Love too much

 As I ramp up training for the 2020 trek across Alaska, I have been focusing more on my "mental game." When approaching any endeavor that's intimidating and frightening and seemingly impossible, the two most important tools in our mental arsenal are confidence and motivation. I am sadly quite deficient in confidence. Motivation I find more easily, but I still need to sharpen my understanding of the "Why" so I can hold the course when things inevitably go off the rails.

Boosting confidence is going to be a long road, but I'm starting by owning my intentions and taking pride in what I objectively know to be absurd actions. When neighbors see me schlepping my heavy cart up the road and ask me what the heck I'm doing, I bypass my standard vague replies such as "strength workout" to answer honestly: "I'm training to drag a sled across Alaska in February."

"The whole thing? The thousand miles? Like Beat?"

"Yes, that."


Confidence is a shallow emotion, susceptible to fluctuations in the currents of life, and I realize I'll always need to work to keep it afloat. I prefer motivation and inspiration because those emotions run deeper, cutting to the core of our humanity and why we do anything that we do. As I go about the task of sharpening my understanding of my own motivations, I started writing down a few of the reasons I want to walk across Alaska in a mere four months:

"Because the thousand-mile on foot is currently the most challenging endeavor I can imagine that I both want to do and could realistically achieve." (Except for it's impossible. Wait, quit repeating that, stupid lack of confidence.)

"Because life on the Iditarod Trail is such an intense and immersive existence, a way to live an entire lifetime in just a month."

"Because Alaska's winter landscape is so heart-rending in its beauty. We all love what we love, but I've never loved a place more. I can't imagine my own life without it."

"Because walking is the slowest, most vulnerable, most self-sufficient and most intimate way to experience the landscape as well as the communities — both the Iditarod race communities, and the residents of this often inconceivably harsh region. Alaska is a beautiful and terrifying place peopled with the most stalwart and generous folks I've known."

"Because our world is changing quickly, and I want to immerse myself in a place that I love and that will likely look very different, very soon ... probably even sooner than I want to believe."

"Because I'm not ready for 2020 but then again I'll never be ready. It's a cliche but undeniably true reality: 'You think you have time.'"

"Because I'm tired of not believing in myself, and I'm tired of being afraid all of the time. I want to grab all of these 'health issues' and 'anxieties' by the throat and tell them they don't matter, that they don't define me, that I'm an autonomous soul driving an imperfect body — just like everyone else — and I intend to pursue that which moves my soul."


A couple of weeks ago, I was driving home from Leadville and listening to Keane's new album, "Cause and Effect," when I stumbled upon the most perfect theme song to use as motivation during training. The song succinctly captured much of what I feel about this endeavor. This truly is not about the shallow emotions. By this, I mean those common assumptions about the benefits of endurance sports that don't matter to anyone else and barely even matter to me — the chest pounding, being a "badass" or "winning," or even about earning anything I don't already have (which I won't.) Rather, the effort to walk 1,000 miles across Alaska is a grateful exploration of an intriguing part of the world, an excavation into the core of what I know as myself, and a simultaneously chilling and comforting embrace of the great unknown. It's about love. And if (when) it goes pear-shaped, that's just another piece of the beautiful and engaging puzzle of life:

From "Love Too Much" —

Only want to say 
that I gave it all I had 
That I felt afraid 
and I didn’t step back 
Whether right or wrong 
I did everything with love
Felt it all, gave it all, drank it all ...

And we make mistakes 
and they make us what we are 
And we jump right in 
Throw open our hearts 
And we catch a glimpse of something magical
Want it all, take it all, got it all ...

With that, here are a bunch of Strava selfies and photos from the past two weeks of training:

On Wednesday, October 9, it was 82 degrees. Weather in Colorado's Front Range is rather bipolar for most of they year, so unseasonable warmth or cold is never all that special. Although I do my share of complaining about the heat, when it becomes a more rare commodity I am known to embrace "second summer." (Doubtlessly there will be more second summers before the end of the month and probably a third summer in November. Hey, I'm here for it.) On this day, I enjoyed a particularly strong sweat on Mount Sanitas before one of my twice-weekly gym weightlifting sessions. One week later, on October 16, it was again 80 degrees. Despite the heat, I told myself I was going for PRs. This is notable because I haven't actually done all that much running since my knee injury in May. For more than five months, my workouts have been more than 90 percent cycling or hiking. So when I logged my third fastest overall time on this regular route, I was chuffed. This was a good confidence builder — to just decide I was going to do something like a fast Santias, and then do it.

