Long-lived beauty, short-lived pain

Evening at Wolf Run cabin, March 2023.

Alaska's White Mountains have the cure for what ails you. Don't believe me? How many places in this world are so accessible and yet still so wild? So rugged and primitive and yet infused with promises of comfort and peace? So cold and distant that quiet is all but assured and sublime beauty is guaranteed? There are many places like this, I suppose, but the White Mountains seem custom-designed for me. 

I discovered this place through the White Mountains 100, my favorite race. Miraculously this event has survived four different race directors and two pandemic-related cancelations. It's been four years since the last time I raced and I wanted to return in 2023. Really, I did. But the sign-up period in November was not a good time for me. Not at all. My mental health was crashing, and then I physically crashed while trail running, sustaining injuries that lingered for weeks. A large part of me wondered if I'd ever get up again. 

Just as I started to come around, the 2023 event was already here. Corrine had formulated a fun adventure to ride the classic loop backward (with bonus spurs) over four days and photograph all of the racers we encountered on day three. She invited Betsy and me. While I resisted for a strangely long period of time, by the time I got on board, I was giddy with anticipation. Since I've been writing such long posts about the White Mountains, it seems a good time to sum up my history with the race that started it all for me: 

Possibly my best-ever day on a bike, the 2014 White Mountains 100.

A somewhat-brief synopsis of my history with the White Mountains 100:

2010. My life was in shambles. I was depressed and grieving a failed relationship, which led to a rash decision to leave my intolerably stressful newspaper job without a solid plan for the future. Another important change I decided to make during this time was to quit endurance racing, which had unquestionably complicated all of my problems. The day after I put in notice at my job — coincidentally — I received an e-mail from a Fairbanks friend who was starting a new 100-mile race in the White Mountains. No one from Juneau had signed up yet, and Ed wanted to round out the roster. I showed up two weeks later to bike a course with endless hills, ice, overflow, and temperatures dipping to 25 below. I finished 14th overall in 22 hours and 23 minutes. 

2011. Signed up again and invited my new love interest, Beat. He initially agreed but then balked at the biking part of our plan. I finished in 17 hours and 55 minutes. Beat needed 35:41 to get around the course without the aid of a bike. 

2012. Again with a bike and several inches of new snow. Finished third woman in 20 hours and 47 minutes. 

2014. After training all winter to complete the Iditarod Trail Invitational 350 on foot, I took a bike to race the WM100 for fun, fatigued and undertrained as I was. Frighteningly fast trail conditions made it almost no effort at all to finish in 11:34. I felt amazing! But this was the only year I didn't "podium" as the fourth woman. I blamed ITI legs. 

2015. Decided to complete the course on foot. I lost all of my gear to the U.S. Postal Service before the race and had to buy a bunch of stuff last-minute at Goldstream Sports, including shoes. Beat wanted to join and "paced" me self-supported, but I ended up dropping him (poor guy, he'd had an unbelievably tough year at the ITI.) I just barely skirted under 30 hours in 29:54, the third woman on foot.

2017. Thyroid disease prevented me from racing anything that winter, so I volunteered for the aid station at checkpoint one. It was a frigid year and we had to stand outside for five hours. All of the soda froze solid and we ran out of water, so I had to melt snow on a propane cooker. 

2018. Returned to race on foot as a true glutton for punishment, having finished the ITI 350 on foot just two weeks earlier. I was finally starting to understand the depth of strain that sled dragging puts on my body, but not in time to start a 100-mile ultramarathon without some of the worst leg pain I've experienced. 33 hours and 59 minutes of pure hurt. And no, it never went numb. But the incredible Northern Lights display made everything worth it. Alaska runners Teri Buck and Laura McDonough once again put me to shame at a distant third.

2019. This was to be my year. The White Mountains 100 was my A race. I wanted to crush my 100-mile PR — 27 hours? 26? Not outside the realm of possibility! I trained hard all winter, spending a month in Nome where practically all I did was train and pretend to write. Trail conditions were superb and I made it to the halfway point, Cache Mountain Divide, with daylight to spare in 13 hours. But then it started to snow. It snowed eight inches overnight. And everything fell apart. I was again the third woman on foot, finishing in 31 hours and 22 minutes. 

For so many years, I showed up at the White Mountains with my life or body or spirits in some sort of shambles, and the White Mountains never failed to provide triumph and revival. (Except for 2019. That year can go to hell.) I was grateful to Corrine and Eric for making this tour possible, and to Tyson for the generous offer to lend a fat bike to a stranger. Since nearly all of our Christmas trips have been on foot, it's been a hot minute since I've ridden a bike in the Whites. So fast! So fun! 

Skies were overcast with light flurries and occasional breaks of sunlight. There was about an inch of fresh powder over the trail base, which had firmed up considerably since I hiked this way two weeks earlier. It took us about an hour and a half of leisurely pedaling to reach the mile 11 trail shelter, where I reminisced about the five-hour battle I'd endured to reach this point on March 10. 

"Bikes sort of feel like cheating," I mused to Corrine.

The light was flat and featureless, making for more difficult navigation because the trail base was never obvious. We started using the term "Braille Trail" for lines we had to feel out with our wheels, moving as slowly as necessary to gauge the path. Corrine likes to surge ahead but eventually became frustrated with doing all of the navigation, so we took turns leading. 

There was one brief section of overflow at the Wickersham Creek crossing. I became more alarmed than necessary — one of my first indicators that anxiety, though meaningfully diminished, was still with me. In my defense, I'd seen overflow here two weeks earlier and the fact the area was still wet meant there could be rotten ice. We could even see flowing water through a couple of holes in the ice. Of course, this is a small creek and even breaking through to the bottom was likely to be thigh-deep at worst, and there was a cabin nearby, and the air temperature wasn't all that cold. Still, I trembled as I pulled on my waders while Corrine bravely scouted the crossing. 

A leisurely lunch at Borealis cabin, a few more pedal strokes, and suddenly we were at Caribou Bluff — the cabin I'd failed to make two weeks earlier because I was so shattered after walking 19 miles in 9 hours. This time, we reached the mile 28 cabin with energy and daylight to spare. I hiked to the ridge to take photos of Eric and Betsy approaching the cabin. 

