Alaska Bike Girl

missing

2012-01-26T14:13:00.003-09:00

I have been neglectful. Shirked my responsibilities; missed my deadlines. But then, whose deadlines? It has been over a month since I last posted. No end-of-year summary. No proclamation of goals for the new year. No sonnets to the crunching January snow. No words of anticipation as we jetted off for Hawaii. So, here we are. A rainy day on Kauai with the ocean waves high as we watch the next storm approach from off shore.

We left over a week ago during one of Anchorage's snowiest winters, the temperatures below zero as we drove to the airport without our jackets. It's easy to forget about the rest of the country (and world) when we're relaxing in the middle of the ocean where our main concern is that our favorite fruit stand and fish markets are still in business. We haul ourselves back to reality with our technology and our almost compulsive need to watch The Daily Show & the Colbert Report.

As the heat of each day seeps ever deeper under our skin, it's easy to forget the cold that entered my fingers when I removed my gloves and fumbled for my car keys in my fanny pack. Was that not even two weeks ago when I last snowshoed? I didn't complain about the Vog (Volcanic fog) layer that covered the island when we hiked a few days ago, the humidity coating our skin as we climbed the Sleeping Giant. Instead, embraced it and ran partway down the mountain, testing my running legs on the leaf and branch-strewn trail. Even if I can't bike, I can at least run a bit.

I've managed to read two books since the trip began. I'll fill you in on some other things we've been doing and things I've been pondering since we started our trip. I'll try to do this with some timeliness. Though they don't call it "island time" for nothing.

Aloha.

relativity of pain

2011-12-21T23:50:00.002-09:00

This was my week of answers. And if you ever doubt that worrying won't make things better, I like to think that my worrying about a worst-case scenario for the shoulder has paid off in a better diagnosis than expected. The wait for the MRI report was mentally excruiating and I promise I won't schedule a Friday test again.

When I saw Dr Mike on Tuesday, he went over the written report with its medical terms like acromiom, subacromial and supraspinatus. A few terms I'd heard before, but I'd have to look them up online to remember what they were. What we were looking for was whether the labrum was torn. We went to the computer to look at the images and he pointed out all the places things were injured, reminding me that most of his earlier diagnoses were confirmed (like the impingement and swollen bursa).

He showed me that I did indeed have the labral tear, albeit a small one. Not as bad as when he tore his a few years ago when he crashed doing 50 mph on his snowmachine. (I love active doctors who get what it's like to be a patient.) He recommended a consult with a surgeon to confirm that it wasn't bad enough for surgery and to start treatment with a cortisone shot - but only when I was ready to commit to his regimen which I'd need to stick with for seven days to get the best result from the shot. Okay, I scheduled it for the next day - today.

At noon today, I let him do the shot into the right shoulder. After the assistant applied my Hello Kitty bandage (nice touch) I moved the arm around and massaged from the area of the injection toward any area where I felt pain for about two or three minutes. Then it was the ice pack for 40 minutes. It was a piece of cake. The worst part was driving home in my manual-transmission car. It fact, that's been one of the most painful things I do, but I can't just switch hands.

Now, my regimen for seven days is this: Contrast therapy (5 min. ice; 15 min heat; repeat) then apply his special "Dr Mike's Sports Cream," followed by 5 or so minutes of neck & shoulder stretches. I must do these four times a day! As I write, I have a heating pad on my shoulder - tip: oversized fashion scarves are great at holding a heating pad in place.

There are a few things I find interesting about this week's experiences. First, after I learned the tear was not as bad as I'd thought, the pain diminished throughout the day so that by evening it was not too bad. I'm fascinated by how involved my brain has been in interpreting my pain. Second, after reading over the MRI report at home, something was missing; I confirmed it with Dr Mike today - the rotator cuff is not torn after all!

I'm newly optimistic about the treatment, hoping that the shot and the PT will help me avoid surgery, hoping I have a faster recovery and am on the bike when the pavement clears. After all, I have places to ride, things to see and do, candles to burn on both ends. Those are some great thoughts for this solstice. I'm on the upswing.

Before I sign out, I want to thank you - my friends, family and followers - for your words of support and encouragement. It really helps to have you share your experiences and kind words. Happy return of the sun; and Happy Holidays! Cheers!

counting days

2011-12-17T12:08:00.001-09:00

This time of year, I count down the days. Not just the days until Christmas or the new year, but the days until that yearly shift when the days stop getting shorter and begin to get longer. We're now just a few days from solstice when we can begin counting as, imperceptibly at first, our daylight returns.

Far North Bicentennial Park, Dec 15, 2011

I'm noticing it even more this year as I turn to the vitamin D and try to get out a little during the daylight (I won't call it sunshine because that's been scarce). Last week's film fest and icy weather made me a little lazy, but this week I've been out three times on the snowshoes, stomping around Baxter Bog with one of my friends, then on my own in Bicentennial Park. But even my anticipation for solstice and the January trip Jon and I are taking has been a little dulled by my injury.

On a follow-up with my doctor on Wednesday, I told him I knew the recovery would be slow but the rest, physical therapy and daily exercises hadn't led to much noticeable change. He had me schedule another test. I almost cried at his office and regretted not having done the MRI right away, feeling I'd lost time in my recovery especially if it does reveal another injury. Surgery, he told me, is the only treatment if the labrum is torn. We scehduled the MRI for Friday.

After the visit, I ran an errand at New Sagaya's. While wandering among the saki sets and tea pots thinking about the ache in my shoulder, a song came on the sound system: 2000 Miles, by the Pretenders. What combination of tempo, melody and lyrics, I wonder, could make me feel so sad and reminiscent as this song did at that moment? I tried to not think about what the upcoming test might reveal, tried to not feel sorry for myself but swallowed the lump in my throat and headed for the nearest cashier. Save the tears for in the car or at home.

On Friday, I went in for the MRI. I tried not to think about the results as I lay inside the cylinder while buzzers went off and I closed my eyes, imagining 3-D slices cutting through my right shoulder. I focused on the different sounds the machine made, then stayed calm as the technician announced the next test over the intercom. Before and after the test, we chatted a little about bikes and biking, but I didn't feel so much enthusiasm as I felt reminiscent. Not really wanting to think of my favorite rides from last winter either on snow or ice. Knowing that one of the things I love about winter is out of my reach this year. I even miss skiing.

I'm hoping for the best, but trying to be realistic about what the next few months might look like. Whatever the MRI reveals, I won't be doing much dancing around a fire this solstice. There will be no midnight bike rides for the new year. I'm already trying to prepare myself for a different kind of Hawaii trip this time. One that involves less time in the water snorkeling & swimming and more time visiting cultural sites & resting with a book in my lap. We leave a month from today. Now I'll start counting the days and make sure I'm in shape for hiking.

Feb 2010 Waimea River, Kauai

side effects

2011-12-02T16:24:00.004-09:00

Injuries are not all bad. Since I began my shoulder rehabilitation, it has been much easier to glue my butt to my favorite chair and write for several hours at a time. Some days I don't write as much, but I'm seeing progress on a longer piece I'm working on. Is it a novel or novella? Time and a little guidance will tell.

I'm reminded of a novel I read while on my trip in October. The premise was great but I often felt the author was drawing out the story through needless repetition. Sometimes repetition works, but to me it bogged the story down. At the end of the book was a Q&A where the author explained that the novel had originally been a short story upon which he elaborated. Aha! I felt kind of cheated, like I should have been reading a series of short stories instead of a novel that didn't keep me awake in my tent.

So I'm trying to be careful with my story so that it keeps moving along. While I'd shared the premise of the story with Jon, I hadn't yet shown it to anyone. Then I had an unusual opportunity to edit a story for a friend. My friend Mika lives in Japan and travels the world as a journalist, including trips to the Middle East and other Asian regions. Her stories are published only in Japanese-language publications. This fall she made a trip to London to research a story about a male belly dancer of Turkish descent who had grown up on the island of Cyprus.

The dancer, named Ozgen, wanted to read her story, however Mika doesn't typically write in English so she asked if I would edit her translation. I read over her story trying at first to not think about what I would change, but just to get the sense of it. Despite instances where the word order was complicated and a few cases of missing pronouns and articles, I could usually understand what she was saying. In some cases, even though her word order didn't follow typical construct for English, I liked her descriptions better than any 'correction' I could have made. It seemed that changing it too much would have taken away her voice and her unique way of seeing things. I made my edits and emailed the revision along with a few questions I still had.

After she cleared up my questions and sent the story to Ozgen, she told me he'll be posting it on his website. I haven't seen it there yet, but you can find some pretty cool videos of him dancing!

Now, about the 'time and guidance' I mentioned earlier. I asked Mika if she could provide some advice to me on the story I'm writing. The one that may be a novel. Because some of the characters are in Japan, and because it deals with historical & contemporary issues, I've asked if she can confirm some of the elements of the story. I'm concerned about the sense of place and how I represent the characters. While I'm trying to decide when to schedule a visit, my research has been limited to the internet and the Loussac library. Both are helpful, but there's nothing like being there.

With a commitment made, I spent the early part of this week cleaning up a draft of the first section of the book before I emailed it (along with a list of my intentions and concerns) to Mika on Thursday. This is the farthest I've gotten in creating a work of fiction longer than my many unresolved short stories. But, now I feel compelled to finish it. Mika has promised to help, telling me most eloquently: "It is important to have readers as an escort runner to finish the book." I await her edits.

thanksgiving in anchorage

2011-11-21T21:53:00.001-09:00

November temperatures have plummeted, leaving Anchorage below zero for several days, with a slight respite on Sunday when it crept to 10 above and some declared it a heat wave. We have over a foot of snow, which I much prefer to last year's chinook when the streets were a glaze of water-covered ice. That was the day I drove to the Valley to pick up our Alaskan-raised turkey for Thanksgiving dinner.

There will be no local turkeys roasting in ovens this year (unless people raised one themselves) and as our guest list grows, I imagine we bought too small and may need to grill a little salmon to supplement the turkey. Whenever we host Thanksgiving, we seem to invite so many people that some of them need to bring their own plates. Even though I usually like my quiet space, on holidays, I think I revert back to the chaos of my childhood when there was a house filled with all us kids and maybe some cousins, aunts and uncles.

Up until a week ago, we weren't sure what we were doing. My sister moved away from Anchorage to Montana earlier this fall and my niece and nephew plan to spend the holiday with their dad. We hadn't received any invitations, and it was only after Jon bought one of the smallest turkeys at the store that I suggested we should figure out what we were doing. So Jon started asking people at the shop and I invited a couple friends who didn't have solid plans. The list started growing and is open to expand.

As the guest list grows, I look forward to the house being filled with conversation and laughter and food - all the makings of a traditional holiday, with the Alaskan twist.

I haven't been in the Lower-48 for the holidays since I moved here in '94, but I'm sure not much has changed in how most people spend holidays there. Many go back to their hometowns to be with family, several generations gather around the dining room table. Card tables are set up to handle the overflow. It's a little different here. Sure, plenty of people have extended families here, but lots of people don't and many of them don't want to deal with the hassle of traveling to visit family Outside* during the craziest flying days of the year.

So people build their own families for celebrations. Co-workers who have become friends. For us, biking friends. Where in the Lower-48 people feel a little awkward being the 'orphan' invited to a family gathering out of sympathy (also common for chechakos** to feel this way), here it's an attempt to create a community and maybe it's a way to support each other as we begin settling into the darkest, coldest time of year. I think everyone should have a place to go for Thanksgiving. I love these gatherings that bring together people from different backgrounds and geographic regions for a big feast. It's as Alaskan as blueberry pie.

*anyplace in the United States except Alaska and Hawaii, aka 'The Lower-48.' Not to be confused with: 'It's 20 below outside!' where the word is not capitalized.
**a newcomer to Alaska (similar to greenhorn or tenderfoot) Opposite of a 'Sourdough.'

oh, my shoulder!

2011-11-13T18:14:00.000-09:00

Mention the slightest ache to my cycling friends and they're bound to fill me in on a similar injury they've had. Some have been healed with the help of a good physical therapist, some swear by injections, still others detail surgeries and rehabilitations that brought them back from the sidelines. Now I'll have a story for them.

This summer and fall, I would sometimes mention 'my picky shoulder.' Let me back up: I was helping excavate the foundation, and could only shovel so much before I'd have to take a break. I felt terrible for not digging more and not being able to throw the dirt very far but my shoulder had begun to hurt. Then I began helping with trail work at Kincaid Park, using the loppers or the McLeod, sometimes chopping with the Pulaski. Again, the shoulder would get aggravated, but I could deal with the pain, then rest it and get back to work. Then I did a ride on part of the new singletrack and took a spill - okay, I endoed - on a steep section. After my hands hit the freshly-sculpted dirt, I brushed myself off and hopped back on the bike to finish the ride. No big deal.

In late September, I took the Fargo - my drop-bar mountain-touring bike - to Eklutna Lake for a camping trip. That's where things got worse. Pulling the Bob trailer and not having suspension was not so bad, but having my arms extended for the road-style handlebar had me nearly in tears once I got home from the trip. I did some icing; took something for pain and tried to ignore it. I also avoided trail work and stayed off the bike for a few days. I had a Utah trip to prepare for. I needed to not hurt.

Before packing my bike for the early October trip, I did one final mountain bike ride on the new trails at Kincaid. I took it easy, careful to not launch off any of the little jumps that are featured on the trails. The shoulder felt pretty good and even seemed to get better throughout the trip. But after returning to Anchorage and doing a few more rides, the recovery seemed to plateau at the 'nagging-pain' level. I had to find out what was going on. So this past Wednesday, I went to see Dr. Mike, the guy I see when I hurt myself or when my sinuses are acting up.

Let's just say that Dr. Mike confirmed my suspicion. And then some. Bursitis in the right shoulder (I thought that was for old people!) and a small tear in the rotator cuff. Ouch! I have a friend whose rotator tear was healed through physical therapy; a few more have gone through surgery. But I can't even start the recovery until the swelling subsides. (Dr. Mike said the bursa is normally the size of a dime but mine was the size of a ping-pong ball!) My regimen for the first week is to ice the shoulder six times a day for 30 minutes each time. That's practically a part-time job! I'm applying an anti-inflammatory cream (it's just a coincidence that the manufacturer is ENDO Pharmaceuticals) and an oral anti-inflam. The other part of my regimen is to rest the shoulder. And that's the tough part.

I'm not going to ski; not going to bike; not shoveling snow, not lifting heavy dishes onto high shelves. Wait, did you hear that I'm not going to be biking? That's right. It's snowshoes for me until further notice. Today I even had one of my friends pick up my Mukluk snowbike so I won't have to look at it sitting neglected in the corner of the guest room while we have these awesome snow conditions.