On Thursday, October 10, it was 18 degrees. Forecasters had called for this massive cold front to blow in with several inches of snow, but the 65-degree drop in 24 hours was still a shock to the system. I excitedly started to put together my fat bike, but Beat discouraged this activity with reports of wet slush on top of black ice. Also, there were at least 300 car accidents that day in the Front Range alone. Instead I went for a slippy trail run that was a lot of fun, and only marginally dangerous. The strong west wind at 18 degrees felt like burning on my face. I was glad I wore that puffy jacket.

In two weeks I've gotten out for four sessions (soon to be five) with my towing cart, the cruel taskmaster I call "Allen." I'd prefer I was doing either this or sled-dragging thrice weekly, but it's hard when I still want to run and ride bikes and do long runs on rugged trails and lift weights at the gym ... even finding the time, let alone the energy, to do everything I want to do is unrealistic. But the cart-drag is my most activity-specific workout, and for this reason alone I've embraced it as satisfying and meaningful ... even if it is mind-numbing and tedious.

Right now I have Allen loaded with eight gallons of water, which including the weight of the cart is more than 70 pounds that needs to be schlepped up some rather steep grades along the gravel roads near my house. While climbing I'm not even yet capable of cracking a 30-minute mile, and it's still the hardest I force myself to work in any of my activities. I've started listening to podcasts, which is something I've never done during a workout before. I frequently use music, but that's more of a way to enhance the moments and add sensory input to my own thoughts and feelings. Podcasts and audio books really are all about shutting out the present and mentally going somewhere else, but I've been enjoying this activity as I slog through true tedium. Cart-drags have almost become my relax time, where I hunker down and shut off my brain entirely ... and then arrive two or three hours later utterly drenched in sweat with sore muscles everywhere.

The October 10 storm was the first of the season for this region, and Beat and I could sense that the mountains were closing in quickly. Due to avalanche danger and steep aspects that require ice axes and crampons at a minimum, the places we're willing to venture in the winter become much more limited. So the following Sunday, we headed for one last go at a favorite summertime route, the High Lonesome Loop — 16 miles through two lovely valleys with a three-mile scenic connector right along the crest of the Continental Divide.

Even though temperatures were in the 60s in town, this time of year begins the endless katabatic winds and much higher temperature variations in the high country. So even though it had been warm for three days, we weren't entirely surprised to find snow and ice covering much of the trail in the valleys, with a frigid blasting west wind and temperatures near freezing up high. As we battled the crosswind along the Divide, we spotted this adorable ptarmigan who sat right on the trail, looking up at us as though he expected we couldn't see him at all. He finally moved along as we veered around him. I found it cute that his half-changed summer-to-winter plumage still perfectly matched the brown and white landscape.

Conditions were tricky, with ankle-deep patchy snow and enough knee-deep drifts to mask but not prevent uneven footing on the rocky tundra. About halfway over the Divide, at exactly the farthest point from our start-finish, I punched into a drift and hit my shoe awkwardly on a rock, causing my left ankle to roll badly enough that my whole body toppled to one side. There I was, laying with my back in the snow, lower legs still wedged in the drift, knees bent uncomfortably and a horrifyingly sharp pain emanating from my ankle.

Even knowing that I tend to overreact to pain, I was frozen in terror, convinced I'd be crawling off this mountain as the cold wind drained away my body heat. After several minutes I found the courage to belly-roll and crawl out of the snow drift, slowly pulled myself to my feet, and took several tentative steps, gripping my knee with both hands for leverage in case the ankle collapsed again. It remained sore for the rest of the week, but amazingly wasn't sprained. The pain had been intense and I couldn't fathom how it managed to stay intact. The only reason I could extrapolate is that this left ankle has long been the weak one, and I roll it frequently. It's probably so over-flexed from these frequent wrenchings that my ankle tendons are stretched like taffy, and it would take a lot to tear them.


Thanks to the sore ankle, I got back on my bike again this week, and realized that cycling wasn't as hard or painful as the Leadville overnight led me to believe. Another big storm was headed our way on Sunday, so Cheryl and I decided to make one last go at Old Fall River Road in Rocky Mountain National Park, before the snow (The road isn't plowed and only minimally hiked and skied during the winter, so it isn't viable for snow biking unless one is willing to snowshoe in their own trail first.)

A "mini-storm" was forecast for Friday, which brought snow squalls, snain, and yet more breathtaking wind. Rocky Mountain National Park was already in the process of shutting down everything for the season, with most campgrounds closed and only eight miles of Trail Ridge Road still open. The elk and leaves are gone, and it's undeniably shoulder season here ... so we were surprised at the crowds in the park. I suppose many folks, like us, are just trying to get in one last mountain adventure before winter closes in. A man with a southern accent approached us: "It looks like you gals are fixin' to ride those bikes up Old Fall River," he said.

