Taking flight at Angel Rocks

After our White Mountains trip, Beat decided to fly home from Fairbanks for two weeks before returning for the White Mountains 100. I'd made prior plans with friends in Canada, so I opted to stay in Alaska. On my own again Monday morning, I decided to check out a place I'd never visited — Chena Hot Springs. 

Although Chena Hot Springs is famous for Northern Lights viewing and of course a warm pool, I had no intention of going for a soak. Instead, I planned to hike through the granite formations of Angel Rocks, and if conditions were conducive, traverse 8.5 miles to Chena Hot Springs. It was a gorgeous morning — still 10 below zero at 11 a.m., but sunny and clear.

 I felt great on this day — the best I've felt all month. It's one of those random things — I haven't felt quite so wonderful since. However, this day was perfect for ridge walking. I marched along the Chena River, where the air was so still that I could hear the squeak of small animals walking along the snow. Frost swirled around my face and clung to my eyelashes and nose. The first thousand feet of climbing disappeared beneath my snowshoes in a seeming instant.

After a mile and a half, the packed trail more or less ended. From there the going wasn't quite so effortless as I punched through fragile wind crust into bottomless sugary powder. The sub-ridge was steep and relentless, and while I encountered old snowshoe tracks, they were too windblown to follow for long. By the time I reached the high point on the ridge — a 2,800-foot dome surrounded by an 360-degree ripple of mountains — my throat was on fire. You know, that feeling you get when you've been breathing hard in cold air — deep, penetrating breaths. The kind of breaths I don't often achieve these days.

Up to that point, I hadn't even decided if I'd attempt the whole traverse. But as soon as I tasted that cold fire, I started bounding down the ridge at a full run. My lungs seared as I paddled through the crusty snow, kicking up a fountain of powder. Although my breathing quickened, it didn't cause distress, so I continued at a hard jog as the ridge undulated upward. Fire-tinged oxygen flowed from lungs to heart and filled my body with vitality. It's an incredible thing — running. Why did I ever take it for granted? Why do I ever take anything for granted?

 Fearing that this energy could implode at any minute, I did eventually slow down my stride to a brisk walk. Still, this never caught up to me — the gasping listlessness that clamps down every time I push myself too hard. This time, a hard effort wasn't too hard. It felt incredible. I sauntered down to Chena Hot Springs as though I was riding on a cloud.

The resort was packed to the brim with tourists. I stopped for a coffee at the activities center (Because of the symptoms of Graves Disease, I have been trying to cut back my rather extreme coffee habit by only drinking one cup in the morning, two if I must, but no mid-day coffee allowed. But I deserved this coffee, damn it.) I probably could have asked someone leaving the hot springs for a ride, but I felt stoked about nine-mile road walk.

Clouds had moved in, along with a stiff breeze, and flurries swirled in the subzero air. It must have looked a bit dire, because about three miles down the road, a van passed and then braked hard to pull over fifty meters in front of me. I jogged toward the vehicle and found it full of 20-something Japanese men — five passengers and a driver, excitedly asking me if I was okay.

"Yes, I'm okay," I said. "I'm just hiking back to my car. It's six miles down the road. Do you mind giving me a lift?"

I had the impression that not a single word had been understood, but the driver motioned vigorously and two guys squeezed together to make room for me. Within a minute, every one of the passengers went back to staring at their phones, and the driver was bobbing his head gently to Bon Jovi on the stereo. Another Bon Jovi song came on, and I realized it wasn't the radio — these 20-something guys were listening to Bon Jovi on purpose. I caught a glimpse of the mile marker I'd been waiting for, and leaned forward to motion to the driver.

"Angel Rocks Trailhead is coming up," I said. "Can you let me off there?"

He glanced at me with a confused expression. I pointed straight and then motioned to the left. Then I saw the sign. "Over there. Angel Rocks Trailhead."

He took the hint that I wanted to pull over, and did so. As soon as he stopped, he turned to me with a bewildered look on his face.

"I'll get out here," I said. "I can walk down to my car."

"Out here?" he asked with a tone of concern.

"I have a car down there," I said, pointing down a narrow, snow-covered driveway that wound into the thick woods.

"A car?" he asked with similar bewilderment.

It was quite clear he didn't want me to leave the safety of his warm vehicle. So I said a quick, "Thank you. Thanks so much for the ride!" and hopped out before he could lock the doors. The van continued to linger at the pullout as I walked down the road and out of sight.

Ten minutes later, as I drove out in my rental vehicle, the van was gone. Now I wonder what those chivalrous young men thought about this strange American woman who appeared and then disappeared into a scary, frozen wilderness.

I hoped that maybe the incident inspired them to look up from their phones to the world outside. 

Hard love

What love is this that beckons us into these burned hills, where matchstick spruce crouch away from a subarctic wind? How do we love these capricious trails, even after miles of clumped sugar snow swallows our momentum like an endless runaway truck ramp? How can we adore every steep climb? Every thirteen-hour slog just to reach a place to sleep? Or the ice particles stuck to our faces at twenty below? What is this love?

