Wells, NV

I first sauntered into Wells, Nevada, while commuting to northern Utah for the Bear 100 in 2012. I just wanted a cheap place to crash for the night, and the Wells Motel 6 was a full $10 cheaper than the one in Elko. At the time I still had a blah view of the I-80 corridor and Northern Nevada in general, but Wells won me over with chicken dinner at this homestyle restaurant that reminded me of the Tour Divide, a boisterous older lady who talked me into buying locally produced cheese curds at the convenience store, and a vast swath of open space that only expanded as I drove north and east. Since then, I've made an effort to stop in Wells every time I roll by on the Interstate. 

 On Wednesday, I spent the first three hours of the drive listening to NPR and feeling disheartened by the state of affairs and the justice system. So I switched to an mP3 playlist that soon cycled through "April 26, 1992" by Sublime, which only reminded me that not much has changed in a generation in this regard. As Salt Lake radio faded away and Capital Public Radio out of Reno flickered in, I caught news of major flooding that was inundating streets and snarling traffic in Sacramento. My timeline had me going through that area right at rush hour, and it seemed prudent to stall for a couple of hours. I pulled into Wells for gas, I thought, "maybe I should go for a short run."

 Since I started engaging in this California/Utah commute, I've become more enamored with Nevada. The view from the highway corridors reveals a seemingly endless ripple of stunning mountain ranges amid the wide-open space of the basins. There's just so much out there, largely under the free-ranging jurisdiction of the Bureau of Land Management and the National Forest system, and I'm convinced Nevada has to be the most underrated outdoor destination in the United States. I must explore it! But I never make the time. I just zip through during drives between Utah and California, just like everyone else.

After topping off the tank, I pointed the car south and found a single road heading into mountains. I figured I'd just find a place to park and run on the road, since I didn't have any knowledge of trails in the region, and figured they'd be largely inaccessible this time of year anyway. A large barrier and a "road closed" sign blocked the road after five or so miles. I parked the Subaru, hoisted my backpack — which was still stocked with all the same stuff I hauled up Gobbler's Knob including four-day-old water — put on the Hokas, and started running.

 Oof, I struggled. Without acclimation I find myself getting noticeably more winded above 6,000 feet, and it's often the worst after a week (after which acclimation starts to kick in, and then it gets better.) I was shuffling and coughing as an "April 26, 1992" earworm taunted me. Eventually there was enough snow on the road that I had no choice but to hike, and finally stole chances to breathe and look up.

 This road is called Angel Camp Road, and it's just stunning. A fortress of castle-shaped peaks towered overhead, clouds streamed off the ridges like smoke, and the thunderous booms of unseen avalanches reverberated through the still air. I witnessed one avalanche erupt in a blast of powder in a gully below Greys Peak, and watched in trembling awe at the fury of this relatively small slide. I was in a safe zone on this road and grateful for that, as it was an invigorating experience to hear and witness these avalanches without feeling threatened by them.

I turned around after four miles. The snow was now knee-deep and reduced my "running" pace to a 35-minute-mile trudge. I put on spikes and once the snow cover diminished some, I embraced the power of gravity and let go, bounding down the hill like one of the many deer whose tracks I could see in the snow. The road snaked down the steep hillside, opening up invigorating views of the treeless basin and my tiny Subaru parked almost directly below. I ran and felt completely free, far away from the deluge and traffic that awaited once I crossed over the Sierras. 1:20 up, 0:40 down. A beautiful way to kill two hours in the midst of a thirteen-hour drive.

I have this idea to plan some kind of traverse of northern Nevada, maybe pack-biking style with mountain biking across the basins and backpacking over trail-less regions of these ranges. I could even plan to route to cross through Elko or Winnemucca so I could get a $7.99 New York steak and maybe drop a few bucks on the roulette table before heading back into the wide-open expanse. Who knows when and if I'll make this happen, but I'm already looking forward to my next visit to Wells. 

Thank you notes

I headed out to Utah again, to visit my extended family for Thanksgiving. The whole Homer clan is still invited for the spread, even as the number of great-grandchildren increases on an exponential scale. I like to make the journey because Thanksgiving has become my favorite holiday. Lower expectations, lower stress, and all the same cognitive dissonance when that cousin I still remember being 3 years old shows up fresh from her own journey across Alaska. Cousin Erick makes the famous potatoes, Uncle Steve makes the fresh cranberry sauce, and my mom bakes the pies. She always makes the pies, with their crisp, flaky crust and years of creme filling perfection, and no one seems to notice when she fusses over keeping the whipped cream chilled and cutting fresh banana slices. I love my mother's pies. They're a reason to go home for Thanksgiving, among many. Everything was delicious this year. Inexplicably, nothing contained Jell-O. 

