The publishing process

While I was living in Anchorage, I dedicated a fair amount of time to shopping my Tour Divide book around in the traditional publishing industry. During my conversations with agents and queries to publishers, I learned a bit about the book industry — namely, that it was not only more difficult and more unstable, but also less profitable than the newspaper industry. An agent who tended to take on "niche" projects such as mine told me her clients were lucky to see advances of $5,000. Plus, royalties and press runs were small enough that few authors even earned out their advances — meaning that $5,000 was all they were ever going to see. And this all came after months if not years of securing a publisher, revisions, marketing, etc. This agent was just trying to be realistic, but it was discouraging. I had worked hard just to capture her attention, only to reach a point where I learned even success in the book business wasn't really that successful.

Just before I moved to Montana to return to the publishing business at Adventure Cyclist magazine, I had dinner with a friend where I lamented the bleak prospects for my current book and unwritten future books. I related the hours I had spent working on the project, and how my time spent riding my bicycle around central Alaska and hiking the Chugach Mountains was ultimately more fulfilling and productive. I told him about the school paper I penned when I was 6 years old about "Where I'll Be in the Year 2000" and how I was one of those unfortunate children whose ambition was "to be a writer and write books."

"But, geez, I made more than $5,000 in the first year of Ghost Trails," I sighed.

He just looked at me quizzically. "Then why don't you do that again?"

Independent and digital publishing. Many industry insiders say that's the future. Similar to the sputtering newspaper business, they don't like that it's the future, but they acknowledge it's the direction the industry is headed. As more bookstores shutter their doors and more publishers shed mid-list and niche authors to focus on only those with enough popularity to sell millions, independent publishing will be there to fill in the gaps. I've long believed that outdoor literature has a potential that hasn't yet been fully realized. For the handful of bestsellers like Jon Krakauer who are currently capitalizing on literary nonfiction about outdoor endeavors, there are probably hundreds of talented athletes and explorers embarking on quiet adventures. If even just a fraction of these took the time to sit down and write a book, the world would have some pretty great books.

But would these books ever find a home? In this regard, I don't feel as optimistic. It's no longer enough for a book to be well-written and contain an intriguing story. These days, publishers want books that will stand on their own in the mass market, which is dominated by people who would rather read a tell-all by Levi Johnston than Hemingway. Good outdoor literary nonfiction will always find readers, but possibly not enough to survive in this industry.

Enter this idea I had, about an independent publishing group. A place where outdoor, nature and adventure authors can reach out to a like-minded audience. Perhaps it won't be millions, but it will be comprised of dedicated readers who truly appreciate this kind of work. And the best part is, in this brave new world of indie books, there's a strong potential for writers to actually be financially rewarded for their time — unlike legacy publishing, which is a game of craps at best. I'm calling the project Arctic Glass Press. I'm only starting to get it off the ground, but I already have interest from a couple of authors — Adam Lisonbee, who recently wrote a series of essays about outdoor stoke and the four seasons, and Eric Bruntjen, who compiled two volumes of art and essays by people who have raced the Great Divide. I appreciate these guys getting on board, and hope that in the near future, Arctic Glass Press will become a great source for off-the-beaten-path armchair adventures.

I've also decided to finally release my second book so I can get on with writing my third and fourth book, and so on. The possibilities really are endless. I'm excited. My latest book, about my adventure leading up to and during the 2009 Tour Divide, is called "Be Brave, Be Strong: A Journey Across the Great Divide." I'm hoping to have paperback copies ready to distribute by the second week of June (yes, in time for the start of this year's Tour Divide.) I'll write more about this in an upcoming post, but I've already received good feedback about the few copies I've distributed so far, including an insightful review from my friend, Dave.

This blog post is also a call to other outdoor-adventure-writer types. Anyone who has a book sitting on their hard drive or swirling around in their head. As an independent but full-service publisher, Arctic Glass Press can help you finish and polish your project, and release it to the world. Contact me at jillhomer@arcticglasspress.com and I'll send you more information about getting involved with the project.

Ohlone Alone

The Ohlone Wilderness 50K was my sixth ultramarathon — since Dec. 18, 2010 I've run five 50Ks and one nicely eviscerating 100-mile snow slog. Beat uses 50Ks as long training runs and I've developed the same habit. I'm really a "relentless forward motion" kind of a person more than I'll ever be a focused runner, so aiming to run a fast 50K doesn't really appeal to me. Being able to run three 50Ks plus another seven or so miles, however, does. So when I set out for a 50K trail race, I'm purposefully aiming to hold a pace that I could conceivably (optimistically) sustain for quite a bit farther than 50K. This of course is only a theory because I won't engage in any longer runs before the Tahoe Rim Trail 100 (although I may have an opportunity to pace as many as 50 miles in the San Diego 100.) But that was my hope for the Ohlone 50K — a sustainable ultra pace. My sustainable ultra pace.

