The lonesome loop

Canyonlands in November is starting to become something of a tradition. For the past three years I've made my way down to this coarse country late in the 11th month, after the crowds have faded away, the sand is speckled with frost, and winter light saturates the sandstone cliffs in iridescent shades of vermilion and bronze. November is something of a throwaway month for most in the North American outdoor community, but I think it's the best time to visit the Utah desert. So I was thrilled at a chance to join my friend Erika on a 300-mile bike tour along the eastern rims of the Colorado and Green rivers. The planned route formed a lopsided figure-eight with Moab in the center, for convenient resupply. Most of the route traveled through places I'd never explored.

The first loop looked easy enough on paper — 154 miles, 10,000 feet of climbing, following the Colorado River south and the Lisbon Valley north along a network of jeep roads and ranch roads. Although lacking in singletrack and big vert, I've spent enough time in the desert to know that everything is either rocky, sandy, hilly or muddy. I braced myself for 154 hard miles, and packed enough gear to stay comfortable and happy enough in fierce wind, blowing sand, rain, snow, and chills down to 0 degrees ... all of which are possible here in November.

The day before we set out, it rained hard until sunset and then temperatures dropped below freezing. We expected to find a lot of gloppy mud on the initial climb along Kane Springs Creek, but the thirsty desert managed to absorb most of the moisture. Only a few frozen puddles remained, which was more than a pleasant surprise. We held a conversational pace and chatted for the first 15 miles to Hurrah Pass, with stunning views of the Colorado River valley.

We descended from Hurrah Pass into the rugged and remote Lockhart Basin. How remote? Although I imagine this four-wheel-drive road sees more summer traffic, we were passed by all of one motorcyclist in sixty miles — the rest of the time, we were all alone in a vast basin, listening to the whoosh of wind, the soft grind of tires on sandstone and the rhythm of our own breath. I was glad for Erika's company, as I always feel a little unsettled when I'm so far displaced from humanity. This is a feeling I must embrace with exponential repercussions in Alaska, but even here it's unnerving all the same.

Lockhart Basin Road is not your standard gravel grinder. There are a lot of punchy climbs and descents riddled with boulders, blocky sandstone outcroppings and ruts large enough to swallow an entire wheel. Beat's Wayward handled the sand, bumps and drop-offs with ease, with no hint of damage from the earlier mud disaster. But the perfect bicycle couldn't save me from the most obvious mechanical. Within the first 20 miles of the ride, a screw rattled out of the rear rack where it attached to the chain stay. As a result, the rack slumped to the left and pressed against the rear tire. I did not have a spare screw. This was an egregious oversight.

With the rack grinding against the tire like an extra brake, I rode up to Erika in a near panic. I never handle mechanicals well, and was already plotting my escape back to Moab. I certainly didn't want to quit the trip, but my options were limited — I was carrying a 12-liter backpack, and had only one spare strap, not enough to rework the gear I was carrying in two panniers and a medium-sized dry bag. Erika helped bring the panic down to a simmer as we zip-tied the rack to the chain stay, removing the pannier on that side to reduce the weight pulling the rack against the tire. I used the single strap and one of Erika's carabiners to attach the heavier pannier to my small backpack, letting it dangle across my lower back like a messenger bag.

We rode a few more miles without further incident, and I became more confident that this system could work. But I was still a knot of anxiety ... we were truly in the middle of nowhere, the kind of place where I did not have enough food and water to walk out, and no one was around. If the rack fully failed, I had no reasonable way of attaching everything to my back or the bike. I watched the other screw like a hawk, stopping every mile and tightening it until I feared I may have stripped it.

It's disappointing that I was so preoccupied with the broken rack and getting "trapped" out here, as the anxiety did distract from the stunning scenery. Broad sandstone mesas and deeply incised canyons formed an imposing border to the east. To the west, sagebrush plains rippled toward the Colorado River. A strong aroma of sage with salty hints of mineral-rich sand still permeated the air following recent storms. The road traced a sandstone contour below the rim of Hatch Point in a way that resembled the more famous White Rim. Around mile 40, we descended into the sandy basin, where smoother road allowed my mind to finally relax.