 Friends and family already know by now that I love a good road trip. At least this is no longer my shameful secret. Road trips make me thankful for Pretzel M&Ms and artificially flavored hazelnut gas station coffee (another shameful no-longer-a-secret.) Twelve hours behind the wheel passes in a blink these days, but this time around I took a 2.5-hour break at Donner Pass to hike eight miles along the Pacific Crest Trail. I had my snowshoes and fleece jacket all ready to go, but then it was 62 degrees without even a wisp of snow at 8,000 feet. The trail was still coated in uneven ice and muddy slush, so it was a double disappointment of being too dicey to run, but hot and brown everywhere else. I am not thankful for California's drought or the Polar Vortex. Please, snow, come back to the West Coast.

At least I timed my summer hike well, arriving at the Salt Lake International Airport two minutes before Beat's plane touched down. He found a discount ticket and there was only one, so we worked out this odd travel arrangement so I could stay in Utah a few extra days. On the day after Thanksgiving, we set out with my dad and his friend Raj for a double-header in Big Cottonwood Canyon: a hike to Lake Blanche followed by a second hike to Desolation Lake, climbing two separate forks of the canyon.

 It was warm in Salt Lake City, too, with high temperatures shattering all-time records at nearly 60 degrees. At these upper elevations it was still in the 40s but felt fairly brisk in the gusting winds. I suppose I'm thankful for Black Friday, as the best explanation for why the trails were so empty on this beautiful day. I don't fault people for enjoying a shopping holiday, but I'll never understand. The indiscriminate consumerism, stress and crowds that characterize Black Friday would be my own private version of Hell. Some people's Hells would contain sideways blizzards and slogging through knee-deep snow at 40 below. Mine would be forever stuck in a shopping mall on Black Friday.

It was gorgeous on the empty trails. We left our snowshoes behind for Desolation Lake, and ended up having to break trail for half the distance. We gave up about 0.25 miles shy of the actual lake, because we'd already put in six hours of hard effort and decided the field we were standing in had a good view and looked a bit like a frozen lake, anyway.

 On Saturday, Beat and I dragged my dad out for another Big Cottonwood adventure. We put in fourteen miles and 5,000 feet of snow trekking on Friday, and opted for something shorter — Gobbler's Knob, a 10,250-foot peak that climbs 3,500 feet in four miles, one-way. Sounds not as difficult, right? Ha! We followed a trail mainly used by hunters this time of year, climbing a steep drainage to the Mill A Basin. Beyond a minor ridge, the trail rapidly deteriorated into a set of deep postholes that had been solidified to hard ice by the freeze-thaw cycle. Circling around the basin, there was only this narrow corridor to follow through the thick brush and aspens. This "trail" had been trampled to the ankle-twisting consistency of an Alpine boulder field.

 It was exhausting work, this flat traverse. The elevation left me feeling winded and dizzy. "I wondered whether five weeks of my new strength training routine was helping with my balance issues," I said to Beat as I teetered on frozen footprints and stumbled repeatedly into knee-deep crusted powder. "I guess the answer is, not yet."

It was a relief to reach the saddle and strap on snowshoes for a steep ascent up the ridge of Gobbler's Knob. The crust was wind-scoured to an icy sheen, and there were occasions of skittering sideways above a yawning abyss of steep exposure with only the dull teeth of snowshoe crampons digging a shallow anchor into the ice. All the while, 40-mph gusts of wind ripped along the ridge, carrying powder blasts up from the depths, and even though it was "warm," it was not really all that warm. By the time we reached the peak, Beat said, "Wow, that turned out to be pretty epic." As you can see, my dad is stoked that we finally made it.

Descending was as difficult as climbing had been. After five and a half hours, we wrapped up our eight-mile hike on the verge of exhaustion. My poor dad. He was in fine shape for the adventure, but I think he'd had enough of the slogtastic version of fun.

I'm thankful for the slogtastic version of fun. It's still one of my favorite types of fun, for what are probably deep-seated psychological reasons that are impossible to explain or justify. But I keep trying anyway, as my own way of reaching out to others who might be like me. "Doesn't everyone love life at 1.3 mph?" But there's something to be said about going outside in this weird November weather that doesn't really work for anyone, putting in a wearying effort for a relatively paltry distance, and drawing a thin line of footprints along the expansive canvas of the world. 