It was inevitable that Beat and I would end up in the White Mountains. With Beat fresh off his Iditarod effort and me wanting "easy as possible" to best manage my thyroid symptoms, we looked into available cabins. March is a popular month in this recreation area. Even during the mid-week, we only found openings at the cabin furthest from the road system (Windy Gap) and another off route up a mile-long wall (Eleazar's). It would amount to 80 miles of hilly trails, with Beat pulling a sled and me riding a bike. We'd already heard recent reports of slow trail conditions, so I figured the bike would allow me to travel 1.5 times Beat's speed, at best. But that was enough time for longer rests. Beat justified the 80-mile hike by reasoning that he was already back in training. He recently secured a spot in the White Mountains 100, which is happening in two weeks.

The weather was forecasted to warm up on Wednesday, but temperatures plummeted again on Tuesday night. We hedged our bets with a later start on the 40-mile day. Our car's thermometer registered 36 below as we drove past the low-lying Chatanika River. The hilltop trailhead was -8, but the warmth was relatively short-lived. After six miles of rolling along a broad ridge, the route plummets into another low-lying area, Wickersham Creek, where temps were still in the -20s. Descending the "Wickersham Wall" at these temperatures feels like plunging into a glacier lake, ice-cream headache and all. My body was all over the map with thermoregulation. I would sweat while wearing minimal layers, then suddenly feel a chill and continue to shiver after I bundled up. Then the heat would suddenly return. After a few costume changes I decided that as long as my feet and hands felt warm, I'd just ignore the chills and go with the lighter option. 

Running hot and cold should have been an early indicator that this wasn't going to be a great day for me. I've had plenty of "bad" days this winter that I attributed to allergy shots, altitude, or mild illness. But as I learn more about Graves Disease, I think I do have days when my hormones are more out of whack than others. This wasn't a good day to be off balance. I had dozens of miles to travel, and the sugary trail wasn't giving up a millimeter of momentum. Riding felt like churning through wet cement. My heart pumped as though my blood was full of sludge. My breathing worsened, so I took more breaks. A few times I leaned the bike against a tree and sat directly in the snow until my butt went numb. I thought about taking a beta blocker pill to shut down the adrenaline and calm my heart, but worried that I wouldn't be able to continue riding afterward. I wanted to ease up the effort, but it seemed impossible to move any more slowly.

All of these solutions were overcompensating, of course. It's not like I was having a heart attack. But I was overdoing it. I know that. I do well with two-to-four-hour efforts. Even my endocrinologist said exercising shouldn't be an issue as long as I take care not to push myself, and as long as I avoid stressors. A few seconds of road rage would be worse for me than days of pleasant biking. But these long efforts — especially the kind that are challenging no matter what I do — need to be deferred until I'm healthy. 

It's difficult not to be greedy, though — to long for the limestone spires that rise above Fossil Creek, which you can only see if you're willing to venture thirty-plus miles away from the nearest road, which itself stands alone in an expansive and often inhospitable wilderness.

It's difficult not to be greedy for that sensation when, after 12-plus hours of slogging until a crushing darkness arrives, you arrive at a cabin. It's small and simple, but it's a place where you can spread your sleeping bag across a wooden bench, lie down, and breathe the rhythm of satisfaction and relief.

It's difficult not to be greedy about ice cream cones, carried for twelve hours and deep-frozen by the air outside. I barely had time to start a fire and hang up my gear before Beat arrived at Windy Gap, about 40 minutes after me. He put in a hard effort, and looked ragged. We barely got the ice cream down before we both passed out.

Ice cream, Mountain House, Fireball hot chocolate, and a full night of sleep did wonders. The following day, I felt a lot better. Just like that. The weather had turned gloomy, and flurries of snow fell through a thick haze. Since we established that my riding pace was about the same as Beat's walking pace, we agreed to meet up after 15 miles to drink hot chocolate in the brisk wind.

Although I felt markedly better, I didn't want to push my luck. So I walked the hills and otherwise puttered along at an enjoyable pace. Sucker holes revealed hints of blue, and a "sundog" rainbow arced through the sky.

A calmer heart and better breathing made a world of difference. I felt relaxed and full of joy. There was no place in the world I'd rather be. Friends have suggested that it would be better for healing if I'd spent this month lying on a beach. They're probably not wrong. But if it was a crowded beach, I'd become stressed. If it was warm, I'd be sweaty and miserable. We all have the places we go to feel alive. Places where the air tastes like cinnamon and mountains stretch beyond the horizon. I love the White Mountains. I know they do not love me back, that I'm surrounded by a thousand things that could kill me, and that my body isn't well enough for this place. But a life without White Mountains is not a life I want. So what do I do?

The final mile to Eleazar's was a grunt, ascending 600 feet on soft trail. My meditative joy had faded, and I was ready to be done. Just like that. My shoulders burned as I pushed the bike, and I invented games to avoid staring at my GPS the entire time. My iPod was playing, so I vowed that after one song, I could look at the distance. One-tenth of a mile. Damn it. Another song finished, and only another tenth had passed. After three-tenths of a mile, I tried to focus on being more present. Spruce trees looked like little dogs begging for treats. Hare tracks mottled the snow. The last hints of daylight turned the sky violet and gold. "I even love this climb," I told myself.