As such, Beat and I agreed that we'd run the Ohlone separately, each at our own pace. Beat on his own is quite a bit faster than me, but I had yet to run an ultramarathon without him. During all four 50Ks and the entire 41 hours of the Susitna 100, for better or worse, we were only a few stride lengths apart. It was a fantastic learning technique for me and a decent relationship builder as well, but at some point here I need to learn to slog on my own. Since every single one of my bike races, from 24 hours to 24 days, have been overwhelmingly solo, I wasn't all that worried about a 50K alone. But I admit it's nice to have someone there to remind me to take my Vitamin I at an appropriate interval several miles before the big steep downhills, hand me salt tablets and help me lighten up when I'm being grumpypants.

But even with Beat out ahead, it was hard to feel alone at Ohlone. The East Bay classic is one of the more popular trail races in the Bay area, and attracted a sold-out crowd of 200 runners. It's also one of the more difficult 50Ks in the region, a one-way race across a relatively remote section of the Diablo Mountains with about 8,000 feet of climbing (and descent.) I couldn't be less concerned about 8,000 feet of climbing. That much ascent isn't going to break my legs, and it's not going to make or break a race. Really, at the grades we were climbing, a large percentage of the field walks. Some walk at 4 mph and others walk at 3. Not a lot of distance is being gained on the uphill stretches. Downhills, however, open the margin wide. Some fly down the mountains at 10 mph, others shuffle nicely at 6 mph. I prefer to tiptoe down at 2 or 3. Obviously, I was going to have to improve on this.

My main issue with downhill running is confidence. I kick rocks. I stumble. I wrench my knee or turn my ankle. Sometimes I fall. The probability of a mishap makes me extremely, irrationally anxious. My steps become more rigid, my breathing becomes shallow and I develop side stitches that range from uncomfortable to debilitating, so constrictive that I have to clutch my abdomen and take big gulps of air just to get oxygen into my system. Short of developing more confidence, which I've accepted will only come with time and experience, the only solution I've found is ibuprofen. If I take two brown pills about 20 minutes before a big downhill, I seem to be able to stave off the side stitches. Obviously, this isn't a long-term solution, but this was my plan for today.

This isn't to say the climbs aren't difficult. They are. But I was feeling extremely good today. Honestly, I felt fantastic. This was strange as well because I purposely loaded my training days just before this race. We rode 40 miles on Saturday, ran nine relatively fast miles on Friday, and time-trialed a 2,600-foot climb on Wednesday, to say nothing of my Banff/North Dakota week, which, on top of the 105 road miles and 15 hours of mountain biking, included 46 miles of trail running. The reason was to start the Ohlone on slightly tired legs. That's how you learn how to run 100 miles.

It helped that it was not hot today. This race is known for scorching temperatures and I don't think they rose above 70 today; plus, there was a nice breeze. The core group of Californians that I ended up spending much of the race with (we mostly hopscotched, with them flying past me on the descents and me catching back up on the climbs) largely complained about the "cold." I felt like I had dodged a bullet. Although I need to learn to run in heat as much as anything, that doesn't mean I want to.

The Ohlone trails were beautiful, and I was stoked about the one-way race course. It was more like going out for a long, scenic (fast) hike than running a race. The scenery was ever-changing and dynamic. The valleys were green and the hillsides carpeted with golden grass that rippled in the wind. We summitted two peaks (Mission and Rose) and two more minor ridges, effectively crossing a nice chunk of the rippling Diablo Range.

A race volunteer took a picture of me on top of Rose Peak, elevation 3,817. She said, "It's mostly downhill from here," and I said, "Oh, great, the hard part."

But I popped for vitamin I and started down at my conservative pace, which wasn't as bad as gingerly tiptoeing but probably averaged 4-6 mph. Other that taking it purposefully slow to avoid eating gravel or contracting the horrible sidestich, I felt really strong. I got to listen to my iPod, drop in the grass to shoot photos of flowers and slum at aid stations to my heart's content. I usually don't believe people when they say this to me, but the truth is there was never a moment when I wasn't having fun. Could I have pushed myself more? Yes, undoubtedly. But could I have possibly had a better-feeling, stronger-finishing and more confidence-building race? Not likely.

