Hard-fought failures

I spent the summer assuring myself, and everyone who asked, that I wasn't going to start the Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc. "I gave that up when I decided to race the Tour Divide," I'd say. Then I got bronchitis, or pneumonia, or whatever completely derailed my health in June. Fewer than six weeks before UTMB, I started running again — six miles here, eight miles there, struggling for 11-minute-mile pace on a trail loop I can usually breeze through at 9:30 average. Shortness of breath accompanied any flirtations with higher intensities. During a backpacking trip in Wyoming, it also became glaringly apparent that my descending abilities — as meager as they always are — had entirely withered. I was slow on the uphills, drastically awkward on the downs, and UTMB is 104 miles with 66,000 feet of elevation change. I'd failed at two of my last three major races, not to mention my Alaska coast shakedown tour in March, and more failure would surely shatter my already weakened confidence ahead of the one athletic endeavor that really matters to me right now — the 2016 Iditarod. 

Skeptical old-timey mountaineer is skeptical

Yes, I do understand the concept of a bad idea. But a bad-idea adventure is still an adventure. I'd paid my money for UTMB, and a long hike over many mountains with regular water stops and French pastries started to sound like a fantastic idea. Without scrutinizing the cut-offs or doing any actual math, I thought, "They give you 46 hours, which is like two miles an hour. I can probably manage that without taxing my lungs too badly. Legs will be sore. It's going to be great."

My parents, who had come to the Alps on a hiking vacation that Beat's and my races undoubtedly overshadowed, were surprisingly supportive. After all, they watched me struggle to crawl out of bed and walk across a parking lot in July. But they know me too well. They'd already rescued me once this summer, and I really didn't want to call them out to some tiny mountain town again. I knew failure was likely, and yet I berated any thoughts of dropping out early. I'm far from one of those "death before DNF" people, but I also value the intellectual challenge of mind over (admittedly sickish and undertrained) matter. "You have too many fails. This time you have to make it," I scolded myself.

For anyone used to the low-key trail-racing events of North America, UTMB is utterly surreal. A wilderness adventure it is not. It is, however, an intriguing cultural endeavor. 2,500 runners from all over the world gather in downtown Chamonix to race around Mont Blanc through communities where people come out of their houses to ring cowbells in the middle of the night night. Qualifying standards have become stiff over the years, and it's humbling to witness the upper-level fierceness displayed by nearly everybody at the starting line. As my dad continually exclaimed over the week, "They all just look so fit." In all honesty I'm most comfortable with the happy-go-lucky bumblers of trail running, and they're nowhere to be seen in UTMB.

There's a lot of pomp at the starting line. Even though I find it equally amusing and tiresome, I admit to getting sucked in to the swelling excitement. The guy in front of me was sporting a beret and two feet of baguette. It's fun to start a race in France.

There's always at least a little weather gloom and doom accompanying UTMB, and this year's warning was thus far unprecedented: Extreme heat. At the 6 p.m. start, temperatures were a toasty 28C (82F.) Forecasts were calling for upwards of 35C (95F) the following day. I'd be lucky if I had to put on a jacket overnight. In a race with ten huge, steep climbs, this warmth is hardly welcome. I had some heat training in California, but I still struggle mightily in warm weather.

Out of Chamonix, UTMB follows a wide dirt path along L'Arve River, rolling but runnable. I vowed not to sprint off the start with everybody else, but even back with the 10-minute-mile joggers, my stomach lurched and groaned. Was it that huge sandwich I had for lunch? Nerves? Sweat poured down my face and back, but I was giddy. The impossibly white crown of Mont Blanc glistened overhead and an intoxicating energy surged through the crowd.

By Les Houches — mile 6 — the giddiness had turned to nausea. I only took a few sips of sparkling water as I shuffled through town and started up the first 3,000-foot climb (one of many — so many — to come.) I hiked with a man from Tucson, Arizona, who was equally happy to meet a fellow English speaker. He also said he was happy about the heat, as he felt he now had a real advantage in the race. I knew I needed to make time on the steep climbs — arguably my only remotely adequate strength in mountain running — so I marched ahead, breathing just under the upper limit of my comfort zone. Glaciers were bathed in scarlet light and cowbell-clanging fans lined the steep path, but nausea was beginning to overshadow my excitement. By the top I'd developed a case of the runner's trots. I managed to hold off for the entire 3,000-foot descent to the nearest toilet, but in the process developed a wicked case of chaffing. I didn't address it as I rushed to the bathroom, and by St. Grevais much of the skin between my cheeks had been rubbed raw. Blood was involved. It was amazingly painful. Worse than the worst saddle sores I've experienced. I think it's fair to call it an ass-tastrophe. I was 13 miles into a 104-mile race.

In the bathroom, used a couple of antibacterial wet wipes to clean the now-open sores, inciting a blinding sting. I nearly passed out. Oof, this was bad. The waves of vomit-inducing pain also didn't help with the original nausea, and I shuffled out of the aid station feeling dizzy. The trail contoured around cattle pastures, and eau de bovine filled the humid air. Darkness had descended at this point. A full moon rose over the black peaks towering overhead. I was still mostly running and many other runners were nearby, so I figured I was doing okay in the race, all things considered.

After a couple of eternal hours of climbing the narrow valley, I staggered into Les Contamines, utterly out of steam. I hadn't managed to eat anything since the race started some six hours earlier. My stomach was lurching, and I was desperate to acquire some broth and lay down for a while. I had just removed my shoes and sprawled out on a bench when a woman came up to me, speaking sternly in French and pointing at her watch. Just as she was doing this, the voice over the intercom finally switched to English: "We remind you that you must leave the station by twelve o'clock." I looked at my phone. It was 11:55.