I hope to make the most of my non-biking time. I'm already snowshoeing more than I would have. I'm also dedicating a little more time to writing, applying a little sitzfleisch, you could say. As long as I keep myself busy and keep the word counts up, I think I can deal with a little time off the bike. I'll let you know how that goes.

utah images, with more words

2011-10-28T20:14:00.003-08:00

When we last left our story, I had completed a 5-day organized trip in the Canyonlands/Maze area of Utah. The last day is always the toughest as I hate for such adventures to end...

After the five-day organized trip ended, most of the group headed into town (Green River) to Ray's for a burger and a few pitchers of cold brew. Nothing like a bacon cheeseburger after a few days on the trail, not that the guys didn't feed us well. Believe me, we were never wanting for food or beverage. But sitting at a table after having showered and put on a dress to show off my new tan (it wasn't just dirt) made me feel pretty darn special.

The next day, Lori, Bev and I bid farewell to our friends, got a few items in Green River (including some luscious melons) and hit the road, heading south toward Moab. We made a side trip into Arches where a half-hour hike turned into a nearly two-hour adventure (I don't know how that happens) to Delicate Arch. We visited a few more arches before retreating to the car and driving to Moab to get food for the next few nights of camping out.

A rare moment when the arch isn't overwhelmed
with a bunch of tourists, Divas included!

Lori and I pose inside one formation with Delicate Arch in the background.

Heading south, we noticed some deer crossing signs and had our eyes peeled, but the first time I spotted one, standing sideways in the middle of the highway, I slammed on the brakes and we were all a bit stunned. After the deer left the roadway, I saw three or four more waiting in the ditch next to the guardrail. We would have to be vigilant. We'd spot a deer, slow down and hope for no collisions.

In Blanding, a closed visitor center had us a bit worried since we hadn't yet figured out where to camp, but outside the restroom Lori found a brochure with a list of sites. Could we make it before dark? Luckily we could and we did, watching for deer the entire time!

It took a long time for the sun to peek over the canyon wall.
Bev and Lori enjoy coffee at Comb Wash.

The next morning, after coffee and a little something to eat, we hit the road once again. Just a few miles onto a two-lane road through grazing land, we came up a rise and in front of us was the largest elk I've ever seen. (Come to think of it, I've only seen elk from far in the distance.) He stood sideways in the center of the road looking at us as I again slammed on the brakes and all our gear slid forward in the car. Now we were awake! He strolled off the road and I began to accelerate, but it took a few minutes before our adrenaline had settled down. Soon, we were at the switchbacks in the road that would lead to Mexican Hat and which provided vistas for miles to the south. We could see as far away as Monument Valley.

Not as narrow as it initially looked.

I chatted with a few geologists who were making sketches at one of the switchbacks. Students? Turns out they were working for an oil company studying the layers of the rock formation because it resembles a formation that is submerged in the ocean and is a prospect for drilling. Interesting.

Moving along, we skipped a canyon hike in Page in favor of getting closer to Zion so we could spend the next day there. We did stop in Kanab for camping information and to have dinner at Nedra's Too, a little Mexican place which had outdoor seating and wifi. My, how times have changed since Jon and I first rolled into that town over 10 years ago. Of course I wished we had more time to check out the town, but we needed to find our campsite.

When we reached the campground at Coral Pink Sand Dunes we learned it was full! Now what? I asked the ranger if there was anything else nearby. He gave directions and sure enough we had passed a small dry campground (no water available) on the way to that one. We quickly set up our tents in the fading light then Lori and Bev gathered enough wood for a small fire where we could toast our final night of camping.

The moon had yet to rise and the stars shone through the clear skies as the temperature dropped. We made plans for an early start and retired to our tents. I jotted down some notes, then read for awhile, but it seems I had a very good sleep that night, one of my best sleeps of the entire trip, but that's another story. The next day, we would drive the tunnel into Zion, spend the afternoon in the park then head south for our final night.

After driving through the tunnel into Zion, Lori & Bev snap photos.

The thing about Zion. Zion was crowded. Maybe not by summer or Lower-48 standards, but for me it was crowded. The shuttle buses taking us up the road to the short hiking trails were nearly full . We chose a hike to some pools. It was a rocky trail, a slightly challenging hike for people who don't hike at all, but pretty easy for us. But when we got to the pools, they were noisy with families and children yelling. I don't know what I expected, but our destination was not a peaceful respite.

Continuing our thru-hike, we stopped off the side of the trail for a little lunch then took a little side trip on a trail that soon dead-ended.

After our lunch we detoured onto a trail that dead-ended due to a
washout. Nobody was there. The pond drained over the ledge...

...creating this waterfall.

I could have stayed there for some time. Returning to the main trail, we found that the second half of the route was paved! That would explain the baby strollers I'd seen! No wonder there were so many people - the route was set up to make it accessible to almost anyone. Which is actually a beautiful thing: families and elderly grandparents enjoying an outing; it was quite unexpected. But I could have gone for a less-traveled route where there would have been room to relax in quiet contemplation. Not something you'll get on the developed trails.

Into a canyon with lots of other hikers.

But I did enjoy the sun and the heat and sitting on a green lawn at the visitors' center. Another hike in a canyon followed by a bus ride back to the parking lot and we were ready again to hit the road, driving through Hurricane and hopping on the interstate, navigating through Las Vegas until finally we reached Boulder City. I'm a creature of habit: when I find something I like, I keep going back. Pulling into the parking lot at El Rancho was one step from being home.

The room at El Rancho had plenty of space to spread out. Before we did anything else, we packed our bikes back into their boxes for the next day's flight. I was tired and hungry and irritable. I didn't know what I wanted to do next: dip in the pool, eat dinner, crash? So I took a walk. I walked toward downtown where cafes have sidewalk seating. It's a town Jon and I have visited several times as we've begun or completed vacations in the southwest. I took a seat in front of a breakfast cafe, melting in the 90 degree heat even though it was after 8pm. I wasn't just tired and hungry; I missed Jon and I was ready to go home.

Back at the hotel, Bev and I ordered food from a local restaurant. When it arrived, I looked at it and wondered why I'd ordered so much. The kabobs and rice also came with a huge salad. Plus the woman at the restaurant had talked me into the key lime cheesecake. I'd set up my Thermarest on the floor near the unused tv and Bev and I ate while Lori hung out at the pool. Bev finished her meal and I was still at it. Lori came and went. I ate half the dessert, thinking maybe I'd share it with Lori. It was not to be. I devoured it!

I guess I sometimes forget how much I travel on my stomach, Jon never lets me go so long without eating. I'd better tell my friends that if they want to keep me from getting cranky, they'd better keep sending the food my way.

I've had over a week to reflect on this trip, to consider the bike riding, the hikes, the road-tripping. It's great fun to take a trip like this with the girls, but there's still nobody I'd rather travel with than Jon. Even though he drives me crazy in the same ways I probably drove my friends crazy (such as not knowing where we'd spend the night until we're pitching our tents). Guess I didn't realize how alike we've become in our travel styles. Or maybe I was like that all along.

oh, sweet singletrack!

2011-10-27T18:16:00.002-08:00

After the sun set last night and the sky grew clear and star-filled, the temperatures dropped below freezing. Before going to bed, I hoped that today would be a good day to ride the Kincaid Park singletracks. When I biked the new trails last Saturday, the ground was beginning to thaw creating slick spots where the moisture couldn't seep farther into the freezing ground. In a few places, ruts had begun to develop from all the tires hitting the trails during the recent wet days we've had here in Anchorage.

This morning, the temperatures across town had dropped from the 40s into the 20s, freeze-drying the muddy ground into a crunchy, crumbly surface. I brushed the dried dirt off my bike, lubed the chain and loaded the bike in the car to head out to the park.

Ice next to the trail - ride those banked turns!

In the past few years, I hadn't done much riding at Kincaid. The park is across town and the trails hadn't been all that interesting to bike. We have great riding on the east side on trails that begin just two miles from my front door. No need to drive; just ride up the road and I'm on the trails. But I helped work on the new trails and I wanted to have a chance to ride every inch of them before the snow flies. I know the snow could land in town any day.

For today's ride, I rode the main loop counter-clockwise, the opposite direction from what I'd done the last couple times. I also rode for the first time a small loop that wasn't complete before I left on vacation earlier in the month. (It's the section on the bottom left of the network that looks like a little animal). On that loop, I criss-crossed or rode next to the wider ski trails a few times, probably causing a little puzzlement on the part of two walkers who I encountered at least four times.

With all the twists and turns, the rolling climbs and descents, the mountain views and the intimate feeling while riding among stands of birch, I couldn't help but smile. I thought about all the people who came out to volunteer to build the trails; people who sacrificed their own riding to help bring better riding to everyone in Anchorage. The numbers are impressive. We had 241 different people volunteer - many of them more than once - for 20 work sessions. Kids, adults, cyclists, runners. People from organized clubs (including the Dirt Divas) and people who just felt like they wanted to be a part of making this happen. Pretty cool people making some sweet trails! I'm glad I can be a part of it.

Here's a map I got from Lee Bolling, one of the idea guys behind

this project. It'll give you an idea of what we have. The new trails

are in light yellowish-tan.

adventures past

2011-10-25T13:01:00.005-08:00

The photo caption woke something in me. A memory; something familiar but I wasn't sure. I was browsing through old issues of the local newspaper when I saw images of workers cleaning a beach fouled by an oil spill in New Zealand. Jon had his laptop out so I asked if he'd bring it up on a map. Sure enough, we'd been there.

Not only had we been by Papamoa Beach when we cycle toured in NZ back in 2004 (so long ago), but we were so struck by the beautiful setting that we stopped riding after only 13 kilometers so we could spend the day on the ocean before heading inland.

We were one week into our four-week trip and the previous day's ride had been long and hilly and fraught with stress as we entered Tauranga in the company of double-trailer semis and logging trucks. With relief we'd found a campsite at Mt Maunganui and a great restaurant just a block away. Across the road was the ocean - or more accurately, the Bay of Plenty.

The next day, we pedaled down the coast not sure how far we would ride, but keeping our eyes open for the next place to stay. The pine trees and the water lured us in. As we rolled into the Papamoa Beach holiday park, the wind was picking up. While checking in, we debated a tent site or a room. That's when the rain started. We took a room in a cabin that had a view of the water. The rain subsided as we walked a few blocks for lunch and groceries, a bottle of wine. Later we spent time walking on the beach watching the big waves come in with the storm. Jon went for a run.

Reading over our notes brought me back to that trip, the high dunes we crossed between our cabin and the ocean, the ferocity of the storms which originate in the Antarctic to pound the coastline, drench the inland and provide winds to power you or demoralize you, depending on your direction of travel.

Now the coastline has been fouled. It's not that I care more about a place just because I've visited it, but this disaster hits the part of me that loves visiting new places and learning about different parts of the world. I feel more connected as I recall that the young woman who checked us in told us that her grandfather had planted the pine trees we were admiring. How much will her livelihood and that of so many other Kiwis be impacted? What about the wildlife; the penguins and other sea life? My heart goes out to them.

The clean-up has been in progress for a couple weeks now, but Alaskans know that initial clean-ups often only take care of the proverbial tip of the iceberg. Messes are quick to make; but sometimes they take a generation to clean up. That oil is going to be in the Bay of Plenty for a long time. What a shame.

utah images, part two

2011-10-20T18:54:00.001-08:00

A bunch of the Dirt Divas did a five-day organized trip with the same guides as last year. I wasn't quite sure where we were or where we were going, but the company's motto "Go with the flow" suited my mindset. My goal was to ride my bike, see some sights and hang out with friends. Oh, and to maybe drink a little. Let them handle the details.

We began on the upper left (off the map) and finished
at the "You are here." Because of our group size, we were
limited to camping outside the National Park, but the
guides found great campsites with canyon views.

First day. Our campsite is just around the corner.

Canyon hike after riding to our second camp on Day 2.

A potty with a view. Tough to tell, but this is pretty close to the edge.

Day 3, on our way to Hans Flat and the Flint Trail.
Sunblock, anyone?

The gang. Thanks to Lily who works at the ranger station for taking this photo.

An we thought our house needed some structural work!

Guide Ben, looking into the canyon; that's where we'll
be after descending the switchbacks in the morning.

Still life with bicycle. I still love riding my Giant Trance Advanced.

Miner cabin near the Flint Trail.

Flint Switchbacks. Click the photo to see the van. Brin had to do five-point
turns to maneuver the corners. Glad I had new brake pads! I learned last
year, it wouldn't be a canyon ride without switchbacks!

End of Day 4. Long day of riding, some steep descents, a short hike
and our first campsite attempt thwarted. Home is where the tent is,
though without Jon this year. There was more room in the tent but
I'd rather he had been there. Just not the same without him.
Even the guides missed him.

Early morning on Day 5. Brin gets the coffee started as we wake up.

Twenty-three plus miles later, a view of Lake Powell. The van and
lunch are just around the corner. As is a cold beer and my cotton
skirt. Someone said I'm always the first one to change out of
my cycling shorts. Kind of a no-brainer.

utah images

2011-10-20T16:35:00.001-08:00

Just a few images from the first few days of the trip:

Lori on Hurricane Rim, being chased by a thunder storm.

Bev on Hurricane Rim.

Cactus on Bev's shifter. Not a good landing, but we made it
back to the car and had our picnic before the thunderstorm.

Lori, Bev and me with Fixie Dave at Little Creek Mesa.
Let the slickrock riding begin!

Fixing a shifter with a bungee. One hook inserted into the
top, the other into the bottom where the pin was missing.
It held and the brake worked great. Ride salvaged!

Lori on slickrock at Klondike Bluffs; steeper than it looks.

Dinasaur track at Klondike Bluffs, north of Moab.

equipment check, part two

2011-10-09T00:10:00.000-08:00

Fate, coincidence, serendipity. Call it whatever you wish, but the beginning of this trip has been all that.

It's hard to make a long story short and maybe that's not the kind of storyteller I am, but this story begins last fall on the last day of a trip Jon and I took to the Southwest. Maybe it starts the day before when we were riding at Gooseberry Mesa and my riding was all off. I was crashing into ledges instead of going up them. I was bailing out of things I should have been riding. It was not a good day. But we camped on the mesa that night, since it's once of our favorite places to camp. In the morning Jon suggested that I should have a better ride to end the trip; a good ride; a ride on the JEM Trail, just below the mesa. My spirits lifted, I got my gear together. Jon dropped me at the southern trailhead. As he was doing this, we came across another rider. A guy on a fixie. Named Dave. He was posting signs for an upcoming bike race & said he worked at the local shop, Over the Edge. Off we both went on our rides and when I returned to Anchorage, I looked him up and made a facebook friend request.