I ran my fastest pace in the final quarter mile and finished with a big smile on my face in 7:27, which is my second slowest 50K but given the elevation change and difficulty of the course, was really above my typical pay grade. (Garmin data here.) I found out that if I was younger than 30, I actually would have won my age group. The volunteer at the finish kept asking if I was "under 30" and in my post-race haze, I could not figure out what he meant. Under 30 miles? Under a 7:30 finish? Finally Beat told him I was "31." Oh, that 30.

For his part, Beat set his own Ohlone PR with a 6:37 finish. Our friends Steve and Harry also put in fast times, and Martina rallied to the finish so hopefully she'll rock San Diego (she's the person I'm supposed to pace.) A great day was had by all.

Maah Daah Hey Trail, days 3 and 4

I love living outside. It's an interesting kind of love, because I don't really go camping all that often any more. Truth be told, I can be downright lazy about the prospect of shoring up the gear, food, water and logistics necessary to live on the trail. I can be intimidated by long days under the hot sun, possible hours in the rain and nights curled up in a damp sleeping bag with a chilled wind whipping through my tiny backpacker tent. I'm discouraged by the fact that, no matter how diligent I am about sunscreen, I will return home with lips so chapped they're bleeding, wind-dried eyes and pink patches of sunburned skin; that no matter how much clothing I carry, I will at times be deeply chilled or uncomfortably wet; that no matter how much DEET I bathe in, the bugs will find me. But sometimes, through serendipity or necessity, I forget all that, and I get out there anyway. Every time, without fail, I find myself rolling out my damp sleeping bag beneath a star-soaked sky and smiling at the beautiful simplicity of it all.

In the midst of our relaxed evenings in camp, my friends and I once found ourselves discussing "dream vehicles." For many in the group, it was some kind of RV, big truck or van — something you could use to travel around and serve as living quarters away from home. When pressed, I insisted that I have no interest in big flashy vehicles. In fact, I want the smallest, most insignificant vehicle possible — my 1996 Geo Prism came to mind — that I can just leave without concern at random roadsides and set out for weeks on foot to actually travel, to actually live outside. When pressed further I finally just decided that, actually, bicycles are my ideal vehicle. You can pack everything you need to live on a bicycle and travel to far-away destinations, experiencing everything the world has to offer in between.

But it's true that lately, I've deviated from pure bicycle explorations and become more interested in what the world looks like on foot. The requisite shuttle around the Little Missouri River (flowing at flood stage) turned out to be a 96-mile van ride all the way back into Medora, across the Interstate bridge and back to other side of the river a mere 10 trail miles from where we took out. The logistics of gravel roads and trail intersections led to us being dropped off eight miles from where we planned to camp that night. Everyone else in the group decided to indulge in the relief of a relative rest day. (Even though we were only traveling about 20-25 miles each day, the trail conditions usually resulted in five to six hours of solid effort, more than most of us had bargained for.) I decided to take advantage of the short day to pack my bike back in the van and set out for a long run. When everyone headed north toward camp, I turned south toward the river.

The sky was clear and the direct sunlight on white-baked clay made the 75-degree afternoon feel quite a bit hotter. My legs felt strong despite two long days in a row (five hours of biking plus two hours of running.) I took fast strides along the rim and dropped off the plateau into the wide valley of Little Missouri River, hoping to connect the missing link of the trail (my run the day before had taken me within two miles of the river.) The valley bottom had been saturated by recently receded flood waters, and the surface varied from wet mud to grass swamps to nearly un-walkable bogs. It certainly wasn't fast or easy running, but I enjoyed the adventure. At mile four, I came to a fast-flowing, potentially neck-deep waterway called Whitetail Creek. I waded in and quickly sank to my knees, then decided to turn around. The river was still nowhere in sight. I expressed silent gratitude for Dakota Cyclery and their efforts to whisk us around this partially collapsed, mud-bogged, half-drowned and undoubtedly dangerous section of the Maah Daah Hey.

I felt good for the 12 miles back up the plateau and into camp, so I refilled on water and announced I was setting out to make it an even 20. A half mile down the trail, I came to another waist-deep stream I just didn't feel like crossing, so I veered up to an oil rig access road and put in three miles of slogging hill repeats at the end of a four-hour run. Silly, I agree, but it just felt good to complete a full 20-mile run.