I was at the cut-off? Already? My Garmin eTrex indicated I'd traveled almost 22 miles, with 5,500 feet of climbing, in five hours and 55 minutes. It's not quick by any means, but I've certainly moved slower in the first fifth of hundred-mile races and still finished ahead of 36 hours. "It's already the cut-off? I can't eat my soup?" The French lady continued to point at her watch sternly. I put my shoes back on, threw my soup in the trash, and lumbered with a John Wayne gait out of the aid station. The white-hot pain of Satan was searing my ass, and I was devastated.

From Les Contamines, we began a 4,000-foot ascent to Croix du Bonhomme. Since I didn't get soup, I resorted to cramming down a couple packets of fruit snacks from my stash. They seemed to help. I still felt like I might vomit, and hoped I would, but of course the stomach reset never comes when you want it to. The full moon blazed overhead as the hot night bore down.

Now I'm 25 miles into a race I've told myself I can't fail, suffering mightily but not in a way that threatens long-term injury or illness, and worst of all, I'm chasing cut-offs. Chasing cut-offs means calculating how much it's worth to bend down and tighten your shoelaces when you feel a hot spot on your toe. It means waiting until the last possible minute to rush into the woods to pee, and multi-tasking the excruciating chore of disinfecting and re-lubing open wounds in sensitive spots. It means marching, marching, marching, and calculating where you can push the pace without falling irrevocably into a pit of bonked despair. It means running faster than you normally would on rocky descents, rolling your ankles and catching your toes on boulders, wondering if this is going to be the time you finally smash your head open on a rock. It means absorbing increasingly unbearable stress, because humans are funny animals and we react to self-imposed pressure with the same chemicals that would flood our systems if we were being chased by wolves. What, oh what have I gotten myself into this time?

Humans are funny animals, and chemicals that respond to sickness and stress also fill our bodies with wonder and elation. The trail rose into the alpine tundra, where the full moon cast cliffs and glaciers in luminescent shades of silver. The landscape was unnervingly beautiful, with shadowy contrasts so deep they hinted at a fourth dimension. An string of lights snaked up a black wall — the unbroken procession of runners on the col. Those who believe you miss all the scenery by running through the night, or ruin the mystery by running with 2,500 others, are discounting a truly unique experience. Here was an after-world, where heaven's forgotten souls had been forced to march into oblivion. It was so dystopically beautiful.

The aid station at Les Champieux was brimming with carnage — people sprawled on the concrete, vomiting impressive quantities of liquid into bushes, and hunched over tables with heads in hands. There were about 25 minutes before the cut-off and I was determined to get soup this time. My stomach was still a mess and I'd barely managed to take in 320 calories of fruit snacks in 33 brutal mountain miles. I also ate plain French bread, and retreated to the bathroom for more disinfecting torture. Again I mopped up a fair amount of blood and nearly passed out from the stinging pain. I wondered if my sister the nurse would be proud. No, probably not.

There was a long, slightly more gradual climb to Col de la Seigne that was quite enjoyable. I felt better than I had all evening, and again attempted running. Pain from the ass-tastrophe was always pretty bad for the first twenty minutes after stopping, but would sort of settle as long as I kept my stride exactly the same — which was at least motivation to keep jogging. I could feel my IT band burning and my right knee ached, which was to be expected after running fewer than 300 training miles since May. Dawn broke and the sun cast its first orange rays on the slopes just as we crossed into Italy. The illuminated mountain was the other side of Mont Blanc. We'd already come so far.

Still, how could it be daytime? Already? It seemed like the next cut-off had to be soon, although I'd forgotten to check at the last aid station. UTMB threw another wrench in the gears with a new, superfluous climb up Col des Pyramides Calcaires. It was a boulder field. Dizzy from lack of calories and also sleep deprivation, I stumbled along the rocks, daydreaming about flight. If a fitness fairy came and offered to grant me one exceptional human ability, I would not choose speed or strength. I'd choose grace. The runners who can dance over these mountains and finish UTMB in 22 hours boggle comprehension. My own tentative awkwardness causes me no end of frustration. I acknowledge I could work harder, and train better, to improve on my own abilities. But I don't live in the mountains. Some people are naturally graceful and don't require constant practice, but I do. I'm the tone-deaf musician who doesn't own a piano, but loves to play, all the same.

Descents remained especially stressful because the clock was ticking, everyone around me moved faster downhill, and it ate up precious seconds to let them all pass. This was the game of leap-frog I continued to play with my fellow back-of-packers. I'd charge past them on the climbs, then feel the pressure of runners barreling toward me on the brutally steep descents. My IT band had taken on a searing pain, and I don't think I could have bombed downhill even if I really wanted to, which I did. Still, I made a concentrated effort to prance down the rocks, assuring my nervous self-preservation reflex that it was better to take technical terrain quickly and not think about it too much.

After pulling over to let another long string of runners past, I sped up to stay with the group. Of course I caught my foot on a boulder at moderate speed and went airborne where all landings ended in sharp rocks. The fall caught me completely off guard, and my limbs were already loose with fatigue, so instead of slapping the ground like a dead fish, I touched down with my right shoulder and then tumbled a few times before landing more or less on my feet. It was perhaps the most graceful fall I've ever taken, and allowed me to stand up from a spectacular crash with nothing more than a lightly bruised shoulder and hip. Still, I was shaken, and would not be taking any more downhill risks.

