from visits away from home, and the regular photos will probably appear more, well, regular. Maybe this blog will be less interesting. And you're certainly under no obligation to keep reading. But somehow, I doubt it. I am only excited about the future and all of the adventures in front of me. California isn't the end of the road. Not by a long shot.

The journey reveals more along the way

This week, I went for bike rides. I went for bike rides the way I used to in the summertime, when there was daylight to burn, and I had no agenda, and the miles and space slipped away like so much dust in a warm breeze. I just wanted to ride, to somewhere. I usually didn't know where, until I got there. They were always amazing places, these summertime places, bathed in pink light and the pungent aroma of pine. They helped me leave Alaska behind, for a while, and reminded me that happiness is not a place; it's a series of moments. The moments come and go like the summertime wind. Following happiness is like following the wind. Sometimes you will go miles in a strange direction; other times, you'll weave erratically back and forth in the same place. Eventually you may realize that the place you are seeking isn't a place at all; it's the movement itself. Happiness isn't carried by the wind. It is the wind.

On Monday, I rode through the crowded part of town and headed up Grant Creek Canyon, into the opague edge of a sleet storm. As pellets of ice pelted my face, I attempted a jaunt up the Ravine Trail. The narrow packed-snow singletrack was too slushy and soft to gain enough traction, so I turned around.

On Tuesday, it snowed. I looked for more trails in Pattee Canyon. Mount Dean Stone had been reduced to a single ski track beyond the gate. Crazy Canyon Road wasn't much more feasible. The descent was a full-body shower of gray slush and little bits of gravel. Winter is losing its battle, but it's still strong enough to block out the expansiveness of summer. I felt like I was on the front line, trying to choose sides. Do I seek solitude and tranquility, or energy and expansiveness? On Wednesday, I rode in pursuit of both.

Butler Creek Canyon — a seldom-used utility route for power lines and TV towers. It's not trafficked by the general public. Finding a rideable snowmobile trail was a far-away chance, but I took it. I rode my snow bike 10 grinding miles into the wind just to see what new kinds of places existed on the far side of town. It had been four months since I last came here.

Despite temperatures in the high 30s and waning but strong streaks of sunshine, the lightly tracked trail was in decent if soft shape. The grade is relentless, even in the summer. I rode to the limits of my endurance for a blistering 4 mph until I was ready to blow up, then pushed until my sore feet started to complain. It was a good, happy slog, my best since Susitna. The cool breeze chilled the droplets of sweat on my face, and the sun warmed my soul.

Far, far up the mountain, the direction I wanted to go abruptly ended. There was a single ski track, no trail. I could slog through thigh-deep snow for two miles to Snowbowl Ski Resort, or I could go back the way I came. I had this vague feeling that I had been here before, in a long-ago moment in the summertime. In the midst of a 50-mile evening ride, I came to this junction from the Snowbowl side. Darkness was coming, and I was afraid of the unknown path ahead. Did it dead end? Shoot out on the wrong side of the mountains? I wanted to go back the way I came. But something pulled me toward the setting sun. I launched down the Butler Creek Canyon side, with no idea where I might end up.

I am moving to California. I am moving there to follow happiness, my relationship and my adventures with Beat. It is a long story that is impossible to tell in a blog post, but the details have been here all along. I made a life-changing decision to leave Alaska; then the winds changed, and I had to choose again. There are so many things I have to leave behind ... a good job, great friends, amazing mountain biking, regular access to winter and the brilliant expansiveness of summer in Montana. It is hard, and yet beyond the narrow focus of dismantling my entire life, again — I feel only optimism. I don't know where this wind will take me. But if I don't follow it, I will spend a static life always wondering where it went.