Erika kept asking if I was in pain, as the heavy pannier looked rather awkward dangling over my lower back. But the bag was actually seated well and I hardly noticed the extra weight on my back. This convinced me I should ditch the rack and carry a larger backpack for the White Rim half of the ride. After the death-mud carry two days prior, I was feeling a little soured on bicycles. I soothed any remaining frustration about the rack with gratitude that I wasn't going to attempt to babysit a bicycle across Alaska in March. Of course, plenty can go wrong with a sled, and even more can go wrong with a body when it has to absorb all of the impact. Anyway, the complete meltdown that I succumbed to when I broke a trekking pole during the 2018 ITI shows how I'm just going to become an emotional mess over any gear-related setback. Might as well just accept this about myself, prepare as well as I can, and practice breathing exercises to temper the inevitable panic.

Despite my annoyance with managing bicycles, I am still completely in love with riding bicycles. I didn't have nearly enough recent saddle time to arrive at this trip in top condition, but muscle memory runs deep. I was enthralled with the soothing motion that propelled me through this vast, gorgeous landscape. My legs felt strong and I was climbing well, although Erika left me in the dust whenever a flatter stretch demanded high-RPM spinning.

The sun set early, as it does this time of year, and we were in a race to beat closing time at the Needles Outpost store. We reserved a campsite there so we could buy water, which otherwise would have been unavailable along the route. We put the hammer down and managed to wrap up the 65-mile day with 15 minutes to spare. At the store we bought three gallons of water, hot tea and soup. I found four small bungees that I could use to strap my tent to the handlebar, as well as create a makeshift seatpost bag if needed. "You ladies must like the cold," the owner said as his wife took at least ten minutes to tally our purchases using a pencil and a calculator. "Only one other party here, and they have a generator."

I may have lacked what most consider winter camping necessities, but my setup felt downright luxurious with a tent, air mattress and 0-degree down sleeping bag, as well as two puffy coats, stove, Mountain House meal, two hot chocolate packets and a Kindle to kill the many hours of darkness before my natural bedtime. Worth the rack drama? Well, yes, if I had been smart enough to threadlock the crucial screws and carry spares. Erika was rocking a minimalist setup with an ultralight sleeping pad, lighter sleeping bag and one of those emergency bivies. Unfortunately her sleeping pad failed and she spent a miserable night pressed against the cold sand, hardly sleeping. I had so many hot drinks before bed that I was up several times in the night, gazing slack-jawed at the brilliantly clear sky and a depth of stars that I've only ever witnessed in the Utah desert. We awoke at the first light of dawn to temperatures in the teens and thick frost.

From Needles Outpost, we had a long highway climb beside the corrugated cliffs of Indian Creek. We were both groggy and it took a long time to warm up, but eventually I started shedding layers and spinning happily. Not a care in the world. I'm just riding my bike. Why can't every day be like this?

Erika's bike next to the famous Newspaper Rock. She had to lock out her fork to prevent the handlebar bag from bumping against the tire, a common issue with small bikes. This issue combined with the failed sleeping pad had her hesitating on spending another night outside.

This is the main road into the Needles District of Canyonlands as well as several popular climbing areas, and yet there was almost nobody around on this Saturday morning. Stunning swaths of space captured all of my attention, and we climbed 2,500 feet over 25 miles before I even noticed the passing of time.

More wide-open space greeted us along North Flats Road. The softer features and pastel hues were an abrupt change from the red cliffs and sculpted sandstone of the previous day. I enjoyed the distinction.

My favorite animal encounter during the trip was this herd of pronghorn, who galloped toward the road in an arced, almost bird-like formation until they saw me straddling my bike, then stopped abruptly. A few crept away and others crept toward me, assessing the threat level, before one near the front of the line made a kind of nodding motion and they all streamed away. I supposed I was deemed a threat. Erika rode up just as they were fading from view.

We sprinted across Highway 191 and continued on the seemingly abandoned Lisbon Valley Road. We pedaled over its steep rollers for 16 miles, buffeted by a stiff headwind. Despite expectations, temperatures never warmed much on this day — Erika saw a high temperature of 42 on her thermometer — and the windchill cut to my core. I stopped at the intersection of highway 46 to wait for Erika and put on most of my extra layers, shivering in spite of the protection. I wondered why I was so cold. When I bent over to pick up my bike, blood drained from my head and I became alarmingly faint. "I'm probably bonked," I thought. Most of the food I carried for this tour was variations of nut and seed trail mixes, which are hard to eat on the go. Also, although I like to believe that I can be an mindful consumer of high-quality fuel while engaging in strenuous activity, in reality nuts and seeds just don't do much for my energy levels. I'm a carb burner, and usually feel and perform best when I just give in and keep the stove burning hot with kindling.