Cone Peak getaway

While blogging about Alaska for the past three weeks, I've had a full November here in California, including rapidly expanding my range of mobility, exploring new bike routes, and relishing the freedom of running again. There's really no better way to gain new appreciation for something then to have it taken away, even for a short eight weeks. I'm slowly gaining confidence in my knee stability and have worked up to eight-mile runs. Even on my boring old routine trails from home, I feel an almost manic buzz when returning from a run — along with tight IT bands. Eventually both of these things will balance out, but I'm enjoying the fun while I can. 

 On Sunday my friend Leah and I stole away for an overnight bike trip in the Big Sur region, climbing to Cone Peak and then looping around the Coast Ridge back to Highway 1. I have a tendency to fixate on planning larger trips, and all too often neglect quick getaways from home. After chatting with Leah earlier this week, we both realized how easy it would be — just cobble our bikepacking gear together, scope out a route to maximize the scenery-to-effort ratio, and hit the road.

 Cone Peak is a striking mountain — a marble pyramid that rises to 5,160 feet a mere three miles from tidewater, for one of the steepest vertical reliefs in the coastal ranges of North America. The Santa Lucia mountains ripple east to the Salinas River Valley, and the Pacific Ocean sprawls over the western horizon.

  We got a characteristically late start at Kirk Creek on Highway 1. But we enjoyed lunch with a view at the campground before pedaling up the sinuous pavement of Nacimiento Road and Cone Peak fireroad. These miles were climby but relaxed, with views everywhere.

Cone Peak is located in the Ventana Wilderness, so we parked the bikes at 3,800 feet and continued on foot in the deepening afternoon light.

 The Santa Lucia mountains have a unique look and feel — rounded slopes and grassy hillsides that I associate with California's coastal mountains, along with rugged peaks and granite outcrops that are more characteristic of the high Sierra. The marine layer rises to about 2,000 feet, and above and below this line are two completely different climate zones. In the lower zone, the state's southernmost Coast Redwood groves reside in narrow gullies, and fog-happy coastal plants thrive. Above the marine layer are oak trees, cypress, douglas fir, chaparral, and other drought-resistant plants. The air is noticeably drier (and in the winter, cooler) up high.

 And the views! Three horizontal miles from the Pacific, and one vertical mile up.

 Cone Peak at sunset. We had discussed packing up our camping gear by hand and sleeping up here, but a cold November wind made us glad that we were only on the peak for a short visit.

 More Pacific views. Although windy, it would have been nice to linger.

 Descending with the last beams of sunlight on the Santa Lucias.

 Sunset over the ocean.

 The sliver moon. We made nice camp spot beneath large oak trees, with my Big Agnes tent and Leah's jet boil for bikepacking luxuries. However, we didn't have access to water and had to conserve what we'd hauled up from sea level. Limited drinking water plus high-sodium Mountain House Chicken and Noodles for dinner resulted in one of the worst midnight muscle cramps I've ever experienced. Two days later, there's still a massive knot in my left calf that hasn't let go. People have asked me why I'm limping, and I've had to reply "Sleeping injury."

 But we did save enough water for the most important thing — morning coffee. We hiked back up the Cone Peak trail a little ways to take in the views with freshly ground drip coffee courtesy of one of Leah's cross team sponsors. She was still recovering from a race on Saturday, and I had that knotted-up calf to limit my moving enthusiasm. We drew out the morning lounging as long as possible.

 Then it was on to Coast Ridge Road. I was a little nervous about the water situation, as we hadn't found a single natural source and were rolling along the spine of mountains. But down the paved road a short distance there was a fire station with an outside tap, and a friendly black cat who wanted her own bowl filled.

 We took a short detour out Prewitt Ridge to find a nice spot to eat our lunch. Oak tree swing with sweeping views of Cone Peak, and a warm, clear day in November. What more could you ask for?

 The ancient oak tree was completely hollowed out, but alive.

 Heading back to the coast on a brake burner of a descent.

Big Sur and Cone Peak. Our two afternoons of riding and hiking came in just shy of fifty miles, with 10,000 feet of climbing. This really is the kind of route that packs a big payout in a small number of miles. Why don't we do this every weekend? I'm determined to return to this nearby mountain range for more winter explorations (especially through the wilderness areas, on foot.) But for now, Beat and I are headed out to Utah for some turkey and, hopefully, some snow. Happy Thanksgiving!