Skies cleared and the sun came out for early evening libations (I was down to the last of the cinnamon tea that Mark donated to my hiking endeavor during my first White Mountains trip. I would have killed for an afternoon coffee, which I'm still depriving myself of on orders from my therapist.) 

Eric seemed somewhat indifferent to the biking part of this trip (he admitted that he doesn't love long sloggy rides) but relished in the cabin chores. These chores include gathering, sawing, and stacking an impressive haul of firewood. I tend to be lazy when it comes to this tedious labor and will opt to spend long hours on the trail and then wear my puffy suit inside cabins just to minimize the need for indoor heat. Eric, on the other hand, carries snowshoes and a hand saw on his bike and will gleefully stomp into the woods to find the best stashes of "standing dead" black spruce trees. I felt some obligation to help him out and did enjoy the hauling part of firewood collection — the best part. These trees don't look so large, but they're heavy, and hoisting them through thigh-deep snow without snowshoes made me feel like a badass.  

The sunset was subtle but lovely. As skies cleared, temperatures began to plummet. It was 5 below by the time darkness fell. The four of us squeezed into the tiny cabin, not much larger than a typical walk-in closet. 

Top bunks don't treat me well, and I tossed and turned through a lousy night of sleep. But the benefit of insomnia in Alaska is more opportunities to catch the elusive Aurora Borealis. This display erupted suddenly when I was already outside and walking along the trail to burn off some insomnia jitters without disturbing the others in the tiny cabin. I wasn't quite dressed well enough for an extended stay in the 15-below night without mittens or a hat, but I tucked my hands into my coat to warm them enough for a few phone photos. 

Witnessing the lights dance over these jagged limestone summits is a spiritual experience. My brain sent out subtle warnings that my hands and feet were in trouble (I was also sockless in my hiking boots, having failed to locate my socks in the dark.) But in my mind, there was a powerful urge overriding these signals, a drive to sprint toward the northern horizon and throw my arms into the air to release the bursts of joy that demanded to be freed. 

Corrine and Betsy had expressed a desire to be woken up if the lights were out. I regret not doing so, but in my defense, I was reluctant to disturb anyone's precious rest when sleep had been so elusive for me. By the time I made my way back to the cabin — shooting one last photo before my fingers stopped working entirely — the aurora faded as quickly as it began. My friends, rising to use the outhouse at other hours of the night, reported that the lights didn't seem to come out again. 

Even lacking sleep, it had been a beautiful night and I felt revived the next morning. It was a short 10 miles to our next cabin, and I was already scheming bonus miles (maybe to avoid those tedious cabin chores. You'll never prove it, Eric!) Temperatures hovered around 10 below as I pedaled up Fossil Creek. I know it's a good morning when the individual hairs on my nose freeze.

The Fossil Gap Trail was a new-to-me route, one of the few connectors in the White Mountains Recreation Area that I had yet to travel. It was fun to explore new territory, so I used the excuse of bagging other new-to-me trails to extend the day's ride — the Colorado Creek Trail, and if I had time, the Big Bend climb all the way to the point on the ridge where I gave up and turned around during a day ride back in 2013. 

It was such a lovely day, and the trail conditions were superb. I knocked out the 9 miles to the junction in just over an hour. The temperature had risen to 0 degrees. In the high March sunlight, it felt oddly warm, even hot. 

I continued another 12 miles, starting with the gradual climb along Colorado Creek. This broad valley is windswept and desolate with only a few patches of stunted spruce trees to break up a daunting expanse of white. Lacking wind protection, the faint trail is rippled with sastrugi. I don't think the Big Bend Trail sees much use and is probably almost always buried in drifts. A soft base with endless collapsing speed bumps makes for strenuous pedaling. I was feeling strong and determined to stay in the saddle as long as possible, so I queued up a 10-minute-long song by Metric, "Doomscroller," which includes a fast-paced repetition of the line "Don't give up."

I'm a true doomscroller

I can't seem to shut it down

Until the worst is over

And it's never over ...

A couple of miles past Colorado Creek cabin, the route makes a sharp left turn to take the direct route over a ridge dividing Colorado Creek and Beaver Creek. In two miles the trail gains nearly 1,000 feet of altitude, topping out with impressive views of a wilderness that stretches a hundred miles to the Yukon River and beyond. I had burned most of my energy matches battling the wind drifts, but was still determined to reach the summit, so I left Doomscroller on repeat. For a song that starts so mean and despondent, it segues beautifully into a soft, hopeful redemption. As I marched, I breathed out the lyrics that I'd come to hear as a reflection of my own mental health recovery.

Take this for the heartache

Not some cure to negate it

More like a magnification mirror, full-size

Inner reverberation happens outside.

I left the bike at the last tripod on the hillside. There, the trail steepened to a veritable headwall, and I thought I might need my hands free to crawl up it. Finally, I gained the ridge and continued hiking along the broad spine to the high point, a place where I remember turning around during a 70-mile day ride in 2013, having determined that this trail was ridiculous. Strange that another ten years passed and I still hadn't attempted to link it together. Or perhaps it's strange that I'm still here, walking this remote and foreboding ridgeline, ten years past a point of no return.

A Snicker's bar restored my energy (I was still trying to choke down my two-week-old trail mix with limited success, but I did bring some candy this time.) When Metric revved up the tempo, I started running, punching deep boot holes in the barely-there trail. When the song neared its refrain, I surprised myself by bubbling over with emotion, dropping to my knees, and releasing an ugly, snot-soaked cry that I now recognize as sudden grief.

Whatever you do,

Either way, we're gonna love you,.

Never mattered,

Either way, we're gonna love you,

Never mattered,

How many or how much more you've been through. 

It struck me that the love I feel in these wild, frozen, foreboding spaces is the dream of universal love, a love that stretches beyond embodiment, beyond time, beyond even the great and unknowable ... beyond. For all of our striving, isn't this all any of us want — to feel a love we know can't be lost, and to feel worthy of such love? Strangely, out here in a place so inhospitable to life including my own, I understand that I have this love, that I've always had this love, that I am this love. 