I was gnawing on unappetizing blocks of something called "NUT-rition" when Erika pulled up, raring to keep going. We were again racing the fading daylight, and she was excited to return to Moab for hot showers and real food. I was still trying to reignite my internal pilot light, and shivered as I struggled to match her pace. Finally the NUT-rition kicked in, and I found a few extra gears and we swooped through the steep and rocky rollers of the aptly named Rimrocker Trail.

The sun finally set as we reached the top of Pole Canyon, where we watched a truck hauling a massive and modified high-clearance camping trailer toward the winding and rutted doubletrack that we'd just cleared. "The audacity of some of these drivers," I said, shaking my head with a hint of admiration. Bicycles are more than enough liability for me, but I can respect the skill it takes to maneuver so much mass into the middle of nowhere. They were, again, the only other humans we'd seen for miles.

Me in my big puffy coat at sunset. I was mulling adding the down coat as well, since I knew we had a long descent in front of us. But I didn't want Erika, who is training for the ITI 350, to pity me ... I mean, it probably seems like I don't stand a chance in Alaska if I need two puffy coats to ride through Southern Utah in November.

The final 20 miles of our 90-mile day were almost entirely descending, but also included some of the most muddy, technical, and confusing miles of the day. We were tired when we arrived in Moab around 7 p.m., and ready to inhale all of the carbs. Erika was already leaning toward forgoing the second loop so she could take a needed rest day and then ride the classic 100-mile White Rim route with a lighter bike in a single day. I was set on on a night at Murphy's Hogback — after all, the night sky is the best part of bike touring in the desert. Also, I'd already gone to all of that effort to hike in a water cache.

Erika, freed of the evening's burdens, was fast asleep by 8:30. I still needed to shop for more food, dry out my gear and reconfigure the whole system. I noticed a screw holding a telescoping arm of the rack that would work for the frame attachment, so I decided to keep the rack but only use a single dry bag and leave the panniers behind, moving lighter but bulky stuff such as the sleeping bag into a 35-liter backpack. I was up until nearly midnight fiddling with everything, again feeling a bit annoyed with all of the logistics that come with bikes. Then again, all I had to do for the next two days was ride bikes. Is there anything better?

When the prep is harder than the trip

 My friend Erika had an intriguing proposal: Four days of bikepacking through the Utah desert, averaging 75 miles each day, pedaling through beautifully corrugated and intimidatingly remote country along the eastern rim of Canyonlands National Park. Although long pedaling days aren't necessarily in my training plan right now, nor is my conditioning ideal for 300 miles in the saddle, I couldn't resist. It looked like the timing would be perfect as well, as I'd be traveling to Utah for Thanksgiving. "And the weather will be nice," Erika reasoned.

A harrowing winter storm warning in Colorado convinced me to drive out to Moab a day early. This extra day would also allow time to hike in a water cache for our third camp, at Murphy's Hogback on the White Rim. I schemed and planned and headed out, meeting the front end of heavy snow and then rain on the western side of the Continental Divide.

For the trip I borrowed Beat's Why Cycles Wayward, a 29-plus rig designed for loaded bikepacking and rugged terrain. It comes equipped with dynamo hub lights and a bulletproof frame bag, and is just an all-around fun and capable adventure bike. I've been eying it greedily since he got it, but never asked to borrow it, because Beat frequently accuses me of stealing and subsequently abusing his bikes (and he's not wrong about that.) But when I mentioned I was thinking about bringing the fat bike to deal with all of the sand, it was Beat who suggested I try out the Wayward. Of course I couldn't say no! I got all of 45 minutes of test riding during a hurried sunset ride on Tuesday, had Beat mount a wonky old rack to accommodate my many pieces of comfy cold-weather camping gear, and headed out Wednesday morning.