I blew through Lago Combal without so much as pausing to fill my cup with Coke, and left the checkpoint with fists full of bread. Now on the Italian side of the mountain, the aid station bread had transitioned from soft French loafs to these thick, crusty rolls. I gnawed on one until my tongue was bleeding, and then started up the tiny little 2,000-foot climb to Mont Favre.

The heat of the day was breaking open. My stomach, which had been okay through the warm night, started to lurch again. It was the same old ultra conundrum — I could probably improve my condition by laying down for a while and taking in salt and calories, which would help me move faster. But I was too close to the cut-offs to spend that time. So I marched, surging past people on the climbs, shuffling the descents, and sharing pacing positions with a French woman while losing nearly 2,000 feet in one mile on a knee-crushing trail into Courmayeur. Working together, we managed to only get passed by a handful of runners. "Bon rythme!" she exclaimed and patted me on the back.

It felt like it was a hundred degrees in Courmayeur. One thermometer read 36 degrees, so it actually was close to 100F. The checkpoint was staged in a large sports center, which was overflowing with runners and their crews. It was probably 140 degrees in the building, and difficult to walk without feeling faint. There was a line out the door for the pasta dinner, which I hardly had time for anyway. I had important chores that I'd been thinking about since morning — change my socks, underwear and tights, lube up my entire body, restock my fruit snacks — which, besides white bread and broth, was the only thing I could stomach — and take in as water as I could fit in my belly and hydration bladder. I wrestled through the crowd and plopped down on the hot concrete floor against folded-up bleachers. It's never tempting to quit at these large race checkpoints, as they are sad and uncomfortable places. No matter how sick or sore I feel, I'd can't wait to get out of these hellholes.

I was out the door ten minutes before the 1 p.m. cutoff, slogging through the city streets as lovely Italians showered me with applause I did not deserve. Directly out of town, the route climbs 3,000 feet in 2.5 miles, and there was a thick conga line of many dozens of runners who were racing the sharp edge of the cut-off. There was no way around the crowds, and I was so nauseated and overheated that surging probably wouldn't have benefitted me anyway.

Meanwhile, the broad massif of Mont Blanc loomed. The trail reached a crest at Rifugio Bertoni, and afterward there were six miles of traversing along a grassy contour with huge views of the mountain. It's an incredible run if you can run it. Even shuffling along with searing pains from various body parts, I felt content. "This is such a gift," I thought. "This is why I need to finish. So I don't miss anything."

I blew through Rifugio Bonatti with more fists full of bread, but accidentally dropped most of it when I tripped on a cattle fence. I battled my sore knee for a reasonable pace on the descent into Arnuova, and everyone around me looked like they were still running pretty well. Outside these Alpine races I haven't spent much time in the very back of a pack, but even people in mid-packs rarely look this strong and determined. When I signed up for UTMB last December, I maintained an opinion that this is a "nicer" race than other Alpine ultras. Not so much. Sure, UTMB is well-supported and utilizes good trails, but the cut-offs are brutal. Mile for mile, UTMB felt harder than the Tor des Geants, where I managed to stay comfortably ahead of cut-offs at a much easier pace (until I fell and tore a ligament in my left knee.) Sure, I was in better shape last year, and this summer's respiratory illness has taken more out of me than I'm still willing to acknowledge. But even for good, healthy runners, this race is really hard. What was I thinking when I decided I could tour my way through UTMB? I deserved a sufferfest.

The next pass brought the full, crushing weight of my decisions. I'd developed some wheezing and congestion before Courmayeur, but that's to be expected during a long day of hard breathing. I left Arnuova 15 minutes before the cut-off, determined to make up minutes on the climb now that the crowds had thinned out. After just a few minutes of pushing the pace, my airways tightened and I struggled to breathe. The shortness of breath that has shadowed my efforts since the Tour Divide had returned. I stopped to take hits from my inhaler, but the effects of the medication were short-lived, and gasping returned shortly after I started climbing again. This may have been inevitable, or maybe not. A lot of conditions can cause shortness of breath, including psychosomatic reactions to anxiety. Bronchitis/pneumonia isn't exactly fast-healing, but I had issues before June that have led me to suspect I may be developing a more chronic respiratory condition, perhaps asthma. More rest and recovery is the easy, hopeful solution, but it's also too simplistic. If this is asthma, it's not going to go away. If this is my body's reaction to my lifestyle, then I'll have to accept the long-term solutions for that, too. If this is psychological, then I may never find a solution. If this is just the remnants of pneumonia — which is what I hope it is — then all I have to do is admit I'm impatient and an idiot. So many possibilities, so few certainties. But humans are funny animals, and we like to pretend we can control a lot of things we just can't control.

It's funny though, the eccentricities of human psychology. There I was, in a race I knew I shouldn't have started, with the sensation of a red-hot iron between my butt cheeks, sharp pains in my knee, exhausted and hungry, frightened because I could no longer breathe very well — and my mind was fixated on the prospect of not finishing. I was quite upset about it. Where does this stuff come from? Finishing UTMB doesn't matter to anyone but me. Therefore, it shouldn't matter. I was angry at myself for believing it did, even as I desperately battled to maintain a hopeful pace.

Thick thunderheads enveloped Mont Blanc, which the setting sun painted in pastel shades. I thought about riding my bike across Wyoming in June, after I'd been so sick for so many days, and the way I would just stare into the horizon without thought or emotion. This disturbing apathy lingered even after I'd returned home to my regular life and recovery. Here, on the slopes on Grand col Ferret, I finally let myself be sad about it — about failing in the Tour Divide. Regret welled up in my gut, and I turned my iPod to music by Of Monsters and Men — "Organs" — to give voice to the emotions that were streaming out in gasps and tears.