"Yup, that's what we're fixin to do ... if there isn't too much snow and the wind lets us through." So many ifs with me, all of the time. For confidence's sake, I need to just say, "Yup, riding all the way to the top."

The west wind raged through the morning. With the exception of the occasional switchback, it was nearly always a direct headwind with incredible resistance ... almost like riding into a screen door. In spite of this, Cheryl — who is training for the Iditarod 350 — kept a steady pace on her fat bike, and I did the best to follow on my skinny-tire mountain bike. (Admittedly I brought the smaller bike both because my fat bike needs work, and because I hoped for a small mechanical advantage over my better-conditioned friend.)

 Steering my bike into the wind and through snow drifts on the icy and rutted road proved tricky, and I was wishing for something more stable. As we cleared tree line, the hard wind became a full-blown monster, with biting cold and blinding blasts of snow. Later that night I skimmed through weather stations positioned nearby — all below 9,000 feet — and saw high wind speeds of 50mph with gusts to 65. Here are 12,000 feet, hurricane-force (above 70mph) is entirely plausible.

Cheryl and I were only about a quarter mile from the summit when I heard a disquieting roar. Of course the wind had been roaring all day, but this sound was more like a thunder boom, approaching from a distance. I looked up in time to see a wall of snow, almost solidly white, swirling toward us. I have seen such ground blizzards before — in Alaska — and instinctually hopped off my bike and crouched down as snow blasted over my body with astonishing force, scraping the exposed skin on my face and filling air pockets in the back of my coat with powder. When I looked up, Cheryl was on the ground, with her overturned bike just inches from a steep dropoff to the left. She said she "was tossed off the bike like a biscuit" (she recently re-relocated to Boulder from North Carolina, and feels free to keep the southern idioms she picked up in her time there.) Apparently the gust lifted her front wheel off the dirt and the bike reared up like an angry bronco, throwing her backward.

After that incident, Cheryl was justifiably spooked, and we both stopped to wait out the ongoing gusts. We found wind shelter next to the closed building, gobbled down a snack before our fingers froze (I have been on a peanut butter sandwich kick) and stumbled through the drifted parking lot to catch a quick view of the western side of the park. Originally we'd planned to loop back on Trail Ridge Road. We were already deterred by the fact the loop would require spending the next ten miles fully exposed to the fearsome wind, which would frequently come from worst direction (at our side.) Then, while walking across the road, my shoes slipped out on thick black ice that covered every exposed inch of pavement — meaning every inch that wasn't buried in deep snow drifts.

Skipping Trail Ridge Road was an easy decision. Some challenges are good for reclaiming courage, and some are only good for ensuring a concussion. We had a fun, fast ride with the monster at our backs for ten miles, although I lost the feeling in my toes despite wearing vapor barriers, thick fleece socks, waterproof shoes and gaiters.

On Saturday, despite continued assurances of wind and cold, I was determined to do my weekly long run in the mountains. Sunday's big storm was still on its way, and I thought this might be my last opportunity to make my way over the Continental Divide, which is mostly walled in by steep avalanchey slopes in the winter. Beat is nursing a hamstring injury and couldn't join. I'm always a little nervous about venturing into the mountains solo — I pack way more gear under the partial assumption that I will injure myself and have to bivy out a night — but I still left the house with an ambitious plan. Although it was strong maybe, I wanted to loop over Arapahoe Pass and return to the east side of the Divide via Devil's Thumb Pass, which would be 24 miles with 5,500 feet of climbing. On rocky terrain, for me, this would be a good full day in summer conditions. I had no idea what I'd encounter this weekend.

The Friday storm had dumped three to four inches of snow here. Wind continued to rage, blowing powder all over the place. The trail was sometimes scoured, and otherwise buried in knee-deep drifts. I was expecting warmer temperatures than Friday, but my car thermometer read 22 degrees at the trailhead, and it never felt warmer than that, right up until the end. Above tree line, gusts to 50mph were the norm, and I often had to clamp my eyes shut as shards of ice pummeled my face. I strongly regretted leaving my goggles at home.

Despite the show-stopping headwind and tricky snow conditions, I made reasonable time to Arapahoe Pass — four miles and 2,000 feet of climbing in 90 minutes. My loop still seemed doable, but then the western side of the Divide brought even deeper drifts and completely untracked snow. The Caribou Pass trail dropped off the saddle and followed an extremely narrow ledge flanked by cliffs and steep drop-offs. It was exposed, and doubtlessly would have scared me in summer conditions. Now I had to deal with deep, unconsolidated snow over invisible ice and uneven rocks.