Heavy rain pounded the windshield for much of the drive from Vail to Grand Junction. This should have been discouraging, but I had fixated on taking one more test ride with the bike. I remembered from prior runs that Rabbit Valley was fairly sandy, and thought I might be able to find a short, rideable section of trail along the Colorado-Utah border. I unloaded the bike and started pedaling with a plan to turn around as soon as I hit mud. The rain had already tapered off, and the initial jeep road was fast and enjoyable, with hardpacked sand and relatively few mud puddles. From there I found the Western Rim trail, which was gleeful fun — a thin ribbon of sand and slickrock tracing the rim above the Colorado River. This trail had a few more mud puddles, but nothing terrible. My pants were barely splattered.  After 13 miles of smile-inducing riding, the sun came out and hubris set in. I scrolled through my map and noticed that this trail came out on the Kokopelli Trail, which I could use to loop back to another connector just north of the freeway. Loops are always better than out-and-backs. Plus, I figured the jeep roads would be a faster return than the singletrack.

 For two or three miles the Kokopelli was sandy and fast, but then a more clay-like surface took over. The tires began to bog down in gloppy mud, but it was still rideable, and I felt committed by this point. As the trail slowly snaked up the valley, conditions went swiftly downhill. Soon the road was covered in a white mud speckled with marble-sized pebbles that peeled off the tires as I rode, pinging me in the face. I fretted for the drivetrain, but my anxiety was unnecessary, as the mud began to clump against the frame until I could no longer spin the crank at all. The freeway was still more than three miles away. I pushed the bike all of a hundred meters, shoes slipping through the mud as they collected pounds of clay, and then the wheels seized up. Nothing left to do but hoist the bike onto my shoulders, hunch over, and hike.

 What a nightmare. I constantly had to pick up the bike and put it down, because my shoulders ached and I hoped to find a pushable surface (nope), and because my clay-caked shoes had less traction than a pair of skis smeared in butter. I slipped and crashed down onto my knees multiple times, crying out as sharp pain rattled through my kneecaps. Then the pain refocused to my lower back as I attempted to stand with the clay-coated bike still pressed against my shoulders. At one point I went down and thought about staying down — just curling up in the mud and waiting for it to harden again, even if it took days. I felt utterly stuck. It may have only been a couple of miles to the freeway, but if you're anchored in place, the distance might as well be infinite.

The hopelessness launched me into a dissociative trance, one of my deeper coping mechanisms usually reserved for tough endurance efforts. I imagined myself as an Egyptian slave hauling a sandstone block for the pyramids, hunched and strained with rope cutting into my shoulders, sweating in the heat. Through this haze I realized that I was actually quite cold, having gotten soaked in the rain, and now barely moving through the slop. It was too much effort to put the bike down and put on my rain shell, my only extra layer.

Somewhere in this haze, where I did manage a little bit of pushing and even some downhill coasting, I reached an underpass of I-70. My plan had been to access the pavement at all costs. It was nearly dark and I wasn't thrilled about riding the Interstate at night, but it was only three or so more miles, and even getting mowed down by a semi seemed preferable to the mud purgatory. But I found that the entire access point was lined with barb-wire fence — the standard in open cattle country. Plus, the jeep road had become somewhat more rideable. With renewed hubris, I continued on the dirt.

I actually did manage some riding, and a bit more pushing, when it started to rain again. The road pitched more steeply uphill, and the surface condition was almost quicksand — foot-sucking clay that swallowed a shoe and left me teetering on one leg with a wet sock suspended in the air, still trying to balance the bike. When I managed to get the shoe back on and take a single step, I'd slide backward the length of two steps, nearly dropping the bike as I flailed to keep my balance. Progress was truly, literally impossible. I put the bike down and stared bewildered at droplets falling through the sky, reflecting the light of my headlamp in a way that made them look like deadly icicles. I really was going to spend a night out here. Right next to a freeway. Two miles from my car. How weird is that?

This realization ignited a hot rage that renewed my flagging strength. Screaming like a crazy person, I put the bike down and shoved it through the grass. The wheels weren't turning; it was like pushing a dresser through the mud, but it was moving. The grounded bike gave me the leverage I needed to walk. In my headlight beam I saw the sign for the state line, "Welcome to Colorful Colorado," and scoffed out loud. Just as my rage energy began to fade, I reached the barb wire fence lining the freeway. Smooth, hard pavement was only 20 meters away. The fence was only waist high, but flimsy. It was risky.