So I take off my face 
Because it reminds me of how it all went wrong 
And I pull out my tongue 
Because it reminds me of how of it all went wrong 
And I cough up my lungs 
Because they remind me of how it all went wrong 
But I leave in my heart 
Because I don't want to stay in the dark

A refreshingly cold wind whisked along the col as I crossed into Switzerland. It was time to be truthful. I stooped beside a boulder and e-mailed my parents from my phone: "Having a lot of trouble breathing. It's not likely I'll make the next cutoff. I might, but either way continuing probably isn't a good idea. Do you think you can meet me in La Fouly?"

There. It was done. I instantly regretted it, but refrained from a "Ha ha, just kidding" follow-up e-mail. Still, I wondered — what if I felt markedly better once I returned to lower elevations? My silly brain was still churning up delusions. My parents had very limited connectivity and might not even see the e-mail. Maybe I could still make that cut-off. I lumbered down the steep trail, knee nearly locked, determined to "run."

The racers around me were now down to the final stragglers. As night settled it was eerily quiet. The narrow trail traversed above a black abyss of a canyon, climbing and descending endless drainages. I limped and shuffled as time lost all definition. There was no longer reason to obsess about the clock — it wasn't going to change anything. My breaths were shallow but calm. I actually felt pretty good. Not good enough to sprint, but good enough to feel grateful for the place I occupied in the world — beneath peaks drenched in silver moonlight, the piercing emptiness of the sky, and this incredible privilege to travel 70 tough miles in the mountains with my own feet, in one go, even if I wasn't the most graceful or fit.

I reached La Fouly at 10:44 — 14 minutes too late. Volunteers were already clearing out the checkpoint. A man walked up to me and made a slashing motion across his neck.

"You finish," he said in English.

"I know," I said. He took his scissors and cut up my bib, which I know is necessary to keep people from sneaking back into the race, but it's terribly demoralizing. Then he pointed me to a place where I could catch the last bus to Chamonix, but I misunderstood him amid the language barrier, and missed the bus. My parents were actually in La Fouly, but I didn't know it at the time and we hadn't connected yet. All I understood was that I was stranded and alone. I curled up on a bench and let that reality settle. I didn't want to spend the night on that bench. Instead, I thought, I should get back up and continue down the trail. Who's going to stop me? Maybe I'll walk myself into Chamonix after all. I smiled and closed my eyes, knowing this would remain a beautiful dream. 

Another round in Chamonix

Beat and I arrived in France on Sunday night for our annual sojourn (of pain) in the Alps. Beat has his nearly-back-to-back-200-mile races that he can't quite pry himself away from, and so we're back in Chamonix for the 2015 Petite Trotte à Léon. 

Friends know I have no love for PTL, which pits a hundred teams on a high-mountain course that combines difficult terrain, long distances, often tricky navigation, and a time limit that ensures extreme sleep deprivation. Basically, it's light mountaineering with compromised strength under moderate sedation. Of all the things Beat does that cause me to fret, PTL is the most unnerving. Every year, the organization switches up the course to make it even harder, which only ensures it's more dangerous. Oh, but it's okay, because slipping is "forbidden." 

This year, Beat is racing with Pieter Schaaps, a young Belgian that he met last year at the Tor des Geants. The race started under heavy rain and high winds on Monday evening, where they launched straight from Chamonix up the local vertical kilometer course, climbed that vertical kilometer, and then dropped straight back down to a point that normally is only five flat kilometers from Chamonix along a nice river trail. This is PTL being nice, because at least the runners were on a trail while climbing and then descending 3,000 feet elevation in five miles.

Beat called me last night after about 28 hours in the race, just as he and Pieter were leaving a refuge. They hadn't slept yet, and Beat was on edge because they were running uncomfortably close to the cutoffs, even though they were near the front of the pack — 16th position out of just over a hundred teams that started. At least 30 teams have dropped. Beat expected time controls or attrition would get most of them unless the organization implemented some alternatives to the course, which he said has become "impossibly hard."

"They basically just linked up 300 kilometers of the 'best' (so, the worst) of PTL, without actually considering whether anyone can actually finish in 142 hours," he said. Even with "just" 26,000 meters of climbing, it's the technical difficulty that makes this event so slow. Because Beat is who he is, he's hanging on with all of his determination. Physically, both Pieter and Beat are fine beyond the predictable bad feet and sore legs. I'll be glad when it's over, whenever it's over. I sort of feel like that spouse at home while her husband gets wasted at a bar — livid at the bartender for serving him alcohol, but aware that the fault lies with the spouse who just can't get enough.

So what am I up to? Alpine touristing at its best. My parents are in town this week as well. They were in Switzerland all of last week, but arranged their Europe vacation to experience the spectacle of UTMB week in Chamonix (and hang out with me.) On Tuesday we did the best-of sightseeing with an all-day tram pass.

The remnant clouds from the previous night's downpour were just clearing at Brevent.

Of course we took the gondola to Aiguille du Midi. Visiting this high-mountain station just below Mont Blanc is the pinnacle of Alpine tourism, but you really have to do it, at least once.

I mean, you really do.

Glaciers tumbling off Mont Blanc.

Views of the Chamonix valley 9,000 feet below.

