Monday, July 10, 2017

My weekend on the CDT

My friend Leslie is spending the summer hiking the Continental Divide Trail — 3,100 miles of rugged and remote high country from Mexico to Canada. She started May 22 at the Mexican border and hiked across New Mexico to Chama, where she encountered a wall of snowy peaks in Colorado's San Juan Mountains. Her husband, Keith, is loosely following her in his camper-truck while road-tripping around the West, so he drove her up to the base of the Wind Rivers in Wyoming so she could start hiking south across the Great Divide Basin and Colorado. When she reaches Chama, she'll flip north again in hopes of completing the thru-hike in one summer. 

Keith dropped by to visit Beat and me in Boulder last week, and offered to provide a shuttle so I could join Leslie on my "local" segment of the CDT — 60 miles between Grand Lake and Berthoud Pass. Leslie generally walks between 25 and 35 miles a day, although her average had dropped a bit since she started into Colorado. I understood that she'd budgeted two and a half days for this segment, and I also understood how difficult it could be from the pieces I'd walked. After all, it took me seven hours to day-hike 14 miles to James Peak just two weeks ago. Would I be able to manage my exertion and breathing enough to keep up with Leslie's demanding thru-hiker pace? I was genuinely more nervous about the prospect of this weekend backpacking trip than I was about starting the Bryce 100 last month. 

On Thursday afternoon I met Keith at Berthoud Pass and we drove to Grand Lake, where Keith had booked three beds at the hostel. After scouring my memories, I believe this was my first hostel dorm room stay, ever. I've always been a bit averse to communal sleeping, and I'd generally rather curl up in a bivy sack in the woods than share a bunk bed in a hot room full of strangers. But it was a welcome respite for Leslie after days in the dusty mountains. And the Grand Lake hostel is quite nice — stunning location on cliffs above a rushing creek, and rather upscale amenities for $25 a night. Keith and I were even treated to a ranger chat about Rocky Mountain National Park while we waited for Leslie to arrive.

Leslie slept in until the "hiker noon" hour of 7 a.m., and then cooked breakfast for Keith and me. She forgot to charge her phone, which was our main navigation device with the official route, water locations, and notes. (She also had maps, and I had a GPS, but we still managed to get lost several times.) While we waited for it to charge, Leslie packed and repacked her backpack while I paced and nervously pretended to read the history lessons that had been framed and hung on the walls. Finally we set out after 10 a.m., strolling along the shoreline of Shadow Mountain Lake and waving at weekend boaters.

This trip was also my first real exposure to thru-hiking, which isn't unlike multi-day endurance racing. 3,100 miles is a lot of distance to cover in the short weather window between snowmelt and snowfall, and time pressure is always there. Thru-hiking is either mostly or entirely self-supported, so self-care, navigating, and resupplying can demand as much energy as walking. Leslie typically hikes from sunrise to sunset, only stopping briefly to take in a view or filter water from a stream. She eats on the go. She doesn't cook — stale bagels and tortillas with sweaty cheese slices are her "real" food. She drinks cold instant coffee from an empty peanut butter jar, also as she's walking. Since she started six weeks ago, she's only taken two "zero days," or days off. My longest endurance racing effort was 24 days; Leslie is aiming for four months of this lifestyle. I tried to wrap my head around this as we crawled over endless deadfall tangles, muddy bogs, and sagebrush-covered hills along Lake Granby.

Storms moved in during the afternoon, and wind and rain pummeled us on the sagebrush slopes. Leslie threw on a poncho, which seemed like a smart piece of gear, good for multiple purposes (note to self.) I was grateful for a respite from the heat, although it was still warm and now muggy. Monsoon season is here. This will likely happen every day until the end of July, so tomorrow would be the same. Thoughts of this weather in the high country made me uneasy.

It was a pleasant evening on Monarch Lake as we marched toward North and South Arapahoe peaks. I pointed out the mountain top where I stood with my dad and Beat the weekend prior, and Leslie said "really?" with genuine disbelief. Thru-hiking is such an encompassing lifestyle that it becomes difficult to imagine a world outside that narrow strip of trail. Every time we saw day hikers, Leslie would wonder aloud, "Where did they come from?" — as though they had to walk hundreds of miles to reach this spot as well.

Exploring old mining equipment beside Monarch Lake. Leslie also understood that most other people couldn't begin to wrap their heads around what she was doing. Even as she stopped to chat with nearly everyone we passed, she rarely belabored the 3,100-mile hike. We were about a half mile past the Monarch Lake trailhead when we passed two older women gently stepping over a tiny stream. "Are you two going to sleep out tonight?" one exclaimed. After a simple "yes," she said with even more enthusiasm, "Good for you!"