"What's the worst that can happen?" I thought. "Tetanus shot?" I picked up the bike and attempted to lift it over my head, but my shoulders went limp. The muscles were done — too many repeats of lifting the bike over my head to balance it on my shoulders. If you do enough overhead presses, eventually you can just not do anymore, not matter how much you want to. I thought back to my experiences during the Race Across South Africa in 2014, when I was constantly convinced that the next 10-foot game fence was going the one that finally broke my failing arm muscles, but that never happened. I took comfort in that memory, growled and screamed some more, and finally lifted my bike to the other side of the fence. As I turned to lean it against a pole, my headlamp beam caught the most unlikely break — a California license plate, bent lengthwise in half, hanging over the top wire of the fence. It was just the thing I needed to balance my weight with one hand as I hoisted my legs over the wobbly spiky wires. Finally! Something goes right!

I still had to push the muddy dresser to the edge of the interstate, gauge the distance of the truck headlights barreling toward me, sprint through the cloak of darkness with my anchor in tow, cross the deep muddy gully of the median, stair-step the bike up a virtual wall, and sprint across more lanes of traffic to reach the shoulder of the eastbound highway. I stopped at the Welcome to Colorful Colorado sign and tore clumps of mud off the frame, flinging them angrily behind me. Let that shit stay in Utah where it belongs. Even after removing dozens of handfuls of mud, the wheels still barely rolled. Thankfully, most of the final two miles were downhill.

 I know a lot of this story sounds exaggerated for effect, but it's hard to overemphasize just how beaten I was by this recreational "just to break up the drive" jaunt before my big trip. Back at my car, alone in the dark in the Rabbit Valley parking lot, I stripped off all of my mud-caked clothing and slumped onto the drivers seat in my underwear, not wanting to deal with anything. But I knew I had to address the mud ASAP. That stuff doesn't just go away; the Ancestral Puebloans made pottery out of this mud, some which has been found intact 800 years later. I had four gallons of water that I planned to hike into Canyonlands the following day, so I dumped all of it on the bike while gently scrubbing with an old towel. That did absolutely nothing, besides coat other things in mud. All I could do was shove the bike in the car and continue onto Moab. "Beat is going to be so annoyed with me," I thought.

I was super bonked, having embarked on an expected 90-minute ride that turned into more than four intensely strenuous hours with no snacks or dinner, but the first thing I did was drive to a car wash. My hands were shaking as I picked up the hose and turned it on the low-pressure setting. There I spent the next 45 minutes working at all the moving parts with my towel and frequent three-minute intervals of spraying. I got the bike looking reasonably pristine, lubed things up, and rode it around the parking to check the shifting and brakes. All seemed fine, so I could turn my attention to my broken body. My knees were throbbing, and had become alarmingly swollen. My back and shoulders were deeply sore. What a great way to start a 300-mile bike trip.

 Of course, before that happened, I still had that water carry to complete. This didn't necessarily have to be done — our 75 miles from Moab to Murphy's Hogback would end at a dry camp with no water along the way, necessitating a two-day carry. But it's a cool time of year, and we could have been conservative by leaving stoves behind and skipping cooking and hot drinks. Still, that's all of the fun part of cold-season camping. So I washed my containers, which like everything else were coated in mud, and refilled them with 3.5 gallons of water. I started my 12-mile hike at Murphy Point, at the edge of Canyonlands' Island in the Sky. Along with my own supplies and a bit more survival gear — because you really never know when you'll have to spend a night out — the pack weighed a little more than 40 pounds. Could be worse, but with my sore shoulders and knees, it proved a particular burden. The trail off Murphy Point was precipitous, snaking down a veritable cliff with sheer drop-offs, occasional wooden platforms, and steep step-downs from boulders. Bruised knees were angry, very angry, but I took it as slowly as possible. I also took heart in the fact that it was a beautiful day and a rather nice hike, anchor notwithstanding.

I reached the Sunday-night campsite and placed my cache, along with my permit from the national park that required I return for it, lest I receive a fine. From there I looped back on the White Rim road connecting with Murphy Wash, which was also lovely. The climb out was steep but not hard, being mostly unweighted as I was. As I made my way back along the mesa, harrowing dark clouds gathered overhead. Driving back to Moab, I encountered heavy rain, than hail, then a thick and icy sleet as the temperature dropped to 33 degrees. Rainwater cascaded down the pavement like a stream. This did not bode well. Not well at all. Southeastern Utah hadn't seen rain in more than two months, and the sudden series of deluges were sure to mire our bikepacking trip in death mud. I couldn't even think about it; the memories from the previous evening were still too fresh and traumatic. I couldn't think about tomorrow. 