Next we took the train to Mere de Glace. It's a beautiful valley, and yet another unsettling reminder of just how quickly the ice of the world is melting away. To reach the glacier, we had to descend at least 300 vertical feet below the noted demarcation line of the glacier's level in 1985. Just thirty years ago. Even as recently as five years ago, the surface was 50 feet higher.

We toured the man-made ice caves, which were very cool (in both senses, as the weather here has become quite hot since the rain cleared out.)

Today Dad and I hiked from town to La Flegere, which I always remember as this flat and short hike by Chamonix standards, but it still climbs 3,000 feet over four miles of root-choked trails.

Also, this happened. UTMB starts Friday afternoon. I've been saying all summer that I wasn't going to race this event that I signed up for in December — before I decided to ride the Tour Divide, and well before I dropped out of that race after 1,700 miles with severe bronchitis and far too few running miles on my legs — but all the excitement has gotten the better of me. I have a strategy for my lungs, and some emotional acceptance of a number of disappointing outcomes, but I'm not going to pretend this is a good idea. Most of my best ideas aren't.

36

While looking for a photo for this post, I realized I hadn't taken any photos of my outdoor excursions (all runs) in a couple of weeks, and I haven't posted a California picture on my blog since May. How far my blog has fallen from its original intent (a day-to-day journal and cycling log.) This photo is from July, taken during one of Beat's favorite running routes — a 16-mile grinder in Portolla Redwoods State Park to visit a 1,200-year-old redwood called "Old Tree." Seems an apt image for a birthday post.

My running over past few weeks has been a series of steady and deliberate efforts to get my "wind" back, through whatever biological mechanisms aid in this process. What it's felt like is a slow strengthening, from the early days of July with tight constrictions in my bronchi and a weak heart (resting at 90 bpm but too taxed at 130 bpm) to clearer breathing and a strong heart. (I did seek out medical tests during this process. Lung X-Rays were clear, and heart checked out fine. Peak expiratory flow was well below normal — which could be a sign of chronic asthma, although my doctor was dismissive of this, and I haven't been inclined to seek out further tests for asthma as my breathing continues to improve.)

My resting heart rate dropped back down to 60 bpm, I'm back to running comfortably at 160 bpm, but I still don't have the oomph for high intensity. I still feel breathing constrictions when I venture into zone 4. I haven't attempted a max effort. The jury's out about whether running is aiding in the recovery process, but it felt like it has — my chest really does feel more "open" after runs. I think at worst it had a neutral effect. I only had one asthma attack since the Tour Divide, during a mountain bike ride in mid-July.

The runs have been really enjoyable, although summer is just not my season. I do not get excited about venturing outdoors when temperatures are in the 90s or higher, and come up with plenty of excuses for rest days (so believe me, I mostly ran when it felt great and I was enjoying myself. There was no forced running on my agenda.)

Last weekend saw record highs and an atmosphere choked with smoke from wildfires in Northern California. Beat wanted to squeeze in one last long run before we head to Europe this weekend, but even our go-to "cool" escapes — Big Basin and Santa Cruz — registered a temperature of 101 degrees. Somehow, while avoiding going outside all day on Saturday, we decided to embark on on a night run in Henry Coe State Park. These inland hills are typically the hottest zone in the Bay Area — temperatures in the 90s in November are not out of the question. So why, oh why, oh why? Well, it's also the only trail system nearby where it's legal to be out after dark. Bah, California.

Thank goodness temperatures were only in the high 80s as we launched up the steep, dusty hill at 9 p.m. Fist-sized tarantulas skittered across the trail — over the course of the run, we counted at least 25 — and we also shared the night with a curious fox, mice, deer, and other creepy unidentified glowing eyes. The 89,000-acre state park is just remote enough to catch only slivers of city light from the highest ridges, and moonlight cast the grassy hillsides in silver and indigo hues. Coe is a former ranch, and occasionally we'd pass a creepy abandoned building or piles of twisted and rusting metal. It had a thrilling "haunted old Coe" factor that kept me invigorated even as I shed buckets of sweat over relentlessly steep, loose terrain for three and a half hours. We returned to the car well after midnight, absolutely saturated in sweat.

Ten years, and still seeking the frosty sides of life.

This week was my 36th birthday. As I just released "Becoming Frozen" — a memoir about the year I was 26 years old — I've spent a fair amount of time thinking about what's changed in 10 years. My recent bout with respiratory illness — which at times made me feel 106 — also led to reflection on the fragility of health and the physical deterioration of age. But I realized that there are several ways in which I'm stronger at 36 than I was at 26.

1. My knees are better than they were at 26. Of course I don't know the precise condition of the tissues in my joints, but I do know my knees feel a lot better than they did for most of my 20s. During a cross-country bicycle tour in 2003, I developed patellar pain in my right knee that persisted for years. I remember several of my friends were training for marathons in 2004, and I lamented that I could never aspire to be a runner, because I had "bad knees." The pain was manageable but more prevalent when I started endurance cycling in 2005. During the 2007 Susitna 100, I twisted my knee painfully near the start of the race and still finished, which put the nail in a massive overuse injury that was diagnosed as grade 3 chondromalacia. My doctor in Juneau, who was an Ironman triathlete and sympathetic to the whole endurance cause, said I'd probably battle osteoarthritis for the rest of my life. A physical therapist said my vastus medialis quad muscles were extremely underdeveloped (weird for a cyclist, right?) and suggested running to build muscle strength and bone density to support the joint. I started hiking more frequently that year, but the pain really started to subside after 2010 ... when I took up running.

2. I really do have an iron butt these days, evidenced by making it through 1,700 miles of the Tour Divide in 14 days with no chamois and my same old Terry Butterfly saddle, and no issues.