When grief finds me, I understand this love all too well. It is pain as much as it is joy, because embodiment means accepting that everything is impermanent. It was all so intense that I felt weak in every muscle, briefly wondering if I'd find the strength to stand. The intensity of emotion washed over me and I mustered the final steps to the high point. Up there, I experienced a clarity of mind and vision so different from the brain fog that still hangs heavy over my memories of this winter. It was as though I'd been splashed with cold water and was finally waking up. 

The ride back to Wolf Run cabin was nearly all downhill with a tailwind, and I was feeling triumphant after the emotional cleansing. It was somewhat difficult to switch back from "seeking the wisdom of the mountains" mode to social mode, so I spent a bit more solo time sitting outside on the porch with my stove, melting snow. Wolf Run was in a gorgeous setting and I wished I could move here and live out my days in a tiny cabin, melting snow or collecting water from creeks, subsisting on berries and rice and lentils, collecting downed trees, and chopping wood. I don't love chopping wood but I would learn to love it just to spend my life with these wise mountains.  

It was fun to return to the warm indoors and have lighthearted conversations with my friends. Day three was to be a long day — 45 miles with 4,000 feet of climbing — so everyone was motivated to go to bed early. I finally got a good night of sleep, with just one trip to the outhouse to scan the sky for Aurora. There were subtle hints of green light to the north, but most of the sky was already obscured by high clouds. 

In the morning, we started out on another new-to-me trail, Windy Creek. This trail is gorgeous, climbing through a narrow valley beneath forested hills and jagged limestone spires. 

The trail skirts over a saddle at Windy Gap before descending to connect with Fossil Creek Trail and the classic White Mountains loop. The race had started earlier that morning, and we expected to see our first racers soon. 

Our group was a little more staggered on this day, with Betsy setting out first and Corrine and Eric determined to photograph every one of the 80-something racers on the course. I was a little nervous about navigating such "crowds," but 80 people and a few volunteers on snowmobiles are not actually all that many people when stretched out over 30-something miles. It was still a quiet ride and a lovely day despite the gray skies. 

When high noon sunlight finally did break through the clouds, the colors were subtle but surreal. In this photo, I was battling my way across the "Ice Lakes," which had drifted with shin-deep snow. A strong headwind swept down the valley, stirring up more powder. Two snowmachines passed and within minutes their tracks disappeared. 

The difficulty eased as the trail pitched upward toward Cache Mountain Divide. I spent about a half hour on the summit, snacking on crackers and waving at racers as they passed. 

Corrine approached and we started the descent together. 

We pulled over for dozens of racers. This is the lead woman Ana, who was the only biker I saw running while pushing her bike up the steep and soft final pitch to the Divide. Impressive. 

A few miles down the trail, I stopped for a biker I didn't recognize until she said, "Oh, hey, Jill." I was surprised to realize it was Missy Schwarz, who is one of the few women to have finished the 1,000-mile Iditarod Trail on a bike. I asked her how she was doing and she said, "I've never been in so much pain in all of my life."

This, too, was a surprising statement from someone who has ridden a bike to Nome, so I scrunched my forehead in confusion. "What? Why?"

She pointed to a jagged wound on her cheek, crossed with fresh stitches. "Stabbed myself in the face two days ago. Fuck it hurts."

Despite the fact she was racing, she stopped for 10 minutes to tell me the long story about how she was using her knife as a tire lever while tuning up her bike, how she felt it slip and watched the blade fly toward her face, how she missed her only good eye by inches, and fun fact, her other eye is nearly blind from a past bout with a virus. 

"Damn, that could have been life-changing," she mused, laughing about nearly becoming fully blind as she pulled out an eight-pack of mini powdered donuts and proceeded to eat all of them.

"I'm really bonking but it hurts to chew," she mumbled as white powder puffed out of her mouth like snow. "This was a dumb thing to do; why do we do such dumb things to ourselves?"

I shrugged. I was admittedly feeling envious. Not about the facial wound or terrible pain, but I was starting to wish I was a racer moving toward the long night. But I love Missy. The fun encounter made my day, and apparently, the powdered donuts made hers.

"I felt a lot better after that," she told me later. She'd go on to finish strong in less than 15 hours. 

The fun racer encounters continued, especially when I got to the runners, who were generally more than ready for a break at mile 30-something and willing to stop and chat for several minutes. I was feeling genuine FOMO for the White Mountains 100, which is such a fun scene. I do hope I have the opportunity to return again. I am going to find that perfect run, mark my words! 

Our last cabin was Crowberry, which is at the top of a bluff nearly a thousand feet higher than the crossing at Beaver Creek, with a fair number of rolling hills in six miles. Corrine, ever the optimist, had told Betsy that the ride was "all downhill" from the Divide. I'm not sure I got my warning out that the route is absolutely not all downhill from there, but since I know and already love this part of the trail, I didn't mind the climb. I had a nice chat with the sweeper for the race, who was napping in the cabin when I arrived. He was wearing a WM100 hat from 2012 and told me he used to work the 80-mile aid station, where he was always flabbergasted at the horrible condition of the runners who stumbled in and languished at the cabin. I have been a part of all of that scene, from the 2012 race to being a sad runner at Borealis, so I was a little bit hurt when he didn't remember me at all. 

That evening, everyone trickled in slowly, with Eric arriving more than two hours later. I moved as much wood as I could into the cabin, started a fire, and melted a pot of water for the group to use for dinner. Betsy arrived with wet base layers and a somewhat shell-shocked demeanor but seemed to perk up as soon as she got out of her wet clothes and had something to eat. Just as the gray sky faded to dark gray, flurries started to fly. I checked the weather on my InReach and saw that the forecast for the region was calling for 3-5 inches of snow on Monday. I didn't tell my companions because while some information is good — like knowing about the thousand-foot climb at the end of the day — some is just going to wreck a night of sleep. If it snowed, it snowed, and there wasn't much we could do about it now. 