The goal — keep moving

“Let routine take command of feelings.”

I recently came across this quote by Antarctic skier Felicity Aston, and it seemed like another perfect mantra for someone like me, who is inherently motivated by emotions but also seeks to transcend self. If I’m going to make it to Nome, I will need a solid routine. I intend to strategize the details, but the broad picture is a minimum daily mileage. I won’t achieve those miles every day, but I will need to make up for them. This means banking distance when the going is good, but also staying in motion when it’s decidedly not. If I manage my rest well (and rest is always the most difficult thing for me to achieve during an endurance endeavor), then the only conditions that should stop me are those I consider too dangerous, such as thin ice on the rivers (waiting until daylight to look for a better way around), white-out windstorms along the featureless Bering Sea coast, or waist-deep snow similar to what Beat encountered in the Interior in 2015. My personal “danger zone” is not something I’m willing to compromise, so hopefully I’ll bank enough time for wiggle room.

New snow and a low cloud ceiling from Flagstaff Summit on Monday

The distance to Nome on the Northern Route is approximately 970 miles, give or take 30. The Iditarod Trail Invitational sets the maximum finishing limit at 31 days. This is both a hard cutoff as well as smart practice. With a March 1 start, 31 days stretches into April. By late March 2019, flowers were practically blooming in Nome. The melt rate was alarming. In the ITI, we’re not just racing a cutoff — we’re racing spring break-up. And break-up seems to come earlier every year, even as 2020 brings the latest possible start for this race.

The cutoff demands we cover 50 kilometers a day — 31.3 miles — at the bare minimum. I can scarcely contemplate this, as I drag my cart uphill at 2 mph. It’s so hard not to focus on failure math. My 2018 walk to McGrath is still too fresh in memory … all of the pain and struggle to slog out those miles, through the wind drifts and fresh snow, wheezing, straining and almost literally tearing my legs apart in the process (It’s true. It would take months to fully recover from the muscle soreness.) When I’m willing to be brutally honest with myself, I’ll admit that walking to McGrath in 2018 was physically more difficult for me than biking to Nome in 2016. I was destroyed, and I hadn’t even covered a third of the distance to Nome. What was my average distance per day that year? 35.8 miles.

A gorgeous, perfect day ... and I was on my way to workout indoors at the gym. 

Can I really endure three times what I had to endure in 2018, back to back to back? Well, no … truly no. Which is why I need to convince myself that I can and will be stronger. I do believe I’m quite a bit healthier than I was in 2018. My health stats are in a much better place — heart rate, blood pressure, thyroid levels, expiratory flow rate. My breathing has drastically improved since this date in 2017. My exercise tolerance is better as well. A glance into the Strava archives to see what I was doing on Nov. 18, 2017 revealed a “run” with Beat, where we planned to descend Bear Canyon and climb the much steeper Fern Canyon for an eight-mile loop. But I arrived at the bottom of Bear too weak and wheezy to risk Fern, so instead I turned around for a slow hike back up Bear Canyon. I can’t believe that was my fitness level at this point in ITI prep two years ago. Things are so much better now.

Of course I still need my mostly-the-same body to do the hard work. Training seems like a difficult balance of quickly building strength while shoring up mental and physical capacity for endless hauls. Grizzled veterans such as Beat and Tim Hewitt tell me that the walk to Nome is 90 percent mental beyond McGrath, that it gets easier. I’m a skeptic. They’re naturally stronger and more athletic than I am; their standard pace will get them much farther than mine. I’m working with a fairly basic engine and build. The Toyota Corolla who wanted to run the Iditarod.

Moonrise over the plains as I made my way home. I was stoked on my gym session, and happy I stuck to the routine.

And yet I still want to do it. I feel a zing of electric anticipation every time I think about how difficult and fully encompassing the experience will be … that is, before the focus on failure math kicks in. Still, to be that immersed in an adventure, for an entire month … and in an election year, no less. I can’t wait to tune out all of that.