3. My feet are so much tougher than they used to be. Thank you, running.

4. My co-workers in Idaho Falls gave me the flattering nickname "Gimpy McStiff" because I'd always come back from weekend adventures completely hobbled. Actually training on a regular basis — even for recreational activities — really helps reduce the Monday rigor mortis.

5. My endurance continues to improve. My struggles in recent years have been linked mainly to injuries — specifically blunt force injuries, caused by falls — and illnesses. When everything goes right, even in an extremely taxing effort like sled-dragging 350 miles of the Iditarod Trail in seven days — I'm able to bounce back to normal quickly, in a matter of days.

6. I've got a better handle on my sleep, although I still have occasional bouts of insomnia. My sleep patterns were terrible through my early 20s, and became more consistent when I developed a regular outdoor exercise habit.

7. Anxiety is largely gone from my life. I still feel anxious when it's justified — such as clinging to precipitous mountain ledges. But I used to struggle with a more pathological anxiety, and occasional bouts of panic when such a response was not even remotely justified. I was actually a fairly fearful person in my early 20s, and I've never been particularly good at reacting to stressors. Newspaper journalism was a rewarding occupation, but it wasn't always great for my psychological health. And before I became (you guessed it) a regular exerciser, I had no coping mechanisms. This aspect of my personality is a large reason why I started and continue to participate in adventure sports — I extract immense satisfaction and ultimately peace in confronting my fears. Regular outdoor activity has been part of my lifestyle for long enough that I can't even fathom feeling the same disconnected anxiety, but I always wonder whether it would return if I were to lose my ability to stay active.

So there you go. Getting older rocks. Bring on 36.

Becoming Frozen

Today (August 17) my latest book was released. "Becoming Frozen" is my own story about falling in love with Alaska, after a rash decision to follow my then-boyfriend to the North completely changed the trajectory of my life.

The release coincides with the tenth anniversary of that decision, which was set in motion during the week of my 26th birthday. Coincidentally, I was camping in the Wind Rivers in Wyoming when I had my fateful "why not?" moment, and I hadn't been back those mountains since, until last week. It's funny how life continues turning in circles.

This book is one of the accumulating projects that I finally just had to push out the door. I don't blog much about my book projects, which are part of the day-to-day work I do. (People often wonder what I "do." I'm a freelance copy editor, if you weigh my career by the bulk of my paid contracts. Secondarily I'm an author, and book sales bring in my next largest chunk of income. Then I'm a journalist who contributes to newspapers and magazines. Last, I'm a blogger. Thank you for your clicks.)

Books, however, remain my ambition. I had some encouraging success with "Be Brave, Be Strong," and initially felt confidence that I could bulk up my fish wheel with frequent releases and modest sales, similar to other independent authors I admire. It hasn't quite worked out that way, mainly because I find book writing to be frustratingly difficult. Blogs are a breeze. But books ... they tend to take on a personality of their own that isn't always agreeable. I struggled with "Becoming Frozen." I'll admit that right here. It will be interesting to watch how it's received.

Books are also a challenging market. I saw all this potential with the rise of independent publishing, and it has worked out for me to some extent. I've sold more than 20,000 copies of a book that an agent told me she "loved, but there's no market. Nobody reads books about bicycling." I have three other books that have had reasonable sales. Still, it's difficult to convince people to part with their money for what amounts to low-tech entertainment. So much highly entertaining content is available for free. Even I am guilty of buying and reading only a dozen or so new books per year, and spend many more hours reading newspapers, online magazines, and blogs. I think that's what I struggle with the most in my for-profit projects. Why should/would anyone pay for this?

I've also ventured back into the traditional publishing game to pursue a project about Ann Trason. I've already found a couple of interested publishers, but each has a specific idea of what that book should be. Meanwhile, both my and Ann's ideas about the book continue to shift, and I feel like I'm approaching an impasse. In all honesty, I have no personal interest in traditional publishing. The validation of it does nothing for me, the numbers I've yet seen are not inspiring, and the micromanagement is exasperating. And yet for projects like this one, and others I have in mind, it's really they only way to go.

What's funny about writing is, I don't really believe people should pay me for this. I enjoy writing as much if not more than cycling, and I don't expect to receive payment for the cycling I do. But I do need income, to at least a small extent. Also, Beat is waiting for me to create a million-dollar bestseller so we can retire and move back to Alaska. I tell him I'm way too out of touch to formulate such successful content. I write about what I love. It's pretty esoteric. I'm okay with that. It can still fund groceries.

So with all that, I'm introducing "Becoming Frozen." This book is about the year I lived in Homer, Alaska, and has elements of the typical cheechako tale. A series of random events led to my discovery of endurance racing, and there are also tales of my often humorous "couch-to-100-mile-snow-bike-race" training efforts. For each chapter, I took an excerpt from an original blog post and expanded on it. It was funny to read through all the old entries of a blog I still update and think, "Ah, so young." It also had me wondering what became of readers from the days of yore. If you still check in here and remember commenting on "Up in Alaska" back in 2005 or 2006, I'd love to send you a free digital copy of "Becoming Frozen." E-mail me at jillhomer (at) gmail with your old Blogger (or Typepress, or whatever) handle, and whether you prefer a PDF or eBook file. You'd make my day. (Juancho? Doug? Are you still out there?)

For everyone else, your support is greatly appreciated. I plan to offer signed copies, but I've nearly sold out of what I'll have available before early October. I'll post that link then, but for now you can purchase an eBook (with a free app the file can be read on any device) or paperback at Amazon.