Indeed, we woke up to about two inches of fresh powder in the morning, covering up a trail that had considerably softened in warm temperatures and heavy traffic the previous day. Betsy was stressed. We had 26 miles to ride back to the trailhead, and she was convinced we'd push our bikes the entire way and she'd miss her midnight flight, which was also when I was flying out. Her worry was understandable, but it wasn't exactly my dilemma (missing my flight would be a hassle but not that bad. I missed Beat, who had been home for several days after returning from his seventh successful walk to Nome. But there was nothing pressing on my schedule, and I certainly don't mind walking 26 miles. I'd have probably come here with my sled if I thought I could make the mileage.) 

Still, because Betsty was so worried, my own anxiety seemed to absorb the negative energy. Suddenly I felt jittery and nervous. I even began trembling. It's so strange to experience something like this — to tell yourself that you're actually not scared, that it doesn't matter, but have your body reject this truth and launch the panic response anyway. 

Everyone perked up after we left the cabin and discovered that the trail was still reasonably rideable. Drifting snow meant we had to hike most of the climbs, and the trail was often impossible to pick out of a blank expanse of white — true Braille trail. We traded the lead for a while, but after a long descent, I ended up in front. I found navigation to be a rewarding game — puzzling out my line in the powder, sometimes choosing poorly and toppling over, but more often feeling like I was zipping through the clouds, dipping and weaving along an invisible path. 

By the time I finished the last long climb to the intersection with the Wickersham Wall, I was in a great mood. It had been a fun day, and now the snow was coming down hard and that was exciting. This Monday of the White Mountains 100 was so much like my Monday in 2019, with the unexpected dump of fresh powder and Braille trail that upended my race. But now I had no animosity, and it felt like redemption in its own way. That year can still go to hell ... yet, isn't this what we seek from these wintry landscapes? We can prepare and plan and train to the heights of our human ability, but nature has the final say. 

From what I gathered later, Betsy did not feel the same way and was ready to be done with the "most miserable day ever." I admit that I worked for years to reach this level of Zen. There's little left in the White Mountains to surprise me, and thus little left that can break me ... except for overflow, for which I retain an irrational fear. But it was empowering to realize this — a foreboding winter landscape can't break me. So why do I let my anxiety break me? It's a difficult lesson to hold onto when the sea monster has wrapped its tentacles around me, but it's true. 

Just over a mile from the finish, I had my second encounter with my friend Tom, who was running his first-ever 100-mile ultramarathon in order to complete the White Mountains "trifecta" (finishing the race by ski, bike, and foot.) The Monday snow had upended his race as well. He was behind his hoped-for pace and "in so much pain." I regarded him with the deepest empathy — I have been there, standing right there, in this exact spot, and at nearly the exact same time of day, feeling something very much like what he seemed to be feeling. There is also great freedom in running a hundred miles. It hurts — so damn much — but it too doesn't break you. 

Ultimately it took about six and a half hours to ride the 26 miles out. Thick, wet snowflakes came down hard for the final hour, absolutely soaking everything I was wearing. These warm storms can be so deceiving because once you're wet, 32 degrees with a light breeze will feel like the coldest weather ever. I arrived at the trailhead about an hour before my friends. Even after stripping everything off and pulling my puffy suit over my naked body, I was still freezing. But I enjoyed waddling around and chatting with volunteers at the finish line.

This long, meandering blog post doesn't have a moral. Writing it was mainly an excuse to relive this trip, which was so rewarding with the perfect mixture of fun bike riding with friends, cabin relaxing, introspective slogging, and reminiscing about my favorite race. I am so grateful to Corrine, Eric, Betsy, and Tyson for giving me this gift. I may not be cured of mental strife, but I feel better than I have in a long time. 

Waking up every day just a little bit changed

Something about March 15 seems to flip a switch in Alaska, and suddenly it's spring. Daylight Savings Time stretched the evening twilight to nearly 9 p.m. Overnight, temperatures swung from consistently below zero to considerably above zero. When I bought a last-minute plane ticket out of Colorado, I scheduled my return flight for a week after my sled trip ... because if you're going to fly all the way to Alaska, you might as well make it count. I also hoped to invite myself on Corrine and Eric's weekend trip to Tolovana Hot Springs, a magical land I haven't had an opportunity to visit in six years. 

I worked all week, which meant my day-to-day in Fairbanks wasn't all that different from my boring routine at home. Only when I went outside, the air was sharp and clear, and it would hit me that I'm in Alaska — a thought that still evokes warm feelings after all these years. I had been enjoying the subzero weather and was openly disappointed when weather forecasts showed spikes into the 20s, much to the bewilderment of Alaska friends who have been languishing in the cold darkness since September. In a way, I had been languishing in the darkness since then, too. And I was only beginning to emerge amid this fierce Alaska version of spring, with its dense subzero air that brought peace and comfort. In the cold's echoing silence, I could hear all of the little sounds that remind me of the complexities in this world, the countless stories that are so easy to tune out. And in the cold's grasp, I could feel my life force surging through my body, battling to retain hard-won warmth — a reminder of the power it takes just to participate in this life.  

And I did snag that invite to Tolovana Hot Springs. Beat and I used to visit Tolovana every Christmas. After 2017, the area exploded in popularity and price, so it became too difficult to reserve one of the three cabins. My experiences through the first half of the last decade convinced me that the trail over Tolovana Hot Springs Dome is in fact the worst place on Earth. The 10.1-mile track is buffeted by continuous 40 mph winds that feel like death fire in the continuous 25-below cold. There is an old water tank with a small hole cut on the leeward side, placed as a meager wind shelter on a particularly exposed part of the ridge. In the past, Beat and I have hidden in there out of genuine concern for our survival. I didn't know what to expect from Tolovana now that spring had turned on the overhead lights, but I figured anything even marginally better than the Worst Weather on Earth would feel like summer.

Indeed, March weather allowed an easy trek over the Dome. My friends with bikes would probably disagree, as the trail was predictably drifted and very rough in spots. Some drifts were waist-high and uneven, requiring dance-like maneuvers to keep my sled from flipping over. But temperatures were warm-ish and the current wind was blowing at barely a whisper, although it was still breezy enough to necessitate a face covering on the Dome. 

The sled-dragging was much easier than it had been through the cold powder of the White Mountains one week earlier. I listened to "The Sweet Spot," a book about the psychology behind why humans purposefully seek out emotional turmoil and physical pain. I had mixed feelings about this book, mainly because parts of it held out a mirror I wasn't quite ready to gaze into. But it was well-researched and interesting. 