Of course anything can happen. I recognize that no matter how well I try to prepare, the odds are still against me. My friend Cheryl has another good mantra — “you have to enjoy the process.” And I certainly do! It’s been several years since I’ve been so immersed in adventure anticipation, and I love it. My endurance endeavors may ultimately be frivolous, but they’re so meaningful to me. Everything about them — from strategizing gear to embarking on wild adventures in the name of training — inject new and satisfying purpose into my day-to-day routine. This week was another good week of training. I made a number of improvements during two strength sessions, and logged 67 miles on foot — all of them quality miles, in my opinion — either dragging the cart or tackling tough terrain.

With the exception of Monday's snowstorm, it was fairly warm all week. A plan to meet Beat in town on Wednesday gave me an excuse for a six-hour run on a circuitous route through the hills. I put in a Zone 4 effort on the climbs, knowing I'd probably end up foregoing my tempo run this week, but I felt strong. No real fatigue, only a little bonkiness toward the end because I only had three granola bars in my pack (just oversight on my part. I usually eat lunch before an afternoon run, but because I started at 10 a.m., the granola bars turned into my lunch, and then the tank was empty.)

I even had some time to kill when I hit town, so I veered up the Anemone Trail to explore an unmarked route up and over to Sunshine Canyon. The afternoon sun was in my eyes, so I missed a vital intersection and ended up dropping most of the way into Boulder Canyon instead. I've entirely avoided this canyon since a massive construction project began earlier this spring, so it was interesting to see the blasting zone and the changing shape of rock formations along the bike path. That path is now closed to pedestrians for the entire winter, blocking one of my favorite routes to town. I hoped I could use this secret trail as a bypass on foot, but was informed that it's blocked by private property at the western end. Boo.

On Saturday, Beat took some inspiration from my Anemone misadventure and promised to show me the correct trail by way of the entire Boulder Skyline. The Skyline is an iconic Boulder adventure showcasing the five dominant peaks over town. Anemone is more of a minor ridge and not usually included, but it does offer an opportunity for a sixth ascent. Beat drew up a route that only required one mile of out-and-back trail to access South Boulder Peak, so we could string together the peaks without repeat on a 24-mile, 7,300-feet-of-climbing loop. His route was even 90 percent singletrack, with only two miles of road-running along Sixth Street. The weather was again downright hot during the day, with 73 degrees for a high and a gusting breeze from which we were usually shielded. It was a grand day out. 

Since we were doing the Skyline, we of course had to document all of the peaks. Our first mountain was Green, via Green-Bear and West Ridge trails.

We donned the microspikes for a couple of miles of death ice on EM Greenman, then hit Flagstaff Summit. The actual high point of this flat-topped ridge remains elusive, but we're pretty sure it's the top of this boulder that lacks a great foothold to climb all that easily. When you're out for a leg-battering eight-hour run, a bear hug with the top is good enough.

We ran down Flagstaff Trail pretty hard — I think I got a PR, which isn't saying much, as I'm a painfully slow descender. But I was feeling a little woozy as we pressed toward Sanitas, so I crammed down half of a ham sandwich during the brief breather we managed while walking through Eben G. Fine park. Then it was another hard effort up a crowded Mount Sanitas in the heat of the day, drenched in sweat and using all of my free breaths to force down sips of water. Beat took off like a shot down Lion's Lair. I made my best effort to keep up, but I was feeling lightheaded. I caught my feet on rocks a couple of times, narrowly saving several falls. "Ah, I'm slurring. I need to pick up my feet," I thought. Just a few minutes later, while I was purposefully focusing on improving my stride, I again managed to catch a foot and this time launched into a full Superman — both feet in the air as I instinctively jettisoned my trekking poles down the precipitous slope. I smacked the ground hard but didn't skid, so I was spared from trail rash, or somersaulting down that steep and rocky hillside. It was difficult enough to climb down and retrieve the poles where they stopped at least 50 feet away ... I was grateful that I'm not a roller. So it wasn't as bad as it could have been, but my left leg and arm were throbbing. I felt like I'd run at full speed straight into a wall, which is what I did in a horizontal way.

Suddenly it felt like I had 80 miles on my legs rather than 12. I stumbled the rest of the way down the trail and slowly shook it off, semi-recovering just in time to meet Beat for a hard push up the secret Anemone ascent. It was indeed a fantastic ridge route with sweeping views of the plains and two canyons. I managed to cram down another half sandwich, and resolved to keep calories trickling in for the remainder of the run. Limited glycogen definitely affects my already precarious motor control.