I wanted to be brave. I needed to something, anything to add to the confidence arsenal. I assessed each footstep, envisioning where a slip might end up. When I worked to quiet the screaming anxieties and access the logical side of my brain, I could observe how these footsteps were mostly secure. But progress was truly glacial, and if I turned off this focus for even a second, the acrophobia screamed so loud that I felt nauseated. Meanwhile, the cold headwind never abated, adding to my instability and fear. And I was moving so slowly that my mittened fingers and well-insulated toes went completely numb. How do mountaineers do it? Climb so methodically in such cold and windy weather? This continues to baffle me.

Eventually, after this intense focus had softened, I had a mishap. My microspike-clad shoe slipped on an unseen rock beneath one of those off-camber drifts, and my body lurched sideways. I didn't fall, and it didn't happen on one of the more exposed ledges, but it was enough to shatter my weak courage and break the final straw of my resolve. If I lost my balance and fell over on an exposed ledge, focus and courage and confidence in my footing would mean nothing. It would be the end, either way. Not worth it. I'd also been sufficiently rattled by the wind and cold, and my eyes burned from being scratched by snow shards when I couldn't keep them shut amid the gusts ... because I didn't want to fall. Training in the mountains is scary. Can't I go back to dragging my cart?

I retreated and made my way back to the relative calm of the valley, but was still determined to continue my long "run." So I turned onto the Diamond Lake Trail that would take me over this minor ridge and down into Devil's Thumb valley. The wind continued to rage and temperatures remained low. This photo looks so nice, but there's no snow on the ground because it had all blown away, and it was very cold up here. I was in a constant battle with my layering, sweating and shivering and wheezing for air. Breathing into the cold wind without sufficient protection absolutely affects my lungs, causing asthma symptoms. I should have been more proactive about covering my face early on.

I did make it to Devil's Thumb Lake, which I had turned into a secondary goal for the day. It's interesting to recall how I felt as I stood here, crouching beside brush that I was using as an insufficient wind block and gazing over the new lake ice. I felt addled — drained of energy — and yet exhilarated, satisfied and happy. It's the way I often feel in Alaska, as though I truly reached beyond myself to reach this place.

Then I made my way back, as late afternoon and the all-too-early shadows of evening settled in. I still ended up with as much climbing as my loop would have necessitated, 5,500 feet in 18.5 miles, and this effort still required more than eight hours on my feet. The numbers are inconsequential. I gained far more training value from the mountains and from the wind — the tricks of the mind where I can find courage, but also the utmost importance of being "measured" in my decisions. Also, I gained renewed perspective from a full day in this cold wind: How I can embrace the harshness of it, find comfort in spite of it, and eventually feel at home. 

... Then we love too much 
Or we push too hard 
Or we fly too high 
Or we go too far 
For a moment I was all that you could see 
For a moment I was all that I could be
And nothing can take that away from me ...

Bikes won't love you forever

 Over the summer, thanks to limitations brought on by an MCL strain, I developed a solid base of cycling fitness. This came together for me in a satisfying way during the Summer Bear race, where I held on for a finish when 75 percent of the field didn't. I stepped off the bike that warm and sunny morning in early August, still feeling strong even with 200 miles and 38 hours behind me ... and then proceeded to stay off the bike for 11 weeks. Okay, there were a couple of casual hour-long rides in mid-August. But by then, my knee was mostly recovered and I redirected my focus toward hiking ambitions, which led into three bike-less weeks in Europe, where I injured my wrist, followed by three weeks of recovery. Just like that, two whole months drained away, along with all of my cycling fitness.

 I wasn't all that confident that my wrist had recovered when Betsy and Erika invited me on an overnight ride to a high-mountain hut above Leadville, but the trip sounded too fun to resist. Betsy's route came in at 80-90 miles with a jaunt through aspen groves on the Continental Divide Trail, followed by a long climb up to Weston Pass. The following day we'd tour around Turquoise Lake and ride back toward Twin Lakes on parts of the Leadville 100 course. It sounded fairly mellow, and a great way to see some autumn color that I'd chased the previous week without much success, and that would soon be gone.

I arranged my stay at the hut while I was still en route from Wyoming, and stayed up past midnight piecing together my long-neglected bike and bikepacking setup. Shameful confession: Few things irritate me more than bicycle maintenance, and I nearly backed out of the trip when I couldn't coax the rear tire to hold air ("I'm not going on a bikepacking trip with tubes," I moaned to myself.) But, finally, around 8 a.m. the following morning, I gained tentative confidence that the sealant was going to hold. The bike still had clunky shifting and an irritating squeal from the front brake rotor during slow climbs (it would squeak frequently whenever I was moving between 3 and 4 mph, but never at any other speed, including slower speeds.) But during my extensive test ride, which took place between 8:07 and 8:13 a.m., my sore wrist felt fine. I was ready!