After four hours I arrived at the cute little Frame Cabin, apparently not far behind my friends who had to do a lot of bike pushing over the rough trails. 

We enjoyed a leisurely dinner and went to soak in the spring when it was still light out. Such abundance! Such luxury! I do love this place, but I will admit, much of its mystique lies in the foreboding approach and also the dim but magical light cast by the low-angle sun around Winter Solstice. I hope we can make it back next Christmas. 

Eric captured this photo of me leaving the following morning. I had a fairly rough night in the cute little cabin, which was quite small, necessitating me squeezing onto a narrow top bunk (since I did invite myself, I'm grateful to Corrine and Eric for squeezing themselves into the lower bunk so I could join.) Even though we only left the stove burning for a few hours, it felt like it was 100 degrees inside for much of the night. I was lying in a puddle of sweat on top of my sleeping bag. (As an aside, for the folks who are curious about my experience with Lexapro, this is one of the side effects. Night sweats. It happens even in my cool bedroom, so I am dreading this coming summer. This isn't a deal-breaker, nor is the nausea I still experience after taking the medication, but it's good to be aware of these lesser annoying details.)

Anyway, I eventually wandered outside in just a bra, underwear, and down booties. At that point, the wind was howling (a reason why I opted out of moving my sleeping bag outside) and it was 25 degrees. The windchill itself probably registered in that near-zero range, and it was exhilerating to skip through the snow, feeling free of the clutches of oppressive heat and yet impervious to the cold. This lasted maybe 10 minutes, and then finally my core temperature dipped low enough to sprint back inside and grab a few hours of sleep. 

The hike out was warm and lovely and felt even more comfortable despite the two big hills that rack up something near 3,000 feet of climbing. It didn't take much longer than the hike in, about 4:20, and I'd left an hour before Corrine and Eric to try to coordinate the finish. But there was still a lot of hike-a-bike on the way out, and Eric was dealing with a missing bolt in his rear axle that meant every hard pedal stroke risked dropping his back wheel. I'm sure he still bombed down these hills because he's crazy like that. (I'm too much of a coward to even try riding my sled. But I did do some jogging. I felt great.) 

Waiting for Corrine and Eric to arrive afforded an extra hour to hike along the nearly abandoned road and take in big views. I could have spent the whole day out here! 

I had planned to fly home to Colorado late that night. But even before Tolovana, I felt reluctant to leave this place where life felt so light and joy overflowed after such a long drought. Corrine invited me to stay one more week and join them on their three-night cabin trip in the Whites. I pointed out that their itinerary was even more ridiculous for a person on foot than the one I'd already attempted and failed. Corrine said it would be no problem, they already had a solution from local speedster and nice guy Tyson, whose wife had a fat bike I could borrow. Such luxury! Such abundance! I've already forgotten the model, but it was a light and comfortable rig with the perfect setup for my gear — as long as I left the luxuries at home. (For the most part, I did, but I still brought my puffy suit.) 

I had a lot of fun test the bike on local trails before my workdays. I had to pull a few strings to extend the stay, but ended up saving money by changing my plane ticket. Corrine and Eric were so generous to let me crash at their place for the better part of three weeks. I recognize how intrusive house guests can be and tried to stay out of their hair. I was so grateful for the opportunity. 

Another perk of staying so long was the many opportunities to view the Northern Lights. The sun has entered a particularly active period, so light displays have been more frequent and far-reaching. Fairbanks is one of the best places in the world to see the lights, due to its location under the "Aurora Oval," as well as its frequently clear skies and long, dark nights. In spite of this, sightings are still rare and take a degree of dedication, as the lights are rarely out for more than a few minutes at a time and can only be loosely predicted based on solar activity. 

On this particular night, March 21 — the first full day of spring — the geomagnetic field was expected to be quiet (level 2), and yet, just as I was settling in for another try at sleeping around 12:30 a.m., I caught this streak of light outside my window. 

I wish I brought better photo equipment, or at least tried to utilize my point-and-shoot, which requires finicky manual settings and a steady surface to set up for low-light images. But when the sky is dancing like this, photography feels particularly intrusive. A few blurry phone photos to remember the occasion are good enough. 

For nearly an hour, I walked up and down the street, marveling. The aurora borealis is, by far, the most intensely beautiful phenomenon I've experienced. No photograph or video can recreate the experience of standing as an infinitesimal being in an insignificant world and witnessing the universe come alive. The lights shimmer and dance and flow across the horizon, although all words are inadequate to describe how the Aurora Borealis moves. I feel like I've been given a glimpse into the beginning of time, the young universe expanding with unimaginable force. 

The following day was Corrine's birthday. Our friend Betsy arrived from Colorado for the cabin trip that they had been planning for months. We were all busy during the day but found time for a lovely sunset ride out Corrine's backyard trail. 

Happiness is ... friends and bikes and sunsets. 

If that wasn't enough, the night of March 23 brought an unanticipated and brilliant geomagnetic storm. Shortly after dinner, I caught social media posts from friends in Minnesota and Michigan, even Wyoming and Colorado, who were able to see the lights. It was still at least two hours from being fully dark in Alaska, but I tried to keep an eye on the sky. I had just about given up when Corrine texted me because she and Betsy had caught hints of the waning light show and were walking outside. 

By the time I geared up to join them, the lights were winding down, but it was still a nice display. They had just about faded entirely when Betsy and Corrine decided to go back inside. I decided to continue walking up the road, just in case. 

What happened next was astonishing — an explosion of light and color filled the sky. Scientists will tell you that the Aurora Borealis makes no sound, that it's impossible, but most viewers hear some sort of melody. To me, the Northern Lights sound like chanting Gregorian monks, a low-pitched rumble that increases in volume until I'm fully overwhelmed, ready to drop to my knees and repent for my insignificant human weakness in the presence of such grandeur. 

This is the low-quality phone video I shot for a few seconds before my fingers froze. It shows the way the lights dance. (You can hear a bit of sound as well, but I'm pretty sure that's the wind.) 

