Wednesday, July 06, 2016

High Lonesome

 The day before I flew to Portland, I joined Eszter and Elaine for a morning run on the High Lonesome Loop. This popular sixteen-mile loop climbs along the south fork of Boulder Creek, swings around King Lake, makes a quick jump over the Continental Divide and returns via the drainage of Devils Thumb lake. Beat and I have a few friends visiting from California this week while they acclimate for the Hardrock 100, which Beat is also running. I thought I'd be able to coax them out on this loop, but they seem to think work and tapering is more important. So, I'm posting photos in hopes of changing their minds!

 I was intimidated by the prospect of running with these ladies, who are both very fit for this sort of thing. Meanwhile, I'm still battling these breathing issues that don't lend much in the way of predictability. Sometimes I feel great throughout long runs, and sometimes I become overly winded walking up my stairs. For this reason I won't push my own pace — out of concern that too much heavy breathing might invite an asthma attack — and feel self-conscious about trying to keep up with others.

When I apologized about being the caboose of the group, Eszter said, "Don't say sorry." Meaning don't submit to these trite apologies that we (as women) have been conditioned to mumble as a way of minimizing ourselves and others. Instead of saying "I'm sorry for being slow," one should say, "Thanks for waiting up for me. It's great to be out here with you. Morning runs in the high country of the Rockies are amazing!"

 King Lake — looks like a wonderful place for a swim. Really. I won't be able to call myself a Coloradoan until I take a dip in a high alpine lake.


The High Lonesome Trail itself. Following a ribbon of singletrack through a field of wildflowers at 12,000 feet is a wholly intoxicating experience. I'd gotten over all my self-consciousness at this point, and enjoyed the flow.

 That part of the outing where you stop to look out over distant mountains and add another extended entry in an already long list of places to visit someday.

 Elaine and Eszter at the looks-scarier-than-it-was cornice at Devils Thumb Pass. Thanks for the awesome run, ladies. I hope we have a chance to run another high, lonesome ribbon of singletrack together soon.

Sunday, July 03, 2016

Defiance

Lately I've been feeling like 2016 will be the summer that I become old. I've actually had several summers that sparked this emotion; the first one hit at age 19, so I know it's not necessarily an emotion I can trust. But between the reemergence of asthma symptoms — which I can no longer convince myself were a one-time illness; the carpal tunnel thing — which my surgeon speculated might be the culmination of an old wrist injury I don't even remember, possibly while snowboarding as an indestructible teenager; and an upcoming birthday that will place me squarely in my late 30s .... maybe I'm not "old," but definitely living in a deteriorating body. We all do, every day, but sometimes the realization hits us more directly.

This weekend my friend Leah was married in Portland, Oregon. I was excited to come out as she enters a new chapter of her life, and witness the swirl of emotions connected to this — as she put it, "all the feels." I also was looking forward to visiting Portland — a city where I was convinced I would live out my days, back when I was 19 and "old" but still indestructible — but never ended up moving here. In fact, the last time I even visited Portland was seven years ago when was in the midst of a difficult break-up. Admittedly many of my memories from this region have been cast in distinctly negative light.

Beat wasn't able to join, and the time I'd be able to spend with Leah was limited for obvious reasons, so this would be a solo trip to Portland. I decided I'd fill it with a bunch of hiking, as much as I could squeeze in between wedding activities. My flight out of Denver was at 6 a.m. Thursday, which required waking up after less than two hours of sleep to drive out to the airport in a sleepy daze, go through the cattle corrals for a one-stop flight through Seattle, then get stuck in an aisle seat directly across from the bathroom, which is just unbearable on a morning flight. By the time I was driving a rental car out to Cascade Locks, my head was in full jet lag mode even though I'd only traveled one time zone away. It was 11 a.m. but felt like midnight when I arrived at the base of the mountain I planned to climb — touted on multiple Web sites as the "hardest hike in the Columbia River Gorge" — Mount Defiance.

Imagine my disappointment when I found out the trailhead was under heavy construction and closed weekdays. I jogged along the I-84 corridor for more than four miles out and back, looking for a possible side route to poach. All I could find were cliffs and waterfalls.

Since it was still technically early in the afternoon, I got back in the car and drove all the way around the gorge to the Mount Hood corridor. I parked at an obscure wilderness area trailhead with a plan to hike a 13-mile loop to a 4,800-foot peak called ZigZag Mountain. There was no one else there, which is a little disconcerting on a beautiful pre-holiday-weekend afternoon so close to a large city. But I set out with a GPS track, headlamp, jacket, and emergency water purification tablets, which is all you need when heading into unknown woods by yourself.