We met up at 1 p.m. and started our trip on the far side of Twin Lakes, hitting the singletrack first. This was a rude awakening on a loaded bike. The trail isn't terribly technical, but there are just enough rocks, roots and steep dips in and out of drainages to disrupt any sort of flow, which in my rusty state would have been tough to achieve on pavement. So I bashed into tree branches, swerved, dabbed and hiked a fair amount, holding everyone back — although Erika admitted she was also struggling to find a good flow. It took us nearly two hours to cover the first seven miles, after which it had become rather late in afternoon. 

"Interlaken! It's just like the one in Switzerland!" Well no, not really, but it's fun to see some of the mountain tourism traditions that crossed over the Atlantic in the late 1800s.

 We faffed around some more looking for dirt routes to bypass the highway, and it was solidly early evening by the time we began the 10-mile, 3,500-foot climb to Weston Pass. The late-day light cast a lovely glow on golden leaves and auburn rock. Temperatures were still warm, and a reasonably stiff tailwind remained to whisk us up the pass. Ten-mile climbs are normally my kind of thing, so I was looking forward to kicking back and spinning easy while enjoying effortless views.

 But the views were not effortless. I don't think we'd even done two miles of the climb before my right quad muscles began cramping. Soon this required stepping off the bike to remove pressure from the leg so I could shake out the cramp. As soon as the cramps started, all of my power drained away. I began to wonder whether my quads had slept all through the past 11 weeks. I suppose hiking up mountains mostly demands strength from glutes and calves. You engage your quads to brake during steep descents, but it's not the same kind of strength required to pedal a loaded bicycle up ten miles of steady grades above 10,000 feet.

 I struggled, and walked a lot. Dignity drained away with the fading remnants of leg strength. Stupid quads. Stupid bike. I was fairly good at pushing my bike, though. I'll give myself that. I usually gained speed when I finally gave up the battle to turn pedals and commenced marching with purpose. Thank you, hamstrings that I've been working to strengthen recently. I appreciate the vote of confidence.

 We arrived at Weston Pass Hut just as the last hints of sunlight faded from the tips of the mountains, around 7 p.m. Positioned just a notch below 12,000 feet, the hut has lovely views of the surrounding Mosquito Range, as well as full exposure to the fearsome gales of this altitude. Although the air hadn't felt cold until the final half mile (of hiking), I was close to frozen by the time I wheeled my bike inside the spacious building.

 Being used to more rustic accommodations at BLM cabins in Alaska, I wasn't expecting the luxurious amenities offered here. There were four bedrooms with beds and sheets, two wood stoves, two propane cooking stoves hooked up to a main fuel line, solar-powered electric lights and even a USB charging station. We'd carried up all of our water for the overnight stay and cooking, believing we wouldn't find any on the pass. But then the kitchen contained a half-dozen five-gallon jugs full of water. There was a winter's worth of firewood chopped and stacked in the back. I'd brought my 0-degree sleeping bag and a whole bunch of winter clothing that I wouldn't need, either. Ah well. Good weight training? My quads just balked.

 We had a fun night, drinking hot chocolate and ginger tea, and telling Alaska stories as we warmed our bodies by the wood stove. We were eventually joined by another party of five people who drove up the road in two trucks, bringing a huge cooler full of food and beer. They warmed up delicious-smelling chili, brownies and other goodies that they didn't share with us (not that we hinted or asked), but it did cast a bit of a sad pall on our bagged backpacking meals.

Morning was a little rough, after spending a night at 12,000 feet. I slept reasonably well, but woke up with a throbbing headache that I could only partially tamp down with three cups of coffee. Having frozen myself so unsettlingly on Timpanogos a few days earlier, I came massively over-prepared for cold weather, knowing the low in Leadville that night was supposed to be 21 degrees, and we were starting 2,000 feet higher and riding into the wind, which raged through the night. I shouldn't have fretted so much about this. Even without much leisure to our morning, we didn't get out the door until close to 10 a.m. By then the wind had calmed substantially, and temps were probably above 40 degrees. I was embarrassingly overdressed, and had to strip layers all through the long descent.

 It was a lovely Saturday morning, though. The autumn color was past peak but still beautiful. I was glad I at least caught a glimpse of it this year. For various reasons I've mostly missed out on Colorado's famous golden groves for the past three seasons.