The expansive awe allowed me to fully step outside of myself, moving without a headlamp through the night until I ran out of road on which to walk. The dead end jolted me back to human awareness and I fell back into my body, which was already beginning to shiver in the cold. Searching for the links in the mind-body connection is such an interesting experiment. The intrigue is what drew me to endurance racing all those years ago. It's also what pushed me away when those mind-body connections seemed to sever and my brain turned on itself. I couldn't breach the barrier no matter what I tried. My brain tortured me with irrational fears and nonexistent terrors. It shoved me underwater. I couldn't fight back. I couldn't escape. 

But then I found something to lift my head above the water. With renewed clarity of thought, I was able to regain some control, to re-link a few of those broken connections. That something was medication, yes, but also — Alaska. Those expansive landscapes of the Far North, windswept and snowbound, wich always come to me in my best dreams. It's the darkness that reveals the most astonishing light. 

The body remembers what the mind forgets

On February 25, I was sure I would never feel happy or healthy again. A heavy despondency sat on my chest, keeping me anchored in bed long after the alarm I'd set because I knew I had to boost myself outside today. Finally, I rose to an empty house. Filtered sunlight cast strange shadows on the hardwood floor. Beat was in Alaska, set to start the Iditarod Trail Invitational the following day. It was a stressful few days after his flight was canceled, followed by high winds and a storm that meant he only escaped Colorado by the skin of his teeth. 

I'd been in survival mode since I drove home from Kanab on February 20. It was my second week on Lexapro. My doctor urged me to double the dose, which only seemed to double the terrible side effects — constant nausea, feeling so dizzy I had difficulty jogging, and some of the worst anxiety I'd experienced. My sleep was continuously interrupted by nightmares about mass shooters, and where did that even come from? That's not part of my trauma. Oh, brain. I want to be done with you. But there's no way to break up with your own brain. You can only kill it, which honestly (and I promise, I am fine now), starts to become a comforting daydream. These thoughts are as terrifying as they are darkly comforting — especially when I'm just starting an antidepressant, for which suicidal thoughts are a big red flag. I was eager for an appointment with my therapist on Monday. But since it was only Saturday, I rallied all of my energy to visit my grumpy emotional support mountain, Niwot Ridge. 

I love Niwot Ridge because as a mountain it's hard to love. Bland yet steep approach on a jeep road, a broad, almost featureless spine, littered with scientific equipment, and raked by constant, brutal winds. A light breeze on Niwot is 40 mph. Hurricane-force gales are common. Whiteouts, sastrugi, sketchy wind crust, exposed tussocks — there isn't a friendly step to be had. I used to feel terrorized by Niwot Ridge, but now that I know what to expect, I've come to find comfort in its raw, indifferent power. I imagine a Simon & Garfunkel lyric, set to the white noise of this video I shot in January: 

Hello, Niwot, my old friend

I've come to walk with you again
Into a wind that always blows
Toward a love that no one knows

Only to press deeper into your cold heart

Still apart

In a roar of silence.

I trudged to the end of the ridge, or at least to the point where the featureless plain narrows to a serrated knife with exposure that would be actual suicide for the likes of me. It's nearly seven miles one way and took me more than three hours. I hadn't noticed the time pass at all. I walked and breathed and felt the gift of being alive ... at least I told myself this is what alive felt like. 

"Life is easy when I am walking," I thought. "All I need to do is keep walking." 

I took this selfie in that happy moment of discovery. It's interesting to look at it now and see all of the pain reflected in my expression. I've come to think of this photo as "Healing process — selfie number one."

The week progressed. Beat's race started on February 26. His first night in Alaska was absolutely brutal, with temperatures swinging from 20 above to 35 below and more than a dozen cases of illness or frostbite — one severe — among racers. Beat had his own rough start with wet base layers amid the danger cold, but he's experienced enough at this point to cope with almost any challenge. He knows how much I fret about him when he's out there, and was great about keeping in touch via his satellite phone. 

As Beat continued along the Iditarod Trail, I settled into my days at home — up in the morning, breakfast, my one allowed cup of coffee that I cherish immensely, chores, some sort of exercise, work, dinner, reading, sleep. The nightmares were beginning to lessen. It was a boring routine and I was grateful for it. Predictability is one of the best coping mechanisms for anxiety. Yet I resented my brain for withholding so much joy. 

The following Friday, my friend Danni from Montana flew to Denver for a Rotary conference, so we made arrangements to meet up for breakfast and a run. I invited our friend Betsy to join us since she lives nearby. Betsy was in the midst of preparing for her first trip to Fairbanks. She and our mutual friends Corrine and Eric planned a three-night cabin trip in the White Mountains at the end of the month. Corrine had been trying to coax me to join, but I was reluctant. Travel has been so hard for me. Most of my recent mental health meltdowns were accompanied by travel. I couldn't commit.

And yet, Alaska's White Mountains are my favorite place in the world. That's probably not an exaggeration. I've put in well over a thousand miles — likely closer to 2,000 — winter hiking and biking in those shrubby, low-lying hills. It's a lot for a place I've never lived — a level of dedication I've shown to no other place save for the Iditarod Trail. On February 10, when I was nearly at the lowest point in my mental health, Corrine mentioned applying for cabins. I thought, "March 10 ... that would be a realistic weekend to fly out to Alaska." 

The online reservation system requires people to reserve cabins up to 30 days ahead of time — no more. They're usually snapped up the minute they become available. Of course, I'd forgotten that February only has 28 days, so by the time I looked on February 10, March 12 was already open. I impulsively reserved what was left on March 10 and 11. The itinerary was not really doable in the mode I wanted to travel, which was walking — 28 miles on day one, 45 miles on day two, zero miles on day three, and 26 miles on day four. (I had to reserve the same cabin twice. It was the only one still available, and they were both too far away for a comfortable overnight.) At my usual 2-2.5 mph sled-dragging pace with no prior training, it was a ridiculous ask.

"It's okay because I'm not going to fly to Alaska anyway," I thought and closed the browser on my phone.  

But then Danni and I had such a nice visit, talking about the trials of midlife and how I thought my medication was finally starting to work, and Betsy contributed her own Alaska stoke. On Friday, March 3, I started having second thoughts. 