In three short days, we encountered almost 30 northbound CDT hikers, largely in a bubble of folks who left in early May and picked their way through the snowy San Juans. Most were ragged from the experience, talking about grueling eight-mile days and fearing for their lives on steep slopes — a danger of which I have no doubt. Leslie feels no regret about her decision to flip. She's in this for pleasure and joy, not purist sentiments. My mentality would probably fall more in line with a continuous thru-hike if I were to ever attempt something like this — but I'm also a cautious person. Would I have taken on the snowy San Juans by myself, with an ice ax, crampons, and my fear of spring avalanche conditions? Probably not.

Another aspect of thru-hiking culture that I was introduced to on this trip is trail names. Every thru-hiker takes on a trail name that they use to introduce themselves to other thru-hikers or sign into trail registers. The names are bestowed by fellow thru-hikers, generally early in the hike and based on an experience or aspect of one's personality. Leslie's trail name is "Tour Guide," which was apt as she guided me on my little CDT weekend. I used to think people could choose their own trail names and even had one picked out if I ever did a thru-hike, but I've learned that naming oneself is not cool. I'm not sure I'm interested in taking on a name made up by a relative stranger. I mean, I already didn't get to pick Jill ... not that I hate Jill. But I might just stick with Jill if I ever do something like this. I'm a contrarian like that.

One example of the perils of trail names is our interaction with a nice, conservative-seeming 40-something couple from Mississippi. Thru-hikers were always asking whether we'd seen others who might have been ahead or behind them. Several had asked us about a hiker called "Moist." After I ranted about the reasons why moist is the worst word in the English language, Leslie still greeted this woman with the question, "Are you, um, Moist?" The look on the woman's face was priceless — a mixture of curiosity and horror. I had the best laugh I've had in a while.

On Saturday morning, we encountered Sage Canaday running on the High Lonesome Trail. Sage is an ultrarunning star — apparently local to Boulder. He stopped and talked to Leslie for several minutes before scampering up the steep trail at stunning speed. I took this photo as he pranced downhill like a weightless gazelle.

Like clockwork, dark clouds began to gather overhead in the late morning. As a Colorado day hiker, I would look at this weather and think, "Oh well, not today," and turn around. Thru-hikers don't give themselves that luxury. They still have to make decisions based on safety, but they don't have the time to sit out every storm. I knew the High Lonesome Trail led to at least ten miles of exposed ridge walking, at altitudes where I've proven to be quite slow. We looked over our shoulders for evidence of lightning as we nervously climbed higher.

Several cloudbursts just missed us, carrying their damaging wind and hail eastward toward the plains.

 Meanwhile, my exertion levels ramped up too quickly, and I had to concentrate on my breathing and heart rate — I actually brought a heart rate monitor and two watches on this trip so I could pace myself. The urge to sprint off this ridge was strong, but I doubt I would have been physically capable of much more than I was doing. As I explained to Leslie, "I can still move forward almost indefinitely, but my ceiling these days is low."

Between Rollins Pass and Rogers Pass were three miles of overland travel across the tundra — it reminded me of stumbling over the rocks and tussocks of Iceland, and also that I haven't done much of this type of walking since. It's a bad place for Hokas, but at least my ankles are used to this by now. Travel was slow, but it brought my exertion levels down, which made me happy. If only these storms would go away.

Another thru-hiker approaching with the storm.

Our objective, James Peak (left) was still impossibly far in the distance.

Finally, a storm hit us directly, with a gale of wind and rain that was surprisingly frigid. Here it was, 95 degrees in Boulder, and we were as bundled up as we could be at 12,000 feet. Leslie kept drifting off the ridge, understandably — I wanted to be lower, too. But sticking close to literal Continental Divide was the only way to reach Rogers Pass, our next opportunity for escape.

As the storm began to dissipate, we encountered yet more thru-hikers on the ridge. Of course everyone still stopped to chat. These guys seemed to have not a care in the world.

For hours I had been plotting our off-route escape down Rogers Pass, but when we arrived at 5 p.m., skies overhead were beginning to clear. The storms appeared to be retreating for the night, but we couldn't be sure. As we looked up at the broad summit of James Peak, I warned Leslie, "It's only two miles, but two weeks ago that stretch took me 90 minutes. I'm not exaggerating. It will probably be three hours before we're off that peak."

"Should we go for it?"