 During the descent I noted that my hand was only slightly achy, and should be fine for another day of riding. More concerning was my backside, which was already emanating sharp "sit-bone" pains if I planted my butt in the saddle for longer than three or four minutes at a time. For this trip I'd gone with my usual — baggy hiking pants and no chamois cream — because I normally don't need special considerations for my backside, and don't like to deal with the moisture management that those considerations necessitate. But after two months out of the saddle, I noted that this was the wrong decision.


We churned into the wind through the wide-open valley for several miles before turning toward Turquoise Lake, which was another lovely spot with rolling climbs and descents. Normally this is my favorite type of motion, but any enjoyment was overshadowed by a growing amount of pain, as well as continuing creaky annoyances from my neglected bicycle. I thought back to a few past rides with Beat, and some of his struggles during these increasingly infrequent outings. I always brushed off his complaints because he's so much stronger than me in most situations, so I never understood why he'd lag behind on a bike, or why he seemed so miserable at times. Now I get it. You need to ride bikes to enjoy riding bikes. Otherwise, they feel like mostly unnecessary torture machines. I could be running this trail ... why do I have this bum-battering hard-to-steer heavy wheeled thing with me ... and is this actually me thinking this ... who have I become?

This was a 60-mile day, and the last 20 were rough. I chose to do most of my pedaling out of the saddle, which was deeply fatiguing to my already tired legs. I started complaining openly to my friends about how I was going to stash the bike in the woods and run the rest of the way. I went so far as to do some math in my head, but realized this remained a ridiculous proposition with 10 miles to go. In the end the final miles weren't as hard as I'd feared, and we made it back with plenty of daylight. We even had time enough for tasty dinner and future trip scheming in Leadville, although I was surprised how broken I felt at the restaurant — headache, sore lower back and shoulders, spasming leg muscles, wincing every time I had to sit on hard surfaces.

This trip was fun, beautiful and fully ego-destroying, and I appreciate everything about it. This has been a necessary reminder that I need to work every day for my passions. Love can't persist in a void. And fitness never lasts. 

Shoulder season bites back

This past summer seemed like a charmed one. It arrived late enough that it never wore out its welcome. Despite embarking on lots of day-long bike rides and not a small number of high mountain adventures, I was never caught out in a thunderstorm. (After June 21, that is. I was battered by a couple of terrible hailstorms when the season was still technically spring. But I'll count an easy July and August as a win.) Colorado's wildfire season was relatively tamped down, and there wasn't a single day that smoky air kept me indoors. I think I only complained about the heat once on my blog, and perhaps three times on Strava, which is a decent track record for me. Summer can be a tough season to endure, but this one just coasted. 

In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, the arrival of autumn seemed abrupt. After the trip across the Grand Canyon, I'd tentatively planned to head up to Wyoming and backpack the Teton Crest. We hadn't even left Arizona when my dreams were dashed by a late September storm that dumped more than three feet of snow on the Tetons — and I didn't have snowshoes, winter boots, or any camping gear that could withstand temperatures much colder than 25F.

Instead, I figured I'd spend an extra couple of days in Utah. I became fixated on the idea of climbing Mount Timpanogos, but Dad suggested that Sunday's winter storm likely dumped a fair amount of snow on its 11,749-foot summit, and I was still lacking winter gear. Instead, we embarked on mellow Monday morning hike along the Wasatch Crest Trail, straddling Big Cottonwood Canyon and Park City.

For 13 miles we meandered along the ridge and descended through lovely aspen stands. This no doubt would be a spectacular fall color hike, but we were still early for the golden display. We stopped for lunch at Dog Lake, where we were harassed by a trio of ducks (ducks bite! Who knew?) One of the ducks had a badly broken leg, hopping around so pitifully that we gave her some bread, thereby contributing to the bad behavior. Dad and I spent the remainder of the miles scheming a hiking trip in Switzerland next summer. I think it really might happen!

On Wednesday I planned to head home, but I still couldn't get Timpanogos out of my head. Why? Well, I've been meaning to make a pilgrimage back here for some time now. Nearly two decades, actually, counting my failures along the way. Timpanogos was my first "big" mountain, which I climbed with my dad at age 16. Climbing 4,500 feet in 7.5 miles along the popular Timpooneke route, it was was massively challenging, shredding my uncalloused feet and wringing all of the strength from my young legs. Yet standing at the summit, gazing across Utah Lake and realizing that every single road and building in all of the Utah Valley was in view, I felt an effervescent mixture of astonishment and reverence. I felt both self-respect for declaring a place on top of it all, and wisdom in the realization that I was a speck on a vast mountain. 