Eleazar's was a nice cabin — stocked with firewood, matches, and propane for a brand-new lantern. The cabin sits on a bluff high above Wickersham Creek, but sadly it was still too cloudy for aurora viewing. I started a fire, moved armfuls of firewood inside, gathered fresh snow for melting, arranged my meager belongings, and waited for Beat to arrive. After a day mostly traveling alone, it was a spirited reunion — Beat ranted about the crappy trail. I quietly insisted that if a hiker thinks it's bad, imagine how a biker feels. Beat lamented his poor training. I lamented my crappy body. Beat asked me if I saw the sundog. I asked him if he saw the 7-year-old girl driving a snowmachine. We shared kisses and ice cream cones, then fell asleep on hard benches. I'm definitely not of the school that believes all good adventures need to be shared, but I was grateful Beat came back from the Iditarod Trail early this year. 

By morning the sky had cleared, and it was warm — 8 above. I wanted to stay at Eleazar's all week, doing all those mundane tasks again and again. But it was time to return to Fairbanks.

We only had 12 miles to travel, and though it took four hours, time went by quickly. Physically I felt good and the weather was beautiful, yet I was still a little melancholy. I didn't know why. Disappointment about my limitations? Guilt about taking this trip? Wistfulness about leaving? Lately my emotions haven't made as much sense as they used to, so I cling to what I know. I love the White Mountains. And I'm grateful for every chance to come back. 

Subzero respite

After he left the Iditarod Trail, Beat decided to spend another week-plus rambling north with me. Because I dropped out of the race only two weeks prior, there weren't many plans to work with. We were both feeling disappointed and moody, and uncertain how much more time we should burn in Alaska. Beat ultimately decided one more week would be good for him. I'm mostly incapable of giving up this place if I don't have to, but I was uncharacteristically unexcited about embarking on adventures. 

Our friend Kate lives on a homestead that borders the eastern boundary of Denali National Park. It's an enviable spot on a lake surrounded by sharp peaks, with the closest tiny towns still twenty-plus miles away. The neighbors have been there for generations. Despite the stereotype, they're friendly to outsiders who show up in rental cars with no engine block heaters (we were invited inside when we knocked on the wrong door, given a brief history of the homestead, and warned that our vehicle might not start in the morning.) These are the type of Alaskans who think riding a bike on the Iditarod Trail is normal, and who clear the ice to play hockey on Sundays, even at -40.

Kate graciously let us spend a couple nights in a cabin, and I was able to do a little work and get out for a 20-mile ride on a mushing trail out the Yanert River. Physically I have not been feeling strong, but if I keep my breathing in check — which I've learned actually means keeping my heart rate in check — I can muddle along just fine with no ill effects. Getting outside for an hour or three does wonders for my mental state — my focus seems to only get worse the longer I sit in disjointed contemplation. Until my health improves, I think this will be my mode of operation — going out for easy outings earlier in the day so I can work better in the afternoons. 

It was a gorgeous day in Denali, but cold. At 10 a.m. the temperature was still 35 below. I went outside to adjust some things on my bike, and broke a plastic zip-tie like it was glass. The pogies had gone rigid and the frame bag felt brittle. I stood outside for several minutes in my T-shirt, breathing in sharp air with subtle hints of cinnamon, relishing the tingle on my skin, and waiting for the cold to slam down like a lead blanket. I *love* that sensation, I mean, when I'm warm to start and know there's no danger. That level of cold quickly plunges to the core, at once filling me with exhilarating panic while beckoning me to its sleepy depths. After a few short minutes, I darted back inside the cabin and shivered contentedly.

I still waited until well after noon to embark on the ride, because that level of cold for hours is not so fun. I'd bundled up too heavily and ended up stripping down to a single jacket layer, and for a while no hat or gloves. Temperatures were still in the negative single digits at best, but I have been running quite hot lately. It's probably my thyroid. Strangely I still sleep cold and become chilled easily, but when I'm exercising, even fairly low temperatures start to feel intolerable (until they're not. I'm definitely not thermoregulating on an even basis.) But this subzero ride felt wonderful. Grinding along on a fairly slow trail, I managed to motor a ways out the Yanert before it occurred to me that the length of my ride would make me feel bad if I didn't turn back soon. But I could see the bend of the wide river, leading into the craggy peaks of the Alaska Range, and that faded desire for adventure finally returned. It took all of my strength to turn the bike around. Mostly because I really don't have a lot of strength.

By Tuesday we were in Fairbanks, and the temperatures were still 35 below in the early mornings, rising to just below zero by afternoon. I enjoyed another easy-going 20-mile ride from Goldstream Valley to the top of O'Conner Creek Trail. I'll admit to missing training, even the pretense of it. Although I haven't felt that fire for a while, even the hope of finding it gave some level of satisfaction. Dawdling around for my mental health isn't the same, but of course it's better than the alternatives. It's still Alaska, and still beautiful.