"Yeah, let's go for it."

Working our way up to 13,300 feet as the sun came out at its evening angle, casting gorgeous light across the slopes. I struggled with the climb, but it wasn't bad. For the most part I kept up with Leslie, and made better time than I did with a significantly lighter pack two weeks ago.


From James Peak, looking out toward Mount Bancroft and Parry Peak. As a rugged CDT alternative, one can actually follow the true Divide over five 13-ers before dropping down to Berthoud Pass. The scrambling looked intimidating but possibly doable — but not with the limited water we had, and not starting at 7 p.m. Neither of us were interested in camping on rocky tundra at 13,000 feet and melting snow for drinking water, so we'd have to save this ridge walk for another day.

We continued to meet a stream of hikers on the peak at 7 p.m., heading for a night in the high country. Probably the better time of day to tackle these altitudes during monsoon season. Leslie always engaged in long talks with the hikers — not only to collect beta about the trail, but also to probe the secrets of their personal motivations. Thru-hikers are all so different, as are the reasons why they're out there. We met a man in his 40s with four kids and a wife at home, living out his dream. We met dude-bros with beards and tattered clothing. We met a 41-year-old Asian man with bulging biceps and a prominent gut who had hiked more than 30,000 miles since he started thru-hiking at 20. We met a grumpy Brit and an Israeli man with perfect flowing curls (honestly, it looked like he washed and styled his hair minutes before we met.) We met perky young women with male companions, and a 62-year-old woman lamenting her slowness while hiking 25 miles a day. Thru-hikers are a diverse and fascinating sub-culture of humans.

Looking toward the ridge we hiked under cloud cover during the day. I was so thrilled to stand on the summit of a 13,000-foot peak at this time of evening, surrounded by a depth of silence and light.

More thru-hikers, sharing beta as they gazed toward plains. One pointed toward a glistening island of buildings to the southeast and wondered with disbelief, "Is that Denver?"

To Leslie I pointed out Bear and South Boulder peaks. "Just below that is where I live." It all looks so diminutive from up here.

Working our way down the backside of James.

The last of the sunlight we'd see for the day. A nearly full moon was rising to the east. Like flipping a light switch, the temperature instantly plummeted. Mittens, hats, and jackets came back on.

We set up camp at 11,500 feet on the tundra. Leslie had wanted to drop below treeline, but I was glad we settled for this spot. The moon rose over the pink horizon, and alpenglow illuminated 14-ers to the south. I took a bunch of blurry photos that aren't worth sharing, but the views were stunning. It was also chilly — there was a hard frost overnight — for which Leslie was less than thrilled. But I was perfectly in my element. And I had time to sit down and cook a meal of Chili Mac with a packet of oatmeal for dessert. Somewhat stupidly, I brought a stove and quite a few of my calories in dried meals and powder for hot drinks, not quite understanding that there would be few opportunities to fire up the stove. It was pack up and go in the morning, then set up and collapse at a dry camp in the evening.

The following morning, I boiled water for coffee as I took down my tent, then drank it while I stumbled through my morning stupor down the rocky trail to 10,000 feet. Was carrying the stove worth it? Yes.

After the long descent it was instantly time to climb (and then drop again, and then climb again) back to alpine country. Welcome to Colorado.

Leslie put snow in her hat to keep cool. I was jealous of that floppy, dorky hat, and wanted one for my own long days in the sun (note to self.)

While traversing across snowfields above the Mill Creek valley, we lost the trail and ventured too far and too low, forcing us to crawl through mushy bogs to the ridge. We wasted time trying to skirt around the steep, snow-covered slope before finally deciding the only way to continue was scrambling directly skyward. It was a tough hour or so, and I started to feel dizzy from over-exertion.

We finally found the trail, a relative super-highway compared to the scrambling we were doing, but still just a cairn-guided route through the boulder field. As soon as my heart rate went down I felt markedly better. This had been a beautiful and fun trip with my friend, but also usefully revealing in where my limits stand. They're not great. Frustrating to me still. But if they allow me to hike 60 miles through the rugged wilderness in a weekend, I can't complain.

Leslie on top of Mount Flora, 13,100 feet.

Keith met us below the summit and hiked back to Berthoud Pass. Thanks to my respiratory limitations, I don't tire the rest of myself that much. My legs felt fresh and my feet didn't hurt. Even my shoulders and back, not used to carrying a weekend load, felt only mildly sore. From this perspective I could almost imagine myself in the life of a thru-hiker. Everyone I met looked tired but strong, gaining fitness every day. But they still have a long, long way to go.