My most recent trip to the summit happened sometime during the summer of 2000. It may have even been early October, as I recall a proximity to Halloween. Two friends and I met at the trailhead at 1 a.m. — our intention being to hike through the night so we could stand on the summit at sunrise. Predictably the night was cold and we were too sleepy to function, guzzling far too much Dr. Pepper and singing at the top of our lungs to stay awake, "Timpooneke, Timpooneke, pretty spooky, pretty spooky." I think we gave ourselves close to six hours to hike to the summit by sunrise and didn't achieve it, finally arriving well into the glare of daylight. I recall squinting toward the eastern horizon, with its ripple of mountain ridges rendered by the morning sun into a geometric gradient, and marveling at how far we'd come. I'd only recently graduated from college, and every horizon held seemingly infinite possibilities.

The Timpanogos night hike was a memorable journey. It was hard to believe I hadn't been back since. There were a few tries — a half-hearted effort while I was visiting from Idaho during summer 2005, when I just gave up because I was tired and my feet hurt and I was pretty sure I no longer enjoyed physical challenges. (Really I was just depressed and about to follow my quarter-life crisis to Alaska, and wow was my life about to change.) After that, there were only the two shoulder-season attempts — once in November 2012 with Beat and Dad, and once in October 2013 with Dad, when we were shut down by dangerous snow conditions. I know, there are thousands of mountains out there, why keep bothering with this one? But Timpanogos was my first love. Nineteen years is a long absence.

So I was driving away from my parents' house not terribly early Wednesday morning, and stopped at a light about two blocks away, wavering on whether to turn north, toward my route home, or south, toward Timpanogos. I genuinely couldn't decide — snow cover still seemed likely, and it was a long effort to take on for a day that was also supposed to contain a nine-hour drive. But almost without deciding, I found myself veering toward Draper and the winding climb over South Mountain to American Fork Canyon.

When I arrived at the trailhead, it was 34 degrees and breezy. I'd dressed for what I assumed would be a mild-weather jaunt on either Grandeur Peak or some sort of trail run in Wyoming, so I quickly added more layers, water and food to my backpack. The first 3,500 feet of climbing were uneventful. There was almost no snow on the trail, which was a surprise. The temperature was brisk, so I moved with purpose, more or less keeping pace with a trail runner who was wearing shorts and light vest over a long-sleeved shirt while carrying a tiny pack. He really didn't seem to be dressed for the weather and was actually running, yet I kept seeing him on switchbacks just ahead. Sure enough, I saw his silhouette briefly crest the saddle before he promptly turned around. He passed without a word, descending quickly. "It's always crazy windy up there," I remembered.

I had no idea what was coming. Just above the saddle, the summit ridge was completely enshrouded in cloud. I snapped this photo during a rare moment of clearing, but more often visibility was near zero; I could barely see my shoes when I looked down. Fog tore sideways across the talus on a fearsome gale; it was difficult to brace myself against the gusts, which likely topped 50 mph. It was *so* cold. If trailhead temperatures were close to freezing, I think it's fair to say it was 20 or even 15 degrees here at 11,700 feet ... but windchill is what counts. If you asked me to guess the temperature, I would have said 20 below. Of course it's early in the season and these things always feel worse than they do once you become more acclimated, but damn. This felt like the worse place in the world. I wanted to be anywhere else but here.

A deeper fear of failure drove me forward, picking my way along narrow rock shelves notched against sheer cliffs, scrutinizing each step into the white void. Here was a place I hadn't been in 19 years, and I was relying on memory to piece together a route that involves a few short scrambles up rock faces, and a trail that's barely discernible in the scree. And this slope is popular enough that there are footprints everywhere. At one point I picked my way down the edge of a cliff, thinking I needed to scramble up an adjacent gully. But as I began the climb, the loose-scree gully quickly became steeper and steeper, until the grade was clearly, "If you start to slide, you'll probably keep sliding."

"There aren't any death gullies on the main route to Timp, are there?" I loudly vocalized my question into the wind. "No, pretty sure no death gullies on the main route to Timp." I turned around, and had to consult my GPS several times for breadcrumbs pointing the way back.

GPS told me I was only about 150 vertical feet to the summit, and by that point I was truly done. I very nearly turned around there. I couldn't see the trail, I was so very cold, my fingers were numb, my toes were numb, and I was definitely not going to Alaska this year, no way, I'm done being cold, cold wind sucks. It was just then that two faint figures appeared in the fog. They were only about five feet away when I finally saw them, and standing next to me before I realized they weren't dressed all in white — they were coated in frost. Their black wool hats and fuzzy black hoodies were fully encrusted in white ice. One looked at toward me with frosted eyelashes and a bright-red face, and I realized they were both young women, probably about 21 or 22 years old. Given our location, I assumed they were BYU students, enough so that I consciously censored my inner monologue. Instead, I shouted:

"Holy cow, you guys are frosty!"