Thank you to Tonya Simpson for editing, and David Shaw at Wild Imagination Photography for the cover photo.

And thanks for reading!

This one time at Fat Camp

A few weeks ago, while I was nursing weak lungs and a festering disappointment about my failed Tour Divide, I received a text from my friend Danni in Montana, who I've missed and haven't seen in at least two years. She asked if I wanted to join a group of friends for a backpacking trip in the Wind River Mountains of Wyoming, playfully dubbed "Fat Camp." I was unsure about my health and the logistics of wedging another trip into this already-packed year, but at the last minute decided I couldn't bear to miss it. 

"I SO want to join you," I replied. "Otherwise this will be the worst summer ever, seriously." 

"I'm really pathetically fat and out of shape, so don't worry even if you still have pneumonia," Danni wrote. 

I couldn't ask for better backpacking companions — self-contained and capable women from a variety of backgrounds. There's Amber, a fish biologist and fast mountain biker/skier from Kalispell, Montana; Lora, another biologist/skier/climber in Corvalis, Oregon; Danni, a lawyer/mother who is not fat and out of shape, but is understandably too busy to spend much time on recreation; me, with slightly asthmatic and decidedly clumsy tendencies who arguably doesn't bring a lot to the table on a trip like this; and Meghan, a fiercely fit trail runner who floats effortlessly up steep boulder fields, lives in Moab, Utah, and co-manages the popular ultrarunning news site, iRunFar.

 It's a natural and yet unique dynamic — five thirty-something women in the woods. With no husbands or boyfriends in sight, we were an anomaly, and nearly everyone we spoke with made some sort of comment along the lines of "wow, all girls." Calling the tradition "Fat Camp" is something of a play on this, I think. Fat Camp refers to the perpetual hunger one often experiences in the backcountry, but also alludes to the stereotype that the only reason women engage in physical activity is to lose weight.


I hate going hungry, more than I hate struggling under big backpacks, so I packed an enormous amount of food. I thought my supply was reasonable for five days, but I was still thinking more in terms of the Tour Divide, when I was mowing through 5,000-plus calories a day. Out here, even with difficult terrain that pushed our 11-mile days into the 5- to 9-hour range, 3,000 calories were about all I could stomach. I ended up with nearly three days' worth of extra food, but it's nice to know I can carry what I need for a week or more in the backcountry.

At the airport, my pack weighed 28 pounds before I added water, bear spray, electronics, and fuel. It was an unwieldy thing, and I have been spoiled by bikepacking, which lets the bike do the carrying and only requires extra leg work from me. Having all that weight on my upper body threw me off kilter. I stumbled and fell a number of times during the first two miles, which descended 2,000 feet into the Long Lake valley. Near the bottom I fell hard on my left arm, spraining my wrist. This minor injury would bother me a lot for the next two days, but healed just in time to negotiate the most difficult scrambles of the route.

Volatile thunderstorms greeted us on the climb up Pine Creek Canyon, and then it proceeded to rain for the next ten hours. We constructed a small tarp shelter and cooked soggy dinners before setting up our tents. My Big Agnes Seedhouse 2 is now six years old and leaks in a few places, but the two-person tent allowed enough room to keep my sleeping bag centered in the dry spot as it rained and rained through the night. It would have been more of a hazard if I'd shared the tent with someone else. Unfortunately I left my backpack in the collapsed vestibule, and most of my other gear got wet.

 Day two took us from our camp on Trapper Lake to the Highline Trail, and deeper into high country. The Wind Rivers are a spectacular mountain range, rising abruptly from the high desert of central Wyoming. During the Tour Divide, I rode along the foothills of these mountains en route to the flat expanse of the Great Divide Basin. That section of the GDMBR isn't particularly exciting, and from a distance, the snow-capped peaks of the Winds are merely pretty. I didn't really know what to expect going into this trip, but I now understand why this range is a backpacking paradise. Just one day of travel from any trailhead will put you deep into craggy alpine terrain, almost entirely undeveloped and mostly above tree line, with the soaring skylines of 13,000'ers all around you.

 We thought our plan to average 11 miles per day would give us lots of time for lounging, and it did. But travel wasn't easy — there was lots of climbing and the terrain was rocky, even when we had a trail to follow. We did manage enough extra time in the evening for a scramble above the Green River, where Danni and I laughed about being ill-prepared with Hokas. They're great shoes for running and all-day walking, but less ideal for shorter bouts of ankle-rolling, crack-wedging, boulder-hopping hiking.

 Day three took us to the end of the Green River Valley, over Shannon Pass, and then up the steep face of Knapsack Col. I once rafted a long section of the Green River across Utah, and it was fun to visit its topmost headwaters, where the wide, muddy river I know and love is just a clearwater trickle beside bursts of wildflowers.

 Scaling a steep boulder field toward Shannon Pass.

 Looking back down the Green River Valley. Those cliffs even remind me of the Book Cliffs north of Green River, Utah.

 Skirting the edge of Peak Lake.

 Starting the 2,000-foot climb up Knapsack Col. Here we met our first northbound CDT thru-hikers. They warned us of a tricky descent off the backside, and we could see weather forming on the pass. This especially made Meghan nervous, as she harbors a particularly sharp phobia of lightning. I'm also scared of electrical storms, but my greatest sources of terror in mountains are tricky descents in slippery, wet conditions.

 We worked to pick up the pace as best as we could, acknowledging that our not-quite-alpine start of 9:30 a.m. didn't serve us well. Above 11,000 feet I started to feel my airways tighten. I took a hit from my inhaler, which helped, but it was obvious that slow and steady is the only pace I have right now. We climbed increasingly steeper scree slopes as the sky darkened.