It wasn't that he was a total stranger in my mind, for he is one of the few riders to even attempt to race the Great Divide - the Continental Divide trail from Canada to Mexico. So, he knew at least one person I knew.

A year later, earlier this week, my friends and I were in Hurricane. We stopped at the shop to get information on what was good after the recent rains. After a short ride that included one tumbling friend and a jumping cactus, we headed back to town. Not before a thunderstorm rolled in delivering a deluge of rain and booming thunder. The local cafe had just closed for the day and we were looking for a place to get a hot coffee and some free internet. So, we stopped in the shop. "Hey, aren't you Dave? We met last year...." I mentioned facebook. I asked where we could get wifi while we figured out what to do. "Where are you staying tonight?" he asked. "We were going to camp, but with this, I don't know." Soon he was typing at the computer and pulled out a map and directions to his place away from the town center.

It's rare to get this sort of offer, I think. But not all that rare among people I know. Jon and I love hosting people at our place when we can. We love the story sharing and just having someone else around once in awhile. So my two friends were pretty excited about the offer, though reasonably skeptical at first. When we found the house, though, we were pretty excited at what felt like expansive surroundings - especially since the previous night we had all assembled our bikes in a small hotel room, squeezing ourselves between the beds and even into the bathroom to find space.

We had just begun making ourselves comfortable when Dave arrived. We shared a meal and beers as rain blew against the dining room window. After a bit of discussion, Dave offered to take us on a ride I've been wanting to do for a couple years: the trails at Little Creek Mesa. Little Creek is the mesa just south of Gooseberry but word was you need to go with a local/guide to really have a good time without getting turned around and helplessly lost. We headed out for the ride and spent the afternoon riding, learning a few tips and wearing ourselves out. But I had one little issue.

My front brake had too much throw in the lever, almost touching the grip before the brake fully engaged. I'd noticed it earlier in the season but forgot to mention it to Jon before the tip. Dave looked at it and recommended new pads. After the ride, we swung by the shop and picked up pads which Dave installed back at the house. He made a little adjustment on the reach and I took the bike for a test ride. It felt better and the levers felt even. The next morning, Dave headed off for work and the three of us were on the road by 8:30, headed for Green River but hoping for a ride just north of Moab before driving back to Green River.

At Klondike Bluffs, I pulled the bikes out of the car - just two of us were going to ride - and put my wheel on. The brake felt good until we started to ride and I pulled it a few more times. It was't working. I had no front brake (I thought). Upon closer examination, I found that the pin the lever pivots on was missing! Oh crap. I showed Lori who said that's happened to her before and someone told her to find something, anything, to put in to keep the lever in place. I suggested going back to the car and looking for the part. Lori suggested a bolt, but my pin had no threads. We ended up grabbing a mini bungee cord putting one hook in the top, wrapping the cord around so it was snug, then putting the other hook in through the bottom. Worked like a charm and the brake actually felt better than it has for the last few months thanks to the new pads.

But I needed to fix the lever before this five-day trip that starts Sunday. So after finishing the ride and feeling certain the shops farther down the road, in Moab, would be open, we packed up and drove south, something I didn't want to do. I was tired, sweaty and had friends to meet for dinner. Upon arriving at Poison Spider, we saw the parking lot was roped off and there was a party going on. It was part of a celebration for Outerbike, a public bike demo event held in the Moab area.

After getting the parts from the service guy, Randy, I asked about a couple people I knew. Yes, he told me, the one guy still works there but is at the 24-hour race. The other guy, he didn't know, so he asked another person. "Sure, he's around. He's on the floor." Someone else chimed in: "he's outside, there." Finally I saw our friend Pete. I snuck up behind him and gave him a big hug. He turned around: "Rose! Is Jon here?" I told him why I was there. We laughed and I shared my stories and plans. Then he kept pointing out or reintroducing me to people I'd met before. In fewer than five minutes, I had talked briefly with a handful of guys I know from Anchorage or other parts of Alaska.

Small world, yes? And I was thinking to myself, had I fixed that in Anchorage, I wouldn't have done it here. Had I not had Dave make a little lever adjustment on my brakes, the pin may not have fallen out and I would have never taken that detour to Moab. But life works that way. It seems that so often for me, people, events converge in the most extraordinary ways, that I can only think that forces around me do conspire to make things happen. Usually in a good way. And the energy it creates is a happy buzz that can be contagious.

Dear readers, having a little tech issue getting pics posted. I'll get some up here after I figure it out or when I return home to my usual equipment. Thanks for reading.

equipment check

2011-10-01T21:23:00.011-08:00

We've had several beautiful days this past week, with sunshine on gold-yellow leaves and the smell of decaying leaves in the air. Snow has begun creeping down the mountains. Despite the perfect conditions, I hadn't been on a bike since last Sunday. Instead, I've been resting a sore shoulder that has endured a busy summer of riding, shoveling and miscellaneous trail work.

This evening after the shop closed, I planned to meet a couple friends there so Jon could help them box their bikes for a mountain bike trip a bunch of us girls are taking to Utah. I figured I'd box my bike as well.

Before meeting them to talk about the trip & do the boxing, I decided to head over to Kincaid to ride on the new singletracks and see how the shoulder responded to trail riding. I didn't give myself much time and the new trails twist and turn so much that it was easy to lose my sense of where I was on the trail system. Occasionally I'd cross one of the wider trails that were designed for cross-country skiing and take note of where I was, or I'd take a turn and end up on one of the long-used social trails. What I really wanted to do was to not worry about where I was but to just enjoy that experience of exploring new trails while the leaves were beginning to cover them in their bright mosaic.

picture yourself on a trail in a forest...

Eventually, I looked at my watch and realized I was to meet my friends in about 10 minutes, yet I was on a section of trail that was new to me, so I wasn't quite sure where I was relative to the parking lot. I rode past an old VW, long ago abandoned in the woods. At an intersection, I turned right but still wasn't sure. Then I met another rider and decided to backtrack and take the other option. Soon I was on the Jodhpur Trail, recalibrating my brain for a quick ride back to the trailhead.

I could have been out there all afternoon. Had I started earlier, I could have biked those trails one way, then the other, exploring every spur. I didn't want to box up my bike. The riding was perfect. But there's always a hitch. My front shifting was getting ever worse as my ride went on. I had to turn my shifter one click extra to move up from my granny to my middle ring. Then two clicks extra. I made a mental note to have Jon look at my shifting before I boxed the bike.

Good thing I went on that ride, for more than just my mental health, too. Turns out, the cable had frayed where it was attached to the derailleur. By the time my ride ended, only a single strand was left.

connected with one thin strand...

glad I caught this!

Once again, timing was everything; I was relieved I'd done the ride - and that I stopped riding when I did. And since I never did get around to boxing my own bike, maybe I have time for one more ride before we leave. You know, to stretch that new cable.

cabin weekend

2011-09-30T19:44:00.004-08:00

The Fargo with Bob trailer.

The day after my birthday was the beginning of the fifth annual cabin weekend with my mountain biking group, the Alaska Dirt Divas. The twelve-mile pedal on the fairly easy Eklutna Lakeside Trail was made a tad more challenging when hauling gear in Bob trailers or in panniers. But it's well worth it in order to haul out our personal gear plus fresh produce and other goodies for meals.

Riding out to the cabin.

This was the second year we've rented the Serenity cabin for three nights. I love having a couple days to lounge around, do dayhikes or just get to know each other better. I used some of my free time to sit on the deck or in my bunk working on my fiction. I especially enjoyed the deck time on Friday when I could sit in the sun with the sound of the river and the falls keeping me company. Wind on Saturday sent me inside to my corner bunk where I put in my ear plugs and was able to write by the light of the window while people chatted not 10 feet away.

I hoped people wouldn't think I was being anti-social. Thank goodness my friends seemed to understand that when the inspiration was there, I should be left alone to work with it. - Thanks, girls!

Besides having time for writing, I loved strolling on the river bed near the cabin. The smooth rocks that have been tumbled under the weight of the glacier sometimes seem to call out to be stacked into balanced sculptures. It's a good way to pass the time and leave something for other people to look at. It also lets me be creative without using words, just making forms.

My favorite rock stack.

Hiking trail on the way to the glacier. I like how this path
is bordered by trees and rocks. It gives me inspiration for
how I can use all the big rocks we excavated to make paths
through the yard and build borders for gardening.

After packing up on Sunday morning, the ride back to the trailhead was different from most years. It was the nicest day of the weekend with little wind and clear, sunny skies. (By contrast, last year we rode back in wind and sleet!)Barely a ripple showed on the water. Our group of 11 traveled mostly together, taking breaks near the water, delaying the trip home where we would to return to our lives and families and, invariably, backlogs of email.

We'll just hang out here a little while longer...
Dora, Michele, Jo-Ann, Stacey, Kass.

where it goes

2011-09-20T14:41:00.011-08:00

Mid-way through the exterior project.
Imagine: moss green with cedar trim.

Where has the time gone? The birch leaves are a brilliant golden-yellow on this gray day. The rain yesterday left enough dusting of snow on the front range peaks for me to want to wrap another layer around my shoulders even though I'm sitting in my living room. Fall is here ahead of the calendar, as is typical in Anchorage. Because fall is catching-up season in Alaska, I'll give updates on previous posts.

People have asked about the beach biking trip I had planned with Jon and a few friends. That fell through the day before we were to leave when our support driver had a work emergency. Jon and I both felt a huge weight slip from our shoulders because we'd been working until dark the previous days trying to finish insulating the foundation so we could have the perimeter of the house backfilled before we left. Though I was momentarily disappointed, never have I been so relieved to cancel a trip. The timing was all wrong. As it turned out, a storm blew in from the Gulf of Alaska and our friends in Homer (the destination town) said the weather was cold and wet that week. We could do the ride another time, and maybe under better conditions.

Mount Redoubt. Instead of biking here...

I was insulating and backfilling here.

Since Jon had the next five days off, we were able to finish the backfilling and move on to the above-ground walls. We've been researching siding and trim, trying to figure out which materials look best and will last longest with minimal maintenance. It took a few weeks, but I think we've decided on the siding. The challenge is getting it in from the distributor in time to get it onto the house before the snow flies, which was my goal. (Yes, I'm good at setting goals for Jon, but I will have jobs in the project - I love painting, so I'm in charge of trim.)

So, here we are, three weeks into September. Leaves falling. Chill in the air. I'm looking forward to seeing what this place will look like all decked out in siding and with snow in the yard. Jon said the color scheme we've picked (with him giving me the final word) reminds him of a cabin in the woods. That's what I'm going for. Sounds inviting. I'll show you when it's done.

Lest you think I've had no bike rides, I have biked on the new trails being built in Kincaid Park and even managed to enjoy an afternoon of mountain biking with some friends on the Matanuska Lakes/Crevasse-Moraine trails. Beautiful fall rides! I need more of that.

granite counter tops

2011-08-27T15:35:00.031-08:00

Jon rounding the first corner.

On Labor Day two years ago, Jon and I began our odyssey of home upgrades by tearing the deck off the back of the house. What followed was two months of work that included a garage expansion and some structural repairs. We also added a prow-front to our early '70s split-entry house. (Now more than two people can stand in the entry at one time.) The project involved a new foundation for both additions.

After the initial work was done by the contractors, we had an energy audit and began an 18-month (with gaps here & there) campaign to improve the energy efficiency of the house. Insulated the attic to R-49, replaced the windows and the sliding deck door, added caulking to gaps and installed new bathroom fans. Oh, and we had a new boiler and water heater installed. We came in just under the deadline for an Alaska program that reimburses part of what people spend on energy upgrades based on how much their homes improved. In June, our home was declared "5 Star" by our energy rater. That's pretty darn good.

But before the energy rater left, Jon and I asked if it would be worth it for us to follow through with Jon's plan to excavate and insulate along the outside of the foundation. The entire foundation. The answer was "yes." Since we plan to be here for some time, Jon really wanted to do this project and had been researching for months by talking with experts, visiting a few informative websites (including this one) and making plans. I was not so keen on the idea.

Where Jon sees a challenge he wants to take on, I see an insurmountable project that will take over every part of our daily lives, take us away from doing fun things (like hiking, biking & camping) or going on trips. I really like going on trips. I wasn't always as enthusiastic and encouraging as I could have been, but when it comes to Jon and his ideas about the house, he is usually right.

After a few dedicated days of digging a trench around most of the foundation (with the help of a friend), removing shrubs and a tree we didn't want to remove but had been planted way too close to the house and pressure washing the dirt off the concrete, we were ready for the materials.

There are a few methods for doing this outer wall insulation. Some said to put the sticky vapor barrier against the concrete, then put the foam board against it and back fill. The more we researched and thought about it, the more this didn't make sense. Why leave the foam insulation outside the barrier when we've read that even foam loses some of its insulating value when wet? Jon posed the question on one of the building sites and another person concurred. Now we were set.

On Friday, our friend Kip came over to get us started. First they applied the barrier along the footer, then glued the foam board to the foundation. After that, we added the barrier over the board and up onto the wood sheathing just above the foundation. After Kip left, Jon and I continued into the evening until two sides of the garage were done. By then, we were much more confident working with the tar-like sticky backing of the barrier and we were still getting along.

One of the things that bugs us (Jon especially) is that our general contractor never talked about this method (or any method) of insulating when he was working with us daily on this expansion. When talking with our energy rater about it in June, he commented that most people would rather spend that money on a granite counter top which people can see rather than on something nobody would ever see because it's buried under the back fill. But I know we'll see the difference in the gas bills over the next two decades we expect we'll be in the house. And in case you're wondering: we will be redoing the kitchen. And the counters, I think we'll use laminate.

poaching

2011-08-20T19:48:00.017-08:00

A few weeks ago, trail building began on the Kincaid singletrack project. About nine miles of skinny trail will wind through the park on the west side of Anchorage. Not as steep as the STA trails that were built in 2008 on the east side, but the same group is in charge: Singletrack Advocates.

It's been a rainy month but the handwork is coming along. The volunteers go through after the Sweco to cut remaining roots from the tread, then shape the trail so that water will flow off instead of pooling in low spots or eroding a channel on slopes. Did I mention volunteer crews are spending a few hours a night doing this work?

This moose knows the trails aren't ready yet.