Thanks for the great weekend, Tour Guide. I hope we can do it again, sooner than later. 
Monday, July 03, 2017

Parents in Colorado

This weekend, my parents came to Boulder for a quick visit. Between babysitting their grandkids, a steady stream of summer travel, and a part-time job shuttling visitors in Salt Lake City, three days was all they could manage. I wanted the trip to be worth their while, so I made plans to drag them all over a wide swath of semi-local mountains. They didn't seem to mind; I pretty much inherited my manic FOMO personality trait from them. 

On Friday we drove a couple of hours through thick fog on the "scenic" route to Rocky Mountain National Park. I worried that the whole day would be shrouded in gray, but luckily our late start allowed time for the clouds to clear while we toured around the park in the afternoon. 

 Alberta Falls. Mom was willing to get closer to the edge than I was.

 Dad enjoys the view at Emerald Lake.

 Family portrait at Dream Lake.

 Views from Trail Ridge Road. Despite the approaching sunset and fact that we had brought neither lunch or dinner on this excursion, we spent a couple more hours dawdling around at 12,000 feet.

 An elk herd lounging near the ridge. So this is where they go in the summer, after visiting our neck of the woods in April and May.

On Saturday, Mom drove into town to explore Boulder, and Dad, Beat and I headed up to Eldora to hike. It's difficult to find anywhere to go on a holiday weekend that isn't overrun by crowds, and the Fourth of July trailhead was not an exception. I know, visiting Fourth of July canyon during the Fourth of July weekend — what did I expect? Still, I held out hope that this trailhead would be less crowded, as it sits at the end of a rough road. But this just meant that we had to sit behind Honda Civics crawling along at 5mph. Our late arrival — 12:45 p.m. — just barely afforded us parking spot. The weather forecast looked good so I planned an afternoon start, reasoning that there would be more space once the morning people left. This was partly true, but we did spend the first half mile practically running away from hoards of people before finding relative solitude. Alas, it's summer in Colorado. Not my favorite season, but I can sort of see the appeal.

 The plan was to climb to South Arapahoe Peak, and traverse the class-three ridge to the north peak if we were feeling saucy. Ultimately we didn't try the scramble. Actually, I was the one not feeling it. I was experiencing particularly poor fitness on this day, with my heart beating in the 180s while I crawled up the summit ridge. I've been told the elevated exercise heart rate isn't necessarily dangerous for me as long as I back off, but as it was I was maxed out and barely moving. I nearly asked Beat and Dad continue to the south peak without me, but it's difficult to reconcile my FOMO with physical inadequacy.


Despite the struggle I was stoked to reach the summit at 13,400 feet. Dad gave the hike "five stars." 

 Looking east toward home — the skyline in the distance is Green, Bear, South Boulder and Eldorado mountains. The water bodies are Gross Dam and Barker reservoirs. Beyond all that, of course, is the urban Front Range corridor. It's always fun to view many of the pieces of my world from 13,000 feet.

Arapahoe "Glacier." Apparently this is the largest glacier in Colorado.

 Looking back at South Arapahoe Peak from the meadow. We drifted off the peak too early and had to scramble our way through an interesting and somewhat sketchy traverse over those sheer gullies. From the top it almost looks like there's a way to drop directly down. But looking up from 2,000 feet below — definitely not.

 One nice aspect of starting a five-hour hike in the afternoon — nice light toward the end.

 Almost finished and still enjoying the five-star views.

On Sunday, I felt much better. Closer to my "normal," whatever that is anymore. I suppose I can try to blame altitude for sputtering so badly on South Arapahoe, but it's a stretch. Anyway, Dad and I decided to set out in the afternoon for a jaunt around Bear Canyon and Bear Peak. Fern Canyon gains 1,800 feet in one mile, so it was a strange to feel less winded there than I did walking downhill the previous day. Dad was steady as always. The whole route was surprisingly uncrowded, especially since it was overcast with temperatures in the high-70s, which is about as comfortable as it can be around here in July. We had Bear Peak to ourselves for twenty minutes, snacking and chatting while this chipmunk tried to get in on the trail mix action.