Sea level wasn't quite the magic elixir for my lungs that I had hoped, so a bout of hard-charging running quickly turned to hiking. After that, I decided to keep it comfortable. Trail conditions started out runnable but soon deteriorated to an overgrown morass strewn with deadfall and toe-catching debris. My pace was much slower than expected, and the day was growing late. Once the route dropped off a secondary ridge and headed toward the summit, I had a difficult time locating the trail among the brush and deadfall. The GPS track, which I'd drawn myself based on a trail map, was not accurate at all. The loop was committing and I was inclined to turn around, but I was enjoying the views of Mount Hood and wildflowers. And anyway, I had a headlamp and water purification tablets.

The GPS track only became less reliable, and while the trail was still well-defined in spots, there were enough overgrown sections to throw me off. At one point I followed my GPS track too directly and ended up on top of a cliff, then had to backtrack until I found the trail. It was never a case of being lost or not knowing where I needed to go, but there was more route finding than I anticipated, and thus everything took longer. Finally, at about 7 p.m., I reached the Sandy River only to discover the trail bridge had washed away in a flood.

The river was roaring. I started hyperventilating. I'd walked twelve tough miles to reach this spot, it was late, and my only choices were to either cross the river or hike all the way back around in the dark on that hard-to-find trail. Of course, if I'd waited for the panic to subside, I would have remembered that I'd first crossed this river on a road bridge, which was only a mile away in a direct line, and could have bushwhacked through the woods following the river until I found it. Anyway, I let the panic subside and hiked along the river bank until I found a wide spot that was only about thigh deep, where the current was more gentle and I could see the bottom (these are all requirements of mine for crossing a river alone, a task of which I'm extremely frightened.)

I made it across without incident, but my adrenal glands were drained and I was so very tired. Only fear can make me feel this tired. Becoming lost and immersing myself in rushing water rank among my most pervasive fears. Sleep deprivation doesn't help. Still, once it was all over I decided ZigZag Mountain is a rewarding hike, a beautiful route and not as tough as I perceived. It was certainly secluded.

On Friday I was still pretty tired, but this was the only day I had completely free. Leah and I walked to get coffee in the morning, and she recommended I check out Silver Star Mountain. This 4,400-foot peak is at the edge of a big swath of wilderness in Southern Washington. I had to park about three miles from the trailhead because I didn't know the area required a recreation pass (this is what bugs me about online registration. What am I supposed to do as a tourist when I show up at a trailhead with no cell phone reception and no pass? Drive three miles down the road and park just outside the recreation area, I suppose.)

I spent most of the road jog/trail climb feeling pretty grumpy, but the summit ridge completely shifted my perspective. Leah was right. The views are amazing up here.

The sky was clear and Mount Rainier and Mount Saint Helens were in view, as well as Mount Adams, Mount Hood, and Mount Jefferson. I hunkered down and spent about 45 minutes on the summit, until I was shivering in the breeze.

Saturday was Leah's wedding. My original plan was to spend the day in the city and then head to the ceremony in the early evening. But I am who I am, so instead I set an alarm for 6 a.m., and by 7:45 I was back at the now-open Mount Defiance trailhead.

The reason Mount Defiance is touted as one of the toughest hikes in the region is because it gains 5,000 feet in 5.5 miles. But that's the worst of it. The Mount Defiance Trail is a good trail, winding upward through the trees in the cool morning mist with frequent glimpses of the Columbia River far below. I'm in my element in places like this, and because I'd already put eighteen hours on my feet for the week by Saturday morning, for the first time in a while, my legs were finally more tired than my lungs. This limited me to a hard but comfortable pace, with no wheezing or lightheadedness. I couldn't have felt more relaxed or content even though I was scaling a mountain.

The previous day, I was talking to Leah about the difficulty of finding flow. That's the one thing I miss most about riding bikes, because flow comes to me most effortlessly when I'm pedaling. Running and even hiking tend to cause more stress, and only rarely do I lose myself completely to the task. But I found flow on Mount Defiance, with my tired legs and happy lungs, marching upward through a loamy forest that reminded me of both Juneau and California, and helped me feel at home.

Mount Hood as seen from Mount Defiance. I again hunkered down on a rock, snacked on Goldfish crackers, reveled in this successful "defiance" of my sometimes broken, sometimes old body, and watched the clock in an effort to avoid being late for the whole reason I was in Oregon. It had taken me 2:45 to make the climb, and I fully expected to need at least three hours to get down.

I opted to return on a loop down the Starvation Ridge trail, which in hindsight I would not recommend. Although this route takes you along a rockier ridge with incredible views, then past a scenic lake, the final three miles are one of my versions of Hell. In this version, I'm standing directly over a place that I can see and really want to reach (in this case the I-84 corridor), but the only way to get there is a relentlessly steep slide of loose dirt, roots, and gravelly talus, and I can't stay on my feet. Even leaning forward and taking tiny steps, I slid onto my butt multiple times. After landing on my hand once and experiencing a horrifying shock of pain through my right wrist, I instinctively held it up every other time. No damage was done, but it was hard and frustrating.