Imagine the dismay and utter frustration when one crew last week was working on building a banked turn, only to have a pair of impatient mountain bikers ride by on the unfinished, soft trail. Mind you, at every possible trail entrance are orange fencing and signs announcing the trails are under construction and not open to ride. Imagine how much more incensed our group is that one person has complained, yes complained, on a forum that our trail project is affecting access to the places he's biked for years! You can read my friend Tim's open letter to the guy and others like him here. Tim's good at using the f-bomb; I am not.

That doesn't mean I'm any less ticked at this guy & people like him. But you know, in this world, there are givers and takers. I always hope that I can balance what I gain by helping with building or maintaining the trails and encouraging my friends to do the same. When I go out on the new trails when they open, I want to go out knowing I helped, not thinking that I cut a rut in new trail that another crew had to then fix.

But there will always be takers who think it's only about them. Fortunately, in this project, they are outnumbered.

making plans

2011-08-19T21:41:00.012-08:00

Last month I mentioned to a friend that I wanted to do a beach ride from Kasilof to Homer on the fat-tire bikes. Then I didn't make any plans. When she brought it up a week or so ago I realized that the summer was fast slipping away and we'd better get planning. I pulled out the tide table book and started studying, looking for the lowest high tides in an area with tides that rise over 20 feet.

On the beach near Kasilof with my Mukluk.

Now it looks like we'll head out sometime around Labor Day. We may start at Clam Gulch instead of Kasilof, but we're still working on the plans. I think biking the western shoreline of the Kenai Peninsula to Homer is going to become one of those summer rides that is anticipated by fat-tire cyclists as much as a hard-packed singletrack through snow on a moonlit night. I know when I got my taste of it while at our set-net site in June I wanted to just keep on riding to see how far I could go.

View Larger Map

Of course, we wouldn't be on the road.

And as if I wasn't already planning it, the crew from Salsa, a filmmaker and some friends made the ride earlier this week. Doesn't that give you something to look forward to?

garden tour

2011-08-03T18:43:00.005-08:00

In a prelude to August, on Sunday I joined my friends biking the annual Anchorage Garden Tour. The more than 32-mile loop took us to the Anchorage Hillside, to South and West Anchorage and even to good old Spenard. Corinne and Paul have biked the tour each year for several years. Their friends, Roger and Pam, started joining them a few years ago, and now I think I'm hooked as well.

The day started out teasingly warm and sunny as we climbed from Main Tree to Hillside Drive. We could see a storm in Turnagain Arm as we began descending on De Armoun Road. It was while we were exploring the third garden in all its creativity, that sprinkles began and stayed with us for most of the afternoon. Luckily, we had all packed our rain jackets and the fast descent on De Armoun was behind us.

My friend Corinne took this photo; you can see her reflection
in the garage window. Her husband Paul is on the right.

Some things I liked about the tour: exploring neighborhoods while we picked our route through the city; the surprises in the gardens be they whimsical sculptures or carvings, or interesting uses of driftwood. Of course I liked seeing how people designed their flower beds, using similar flowers in a bed or using contrasting flowers. I often wonder how people pull together great ideas to come up with something so pretty to look at. I also liked the structures: benches, gates, water gardens.

Besides being an opportunity to get garden ideas, bicycling around different parts of Anchorage gives me all kinds of inspiration for our ongoing remodel project. It is reassuring to notice that ours is not the only renovation happening. And once the outside of the house is done, maybe I'll be able to put some of those garden ideas into play in our yard. There's a goal.

untangling the threads

2011-08-02T22:22:00.001-08:00

A couple of missing segments; that's what
happens when the lines are made of tape.

Alaska has such a variety of trails. Point-to-point backcountry routes on which you cannot get lost (like Johnson Pass); routes that have a few critical intersections for which making a wrong turn will redirect you a few dozen highway miles from your intended destination (I wonder how many people have accidently started down Devil's Pass Trail when they should have been headed to Cooper Landing). Then we have the twisty-turny looped networks of trails such as Kincaid Park in Anchorage. But even more confounding to many riders are the mysteries of Matanuska Lakes & the Crevasse-Moraine trail systems.

Now collectively referred to as the Matanuska Greenbelt Trails, the area includes a state recreation area, a borough (like a county) cross-country ski trail network, trails on a university's experimental farm and some nature trails on a college campus. Wide trails, singletrack and in-between; it's all there. Ask many Anchorage area cyclists and they'll admit they get lost when they ride the trails. A local guide is helpful, but one of my goals is to map out my own big loop that includes a taste of everything and invites people to explore off my route. So last week I headed for Palmer to do a little ride.

Very helpful to find this map on a sign post.

I have always started my rides at Matanuska Lakes State Recreation Area (formerly Kepler-Bradley State Park) since the trailhead is closest to Anchorage and I don't have to pay a fee beyond my annual state parking pass. But I wanted to take my time exploring the routes that would most quickly lead to the newest trail loops in the greenbelt: Mooseberry Mesa and the Moose Poop Loop, built in 2005. I didn't have a very detailed map of the route, but picked up a copy of the Crevasse-Moraine map at the trailhead kiosk.

Before starting the ride, I highlighted the route I planned to take so I wouldn't have to guess where my next turn would be. I reset my computer to zero and got my voice recorder set up. Then I was ready to ride. At each "you are here" sign, I snapped a photo to make sure I could keep track of where I was on the map. Having biked it before, I knew roughly where Mooseberry was, yet it wasn't shown on my map. It wasn't until I was close to the Mooseberry entrance that I began seeing it listed on the new signs that have been installed (thanks to generous donations).

See, that really is the name of the trail.

One thing I've learned about trails is that with a good map, time and some patience, I can find my way. So, while it would have been easy for me to ask someone which route to take or ride with someone familiar with the route, I knew I needed to find the way on my own so that I can learn it, write a description and lead people on it. And now that I've got the Crevasse-Moraine side figured out, Mat. Lakes will be next. But I've spent some time out there over the years; that ride will feel more familiar.

As a side note, before I hit the trails, I stopped in Palmer and spoke with Tony, owner of Backcountry Bikes. He mentioned that someone he knew had recently gone out for a hike at Crevasse-Moraine and quickly gotten turned around. I assured him I'd call if I got lost. I didn't have to call, but it's a reminder that even a lifelong local can sometimes get turned around. Bring a map or pick one up at the kiosk. And don't forget the bug dope.

bike lanes are not parking lanes

2011-08-02T11:00:00.006-08:00

Seriously, the mayor would like you to not park in the bike lane!

It may have been a publicity stunt, but it got our attention, didn't it? Read more about it at the Guardian.

gold mint

2011-07-31T22:29:00.002-08:00

Beaver pond just before the five-mile marker.

I'm on a mission to ride some routes I've not been on before. Or routes that have been improved or built in the last few years and offer great mountain biking. So Saturday after hitting the farmers' market then watering the grass seed in the patches of lawn I've stripped of the evil orange hawkweed, I loaded my gear and headed for Hatcher Pass to bike the Gold Mint Trail.

And then the trail met the Little Susitna River.

I know people worry when I bike alone, but it would have taken some effort to round up a riding buddy at 3pm on a Saturday and I figured there would be enough people on the trail that I wouldn't really be out there alone. Which did turn out to be the case, but when my rear tire spun on a loose rock on a steep little hill causing me to tumble off the bike landing on my hip and getting slammed in the chest by something, I kind of thought about it a little more.

I stood up and did my body and limb check, knowing there would be new bruises (though I didn't notice the chest soreness until I was back in the car driving home). I talked to myself. Told myself to take it easy, don't take risks. I was nearly five miles into the ride. I continued up the trail, chatted briefly with some hikers - tourists from Germany and Boston. Then I came to a spot where the main trail seemed to drop down and cross a creek that was draining through a large beaver dam, then joining the Little Su. I wasn't sure, so I checked a few alternate paths before returning to the intersection. I looked across the creek to see what it looked like. From the bank, I spotted a sign through a gap in the brush and decided that was the 5-mile marker. The trail is supposed to be bikeable for another mile after that point before becoming a steep hiking-only route.

The only other time I've been on the trail was over 10 years ago when Jon and I backpacked it. We hiked up valley, then climbed the steep pitch up to a high valley where a cabin owned by the Mountaineering Club stands. We planned to camp that night, but after a short hike to a glacier above the cabin and a change in weather to rain, decided that if nobody was using the cabin, we would sleep there. Of course there's more to this story, but we have a bike ride to finish:

Cross here to continue up the valley.
(Just below the beaver pond.)

I looked at my watch: 6:15. It was overcast but not raining, though the trail was wet with puddles and mud from showers earlier in the day. You can do the rest another time, I told myself. Get an early start and make a day of it; bring a friend or two who will appreciate this kind of trail. I ate a snack and turned the bike around to start the descent. Boy, was that fun!

bulbous beginnings

2011-07-21T16:25:00.001-08:00

It began not five minutes into the ride. A thump, thump, thump, evenly spaced like the sound and feel of a thump when riding over sidewalk cracks or highway seams. Thump, thump. I veered to a smoother section of the gravel road. Thump, thump. I looked down at my front tire and could see a bump making its way around again and again. I yelled for Jon and stopped the bike.

What I saw resembled a small turtle clinging to the tire*. I immediately found the valve stem and started releasing air from the tire. All I could think was that this tire was about to explode and our 30-mile bike ride was about to become a much shorter hike.

I knew the tire had a hole in it. It's tubeless and since reinstalling it on the bike this spring I've needed to put more air in it before each ride. I've been meaning to patch the hole ever since Jon found it one day when he was kind enough to clean my bike. But I just haven't taken the time: it's easier to pump it up every few days and hope it lasts.

Now I was worried that my deferred maintenance was going to cost me a ride I've been meaning to do: A loop that had us staring at the Primrose campground on Kenai Lake, biking the Seward Highway south to the Lost Lake Trailhead, then riding the 15 mile backcountry trail back to our starting point. I've always biked the trail in the other direction, sometimes completing the loop with a ride up the highway after finishing the trail. I wanted to see why people like riding the trail from the Lost Lake Trailhead to Primrose. Call it research.

Jon rode up to me and saw the turtle. "Let air out," he said. Already did, I told him as I squeezed my now-flat tire. It wasn't in the same location as my puncture, he assured me. Best he could surmise was that there was a hole in the inner lining of the tire that allowed air in and quickly caused the tire layers to separate, resulting in the goiter-like bulge. He told me he had never seen this happen before. Oh, I'm sure if we looked it up, we could find instances where this has happened, but it was a first for us.**

To fix the bulge that remained even after I deflated the tire, Jon pulled the tire from the rim and cut a hole in the inner lining to release the air, then we installed an old-fashioned inner tube. We had nearly 13 highway miles to cover, plus some more gravel road before hitting the trail. My paranoid self thought she saw a little wobble in the tire as we rode the highway. Though it was a beautiful summer day and a great ride, I kept dreading a pinch flat on one of the countless rock waterbars along the trail. By the time we reached the car, about 6 hours after we began, the only thing I wished I had more than an extra tube was some sunblock. I'll chalk it up to experience and bring two spares on my next long ride. I'll also remember the sunblock next time.

*I'm sorry I don't have a photo of the crazy bulge on my tire. My camera has been in for repairs (yes, sometimes you can get cameras repaired) & we don't have a backup. Rest assured, it has been sent back from the repair center and is in transit. I'll be glad to have it back.

**I did a little more looking and found this interesting thread. "Tire hernia" is a good description. My tire is a Maxxis, but I wasn't using Stan's or any other sealant in the tire.

out, damn weed!

2011-07-21T10:12:00.005-08:00

So temptingly pretty, you invaded me.
Once, we gazed at your orange blooms,
Hieracium aurantiacum,
even cut your stems for the vase.
Now, each day for an hour or more, I dig.

The rain of yesterday softens the ground
I push the weed digger into the matted web
of grass and clover and you: orange hawkweed.

I tug at your pale green, soft and fuzzy leaves,
pull up a ball of roots, follow the stolons and rhizomes across the lawn
to your offspring, smaller, yet sprouting, about to flower.

I scan the lawn, blink and see more small patches,
far-flung colonies building their own networks
A series of creeping roots, connecting the plants like highways
or a sewer system.

Each day I get closer to annihilating my foe
Taking time out from other tasks
To, foot-by-foot, quell the invasion I let go too far.

How fitting a punishment for the lazy gardener
who just wanted the simplicity of a small wildflower garden,
who planted the seed mix and watched it grow, hoping it would bloom for years to come.
Only to have this dominant escapee force me
to my hands and knees on the moist lawn.
Digging. Ever digging.

all-night road trip

2011-07-11T20:53:00.004-08:00

The first 100 miles of the race.

I don't process things well when I'm sleep deprived so I'm still processing the weekend that included a 600-mile road trip, in particular, a 28-hour overnight drive.

Jon and I returned Sunday morning from the trip that took us from Anchorage to Valdez and back. We were driving support for our friend, Leonard, who was racing the Fireweed 400 (mile) road bike race between Sheep Mountain and Valdez. From noon on Friday until 4 p.m. on Saturday, we leap-frogged Leonard and a handful of other riders and support cars in the all-nighter that took us along a two-lane highway that passes through some of the most beautiful scenery in the state.

There was no mechanic (except Jon), no propane and no cafe.

View Larger Map

I'm a little sad to say it's the first time I've been to Valdez since the year I moved to Alaska, and I don't think hanging out at Captain Joe's Gas Station (someone has a sense of humor) for maybe 20 minutes even qualifies since we never saw the water. But it sure reminded me that I need to get farther from Anchorage more often.

The closest I've been to Valdez in the last few years was the week I spent at a writing workshop at the Wrangell Mountains Center in McCarthy, an old mining town at the end of a 60-mile gravel road. On the way back from Valdez with the sun shining and views of Mt. Drum and Mt. Wrangell off in the distance, I thought it must be a beautiful day in McCarthy. But we still had a job to do.

Leonard at the start, before climbing from the fog.

Along the way the drive included a start in the fog before we emerged into the sun and low clouds. Roaring, misting waterfalls, seemingly-endless spruce forests. Glaciers and wide, braided rivers; sunken, overgrown log cabins; a rock-strewn mountain pass that reminded me of photos of Ireland; hundreds of miles of the oil pipeline that ends in Valdez. By the end of the drive, clouds were taking on animal shapes and I might have been dancing along the side of the road.

Donut cloud. Just before a sighting of a moose cloud
bouncing trampoline-style atop Gunsight Mountain.

After Thompson Pass, taking a break in Keystone Canyon.

After crossing Thompson Pass and driving through Keystone Canyon the first time, I asked Jon to jot down some notes for me. I wanted to remember how a river looked. A braided river with trees growing on some of the rocky islands, fog shrouding their bases. It was around midnight and almost as dark as it would get: a deep twilight. I was tired, having been on the road almost 12 hours and everything I saw began taking on the magical quality of a dream that is so quickly forgotten upon waking.