 The forbidding crest of Knapsack Col, elevation 12,280.

 Happily, rain and lightning held off, but the descent was indeed tricky — a 42-percent grade boulder field where the footing was anything but secure. Lora and Amber opted to walk/boot ski down the loose talus to the side of the boulder field, but I didn't feel confident enough in my balance to attempt this (a fall there had the potential to rip my pants, as one of the better outcomes.) Instead, I ended up in a minefield of extremely loose boulders, so I veered over to a snowfield to butt-slide. This proved to be a poor decision. From above, the snowfield appeared to end in scree, but in actuality the lower slope was glare ice covered in a thin layer of dirt. It was too steep and slippery to walk, and more sliding amid the ice-covered rocks would certainly rip up my pants — and likely the flesh on my butt and legs. With trekking poles still stashed in my pack, I had to balance my clown shoes on tiny protrusions of rocks, tip-toeing sideways toward the open scree slope, knowing any fall would result in torn-up legs — and I had already taken a lot of falls during this trip, on much easier terrain. It was nerve-wracking! Backpacking is stressful! But I made it without incident.

 Descending the talus amid the once-proud remnants of the Twins Glacier. The map I'd looked at before the trip made it look like the glacier filled the entire basin, enough so that I routed my GPS track around it, over a small pass and down a much steeper gully. (Meghan and Amber designed the loop, and I took their descriptions and created a GPS track that proved to be fairly accurate. This was a source of pride for me, as I'd drawn the track by looking at topo lines on an electronic map devoid of trails and names, and guessing the most logical route. Of course, I was the only one who cared, as I was the only one carrying a GPS.)

 Descending into the Titcomb Basin. The cold wind and rain finally picked up, and we shared a frigid lunch behind a boulder, shivering but starving. This was proving to be a tough 11 miles! Our day stretched out for nearly nine hours, and there wasn't even as much stopping as other days.

 Still, I'd be lying if I didn't admit there was lots of leisure. Even when things were a little cold and scary, we never failed to have lighthearted fun, giggling over the biceps of sleeveless climber boys and discussing all the ways Danni can condition her 17-month-old daughter to want to join her for a thru-hike of the CDT someday.

 Looking back at an imposing skyline — Mount Woodrow Wilson, The Sphinx, and Bonney Pass. This is just a few miles south of Gannett Peak, the highest mountain in Wyoming.


 We found a beautiful, secluded spot just below the lower Titcomb lake to set up camp for the next two nights.

 We kept it cozy.

It was a great breakfast spot. Every morning I ate oatmeal, a dollop of peanut butter, and coffee for breakfast. Lunch was salami and cheese on a tortilla, and dinner was Mountain House — a variety of the less-desired meals from the remnants of Beat's Iditarod stash. I also had lots of hot chocolate and tea — because what purpose is there to camping without hot drinks? What I brought far too much of was snacks. I couldn't even convince my friends to eat my granola bars, cookies and candy, even though Danni was only packing about 1,200 calories per day (she takes this Fat Camp thing seriously.)

On day four, we hoisted light packs for a day hike up Indian Basin.

 More boulder hopping. My quads and glutes were quite sore by day four, and I wished I had easier access to mountains like this. The Sierras are still reasonably far away from my home, but I'm pretty sure I'd at least lessen my clumsiness if I had more opportunities to develop mountain-specific fitness.

As you can see, it's hard not to spend the whole time looking up, which translates to tripping over things.

We climbed along the sad remnants of Harrower Glacier as we boulder-hopped our way to Indian Pass, at 12,200 feet on the Continental Divide.

On the pass, Danni found a cozy nook out of the cold.

 Lora and Amber found a high perch amid the blasting wind.

 Another group shot from Indian Pass.

The eastern Wind Rivers are almost entirely undeveloped wilderness, stranded between the Continental Divide and the Wind River Indian Reservation. In the Fitzpatrick Wilderness, most peaks and lakes are unnamed, there are very few trails, and tricky terrain and route-finding would keep one necessarily focused on the immediate present at all times — no cruiser daydreamy hiking here. Someday I would love to return to the Winds with ten days of food, a good map and compass, several self-made GPS tracks, real hiking boots, and the exuberance one can only feel while moving slowly and steadily through a truly wild place.

 Looking west again, a small tarn provides a splash of color beneath Knife Point Mountain. Still a wild place here, even on the popular side of the Divide.
 

Fremont Peak and flowers. So many flowers!

 In the evening, I went out for a stroll to take photos of the mountain paradise surrounding our camp.

 This place is just unreal.

On day five, all we had left to do was connect the loop.

 The previous day had been the only consistently sunny one, and rain returned for the last day. Overall, though, we lucked out with the weather — the only drenching rain came as we slept, and cold and lightning were minimal. As we hiked out, we heard reports of a massive storm approaching the area, set to bring heavy rain and snow to the higher elevations. Sure enough, as we drove away from Pinedale on Saturday, apocalyptic-looking clouds were approaching at breathtaking speeds.

"It looks like a Japanese painting," Danni said of the scenery as we raced raindrops out of the high country. We moved quickly to ensure enough time for hot-tubbing and copious amounts of fried food in Pinedale. It was a wonderful trip and a rare opportunity to get to know a fantastic region and a great group of women a little better. I'm a lucky girl to have had the chance to attend 2015 Fat Camp, even if I didn't lose any weight.

Thanks again, ladies!