Day four was a long day, 26 miles, and to top it off, we woke up (again, frustratingly early) to 30 mph winds gusting to as much as 55 mph. I'd already warned the group about the deep stream crossing first thing in the morning, and combined with the unknown terrain ahead and fact they had to travel 26 miles no matter what, everyone was anxious to get out of there. I was barely out of bed by the time half of the group was grinding up the trail, and with Dave and Ryan, I was the last to pack up and go just after 8 a.m. The wind was thankfully favorable, blowing from the south, but that didn't stop the battering from crosswind and headwind gusts on the winding trail. I cranked hard to catch up with the group and didn't even pass the runners until mile 6.5.

Despite two days of wind and sun, the trail was still gooey and bikes were beginning to protest loudly. My Rocky Mountain Altitude (generously loaned to me by Keith) had a bar on the seat stay that collected mud and stopped the rear wheel from turning on a regular basis. Despite multiple lubes, my chain seemed to dry out in seconds and the entire drivetrain squeaked and groaned with increasingly volume. Since it wasn't my bike and nearly new to boot, I tried as hard as I could to keep it out of water and really wet mud, but still the hubs and bearings were beginning to make strange noises. Dave is a talented mechanic and even he couldn't anticipate a realistic solution short of pulling everything apart, deep cleaning and replacing several pieces. "Let's just limp these bikes to the end," he said.

We were only seven miles from the finish when we came to a trail junction, the Maah Daah Hey Trail or the newer Cottonwood Trail. Dakota Cyclery had highly recommended Cottonwood and Dave and Brenda remembered it as being fun, so we set out that way thinking we might be able to wrap up the ride in an hour. Our bikes were mud-battered, we were wind-battered, and I think everyone just wanted to be done. I expected a focused hammerfest. But the Cottonwood Trail dished out something else entirely.

That is, what was left of the Cottonwood Trail. What hadn't been completely stomped out by cows or washed away at the valley bottoms had tumbled off the hillsides. Entire sections with multiple switchbacks had crumbled. Tree-protected section of singletrack were bogged in shin-deep mud.

The Cottonwood Trail was slow riding at its best, hike-a-bike if we were lucky, and bike-carrying frequently. The runners passed us, smirking just a little as they hopscotched the cow postholes while we trudged with our bikes along the grassy sideslope. "This is why they call it adventure biking," Dave said, and I grinned.

Yet another section of completely washed-out trail. The singletrack once went straight toward that post. Now it simple drops clean off a 25-foot-deep unstable trench. We had to bushwhack the long way around the gorge.

In spite of my efforts to soft-pedal when I could pedal, my chain continued to become caught in unworkable ways. Even when I set my gears in a workable singlespeed and vowed to no longer shift, I'd whisk some brush or bounce hard along the cow postholes and get chainsuck again. Eventually, I sustained such an epic chainsuck that Dave had to pull the crank to alleviate the jam. My bike was officially beginning to fail.

Still, those final miles of trail were absolutely gorgeous, my favorite of the entire trip, and I was OK with the prospect of taking it even slower. Luckily, I did keep my chain spinning even though I still had to drag my bike down more landslides and around more washouts. My favorite part of the day's ride happened two miles from the finish, when Ryan and I climbed up onto a narrow rim and shot down the other side with the 35-mph wind directly at our backs. Suddenly the loud roaring world turned completely silent as we rocketed down the grassy slope in perfect harmony with the wind, hair whipping and tears streaming as the canyon bottom spread out below us. As it turned out, we weren't even on the right trail. We had taken a wrong turn, and by the time we realized it, we had to turn and ride more than a mile back into that same hard wind. It was unbelievably slow and difficult, but worth it.

In the end, it took nearly three hours to cover that seven-mile Cottonwood Trail. An adventure indeed. We had to wait for the shuttle for more than two hours. There was nowhere else to hide from the increasingly chilly and powerful wind, so we ended up huddling against the campground outhouse (i.e. "North Dakota Hilton") napping and watching for snakes in the grass. That night, I would end up taking the midnight shift on the rainy drive into Lewistown, Montana, where we took badly needed showers, scraped away four days worth of hardened mud and salt from our bodies, and then crashed out for four hours before continuing onto Calgary the next day to catch my flight to San Jose. A lot of travel, but again, worth it. There's the easy and practical sides of life, and then there's exploring a remote corner of North Dakota for four days with good friends. It's like living outside — difficult to transition to and from, but worth it.