Almost at the top of the pass, more than half way through the race.

Jon provides tech support, lubing the cleats. Mt Drum in the distance.

It didn't have the same effect as we drove by again, this time with me in the passenger seat. But as we neared the top of the pass, we watched, pacing behind Leonard (the rules say we must drive close behind him from midnight until 5 a.m.) as we cut through the fog layer, hitting the top of the pass at 4 a.m. with a semi passing us as we began the descent. It would be another 12 hours before he finished the race taking 3rd place, an achievement I can barely comprehend.

Here we are: crew for Team Fancher!

But the prospect of doing the 200-mile version of this race, from Sheep Mountain to Valdez, is starting to seem like something I might just want to do. Crazy.

are we there yet?

2011-07-02T21:01:00.000-08:00

Carey with wildflowers in the rain.

Last Sunday evening after Jon successfully installed a new bathroom fan, we decided to celebrate. Dinner? A bike ride? Do we only have time for one or the other? We decided to bike to Spenard Roadhouse for dinner, knowing they were open until 11 and have pretty awesome food. We ran into our friend Alan who was dining with one of his friends, and,of course, began talking about the rides we'd done recently.

I did Russian Lakes trail the other day, Alan began. "That was the longest 16 miles I've ever done." "Um, Alan," I said. I had just done the trail two weeks earlier. "That's because it's over 21 miles." Ah! No wonder. We all laughed about it, but when you're out in the wilds, there's nothing funny about being on a trail and thinking it's shorter than it actually is. Maybe you'll run out of food; maybe run out of water. You'll bike at a different pace knowing how far you have to go. Imagine someone telling you you're running a 5k and it turns out to be a 5-miler. And you're not a runner. Ouch!

Two days later I met my friends Carey and Amber for a ride on Resurrection Trail. Carey had suggested riding the entire trail from Hope to Cooper Landing and that the 33 miles, plus a leisurely lunch break at the pass would take about eight hours. Something sounded not quite right to me. At breakfast that morning, I pulled out a hiking guidebook and broke the news: the trail is 39 miles. I could see Carey hitting the reset button as she considered how long it would take and how much food to bring. Good thing they shuttled the car the evening before.

Amber and I teased Carey as we rode along. At the six-mile mark we let her know "your ride starts now." I'm glad I'd brought the book on the trip because I didn't want Carey hitting the mental wall when our odometers hit the 33-mile mark before we passed Juneau Falls. Considering we were riding the second half of the trail in the rain, I'm glad we never had a false sense of the end being just around the next bend.

Amber & Carey at Juneau Lake, in the rain.

On Friday a similar thing happened before a ride on Johnson Pass. Only this time, it was information in a dated guidebook that mis-set people's expectations. A mountain biking book for Southcentral Alaska lists the ride as a 21-mile trail, so that's what my three companions were expecting. I grabbed the same more-recent hiking guide I'd used earlier in the week and saw that it listed the ride at 23 miles. Since I haven't biked the trail all the way through from north to south in several years, having the right number in my head at the start of the ride really helped me pace myself and not wonder, as my odometer hit 21, why we weren't closer to the fish hatchery on Trail Lake.

At Johnson Pass, just before the rain.

Compared to Tuesday's ride on Res., 23 miles sounded like a piece of cake, though it had lots more pushki threatening to swallow the trail and a couple places where the water was running down the trail instead of in the stream channel. When it began sprinkling just after the pass, I was a bit bummed, but relieved that we were only about 12 miles from the end. Still, a part of me was hoping the old guidebook was right.

fish on!

2011-06-23T20:39:00.001-08:00

This time of year means long days and short twilight, no true darkness like the planet experiences at lower latitudes. For Alaskans, it's the season of so much to do and enough daylight to do it. If you can stay awake, that is. A fishing weekend of staying up past midnight and being awake and out of the tent before 6 a.m. doesn't seem odd. But it is exhausting.

Low tide near midnight.

This past weekend, Jon and I joined friends for what is becoming a tradition: set-net fishing on Cook Inlet. It's part of what Alaska calls a personal-use fishery, and allows an allotment of fish to each head of household (25), then more for each member of that household (10 each). It's for residents only. It's lots of work, but better than standing shoulder-to-shoulder on the Kenai River trying to catch fish on a line.

We arrived Friday evening at high tide. Since we'd brought the über fat-tire bikes, we pulled a few beers from the cooler, and, leaving the car on the bluff, rode down a dirt road and along the beach to where our friends had secured a campsite for the weekend. Later in the evening, after the tide began receding, Jon drove the car down and we were able to set up the tent. We took a spin down the beach past the commercial set-netters who were preparing for their opening, pedaled into the headwind and low-angled sun.

Beach riding on the Mukluk. It's not just a snow bike!

Mukluk, Pugsley, our trusty Moss tent.

Saturday morning brought the early high tide. Jon helped two other guys set the nets at 6. When they went back to sleep, Jon and I hung out on the beach watching the tide go out, drinking coffee and waiting for everyone else to get up. The previous night's wind had died down. It was going to be a sunny day.

6 a.m. setting nets. Redoubt volcano in the background.

Heading out to pick fish from the nets. That's hard work.
(At least I didn't have to row!)

Last time I was at camp, I didn't have many skills to offer. I helped pick fish from the nets and got the campfire started. This year, I wanted to learn how to process the fish. When they're pulled from the net and brought to shore, we hauled them to a makeshift table where we had to remove the guts and heads and chop off the corners of the tail fins (to designate a personal-use-caught fish as opposed to a commercial fish). The fish were then rinsed and hauled to the coolers where they were counted and divvied up.

Straight from the saltwater!
(There are more photos here. Some are of
another group; some are of our group.)

Even with all the work, there's loads of downtime at camp while waiting for the nets to fill. Throughout the day people in camp took the bikes out for rides up and down the beach. Much easier and faster than strolling, riding gave them a chance to take in the other camps to see how people set theirs up. Some actually build temporary wood structures with windows!

Sunday brought rain early on and sitting under the canopy or in the tent or car didn't appeal to me, so after breakfast I put on my rain gear and hopped on the bike for my own expedition up the beach to the mouth of the Kasilof River. I soon forgot about the rain as I enjoyed pedaling on the sand or rocks of the beach, looking at the different camps people had set up, getting a wave from someone inside one of the wood structures.

Harlequins visiting the nets.

When the crew pulled in the nets for the final time on Sunday, we'd limited out. And that limit included a king salmon. Though we'd thought about leaving Sunday evening, we decided to stay one more night and enjoy a final dinner with the gang, which included the king on the grill. Yes, set-netting was lots of work, and there was even more work to do after we left the beach, but it'll be worth every bite!

encounters: on the mountain bike

2011-06-16T17:28:00.001-08:00

Small flower alongside the trail. Now, where is my wildflower guide?

I'm researching a project this summer, that is, if the weather cooperates enough for me to spend hours on some longer trails in the state. When I wrote my trail guide for Anchorage, I spent hours in the woods, biking alone, carefully taking notes to describe the trails. I noted where to turn and where a rider would end up if they took an alternate route; pointed out viewpoints and interesting geologic features. Stopping to take notes took lots of time... and lots of bug dope. It was so tedious that I told people who offered to ride with me that they wouldn't have any fun because I stopped so much.

This year, I'm trying a new tool: a voice recorder. I took it out for a test run on the local trails last weekend. Then on Monday I took it on a ride with friends on Russian Lakes Trail. Instead of stopping and pulling out the notebook (which I did bring as a back-up) whenever we arrived at a campsite or bridge, I'd just look at my odometer, hit "record" and make a comment: "Mile 9.4 lake comes into view on left." Simple things like that. After a while, I just left the recorder on. Listening to it on a rainy afternoon, I began noticing all the other sounds I had recorded.

The whoops of the other riders when they went through a dip or rode through a sweeping section of trail. Calls of "Hey, bear!" as we made our presence known to the locals or "scat!" as we counted out how many piles of bear scat we passed. We lost track pretty quickly, by the way.

I was surprised by the loud sounds my tires made as I rode through sections of loose, water-sculpted shale. Sometimes I could hear a branch that had plunked against a spoke or two, sending its resonating tune to the recorder. I heard water rushing under bridges, my tires rolling over the planks. I heard disc brakes squawk before a short, steep descent and tires sploosh into a mud hole that was deeper than expected.

Anne in a wildflower meadow.

Listening to the recording, I heard birds and remembered how lively they sounded as I slowed to hear them in the trees. I am reminded of the spruce-sawdust smell where a downed tree had been cut and removed from the trail. I recall a moment when the sun emerged through the clouds and warmed my legs. I hear rain falling on the sprawling pushki leaves. I hear my own breathing on climbs, the clicks of my shifters then the rush of wind generated when I descend.

I can recall the purple lupine alongside the trail, meadows filled with flowers that were in or on their way to full-bloom: chocolate lilies, forget-me-nots, wild geranium, wild rose and more lupine. I've biked this trail a few times before, but never with this level of awareness: paying attention to every bridge, listening & smelling, thinking about the vistas and how to describe them. It makes me wonder how often I'm really paying attention when I'm on the bike, and I don't just mean paying attention to the trail, but to everything that surrounds it.

Another reason to slow down and take it all in.

bear aware

2011-05-18T16:25:00.011-08:00

Biking to work on Tuesday, I took our summer route: up Campbell Airstrip Road and crossing the Campbell Tract to reach Elmore Road. I was looking forward to being away from the roadway; away from the noise, traffic and fumes. A short ride through the woods. I threw the camera in my vest pocket just in case I saw anything interesting.

Just before I crossed the second mushing tunnel on CA Road, I saw three bears. Possibly the same bears I'd seen almost two weeks earlier. They were at the bottom of the embankment. I was on the road, the path and steep slope between us. I almost kept riding, but pulled up to the guardrail and leaned my bike against it while I pulled out the camera.

The bears behaved as we hope they will: they began moving away without taking much interest in me. A car went by. I snapped pictures as the sow and cubs began weaving among the birch, stunted spruce and tussocks of the park. I noticed a light tremble in my hand as I watched. My cleats scraped against the asphalt and one of the cubs jumped. They slowly moved away, deeper into the tangle of brush and last year's tall grass.

not much color yet

I guess it's appropriate that this evening I'm going to attend a "bear aware" event with my mountain biking group, the Alaska Dirt Divas. I'm sure I'll find out what I shouldn't be doing. Good timing; the bears are out, the trails are drying and I want to go mountain biking.

what do i think?

2011-05-18T15:07:00.002-08:00

I was working with a customer at the shop on Saturday. Nice guy; pleasant to work with. Then I learned that he was a lobbyist, representing a diverse group of clients. Doesn't matter who. We were talking about something and I don't know how we got on the topic of taxes. But Alaska doesn't have a tax, he said. No, I conceded, not directly out of our checkbooks (for those who still use checks now and then). But there are other ways we pay for things that make them feel like taxes. For example? he invited.

Not the typical conversation I get into when helping someone pick out shoes for their new mountain bike. I had to think fast of an example. And so, I began: In basic introductory economics, we learn the idea of opportunity cost. What we spend on one thing prevents us from spending on something else. We spent millions in public money on a jail we can't afford to open; how much on a ferry that has no docks between which to sail. Yet, thousands of Alaskans have no health insurance. For all the money we've spent on those and other projects that have received federal and/or state funds, we could have funded coverage for all those people.

The "tax" is how much more my employer has to pay in premiums. It's how much more I have to pay out-of-pocket before I've reached my deductible ($2,000). It's how much more each of us is charged to help cover uninsured individuals. And I'm one of the lucky ones: working retail and getting benefits is a rarity.

I know people who work hard, but whose employers don't provide any benefits. For many small businesses that do, the costs are becoming very high and they may end up canceling their coverage.

The lobbyist didn't give me his view of my opinion. Maybe he'd never looked at it that way; I don't know if I'd ever looked at it that way. But if nothing else, if I could influence the person who talks to the people who make the laws, who knows? If you never speak up about what's important to you, nothing will ever happen. I think everyone in our country, no matter their income of job status, should have access to affordable, quality health care. Nothing radical about that. Is there?

On a side note, the day after I began writing this, an article appeared in the paper about yet another Alaskan project that has gone over budget and will now be scaled back because it's harder to get federal funds for these kinds of large projects. More opportunity wasted. Such a shame.

adventures in commuting

2011-05-05T22:28:00.010-08:00

I had a great ride home this evening, and it wasn't just because my Fargo was dressed up with flowers on the handlebar. The air was cleansed by the rain. Just a few sprinkles landed on me after I left the shop at around 9. I could see some clouds moving over toward the inlet, but there was hardly a breeze.

Drivers cooperated as I rode through the construction at the Seward Highway. Pickup trucks waited for me. People backed away from intersections when they saw me. They yielded when they had the right-0f-way. Along Elmore Road, I saw two moose browsing in a meadow near the mushing trails.

I turned onto the path alongside the new Martin Luther King, Jr. Avenue, passed the ballfields and climbed a small hill at Tudor Center Drive. That's when I saw three black bears on the north side of the avenue. I stopped and turned my bike sideways on the trail, prepared to backtrack if I had to.

It was a sow and two cubs. They were shiny and their fur rippled as they moved together and began running across the road. Bear cubs sometimes seem like they could tumble head-over-heels at any moment; their legs seem so small in proportion to their bodies. The family crossed two lanes of pavement, the median and another two lanes as a few cars slowed to let them pass. I watched and waited; saw them disappear around a fence and into the forest.

People have been seeing bears on the trails on the edge of town: in a municipal park a little closer to the mountains and in the state park. I wasn't expecting to see this family tonight but it put a big smile on my face to see my first bears of the year.

Just a side note:
I can't let this moment pass without mentioning that before I climbed the little hill near Tudor Center, I'd noticed the wide underpass that was built under the road. It includes a branch of the paved trail system and a wide grassy area. Planners said it would be a safe wildlife crossing, preventing animals from crossing the road and getting hit by cars. I think I'd rather I encounter the bears at street level as I did this evening instead of under the overpass.

commuting encounters

2011-05-03T16:28:00.008-08:00

I'm half-way through my commitment, working at the shop for the two busiest months of the year. It's a good time to put in some hours: it's consistently busy so the time flies, and the riding is not so interesting right now. It's that awkward season between winter's snow riding and the dirt trails opening. Riding to work on the pavement is my main form of biking right now. As Jon says: I'm pretty good at biking 9 miles fast.