"I know!" the red-faced woman shouted with an electric sort of glee in her voice. "Isn't this awesome?"

With that, we all continued. No stopping in this gale. But I was awe, and revitalized by her buoyant enthusiasm. "There is a woman who is going places," I thought.

Of course my body was still uncomfortably cold and not warming up, and the wind was still as fearsome and scary as every. At the little summit shack I tore open my backpack and put on everything I had with me — a puffy over my shell jacket already covering a primaloft vest and base layer. Hiking gaiters over my shoes. Mittens over my gloves. That was it. My backpack was empty. Really, that amount of clothing is nearly what I would wear if it was -20 in Alaska, but it was early October in Utah and it didn't feel like nearly enough layers. Luckily I had no problems route-finding on the way down, and escaped the terrible summit ridge quickly. At least my heart warmed with the satisfaction of finally, after all these years, achieving the summit of Timpanogos. The hoards who climb it in August have no idea what they're missing.

Those mere two miles on the summit ridge beat every last ounce of energy out of me. It was enough that I couldn't bare the thought of the nine-hour drive that awaited me at the trailhead. But ... if I spent enough time on this hike ... I'd have the perfect excuse to only drive partway and spring for a hotel room so I could sleep with the heater cranking at full blast. This was how I made the decision to loop the route by crossing the snowfield below the cliffs and joining the southern trail into Aspen Grove. Thus, this became a 20-mile day with nearly 6,000 feet of climbing. But it sure beats driving!

Early in the climb I neglected to blow the water back into my hydration bladder, and the hose had been solidly frozen for hours. I'd been too cold to eat anything as well. By hour five without food and water, a bonk had clamped down hard. Still the shiver monster continued to stalk me, and I was too anxious to stop walking. I was nearly to Aspen Grove and still wearing everything. By this point temperatures were balmy 42 degrees, and I was again meeting trail runners in shorts. I imagined myself as the reanimated corpse of a dead mountaineer, frozen stiff inside this puffy jacket and zombie-walking down the trail.

I connected the two trailheads on a series of horse trails — Lame Horse and Horse Flats were two of the names — that looked like great mountain bike trails but seemed to see a lot of motorcycle use. This whole route is fantastic ... well, minus the flash-freezing summit cloud ... and I hope to return again, hopefully sooner than 19 years from now.

I blasted the car heater on high all the way to Rock Springs. En route I also indulged in necessary rehydration with a 64-ounce (yes, you read that correctly) tanker of Diet Pepsi. My most egregious vice ... which I'd ultimately pay for with a terrible night of sleep when I had to get up five times in the night, either with a full bladder or painful cramping from my hamstrings. The following day I was still driving and still in possession of an excuse for an rest-stop adventure, so I veered down to scenic highway 130 and a newer favorite of mine, Medicine Bow Peak.

This seven-mile loop starts at 10,000 feet and tops out at 12,000 feet. A lot of the route is on talus and boulders, so it's not all that runnable, but I was feeling surprisingly peppy given the altitude and how much I'd buried myself the previous day. It helped that it was a good 50 degrees warmer — 62 at the trailhead, and although breezy not that much cooler on the summit. At 12,000 feet in Wyoming. Weird. I had been chatting with two friends about embarking on a bike overnight the following day. Since I still hadn't really tried to use my left hand since I injured it three weeks earlier, I made the logical decision to remove my wrist brace and do the whole seven miles with my single trekking pole in my bad hand, to make sure it was up to the task. This all went quite well, as long as I chose to ignore the dull, aching pain, which I did.

From the summit of Medicine Bow Peak, gazing south toward Lookout Lake and an expanse of buttes and basins, eventually reaching the North Platte River gorge where it flows into northern Colorado. I appreciate the way summits put the landscape and consequently life in perspective. Sometimes the climb is effortless and you can see a hundred miles in all directions. Sometimes it's arduous and tears you to pieces and you can't even see your feet through the fog. Sometimes 19 years go by between visits, and even amid the whiteout you can clearly see how everything is both different and unchanged. Sometimes only a year has gone by, and already the memories are blurred enough to blend with the present, and you'll simply wonder if you're stronger than you were in 2018. You'll ask yourself, "does it matter?"

Time marches on, either way.