Thanks for coming to visit, Mom and Dad! A couple of years after retirement, they only seem to be speeding up rather than slowing down. I wish I could say the same about myself, but watching them gives me hope that it will turn around for me someday. 
Thursday, June 29, 2017

Adjusting to the rollercoaster

 I'm back to feeling pessimistic about my health and the prospect of ever regaining my former level of fitness. Perhaps I've been spending too much time on thyroid forums. I found one devoted to Graves Disease and the community has been helpful — I post my labs and others legitimize my complaints. "Your T3 is too high; that often causes shortness of breath." I read through their experiences, identify with their symptoms and take heart in their successes. I feel gratified, like I've found my people. And then I realize this is a forum for sick people. I miss the days of spending my time on the MTBR forums, asking questions about wheel size.

One woman has pushed the idea of looking for "environmental triggers" that increase autoimmune response — allergens, smoke, chemicals, certain foods. It haven't found studies on this, and it's difficult to convince myself this is a real problem. She's adverse to cleaning products and can only use the most gentle natural substances without triggering thyroid symptoms. I definitely thought "that can't be a thing" ... until yesterday, when I was using a bleach-based spray to scrub the pinkish mineral deposits from shower tiles. I made the mistake of spraying down a large area, then kneeling right down into it. After a minute my eyes began to burn and I erupted into a violent coughing fit. By the time I rushed into the next room for fresh air, my airways were tightening. I pounded up the stairs, wracked with painfully suppressed coughs, eyes clamped shut, snot streaming from my nose, gasping for air. I came close to calling 911 — the phone was in my hand — but gradually the coughs subsided and I could breathe again. It was awful. I've never had a reaction like that to anything.

After everything calmed down, I figured I was overreacting. Still, my eyes and throat burned, and I felt somewhat sick to my stomach for the rest of the day. Interestingly, I also seemed to experience a spike in "hyper" symptoms. My heart rate shot up to 105 and stayed there. I had hand tremors and jitteriness hours later. It seemed likely this was just leftover stress from my morning scare, so I still opted to head out on my bike to meet Beat as planned. That was a mistake. I felt short of breath during the long descent, and somewhat dizzy by the time I arrived in town. By then I was committed and had no choice but to ride the long climb home. Beat offered to ride ahead, get the car, and pick me up at a trailhead halfway up the hill. It took me nearly that long to muddle through half of the miles that Beat covered. As I sat on a rock waiting for him, I ruminated about what a feeble person I'm becoming. A few whiffs of bleach and my day is ruined.


Ugh. I've actually felt hyperthyroid for most of the month, and my June 12 labs confirmed that my T3 was (is?) too high. Starting the Bryce 100 was probably a mistake, but I can't take it back. The main reason I've been haunting online forums for tips and reassurance is because my endocrinologist wants me to stick with the status quo for now. The forum people tell me the rollercoaster is common. Treatment is specific to the individual, and it takes time to find the right balance. But after four months of treatment, my optimism is beginning to wear off. I know four months isn't a long period of time. It's still long enough to imagine what life will be like if things are always this way. It's going to have to be different. I won't be able to run an ultramarathon on a whim anymore. Possibly I won't be able to run an ultramarathon at all. So the reluctant struggle toward acceptance begins anew.


As long as I can keep hiking, I'll be okay. Beat and I went to James Peak on Sunday. My breathing was bad, and worsened as we climbed to 13,000 feet. Because of that, I felt rundown and frustrated. Mostly I felt frustrated. Frustration is an ego-based emotion, so I worked on adjusting my outlook as I plodded upward through the stunning landscape.

 It was as beautiful as a summer day can be — pleasantly warm, nearly windless, with bluebird skies above a cloud layer that hung over the plains.

 Beat on James Peak. As usual, he bounced back from Bryce 100 like it was a conventional weekend stroll. I admit I hear about others' training efforts and feel envy for their confidence and seemingly dependable bodies. For more than ten years now, I've looking to adventure planning and goals as a way to keep momentum going — physically, socially, and creatively. It has been and will continue to be difficult to adjust my outlook, and not just let nihilism take over.

Beat challenged me to consider where I'll be ten years from now. He likes to think big — finally vanquishing my demons on the Tour Divide, writing a best-selling book, moving to a cottage in Switzerland. I find myself thinking, "Alive. Alive would be nice." Somewhere in there is a happy medium where I hope to spend the next decade. I could start by siphoning my creative energy away from adventure, building it from other sources, and directing it toward a wider range of projects.

Until then, I can still draw a lot of peace and satisfaction from even these more-difficult-than-they-should-be outings. Although I have ambitions for next year's Iditarod, I'm trying to remove the internalized pressure. And there will definitely be no racing before then. In the meantime, I'll continue to work on stabilizing this rollercoaster and directing whatever energy's left to more productive and satisfying projects. If I'm healthy enough to hike in the mountains, I'm healthy enough.