What goes up must come down. This photo was taken at 1,200 feet, with more than a thousand feet to descend to the river. It looks like it's directly below, doesn't it? It is!

Still, I'm pleased that through it all I still made it to the summit of Mount Defiance. It was in many ways my own defiant victory, and a perhaps a preface to a new chapter of health and vitality. Leah's and Steven's wedding was great fun, although I was guiltily a little too tired to live it up. Congrats you two!
Monday, June 27, 2016

All drugged up to go outside

Beat and I planned to hit the high country on Sunday. I was excited about this, but oddly nervous, given the plan was a half-day hike on a non-technical trail. "Thirteen thousand feet? I wonder how that's going to go."

In the morning I gulped down coffee, then continued the self-medication with two Aleve for my hand, two Claritin for the horrendous grass pollen season, full-body coverage of SPF 50 sunscreen paste with so much zinc oxide it doesn't rub in, and since the high-altitude UV barrage charred patches of skin that I missed last week, another sweep with sunscreen spray. Arm sleeves, body lube, bug dope just in case. Frozen water bladder, buff (snot rag), hat, sunglasses. Rigid arm brace to protect my still-healing wrist in the likely event of falling, which has happened in 25 percent of my runs since I had surgery a month ago. Finally, one hit of the inhaler for pre-exercise airway prep. More inhaler hits were sure to follow later.

Sometimes I miss those carefree days of winter when all I have to do is put on a coat to go outside.

 Beat and I are not good at alpine starts. Terrible, actually. I realize that once monsoon season hits we'll need to be up at 4 a.m. to visit the high country. But for now, the weather is very forgiving of our habits: Ambling out the door at 8:30, getting stuck behind a train, and finally hitting the trail after nine. Our objective for the day was James Peak from the Moffat Tunnel trailhead, gaining about 4,300 feet in 14 miles round trip, topping out at 13,300 feet.

 The weather was nearly perfect — on the warm side at 85 degrees lower on the route, but breezy and clear above tree line. I struggled a lot. Beat and I did a little running lower on the route, which was fun and felt good. But this hard respiration tipped my breathing over the edge, and I didn't get it back. I wheezed and walked slowly from that point on. Another tipping point came after crossing below a raging waterfall on a sturdy but narrow and rail-less bridge. Whitewater is a strong phobia for me, and the rather benign crossing ignited panicked hyperventilating, from which I couldn't recover. I was dizzy the rest of the way up the peak, teetering on narrow switchbacks and leaning on boulders. It was all so beautiful, but I was so frustrated.

 These types of experiences are difficult to reconcile. Can't I just be happy about getting out to an incredible spot on a perfect day? Standing on the Continental Divide and gazing out over hundreds of miles of rugged beauty? Eating a pastrami sandwich in the sunshine and laughing at marmots as they watched us ruefully? I am happy, but I also need to acknowledge my health frustrations as well.

I'm now one year into this "asthma" journey, and beginning to swing back to suspicions that I do in fact have chronic — if hopefully seasonal — asthma. I was sick most of last summer, had a resurgence of lung strength from October to December, experienced a relapse in January, and then went on daily medication from February to April. Since nobody wants to be on daily medication for the rest of their lives, my asthma doctor in the Bay Area recommended going off the maintenance inhaler after moving to Colorado (she also strongly recommended getting allergy tested in Colorado and starting allergy shots based on the results.) Currently I feel like I'm slipping back into uncontrolled asthma, so I'll need to confront that. I have 14 days' worth of medication that I saved for this scenario. I plan to start a two-week trial after I return from a friend's wedding in sea-level Portland — so July 5. If I see improvements after those two weeks, I will make a bid to stay on the medication. Either way I need to find a new asthma doc here in Boulder. Even more than the thought of taking daily medication, I hate the idea of having three different types of doctors who I see on a regular basis (though hopefully I'll be able to walk away from the hand specialist soon.)

Another aspect of my health that I need to work on is my attitude. I do become frustrated, but it doesn't have to be that way. Although James Peak was incredibly scenic, perhaps my favorite run last week was a solo outing on Winiger Ridge, a nondescript trail above Gross Dam Reservoir. This was one of those runs where I had no real plan for the day. I was exploring. So it didn't matter if I sucked, or if I couldn't keep up with Beat, or if I ran this one segment significantly slower than I was able to run in April. Happily I jogged along county and forest roads until I came to a ribbon of singletrack along a broad ridge, so I followed it. The sky was cloudy and there was a strong breeze, so heat and pollen were both subdued. The trail spent most of the time in forest, but occasionally popped out into meadows with yellow wildflowers and mountain views. My breathing stayed in control, and I couldn't have been more content.

This reminds me of a proverb I came across while researching asthma: "Life is breath. He who half-breathes, half lives."

Only 86 days until autumn.