The rest of the run was a good exercise in recovery after a crash ... both energy crash, and literal crash. I don't remember if there was ever a time in life when I took my hits well, but they certainly don't get easier with age. My left thigh and elbow were bruised, and a goose egg bulged from my scraped knee. But I limped along until the impact lessened and the bruises started to go numb, and then gained a satisfying second wind. We hiked and jogged the long, rolling approach to Fern Canyon. Then, with a mere four miles to go and yet two more peaks to climb, we faced the full punishment on a direct ascent that gains almost 2,000 feet in a mile. There's a kind of meditative rhythm in such a difficult march. "Hurts so good," I said to Beat. I meant it.

Beat on top of Bear Peak. A cold wind picked up as temperatures dropped into the 30s ... no longer so toasty out. We layered up as the sun set over ominous-looking clouds to the west.

And, finally, we tagged South Boulder Peak. That gash on my shin happened when I impaled myself on a branch while climbing over deadfall along the ridge between Bear and SoBo. Beat, ever the chivalrous partner, rushed back to stomp the dead trunk into the ground and break off excess branches as I hopped on one leg and moaned. That one hurt worse than the trail crash. Shin injuries ... ugh. Trail running is just so hazardous. Beat teases me about returning to the Tor des Geants someday to avenge my long-standing DNFs with Alpine mountain races ... but I fear I wouldn't even survive the training. 

Last light fading as we descended SoBo and turned toward home. It was a full, fun day despite the scrapes.

I woke up Sunday with that familiar "hard impact with ground" pain radiating from most of the left side of my body. It's good for the mental fortitude to make peace with that sensation, so I didn't hesitate on our plan to head to the higher mountains for a snow hike. I chose Heart Lake as a destination because it was "short" (nine miles round trip), "easy" (2,300 feet of climbing) and "popular" ... so perhaps we'd have packed trail.

These characteristics are all true in July, but things are decidedly different on a cool, blustery day in November. The recent weather patterns that create balmy conditions in town also draw gale-force winds from the Continental Divide, so this area was slammed with frequent gusts topping 60mph. Temperatures were just below freezing, as evidenced by the ice clogging my drinking water hose. This canyon held more snow that we were expecting after the long dry spell — probably because it had all blown down from the Divide. We passed more than a dozen skiers descending as we climbed, but all recent tracks stopped at a trail intersection only two miles from the trailhead. We located the summer trail and nice dust-on-crust conditions. But route-finding became difficult, and there were still several narrow bridges we need to find so we could cross over a thinly frozen South Boulder Creek.

Beat did well with the route-finding, but we both went deep into slog mode and sort of forgot to put on our snowshoes even as we post-holed through knee- and sometimes thigh-deep snow. The crust conditions would have made any sort of footing tricky. We could walk right on top of it at times, but when we broke through we crashed into deep rock hollows that might have trapped snowshoes.

Beat at Rogers Pass Lake.  I thought it was weird that none of those Sunday skiers made their way up here — there was no evidence of tracks anywhere. Then again, the fearsome wind was already erasing our deep postholes. They'd be invisible within a matter of hours.

I insisted on climbing the wind-scoured hillside to Heart Lake, "for photos." Beat insisted on only sticking around for a few seconds.

Still, he teased me about continuing up the steep hillside to Rogers Pass or James Peak. Along these scoured ridges, we could see streams of powder peeling off the polished and likely rock-hard snow crust. The flow rate convinced me that winds topped 100 mph up high. I imagined our tiny microspikes and dull-tipped trekking poles digging into the hard ice, our only anchor on a 40-degree slope buffeted by these blasts. "No thanks. I choose life."

One aspect of intense weather that I often appreciate is the way it distracts from nearly every other physical discomfort. I didn't notice how much my shin was hurting until we started the descent, where the wind was at our backs and I was constantly scraping against my own postholes. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. The November light was lovely, though, even if it is pretty much evening by 3 p.m.

For the hour-long drive home, we were bedazzled by the tumultuous sky. Snow-covered mountains reflected crimson hues as the setting sun painted wind-whipped clouds with mesmerizing light. It was gorgeous in all directions; we finally stopped the car to take this one photo, but it was a stunner throughout. So worth it, Beat noted, and I agreed. To think we could have spent Sunday sitting at home just because we were tired and trail-battered.

Just keep moving. It's always worth it.