During the commute, there's lots to watch out for. Glass on the paths, potholes and mispositioned curb cuts. Motor vehicles, of course. People and dogs and piles of gravel. Last week I had a few moments of frustration. First, there was the pedestrian on Lake Otis Parkway. I saw him from a distance as he looked at the bus schedule. I slowed a little as he stepped away from it. I called out to him. As I drew closer, he looked at the traffic that was coming from the other direction, stepped in front of me then began crossing the street. He neither heard nor saw me even though I was shouting to get his attention.

Finally, as I rode past, I said: Dude! You just stepped in front of me! He stopped in the street, turned around and looked at me with a blank stare, white cords dangling from his ears. Yes, I should always expect that pedestrians have tuned out and won't hear me no matter how loud I ring my bell or shout "Biker! Biker behind you!" I'm used to car drivers not paying attention and not seeing me; it becomes more annoying when it's a pedestrian.

A truck driver did notice me a couple days later. He noticed Jon as well. We were riding in. I was on my road bike and we'd decided that rather than biking on the root- and frost-heaved path along Abbott Road (between Elmore and Lake Otis), we would ride on the road. There was still lots of gravel on the shoulder, but we managed to find enough clean pavement between the white line and the loose gravel to make for a fast ride.

Then I heard some shouts and the words "bike path!" hurled at me. As the pickup drove by, I raised my hand in a wave and a peace sign. Whatever. Then he yelled at Jon, who also waved. (Jon later told me he thought the driver was someone from one of the other shops teasing him. I've had friends do that to me: shout at me to get off the road, then wave madly as they go by.) Just after he passed Jon, Jon made a left turn and I followed so we could cut through a parking lot. The driver was paying attention through his mirror because he turned into the next driveway for the parking lot and headed my way. I stopped and prepared for a chat.

It went something like this:
Truck man: You should be on the path, not on the road. Me: I was riding in the bike lane. TM: That's not a bike lane; it doesn't have a bike painted on it. Me: I'm on my way to work. I ride on the road because there are so many intersections on the path and people don't stop at them to look. More people are hit by cars on the path than on the road. Drivers turning right are dangerous. TM: I don't want to hear your reasons. I'm sick of you bikers everywhere. I have a bike but I ride it on trails, when I'm hunting. Me: Well, I'm on my way to work.

The encounter happened so fast. I'm not entirely sure of the order of the comments. His volume was rising (along with his blood pressure) as he became more excited. I felt strong. I knew I was right. He was the one who instigated this encounter when he could have just continued past. It was just after 10 a.m. and maybe his day had started out crappy and he was taking it out on us, but I figure every encounter is a chance to educate. Perhaps I should thank him for noticing us.

Me: I just appreciate that you're watching out for cyclists! TM: I'm going to call DOT about this. Me: That reminds me, I'm going to call DOT to get them to sweep the shoulder. Truck Man grumbled and was turning red. Finally he began driving away and headed out the parking lot, returning in the direction he came. I don't think Jon had a chance to get more than a few words in.

It's strange; about half our route is on paths and just before we'd hopped on this short stretch of road, Jon and I had been talking about bike safety. Earlier that morning I'd read a Compass piece in the paper by a friend of the cyclist who was killed in early April after being struck and dragged by a car. Anchorage police had ruled the accident to be the fault of the cyclist, but the writer wasn't convinced. I'm not convinced either. An experienced cyclist is ever cautious. Aware of the danger spots on our familiar routes. We make choices based on past experiences. We know where it's safest to ride.

Jon and I made a choice last week to ride on a short stretch of road. I was riding safely and felt safer than I do when riding on the path. I don't want anyone to think I'm a big risk-taker. Far from it. I'll ride the road when there's room and it's clear. I'll ride the path when the road isn't any good. I'll hope the cars give me some space when I'm on the shoulder and will stop before the path when I'm on the pathway. Yeah, it could happen. But I'm not counting on it.

Whether riding legally on the road or on the path, my goal is to get to and from work safely. Is it too much to ask other people to pay as much attention to their surroundings as I do? Whether they're in a motor vehicle, on foot or on a bicycle. Sharing the road and sharing the trails aren't just nice sentiments, they are good practices that require people to be alert. I'll do my best to keep my eyes open and to give people plenty of room. Including when I'm in my car.

blue ice: visits to knik glacier

2011-04-15T17:09:00.001-08:00

IV.

Wind rides down from the glacier face.
It sweeps in from the Sound
climbs over the mountains
traverses the snowfield
then gains speed as it courses
between arêtes
that confine the ice and steer it
ever toward the inlet.
Lifting snow and silt as it blows
rattling across ice
and sastrugi
eroding ancient blue bergs
and this year’s drifts.
With the wind at my back,
I hear the grains skittering.

Much of the day, the wind passes my ears
White noise,
drowning any sounds from companions.
We four, not being savvy with hand signals
used by those who regularly are out of shouting distance
or have neither voice nor hearing,
must stop to communicate.

We tuck our heads
to keep the wind from our cheeks
Yet, must keep ever alert
for slick spots,
thin spots or holes in the ice
that might suck one of us under.
We pedal
On track to reach the face
It appears closer, though not by much
We ride on snow
On ice
On river rocks that range in size
from aspirin to dinner-plates
Keep pedaling and we can ride over anything
Unless it is the shape and size of an upturned wok.

V.
Another day
Sun pouring
reflecting off snow
blue ice, white ice
river ice, lake ice.
blue bergs frozen in lake ice
sculpted with dimples
locked as they are and still.
Ancient sea creatures
with scales,
breaching.
We ride past
raise our faces to the sky
wonder at the frozen waterfall
like drizzled icing on a wedding-cake.

At the face of the glacier,
we leave the bikes on the ice
climb onto the sun-warmed rocks
like desert reptiles
after sundown
seeking the residual warmth
the memory of sunshine.
Packs propped against glacier-carved rock
We recline and prop up our feet
look around
remember the distance we have traveled
over the last two hours.
Sun-drenched
we watch as flight-seeing airplanes
fly low across the ice
wonder if they see us resting there
wonder whose album we will end up in
when they return to the rest of America.

VI.

We meander close to the face
pass along uplifts
highmark on our bicycles
Ice made grippy by blown snow and silt
embedded in the surface in drifts and waved patterns.
We take our time
Exploring
Riding over sea creatures
Watching the March sun move across the sky
Marvel at the intensity of light
absence of wind
With a note of sadness
we turn back
skirt along the base of the moraine
and ride along ice made softer by a half-day’s warming.
Snow softening, water running, slick.

Our crossings become less certain
Open water wider
firm snow, now slush
A sure route is no longer
A muddy stream crossing
Flooded tussock field
Downstream over beaver dams
built of logs, twigs and rocks.

Like a good novel
or movie
the end is sadness
and satisfaction.
I hesitate before leaving the trail,
already nostalgic
for the day.

From a series of poems on biking on ice and snow. I began these during last week's write-a-thon. They are all works in progress, partly because a poem never seems done to me. It's not like a cookie where you can tell by the edges that it's just right. With a poem, you can change a word to change the mood or the meaning.

Over the years, I've found that poetry helps me with my other writing. Sometimes when I'm trying to write a story, it's best to pare it down to find the essence, then begin building. I don't know if other people do this, but it feels like a good form, kind of like stretching my brain before doing the heavy lifting. Thanks for reading.

photos:
1) Blue ice, white ice
2) Jon, with ice uplifts.
3) Jon and Alan, still miles from the glacier.
4) Me, Carey and Mauja. Lunch break.
5) Flightseers.
6) Lori and Carey.
7) Carey

little planet

2011-04-11T00:57:00.002-08:00

Blue Marble, credit.

Yuri shot into orbit
fifty years ago
shot seen round the world
he left gravity
saw planet earth
below
with freshest eyes
then landed hard
with a wish a hope
that together humanity
would save and not destroy
our common home.

"Circling the Earth in my orbital spaceship I marveled at the beauty of our planet. People of the world, let us safeguard and enhance this beauty — not destroy it!" -
- Yuri Gagarin, 1st person in space, April 12, 1961.

All my life I have viewed images of our planet as seen from outer space. The image is commonplace to people in my generation and younger. But in 1961, Yuri Gagarin was the first human to leave the atmosphere and circle the planet. The first to see Earth's water and land and ice, with no geographic borders - before parachuting to solid ground after re-entry. When I heard his words on the radio last week, I was moved by his observation. Fifty years later we haven't figured out how to inhabit the "blue marble" without war or a unified concern for the well-being of our planet.

We do keep trying. Maybe we need these reminders more often.

Find out about The World Space Party, happening all over Planet Earth on April 12.

(I wrote this poem during the Write-a-thon.)

spring in three verses

2011-04-10T22:25:00.007-08:00

I.
water flowing in streets
seeking low spots
and clear drains
last fall’s leaves
clump
slowing the rushing flow
until the snow shovel
clears the way.

II.
listening for spring
arriving overhead
geese calling out
above the winter song
of chickadees
cackling magpies and
the caws and chatter of ravens.

III.
Squeaking bicycle chain
puddle-splattered fenders
grit and water on pants cuffs.
knuckles red and windburned
anticipation of spring
not realized,
instead, reminder:
winter does not withdraw
without a fight.

a little warm-up from the write-a-thon.

share your dollar

2011-04-07T23:09:00.003-08:00

" And if I share with you my story would you share your dollar with me?" Aloe Blacc.

I've done it. Just the day before the event, I've signed up to participate in the 49 Alaska Writing Center Raven Write-a-Thon. I can tell you more about it later; you can learn about it here.

You can make a donation by going here.

I'm working on a list of themes so that if I get stuck on a topic I can move on. And because it's National Poetry Month, I may decide to focus on my poetry. So many choices for material, 4.9 hours of chair time (with a few breaks) and no internet. I hope I have something good to share with you. Now, if you'll share a dollar...

start seeing cyclists, please

2011-04-06T11:54:00.019-08:00

In the early minutes after midnight yesterday, at an intersection in the middle of Anchorage a cyclist and an automobile driver collided. The cyclist was killed. I didn't know Wil Curry. But until his name was released around midday, Wil was every cyclist I know who makes their way through Anchorage's streets at all hours of the day or night. Putting on lots of miles; using his bicycle as his primary vehicle; enjoying each ride.

As with any vehicle accident, it will be investigated. Until it is complete, we won't know the details of how it happened. Even an investigation can't tell us all the answers, such as what was on the mind of the cyclist and the driver as they progressed toward each other. But we all know that a moment's inattention when we're driving or cycling (or walking) can lead to terrible consequences.

You look down at your watch or cycle computer to see the time and look up just in time for a big pothole. You glance sideways before reaching for a glove on the passenger seat and another car is moving into your lane and braking. How many distractions do we entertain while out navigating the world? How many times have I been deep in thought and forgotten to turn someplace?

Right now there's no way to comment on the story that appears in the Anchorage Daily News. I wonder why. Maybe because of the kinds of comments that crop up after high-profile events like this one: cyclists shouldn't be riding at night; cyclists shouldn't be on the road (he was on a path); drivers aren't paying attention; drivers are rude and don't yield at crosswalks. The list of grievances is long. As a cyclist and a car driver, I'm paying attention to what people are saying, but one thing is for certain: the automobile has the upper hand.

Most bicycle/car collisions seem to take place at intersections when cars are turning right. My message to drivers is simple: When pulling up to an intersection, stop before the crosswalk and look both ways. Then look both ways again with your focus not on the kids in the back seat or the person with whom you're talking on your cell phone. Really look. Then yield to the cyclist and give them a signal so they can cross safely before you pull ahead to make a right turn on red.

For cyclists, we're told to dress brightly; the law tells us to use a headlight and a taillight during dark hours. We're told to put reflective tape on our bikes or our clothing. We do all this, yet this cyclist was hit even though his bike had lights. So, cyclists, despite all you've done to make sure people see you, you are invisible; not even a mirage. The idea that you might appear at an intersection and want to cross has not occurred to many drivers, no matter what time of day. Keep that thought in your head whenever you ride and ask yourself "do they see me?"

It would be a fine day for cyclists when we could trust all drivers to pay attention and yield to us. But to mangle the exprssion: "Don't trust. Verify."

Take your time, and please be safe out there.

no idling

2011-04-03T21:40:00.014-08:00

Yesterday was my first day back at the shop since last May. As Jon and I pulled up early Saturday morning, there was a guy waiting in his SUV for the shop to open. His window was down, yet the vehicle was running as we walked by, said "hi" and went inside.

He stayed out there, running his vehicle while we got a few things taken care of before opening. He even stayed in his car after the shop opened. When he finally came in to pick up a headset we'd set aside for him on a previous day, Jon didn't mention this pet peeve: idling cars.

We see it all the time; people leave their cars running while they go grocery shopping. They leave them running while picking up their kids from school. All over Anchorage, and the country, people leave their cars running. I figure gas prices aren't all that high until people turn their engines off when they run into a store "for just a minute." Such wasteful creatures, we humans.

Endurance cyclist Jay Petervary is trying to bring more attention to the issue, and good for him for stopping by the shop before beginning his bike ride from Knik to Nome this year. He left a sign that is now in the shop window and a few stickers. When the customer wasn't looking, Jon slipped one of those "no idle tour" stickers into the headset box. Just a suggestion.

Thanks for not idling. Trackstanding, on the other hand, is certainly acceptable.

more to this story

2011-04-01T22:40:00.011-08:00

I must admit I've been trying to finish a post about a couple rides I did last week to Knik Glacier. Yes, the same glacier I wasn't able to reach earlier in March. Here's the thing: I keep trying to describe it and I can't quite find the right words or the right form for the story. There's something missing.

Tonight I went to an author reading and Q&A at the museum. The featured author was Susan Orlean, and she was being interviewed by local reporter, Julia O'Malley. Susan talked about how she doesn't use the term "writer's block." She described the three steps of writing: reporting (gathering information), processing and writing. The first two steps are critical to accomplishing the third. If you're having a hard time writing a story, either you haven't collected enough information or you haven't processed the information thoroughly (very common, I'm sure). She suggested that it helps to have another person with whom to discuss the idea so that the story may come to form through conversation.

She took the solitary process of writing and turned it into something interactive; telling us to speak our stories and see how they develop, thus finding the heart of the story. Because sometimes we can only find the story through telling it and receiving feedback from a trusted listener. Someone who knows us and knows what matters to us.

There is a lesson. So, now I think about the two bike trips I took to Knik and I think to myself: either I need to talk with Jon about this experience again or I need to make one more trip. For the sake of research.

signs of spring

2011-03-21T17:03:00.023-08:00

It's a perfect spring day
with conditions we all wait for.
I remove the poagies from my handlebar.
Won't need the extra warmth today
don't need the thermometer dangling
by a cord.

