Actually home for Christmas

Dad, Raj and Beat at our turn-around point before "Avalanche Alley."

For the first time in six years, and only the second time in twelve years, I didn't spend the holidays in the far north. Beat didn't have the time off work for a trip to Alaska this year, and it's becoming harder to justify the time and expense for "gear testing." I was more disappointed than I expected, but it did open up an opportunity to travel back to my actual hometown — Salt Lake City — to spend Christmas with my family. 

 Of course, no trip home is complete without a few hardy hikes with my dad. On Friday we trudged four miles up to what is possibly the prettiest place in the Wasatch Mountains — Broads Fork basin.

 Temps were on the warm side — mid-30s — and the wind was fierce. We climbed more than 3,000 feet before turning around.

 Much fun was had while we ran in slow motion down the steep slope. To me this feels like pedaling a bicycle, pumping my snowshoes into knee-deep powder. These days I feel only fleeting nostalgia for snowboarding, as aging and experience make me more leery of gravity sports. I'm really quite thrilled with the controlled, rhythmic motion of "slow-shoeing."

 On Christmas Eve, temperatures climbed into the high 40s and it rained, a lot. Beat and I drove to the closest trailhead and sat in the car for a few minutes, debating whether we were really going through with this hike.

Ultimately we were glad we got out, but it wasn't an easy stroll. At lower elevations, the trail was covered in ankle-deep slush. Snow became deeper and more saturated as we climbed. We ventured up a trail that no human feet had touched since the last storm, and watched a drama play out through tracks in the snow. Large cat tracks that were almost certainly a mountain lion padded up the trail, sometimes wandering into the brush before returning to the trail. Claws appeared and slush smears indicated a leap, followed by large disruptions that told of a struggle. It looked as though something large slid down the slope, but we couldn't see what happened after that. There was no blood in the snow, and no carcass, so we could only surmise that the hunt was unsuccessful.

Late Christmas Eve brought plummeting temperatures, and rain switched to snow. By morning there was nearly a foot of "White Christmas" on my parents' driveway. Dad, Beat and I carved a few hours out of the afternoon to venture up Bells Canyon, breaking trail through two feet of powder.

 It was a winter wonderland, complete with random Christmas trees.

 This one, near Lower Bells Canyon Falls, was almost entirely buried.

 There's a waterfall under there somewhere as well.

 A ghostly veneer on the cliffs.

Hints of sun appeared toward the end, just in time to head up to Grandma's house — over the river and through the woods (or icy streets. One of those.)

It has been interesting to spend the holiday at home after more than a decade of being mostly away. I still hold these memories of childhood traditions, and it's a little jarring when I realize what's changed. I suppose I should come home more often, but I suspect that "other home" will keep drawing us north. Still, it was a fun and beautiful weekend in Utah. 

Week 9

I intended this to be my last big week before a longer taper for the Fat Pursuit race on Jan. 6. Given the unpredictable nature of both the race and my performances, I figured being "well-rested" is my best chance. I have no doubt that I possess the endurance and experience to get through 48 hours of whatever happens in those mountains, but can I traverse 200 miles in that time? I think if conditions are as good or better than they were last year (smooth but soft, a bit of a grind at 5mph), then I can. But if they're worse, well ... I am closer to reaching acceptance about my limits.

Last week's training was all over the place in terms of weather, trail conditions, and my own strength. But it was a beautiful week, scenery wise.

Monday: Mountain bike, 3:37, 25.8 miles, 2,993 feet climbing. Weightlifting, 0:35. Temps were in the 40s and everything was either slushy, muddy, or icy, so even descending was hard work. The mountain bike was a good choice for the snowy sections, because it could punchy through the crust and slush versus trying to float on top of that mess with a fat bike. A terrifying descent into town stirred up some adrenaline, and I had a great weight-lifting session.

Tuesday: Run, 1:05, 5.1 miles, 848 feet climbing. I wore Hokas and regretted it, because there was still a lot of ice. This run was a good balance exercise, however.

Wednesday: Mountain bike, 4:17, 26.9 miles, 3,467 feet climbing. I descended the bumpy, icy trail into town to meet Beat at work, and then we rode back together. This was a tough ride despite choosing to take the "light" mountain bike. Both of my bikes are equipped with studded tires, which feels like riding on velcro over pavement.