That's the long version of how I came to message Corrine on Monday, bought a plane ticket on Tuesday, and by Wednesday was jetting over the Inside Passage with my sled in cargo. Thursday brought daylong snowfall as I put my gear together and purchased way too much food. By Thursday night, there were four to five inches of fresh powder on the driveway. I walked into the frigid 10-below air to brush off my rental car twice. This was cold powder — the harsh, abrasive snow that acts like sandpaper under cumbersome sleds. My itinerary was hardly achievable in the best of trail conditions and now ... where did I even think I was going to go? Corrine thought for sure I was going to cancel my trip, but I could only shrug. I fear my inner monsters so much that I hardly have emotion left for the possibility of a bivy out at 20 or 30 below. Anxiety is strange like that. Being afraid of everything also means, in a way, I'm afraid of nothing. 

Indeed, almost no one had been out since the Thursday snowfall. There was the faint track of a person pushing a bike and even fainter tracks of recent snowmachines — mostly erased by a brisk wind that was still blowing. Temperatures at the trailhead were 3 below zero. I knew that was the warmest I was going to see all day. I strapped on my snowshoes and started trudging. My sled felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. Honestly, it was probably at least 60 pounds. I packed all of my fears. Tons of fuel — enough that I accidentally spilled almost half of it in my fuel bag (whoops) and still had enough for four days. I had enough trail mix that I continued to snack on it almost exclusively for the next three weeks. Every stitch of clothing I brought to Alaska. And of course camping gear. I was going to need it. I'd be lucky if I covered five miles today.

It was the trudgiest of trudges. My hamstrings burned. I continued to follow the solo bike track until I encountered two skiers who told me they were returning to the trailhead after a ten-day trip. Ten days! Out here! I eyed their now-empty-looking sleds with envy. I wish I could spend ten days out here. Snow shimmered and the sky reflected an almost otherworldly shade of sapphire blue. "This is what alive feels like," I thought. 

The trail almost entirely disappeared across wind-driven swamps. I was grateful for the solo biker; without their faint tracks, I may not have found the trail at all. Whenever one snowshoe left the trail base, I punched into loose powder up to my hips. Losing the trail was not an option. Time passed in the strange way it does now when I'm walking, where minutes become hours and vice versa. I looked at my watch and suddenly it was 4 p.m. I was nowhere near Caribou Bluff, my destination for the night. I did some math. "15 miles in 8 hours ... 13 more to go ... midnight?" 

Midnight honestly wouldn't be so bad if I didn't already feel so shattered. My legs were downright numb ... I know this feeling well now that I've been spending more time at the gym. This is what it feels like when I push my reps to the point of muscle failure. I was losing power and had to take more breaks just to catch my breath. Midnight was probably an overly optimistic guestimate. And where did I think I would go from there? My next day was supposed to take me 45 miles over the Cache Mountain Divide, which was almost certainly drifted in and likely unnavigable. My best bet for making it to my next cabin was to go back the way I came. Which meant camping tonight. The low in Fairbanks was forecast to be -5F to -10F. Anyone familiar with the White Mountains knows this means -30F easily in these valleys. 

I still felt okay with the prospect and marched down to Beaver Creek to find a good spot (even though camping higher is advised on cold nights, the wind was still blowing and I felt more secure in the wind-protected forests than up on these sparsely vegetated hills. Also, I was feeling strangely bold. 30 below? Ain't no thing.)

There was a good spot close to Borealis Cabin. Since I'd seen no other sign of life besides the skiers all day, I decided to check out the cabin. At the very least, I could melt water on the porch, where it's easier to manage my stove than in the snow. And if no one showed up by sunset, perhaps I could poach the cabin. If anyone showed up after dark and caught me, I could feign tears. 

I had just pulled out my stove when a biker rode up to the porch. He said he'd come from Wolf Run, some 20 miles up the trail. I told him about my camping plan and why I was sitting outside his cabin. He shrugged, said "okay," and without another word walked off to find firewood. 

Bummer. I admit I was hoping for an invite. Clearly, this man wanted his privacy. 

Still, I remained on the porch to finish melting three liters of water and cook a hot dinner and tea. He was gone the entire time, probably close to a half hour, and returned with only a few meager sticks of black spruce deadfall. I was packing up when he said, "You can stay here tonight if you want." 

I may or may not have put on my saddest puppy dog face before he said that. But I was extremely grateful for the prospect of shelter for the night. 

Mark turned out to be friendly and generous. An ER doctor from Fairbanks, he was a former White Mountains 100 volunteer and also a friend of Corrine's. We had a great night. He shared the charcuterie spread he'd brought for his final night on the trail — local sausage, crackers, Babybel cheese, and a delicious cinnamon tea. I lamented that I had nothing tasty to share, only my terrible trail mix. I had at least 10 pounds of it. Did he want some? Mark shook his head with a fervent no. 

It was, indeed, a very cold night. I got up a few times to use the outhouse (thanks, cinnamon tea), and each time my butt and thighs quickly went numb as my hands turned to claws. I remembered that yes, in fact, 30 below is very much a thing. Mark's firewood didn't go very far. I should have gone out to gather more, but I don't love to fuss about wood when I have a perfectly good 40-below bag to keep me comfy. Still, it was the least I could have done for Mark's generosity, as he only had a 32-above summer bag and as it turned out, forgot his sleeping mat. Mark's sticks burned out before we went to sleep. At one point in the night, I realized the interior of the cabin had dipped well below 32 degrees and pulled my drinking water into my sleeping bag to keep it from freezing solid. When I woke up in the morning, Mark was sitting up on the bunk, huddled in all of his coats and sleeping bag, nursing a thermos. But he seemed cheerful and said his sleep wasn't too bad. Fairbanksians are so tough. 

Hiking out in the morning when temperatures were still near 30 below. I think of this as "Healing process ... selfie number two." 

March 11 — a beautiful bluebird Saturday — was more of the same ol' drag with no traffic to help me break through the cold powder snow. Reaching Crowberry Cabin would require 27 miles of hiking and that's if I took the shortcut — called the Moose Creek connector, it doesn't see a whole lot of use. But at least the first part had been recently broken, so I gave it a go. 