A balmy day, though still not above freezing
No heavy tights
no extra fleece socks
light gloves.
We ride; the sun breaks through.

We wait for these days
the magical conditions and temperatures.
Spring conditions
when the snow is fresh
and the air warm.
The conditions just before it all starts to go.

The conditions that draw people out to the trails
Into the woods and onto the mountain slopes;
that cause them to share a smile and a greeting
instead of ducking their heads, turtle-like
deeper into their collar for warmth.

The conditions that make us think
This might be the last great day
and we ride or ski or hike like it is.
The last great day of the season
or maybe even our lives.

And in the high country yesterday
A body was uncovered
from more than a dozen feet of snow
compacted like concrete
under the power of a spring avalanche.

Before the slide
he had a smile on his face
Looking beyond the camera.
The photo looked at me from the newspaper today.
On the side of a mountain
more mountains behind him
before the moment of bliss gave way
Turned him over and under the crushing mass.

He'd done everything right
beacon, shovel, testing, checking
Cautious, his friend telling.
His friend lucky to have swum through it
Climbed from a premature tomb
to be crushed by sadness.

And it's another perfect spring day
with conditions for which we all wait.
Yet they are fleeting
as the moment of a flower's perfection.
We take it, breathe in
then watch as it melts away.

(photo from the archives: 4/23/2010)

knik river

2011-03-09T17:25:00.001-09:00

Alan, Jon, glacier, driftwood.

We thought we could make it to the Knik Glacier and the route seemed promising at first. Firm ice on a mid-20 degree day with the sun radiant in the early March sky. The conditions we hope for in the last days of winter. The conditions we sometimes forget to hope for while enduring 20-below (or colder) days or rainy 40-degree days in the middle of January's darkness. And there we were: Jon, our friend Alan and me. On our studded tires headed up-river.

Open water.

I wasn't in a hurry and kept noticing shapes in the river ice: rocks and pebbles encased in more than a foot of solid ice; patterns of sastrugi, the snowdrifts of earlier in the winter eroded by winds that blow from the glacier, carrying fine particles of silt that land on the drifts, coloring them gray. Adding a gritty layer to the ice.

Sastrugi (The glacier is in the far right corner.)

Jon called out to me as I sat on the ice with the camera in my hand. I was so easily distracted that it's a good thing there was no open water right next to that section. I was focused on all the rocks, I told them as I caught up. "I guess you don't need any mind-altering chemicals, do you?" Alan asked. I guess not. Is that what it takes for people to enjoy just looking at one thing for more than a minute? Because I could have stayed in that one spot for another 15 minutes looking at the rocks and the ice patterns as they caught the noon-time light. As my body absorbed the heat. Instead, we continued.

Looking through a window of foot-thick ice.

We followed ice shelves on the river bank; we rode over miles of gravel bars covered with fist-sized river rocks and small pebbles; we plowed through low, crusty snow drifts that made barriers across our route. We got off and walked. The glacier appeared closer and closer, but only in small increments. Our tires sunk into a mush of pebbles and silt as the ground softened in the afternoon warmth. We decided to declare that, for this trip, the journey was its own destination.

don't break, don't break

After lunch, we turned around and followed our tracks back. Or we forged new courses, taking whichever route each of us preferred. Sometimes riding together; sometimes separate down the expanse of the valley. Me, riding slower, taking the time to look around. Thinking about the abuse I'd just put my studded tires through, feeling a new roughness in my bottom bracket - or was it my rear hub? Feeling a tiredness in my quads from riding out of the saddle on the roughest stretches. Relieved to arrive at each icy section for the smooth ride, even if we did have to pedal through dozens of crescent-shaped drifts that were spaced at intervals across the ice, another product of the winds that frequently blow down the valley from the glacier.

The sun was blocked by a mountain as we neared our entry/exit point. Our studded tires dug into the slushy top inch of the ice, breaking through enough that it released a slight whiff of methane that had been trapped under the ice as plants decayed in the mud.

It's nearly the middle of March. The days are getting longer. We haven't had snow in nearly three weeks. In many places the trails are hard-packed and fast to ride. In some parts of town, things are melting. March. This year it seems to be a most magical month.

Heart rock.

february in wisconsin

2011-03-09T15:40:00.005-09:00

Along Highway 12, near Baraboo.

I arrived in Wisconsin in mid-February, during the start of the Big Demonstrations at the state capitol, but instead of getting my protest on, I spent lots of time in the rolling hills of the farm country northwest of Madison, a region they call the driftless area. That is, during the last glacial period, the area wasn't covered by glaciers, so that no (or very little) drift was deposited in the area. Long ridges, steep slopes and bluffs make the area a little limiting for farming, so corporate farms aren't that prevalent.

I stayed in the small town of Wonewoc, which was built between sandstone bluffs and the meandering Baraboo River. Just one stop on the former railroad line between Chicago and Minneapolis which is now a rail-trail. I visited cheese factories, drove some backroads and even stopped in at a dairy farm. If you've never been in a dairy barn, if you weren't raised with the scent of the barn, that sweet, rich scent that combines alfalfa, corn, oats, cow dung and warm milk, then you won't understand how comforting it was for me to duck into the barn during the middle of yet another Midwest snowstorm.

My dad got out of farming when I was a little kid; I only remember the time we raised one steer for butchering. But my aunt and uncle lived up the road and had a dairy farm. My two cousins, younger brothers and I would play in the barn. I remember riding tricycles scooter-style down the aisle between the manure gutters, racing each other and hoping we didn't fall into the manure. We built forts in the hay mow and I remember trying to help out a few times. But I wasn't a farm kid. We gardened; we didn't farm.

Just a day old.

But I was still raised with that scent and raised on the fresh milk my dad would bring home from the farm in big metal pails. After the milk was cold, we'd stir the cream back in before serving it for dinner. No soda on that table. Sure, in the summer we'd sometimes have Kool-aid, but mostly we were a milk-drinking family. Though I remember when we'd have milk break at school I couldn't stand to drink the white milk; it tasted watered-down and almost bitter. Not the sweet milk I got at home. I'd go for the chocolate milk if I could; just to cover the blandness of the processed milk.

I helped clean the barn. Know what? Cow manure is heavy!

Kitties in the straw await milking time.

On the Goodman farm, I visited with a day-old calf, helped scrape manure into the gutters and checked out the barn cats who were probably intrigued that a human was paying attention to them. (I probably got in the way a little, too.) Earlier in the week I'd bought cheese at a cheese factory that only uses organic milk, including milk from the Goodmans. Now, tucked in a bag in my fridge here in Anchorage are a couple bricks of cheddar that I like to think include milk from the small herd I visited. I know it's going to be good.

I heard that I was the second Rose to visit in as many days who
insisted on a photo with this cow. She looks like she's trying to
sniff me, but she's actually trying to back away. Sorry, Rose!

My sister-in-law gave me this jacket to wear. It was huge and
the buttons kept coming undone. My brother, Mike, later told
me it was my dad's jacket. A perfect barn coat, b'gosh.

sometimes it's best to turn back

2011-03-08T20:01:00.002-09:00

Jon levitating across Resurrection Creek.

If the ride starts to suck, turn around.

I'd heard from a friend that Resurrection Trail was pretty nice to ride. He'd biked from the Bean Creek trailhead near Cooper Landing up to Juneau Lake. Great conditions. So I started thinking, I wonder how the Hope side is. As it turns out, not as nice as I'd hoped.

Jon and I headed down on Thursday, making the drive around Turnagain Arm to get to the trailhead. The road hadn't been plowed all the way to the parking lot, so we parked just this side of the turn-around, readied the bikes and headed up the road. Before long we were on the trail and climbing.

In some places, the trail was smooth & fast.

Between areas of sweetly-packed, smooth trail were long runs where a moose or two had decided the trail was indeed an easy route to follow. We rode the post-hole filled trail for a few miles, enduring the elbow-jarring sections and hoping for improvements. We met a group of skiers who were touring the 39-mile trail over the upcoming three days, staying at a different public-use cabin each night. They would have great conditions. Three days of bluebird skies and perfect temperatures in the forecast. Plus, their skis would glide right over the post-holes while they barely noticed them. For a few minutes, I longed for my skies. And wished that moose was in my freezer instead of on my trail!

In more places, the trail was trampled and jarring.

As we rode alongside the creek, it got worse. I stopped and waited for Jon. We had to decide whether we wanted to endure or find a better place to ride. Jon admitted that he had taken me on rides where I was hating the conditions and now he seemed to be hating this trail even more than I was. The decision was mine. I rode up the trail another hundred yards or so. No, I told him, this would be great except that it really sucks. So we turned around. The pounding continued, yet we enjoyed stretches. At the top of the final long climb, we sat in the sun to share a thermos of tea and a snack.

A smooth climb.

Back in the car, we debated where to go: I was up for sitting in the sun somewhere enjoying a coffee. Jon thought Twenty Mile or Portage. We drove on. At Johnson Pass, he suggested we try those trails. I waited in the car while Jon checked out the trail entrance. He could see a few bike tracks that barely sunk into the hard-packed snowmachine trail. No sign of moose. Soon we were back on the bikes riding a pump-track descent of rollers (aka, whoop-do-dos) until we reached a creek. At a stream bank, we dropped onto a snow-covered creek and turned right but soon turned around when we approached open water, doubling back and riding up-river.

A mountain blocked the sun and the temperature dipped to 10 degrees as we followed the creek upstream. Soon we saw a bridge over the creek and knew we were almost to the summer trail. A trail whose dips and turns I recognize in the summer was now again turned into a series of rollers that climbed the narrow trail alongside a snow-covered marsh.

The air was still and cold. We heard a few birds, but couldn't see them. Not a cloud in the sky. I looked down at my watch and it was already 5:00, our turn-around time. We retraced our route to the trailhead, satisfied that even this short ride could redeem the earlier experience.

Is this Center Creek or Bench Creek? Either way, the
snowmachine trail hooks in with the summer trail just behind me.

Part of what I love about the winter riding experience is the feeling of adventure and exploration. Sure, somebody has been there before me, but I love being on a trail for the first time. Wondering what the conditions will be; what I'll find next; hoping I can take the right turns and find my way back before dark. The other part is seeing how much of a trail I can ride in the winter. Thursday's ride got me wondering whether we could have biked the entirety of Johnson Pass trail, or at least make it to the pass without being turned around by avalanche fields or too many downed trees. Something for next time.

a little winter inspiration

2011-03-04T18:00:00.003-09:00

3..2..1.. go!

Last Sunday I decided at the last minute that I'd drive out to Knik for the start of the Iditarod Trail Invitational. I'd never gone to the race start, but a few people I know were racing and I wanted to see them off. I also figured it was a sunny day and besides taking a few photos at the start, I could check out some of the trails on the Mukluk.

As I made the drive toward the Susitna Valley, wind blew snow across the highway causing near whiteouts for a few miles. Above the blowing snow the sun cast its light on the mountains around me. I hoped it wouldn't be too blustery at the starting line.

I surprised our friend Pete who'd arrived in Anchorage from McGrath (the finish line of the race) just the day before after having his previous flights canceled. He's teaching in the small Kuskokwim River town this year so we haven't seen him much. Pete's bike carried minimal gear compared to the other racers, the sign of a rider who's done the race a few times. Next, I found Louise (Lou) and Eric. They're Pete's friends from California who stayed with us last year before and after the race. I got to see them off after inviting them to stop in when they get back to Anchorage. The start area was crowded with racers and well-wishers. Every time I turned around I heard a voice or recognized a face. It was sunny and windy, with a twinge of nervous energy floating around.

Pete, Lou & Eric.

If I'd arrived a little earlier, I could have biked up the trail and photographed the racers as they streamed by. I thought maybe I could ride with the back of the pack up the trail, but I would never see my friends after the start; even loaded with survival gear and food, they're all much faster than me. Then I ran into Mike Curiak and Steve Tower.

Mike stayed at our place last year, too (the house was full of people!), and rode the trail all the way to Nome, self-supported and without entering any buildings. You can see his videos here, presented in three parts. This year, Mike was the official photographer, biking and shooting pics all the way to Nome. Steve's wife, Janice, was in the race so he was riding out to one of the lakes with Mike to see her on the trail. They good-naturedly didn't object to me tagging along.

Ride past the prison farm and where the road ends, just keep going...

We drove to another parking area, then pedaled a few miles on a road before getting on a trail that follows a buried pipeline. Steve explained the route, but it was mostly a straight shot that dropped down a bluff to cross a river, then climbed out again. I was riding along a snowmachine highway through an expanse of spruce, getting ever closer to Mount Susitna (Sleeping Lady), watching as Mike and Steve became ever smaller moving dots of black against the snow. Wind blew across the areas that didn't have trees, creating gentle drifts across the trail.

Steve & Mike are way out there, about to cross the Little Su.

Sleeping Lady and a perfect trail beckon.

Just after 3:30, I decided I should have a snack and turn around. I hadn't seen any riders and there was no chance of catching my guides. I wanted to get back to the car before darkness fell so I wouldn't be riding the road with no lights. I ducked behind some trees and pulled out a snack and some hot tea. My right cheek was chilled from the north wind. I pulled out my phone and called Jon at the shop to tell him where I was. Nothing to worry about. I'm turning around, I told him, but if Steve calls and wonders what happened, tell him I'm okay. Then I turned around and started biking back.

That's when I saw the first group. I recognized Pete's gold-colored jacket at the back, then his friend Greg in the front. Soon they were gone and I rode on, encountering more cyclists chasing the leaders down the trail. A few people I knew, others I wasn't sure. But I imagine they were surprised to see a lone cyclist out on the trail just taking photos.

Greg and Pete with three other riders.

Janice crosses the expanse.

For the last several days, I've followed the progress of the racers as they've moved from one checkpoint to the next on the 350-mile course. I've been reading the updates and talking with friends. I've been amazed at the winners. When I was out there last Sunday afternoon, a part of me wished I had been joining them on that long ride to McGrath. Maybe some year. Or maybe I should just do a few overnight winter bike trips. That should satisfy my need for adventure. That, or just read the rider accounts.

Eric and Lou. She's off to set a new women's record.

fat & fatter

2011-03-01T20:18:00.005-09:00

I was biking behind Jon the other day when I realized I had a slight advantage. We were on a narrow thread of trail on the Campbell Tract and I could see his front wheel wiggling a little as he regained control on the fresh snow. It reinforced what we already knew: people who ride on wider rims aren't necessarily better riders; their equipment affords them a better ride.

The same tire, one on a 65 mm rim; the other on an 80.