Thursday: Fat bike, 8:17, 55 miles, 4,940 feet climbing. Cheryl invited me to join her on her long ride. The wind was fierce all day long, and we spent a disproportionate amount of time riding directly into it. Our ride also included a lot of deep slush, as temperatures rose into the high 40s near 9,000 feet — and 61 in town. We enjoyed fun "adventure riding" on the Switzerland Trail, which had been unevenly tracked by one jeep that didn't make it all the way to the top. As the jeep road veered west, we hit an incredible wall of wind. Gusts forced both of us off our bikes, and made it impossible to move forward for several seconds at a time. It was like pushing into an invisible wall. I'd estimate the gusts were 60-70mph — even our weather station at home confirmed a 57 mph gust, and this canyon was a veritable wind funnel.  It was a tough ride, and I was heartened to hear that Cheryl was sore the next day, because she's very strong.

Friday: Weight lifting, 0:40. Treadmill intervals, 3 miles, 0:27. I was curious how the treadmill intervals would go after a long ride, but surprisingly they went better than normal. I managed to maintain the 6-minute-mile pace for four minutes, which is that much closer to an actual 6-minute mile! Although my breathing is better these days, hard efforts take a lot more out of me than long efforts. The nine-hour ride was fine, but 27 minutes on a treadmill left me fairly flattened heading into the weekend.

Saturday: Snow hike, 3:05, 8.3 miles, 2,802 feet climbing. I'm using my Strava times for this log, but the outing was closer to four hours. It did not feel that slow — I was working hard. Temperatures ranged from 10 below to 0, and I had to unzip or remove the one (synthetic puffy) jacket I was wearing on all of the climbs. There's really no line between what I call a hike and what I call a run. For me, pretty much every foot-effort is a run, because there are many 30-minute miles that are harder work than an attempted 6-minute-mile (I'll get it someday! Probably not before winter training season is over.) Still, 2mph seems like a stretch for a run even though I was moving about as fast as possible. Maybe I can blame the 6 inches of new snow.

Sunday: Fat bike, 2:55, 12.7 miles, 1,756 feet climbing. Temps rose to 21 degrees, and the relentless west wind returned. I was warned about a near-constant winter wind before I moved to Boulder, but it is quite trying. I have to admit I had a minor meltdown on this ride. As we wove through the untracked powder on 68J, I refused to let air out of my tires and whined to Beat about how sick I was of grinding uphill on this anchor on wheels, and after I failed spectacularly at the Fat Pursuit, I was going to commit to racing the 350-mile Iditarod on foot so I could spend the rest of the winter hiking.

Of course, I don't feel this way now. But the pattern of good days and bad continues, and I still can't quite connect the bad days to anything in particular. I had allergy shots on Monday and Friday. Even though they leave me congested, itchy, and mildly downtrodden, they don't line up with the "bad days." It was a long week — 25 hours' worth of "moving time" — but I don't think that's it either. It's not that I feel tired, sore, or other indicators of too-hard training. Some days, I just can't reach that higher gear. On those days, pedaling an anchor on wheels up these steep Boulder hills feels almost impossible. I worry that this will be the case for my upcoming race that I *really* want to finish. But ... the best I can do is the best I can do. If I'm relegated to lower gears, I'll find a way to make it work.

Total: 24:58, 120.4 miles ride, 16.4 miles run, 16,806 feet climbing

5 below in paradise

Most of the Rocky Mountain West experienced a cold snap on Saturday that we had a little taste of — temps between -10 and 0F, with about 6 inches of "cold smoke" snow on the ground. Temps climbed to 61 degrees in Boulder on Thursday, so I know a cold snap here is as fleeting as it is beautiful. Beat and I ventured out in the afternoon for a four-hour, surprisingly strenuous hike on a loop that normally takes me closer to two and a half hours. We didn't see anyone else out there, although we had a set of tracks to follow. I was congested from my Friday allergy shots, and wasn't having the best day physically — but it certainly was a gorgeous outing.

 Heading down to the West Ridge trail.

 Bear Canyon in the frigid shade — temps were almost certainly below -10 in this sunless canyon.

 Working my way up the ridge of Bear Peak. My pace dropped to a crawl. I took my mittens off and unzipped my jacket, and still continued to sweat profusely.

 Oh, but views.

 And hoarfrost sparkle.

 Beat waiting for me on the summit. A brisk breeze tore across the ridge, and the windchill was exhilarating ... or brutal.

 Trying to catch my breath after the climb.

 Sunset.

 Stumbling over hidden boulders through the burn.

 Twilight.

The temperature was around -5 as the light faded.

The quiet road home.