The snowmachine turned around after three miles. With six more miles to go, I was fully breaking trail over the faintest hints of a trail base. Often I couldn't see anything at all. I tried to feel out the base with my poles, which were sharp enough that they poked through everything easily, so I had to just take steps of faith with my snowshoes. Plenty of these steps failed and I flailed. One mile took close to an hour. I was just about to give up and turn around when I encountered the strangest sight — people! And not just people, but a skier, a walker, and two bikers all breaking trail along this wide-open expanse of a hillside. They told me they were out training for the White Mountains 100. 

"We did not expect to see anyone out here," they exclaimed. 

"Nor did I," I replied.

This is their trail. It isn't great, but it is a trail. I was especially grateful for it in the more open areas, where I could still see no other indication of the trail base. How did they find it? No matter ... it is gratifying to see how the universe provides for our needs, even simple needs like shelter and trails. How had I so recently experienced the world as such a sinister place? 

It's difficult to describe the love I feel in these places that I love, even when I know they have no capacity to love me back. But what I've come to realize is that love is not necessarily limited to human experience. The sun began to set as I trudged to the end of the connector trail, still some 11 miles and likely six hours from my destination. My leg muscles were again going numb, my glutes screaming in protest, my back stiff and painful with every jerking tug of the thousand-pound sled. The human experience, I decided, is not the end-all. With all of these aging parts and misfiring emotions, it can even feel like an injustice. This is why I seek out big, empty expanses, and why I love to look at the sky. The more insignificant I become, the more I feel at peace with the inevitabilities of living — death, pain, the unknowable universe. I take comfort in the infinite beauty that will go on long after my broken self shucks off this mortal injustice. In its paradoxical way, this makes me feel immensely grateful for life.

Darkness fell. My legs weakened more. The route climbed onto a minor ridge where the trail was heavily drifted. Some drifts were knee-deep even with snowshoes. I was so sleepy; so hungry. I could not stomach any more of this trail mix. Just when I thought I might keel over, the universe opened up. Hints of green light reflected on the snow so I turned off my headlamp. I would no longer need it for the final five miles to Crowberry Cabin. Suddenly walking felt effortless, and there was nothing to do but walk, head craned skyward, marveling at the unknowable universe that was dancing, actually dancing, just for me. 

I did not try to capture many photos. It was still very cold and my fingers froze whenever I took out my phone for more than a minute, so these are just a few phone photos I grabbed while walking. That's how spectacular the Aurora Borealis was on this night. It did not demand stillness. It almost seemed to respond to motion. As I pushed myself to walk faster to warm my frozen extremities, streaks of emerald and white light spread out like waves across every horizon. 

I felt very, very lucky. And not even a hint of fear. I finally pulled into my cabin after 1 a.m. I started a small fire to dry my ice-encrusted gear and heated water on my stove. By the time I crawled into my sleeping bag my watch read 3:30 a.m. I felt disconcerted about how so much time passed without noticing, forgetting that 2 a.m. brought Daylight Savings Time and I was literally experiencing a lost hour. 

The following morning I awoke to much warmer temperatures — 10 above — and light flurries that seemed to accumulate another inch or two of powder overnight. I'd let myself sleep in as I'd managed to grab another cabin at the last minute — Moose Creek, which was 10 miles away. It was still going to take me five arduous hours to hike there, but all in all, an easy day. 

I was fatigued and a little puffy from the muscle strain of the 47,679 deadlifts I'd done since Friday. But personally, I can see a little more light in these eyes. "Healing process — selfie number three."

Moose Creek cabin might be my favorite cabin. It's in a rather unassuming spot compared to the big-mountain views of other cabins, but it sits perched on a hillside wit h a lovely overlook and big sky views. It has a comfortable interior and a lot of nearby "standing dead" spruce trees to make firewood collection easy. I finally did some wood collecting and sawing here, as I finally had the time and just a hint of energy. It seemed appropriate to "appease the cabin gods" as my friend Eric would say. What's funny is that after all of that work, I ended up just burning one of four bundles of grocery store firewood left behind by past users. 

The past cabin dwellers also left behind a single bottle of Smartwater, unopened, sitting on a shelf. Based on the lack of fresh snowmachine tracks, I guessed that no one had been there last night, so the bottle had likely been sitting there for at least 24 hours. And it had not been warm — already plunging to 2 degrees before sunset. Yet the Smartwater was clear and unfrozen. I stood a minute scrutinizing it, wondering if someone had filled it with alcohol. But when I grabbed the bottle, it instantly erupted in a swirl of ice crystals forming before my eyes. I've witnessed this phenomenon before — supercooled electrolyte-infused liquid not actually turning to ice until it's disturbed. I forget the chemical explanation for this, but it's mesmerizing. I placed the bottle, now nearly solid with ice, near the stove until it had thawed enough to be the most delicious, clear, cold water I have ever had the privilege of enjoying. 

The following day, I had a fairly easy 16 miles to hike out on a lightly dusted but broken trail with only a few deep drifts remaining along high points. I spent the day listening to "The Molecule of More" about how dopamine controls nearly every aspect of our lives. Brain chemistry is fascinating and endlessly complex. It's also both humbling and empowering to realize that so much of what I think of as "me" arises from these chemicals. I took medication to increase the availability of serotonin in my brain, and now mornings are bright and beautiful again. Dopamine drove me to seek more, more, more in the form of racing, but now I'm not so sure that drives me anymore. I'm not sure if anything drives me anymore. Living, I suppose. I think living should be enough. When you go any amount of time feeling like you're dying, living is more than enough. 

Damn, it was a beautiful Monday morning. I think it was cold and it's likely my legs hurt, but all I could think is, damn, it feels good to be alive. "Healing process — selfie number four."

Anxiety has been such a humbling, horrifying, and yet strangely humanizing experience. I know my battle with anxiety is far from over ... like the other injuries and scars I've accumulated, the body remembers. It remembers the traumas. Even the little ones. It remembers the abuse — all of the demands I made in search of more. But it also remembers grace and beauty, the expansive love that reaches far beyond my flawed human capacity to understand love. 

For now, this is what I remember first when I wake up in the morning. Beauty and love. I'm grateful.