I've noticed a difference in the last few weeks as I've been riding around on my new snow bike. I know: my old snow bike was perfectly fine; practically new. But earlier this winter Jon came home with a question: "What would you think of selling your Pugsley?" Hmm. I hadn't thought of selling the steel snow bike I'd only owned for a few years. I didn't need a new bike. Not that this has stopped me in the past. I asked Jon what was up.

So long, Pugs. You're a steel beauty, but you're off to a good home.

A friend of a friend was looking for a Pugsley and they were out of stock at Surly. He also had a tight budget. I knew the Salsa Mukluk snow bike had been in high enough demand that the shop had sold out of its first shipment and was awaiting more of the aluminum frames. I agreed to the new bike as long as there would be no gap in my snow bike availability.

I've had the Mukluk for a few weeks now and will attest that I noticed some differences right away. Besides having extra standover clearance (a major plus), the bike came with wider rims than what I had on the Pugs. The Pugs had 65 mm wide rims, where my Mukluk has 80s (you can run 80s on the Pugs; I just didn't). With the wider rims, the bike felt even more stable, it cornered better and I could really tell the difference at slower speeds (which is where I spend so much of my time).

The lovely Mukluk. Welcome to the stable.

It wasn't until I was riding with Jon, though, that I could see just how significant the difference is. He's still on his Pugs with 65s, so wherever the trail hadn't seen much use since the previous evening's snowfall, he had to work a bit more to keep on top of the hard-packed trail and not dive into the deep snow alongside the trail. I, on the other hand, was just plowing through the few inches of snow, sure and steady.

Now I'm glad somebody wanted to buy the Pugs. I hope it's now in a good home because it's a fun bike to ride and deserves to be ridden. I'm happy with my custom-built Mukluk. We're going to have some fun together. Now I hope I don't soon have the urge to upgrade any other bikes, because whenever I do, I feel a need to go back to work at the shop. It's a never-ending, co-dependent relationship. Think Jon doesn't know that?

I didn't mean to hold this post so long before publishing it; since writing it in early February, I've been to Wisconsin & back and had lots more rides on my new beauty. Now I'm feeling the urge to explore new winter territory...
And, just for the record, I will be working at the shop again this spring. I do get an employee discount on bikes & gear, but I don't get free stuff and neither Surly nor Salsa are paying me to write about their fat-tire bikes.

127 hours, and then some

2011-02-24T18:26:00.003-09:00

Slot canyon near Page, AZ

Yesterday I returned from a week in Wisconsin, where I visited with family, celebrated my mom's 87th birthday and got reeducated on Wisconsin's politics. Jon met me at the airport and we headed home. I was yawning most of the way having not had much sleep the night before as I was engrossed in a book and, once asleep, sleeping fitfully as I worried that the alarm wouldn't go off at 6:30 a.m.

After unpacking my bounty of cheese (through which the TSA had rummaged then not put away as tidily as I had), we lounged around the house before deciding to go to the movie at the Bear Tooth. The movie: 127 Hours. You know, the one where Aron Ralston is trapped by a boulder in a slot canyon and must amputate his arm with a dull knife or die.

We've hiked in a few slot canyons in southern Utah and Northern Arizona. They're intriguing, sometimes magical-feeling places - once you get over your claustrophobia and fear of getting washed away in a flash flood. I even remember climbing over a boulder that was wedged in a tight canyon. We had to climb over it to lower ourselves to the next level. It was very similar to the one in the movie and I remember worrying that it would roll over me. A guy we know was in line next to us and said that in the canyon country, they now call them "Ralstones." Hmm. Not such an unreasonable fear after all.

Slot canyon near Page, AZ: from the surface, it's just a crack in the rock...

but when you climb in, it's an earthen maze.

Spoiler alert ahead!
Aron gets trapped early in the film, yet the director took the time to show us a character who was adventurous, but also self-centered and careless. Nobody knew where he was because he didn't give anyone an idea of where he was going. Pilots know: always file a flight plan. That's good advice even if you're just heading out for a dayhike, I guess.

When Aron finally gets serious about cutting off his arm, he first breaks it, knowing he can't cut through the bone with the cheap knife he's made more dull by chipping away at the boulder with a delusion that he can dislodge it. The toughest thing to cut is the nerve and I had to look away each time they showed him attempting to go at it. Awful, awful! But then, as we know, he gets out. He wrapped the stump of his right arm and is heading down the canyon where he then rapels down to a water hole. He's drinking the rank water from a pool. That's when I heard something and looked to my left.

Jon's head was tipped back as if to look at the ceiling. I thought he would be sick. I pulled his empty beer glass closer and reached for his head, looking at his eyes. They were rolled back. He was out. Oh shit! I was saying his name as Aron walked away from the pond to his new life. "Jon, Jon." He wasn't moving so I just started calling out: "Doctor." I was close to panic. Louder: "Doctor, is there a doctor?" What if it was a heart attack? I know he's healthy, but these things happen.

Soon we were surrounded by people. A nurse reached for his wrist to find a pulse. Someone asked me what happened. They got him to stand up and walked almost as a unit to the lobby while I collected our jackets and found my bag which had dropped to the floor. I left the uneaten pizza on the table and followed.

Someone had already called 911. Jon was in the lobby sitting on one of the benches as the doctor and nurse questioned him and checked his pulse again, consulting each other on what they thought it was. The movie had ended and people were walking out, looking. Gerald, the physician's assistant who works for our doctor showed up to see what was happening and he stayed with us as the medics arrived and checked Jon. But they wanted to take him out on a gurney. "Do you have to?" Jon asked, insisting he could walk. They loaded him up and wheeled him out.

In the parking lot the doctor gave me her card. (She had told me she was a pediatrician and I assured her that this was the perfect doctor for a middle-aged guy. Sorry, it runs in my family to joke at serious times, ala Dr Hibbert of the Simpsons.) Gerald told me we were doing the right thing by going to the E.R., and I agreed, if only to make sure there was nothing serious wrong.

Jon and I got to the emergency room at about the same time. When I went into the room, he was hooked up to a monitor, answering questions posed by the nurse. When he had a free moment, he asked if I'd gone back in for the pizza. "Sorry," I said. "I knew you'd be thinking about that."

The E.R. doctor gave the same diagnosis as the pediatrician. Pretty simple: he had fainted. The discharge instructions say that these vasovagal symptoms "may be brought on by emotional distress, pain, dehydration, bleeding or medications effects." They might add to the list, watching a movie that includes a graphic scene of someone amputating his own arm. If you go to the movie, which I still would recommend, be sure to have some water on hand and a little hand-held fan. If you feel faint, don't stand up. And don't be surprised if someone calls for a doctor.

In doing a little research, I've learned that Jon isn't the only one who has fainted at 127 Hours. It's a pretty powerful scene. Had I known, I still would have gone to the movie, but I may not have reacted quite so drastically to his fainting. Or, maybe I would have, because you never know. Either way, I can't wait to see the questionnaire from the insurance company asking Jon to explain this incident.
Here's what Ralston and the actor who plays him, James Franco, say about how to watch the movie.

frosty visions

2011-02-09T19:40:00.002-09:00

In mid-January when we were biking on the icy waterways and the mudflats, I was intrigued by the frost formations on the ice, on the marsh grass, on everything. My bike ride today in sprinkles and temperatures just above freezing reminded me of some of the images I captured during the January cold spell.

South Anchorage and mountains

crystal crust

detail

winter blossoms spring from the mudflats

driftwood

revolutionary invention makes butts appear slimmer

2011-02-07T14:04:00.001-09:00

For your consideration:

My butt, on Mavic rims and 2.1 tires.
Not bad...*

My butt on 80mm Rolling Darryl rims with 3.8 Larry tires.
Fabulous!

*Thanks to Karen Lee for sending me this picture of my butt on the White Rim Trail.

ski

2011-02-06T21:10:00.004-09:00

My idea of a perfect ski trail.

I ski the way I bike. By that I mean I prefer skinny trails that are less traveled than the pristinely-groomed, often-wide ski trails laid down by the local ski club. Don't get me wrong; I do use the groomed multi-use trails, sometimes even for skiing. But typically I'll use them to get from one narrow trail to another, connecting the dots between one technical experience and another while on my snow bike.

And that's how I ski, too: use a wide trail to get to a narrow one that twists through the birch- and spruce-forested park. Or branch off cross-country to explore off-trail (something I can't do on my bicycle). Two of my favorite ski experiences of last year were off the Powerline Trail in the front range of the Chugach Mountains that climb from the foothills on the east side of Anchorage. (You can read about them here and here.)

Powerline cuts through a wide valley and is heavily traveled, but once you leave the trail and cross the Campbell Creek, you could go the rest of the day and encounter no other skiers. While enjoying brilliant spring skiing last April (yes, April) I realized I wasn't properly equipped for the outings that I loved the most. So I started shopping. Rather, I started asking questions: what gear should I be using? Because what I was using just wasn't cutting it in the backcountry.

New backcountry ski (left) compared to my mid-90s classic.

I was skiing on the classic "touring" skis I'd purchased the first winter I lived in Anchorage. They were the first skis I'd ever owned and marked my commitment to living here. I would embrace the winter, I had told myself. And I did. But I found that the groomed and tracked ski trails that my membership to the ski club promised were just not my cup of tea. I'm not that good at skiing but after a while I found the groomed trails to be uninteresting.

Which brings us to this winter.

At Christmas Jon gave me a gift card to my favorite ski shop in town, Alaska Mountaineering & Hiking (AMH). There I found most of the backcountry equipment I needed (though I did find boots that fit me better at REI). I bought my gear, then waited for enough snow. Through the melting of early January; through the deep freeze of the middle of the month; then, finally we began getting some snow cover. Friday, February 4, began cold and clear. A calm, perfect February day.

In the early afternoon I gathered my gear and headed for Glen Alps where a few people had packed down the Powerline Trail. Instead of heading up the shaded valley, I skied down toward the city. I watched another skier carve into the snow as he swung onto a trail that ducked into the trees. Then I pointed my skis toward the same trail.

When I pushed off, the metal edges cut into the wind-crusted snow making the turn so much easier. I could snowplow a little to slow my speed, my ankles stable inside the higher boots. Then I headed onto a narrower, singletrack trail. The skis, with their hourglass shape were stable and, again, I could take the tight turns a little better.

They handle great!

That first outing was kind of a short one, but I spent some time practicing turns on the descent before climbing back up to the trailhead. If we keep this good snow, I have another way to enjoy the winter with better gear for the backcountry. Don't worry, though, you'll still see me on my snow bike.

lake monsters

2011-01-22T10:53:00.002-09:00

After Monday's misadventure, I needed a redemptive ride. Weather reports called for warming temperatures, snow and even blizzard conditions for Wednesday. But is was also Jon's day off and possibly our last chance for an adventurous ice ride this season. After seeing a friend's photos of skating on Kenai Lake, we were sold. We had to go.

We loaded the car, picked up our friend, Alan, and headed south. As predicted, the wind was blowing in Turnagain Arm. Some snow was falling in the pass, but it was much warmer than it's been in a couple weeks, almost 20 above zero. We parked close to the Forest Service office on the lake's eastern shore and began getting ready. I was sitting in the front seat putting on my boots, but I had the car window open so I could listen to the sounds of the lake.

The ice was thumping like the bass in your neighbor's car stereo, but more drawn out, moaning. Two skaters headed for the ice and skated toward the center, quickly disappearing into the snowstorm. A few minutes later we heard a long rumble and a loud, explosive boom that sounded for several seconds, much like the sound of an earthquake whose epicenter is very near. I saw masses of ice rock when it broke, heaving the ice up, then back down, splashing water to the surface as it shifted. Some sections of ice were still rocking or shifting a minute later.

We couldn't see the skaters and once the ice stopped moving, we decided to go ahead with our bike ride. When I say "decided," I mean we didn't really discuss it; we just kept getting ready. We rode a short distance and came upon what turned out to be the main break in the ice. Alan stepped across and took off riding (that's him in the first photo). Jon rolled his bike across the wet gap then made a small leap over. Skeptical at first, I followed by aligning my bike across the break then using it as a pole vault to leverage myself across.

The skaters hurried back but had gone north around the lead to get to shore. We continued riding toward the western arm of the chair-shaped lake, keeping somewhat close and in-sight of the north shore as snow fell and blew around us. The gray-scale day was only brightened by some of our colorful gear: jackets, poagies, mittens.

Jon and Alan in the blizzard.

After following the north shore for a few miles, we turned around, crossed the lake, then following the west shore of the south leg of the lake. At one point during the crossing, I placed the camera on a thin layer of snow and set it to record in film mode, hoping to catch the continued groaning of the lake ice, which sounded like a distressed monster that was sometimes tapping the underside of the ice. The camera rolled, catching Jon and Alan and millions of falling snowflakes, but no ice sounds. We stopped to explore a campsite situated across the lake from the Forest Service office, then continued toward the Primrose trailhead where we had some snacks and hot tea.

The return trip over some refrozen jigsaw puzzle pieces of ice reminded me that the lake can break up any time, especially when the weather changes as it did on Wednesday. We pedaled north, following the eastern shore back to where we'd started, checking the open water before finally ending the ride.

We learned later that the skaters (or at least one of them) worked for the Forest Service and had just gone out for a lunch-time skate when all ice broke loose. The story even made a local online paper. Guess they didn't notice us riding out there. Or maybe they shook their heads when they saw us and hoped that we wouldn't need a rescue.

Jon at the open lead as our ride ends.

I sometimes wonder at things I've done. I don't think of myself as a risk-taker; in fact I think I'm one of the most cautious people I know. And, despite the ice break, Wednesday's ride didn't feel risky to me. I was with two other people. We had rescue gear and there was little chance of an avalanche pouring onto the lake to further disturb the ice. I felt more nervous on the drive home to Anchorage in the blowing snow on the Seward Highway. More people have died there.

twenty mile: a series of events

2011-01-17T19:25:00.001-09:00

My friend Scott was thinking of organizing another ice ride - this time on Twenty Mile River - for today. When I hadn't heard any firm plans by Sunday evening, I set my alarm and went to bed. This morning, I shot off an email letting him know I'd decided to run an errand (to Pilates class) but would be available after 11.

To make a long story short, I found out when I got home that he and another friend were heading off, meeting around 11. I called both numbers but they were gone. I figured I'd head down and check it out anyway. So, I gathered my gear and headed south, stopping at Huffman for gas. The north wind was biting at my fingers as I tried to get the self-pay machine to work. I wondered to myself why these machines rarely show which direction the magnetic strip should face. I began manually punching in my phone number, then it canceled the transaction because I didn't see the "enter" button.

After going inside to pay and fueling the car, I was cold. I wimped out and decided to not go. Jon had asked me to drop my camera off at the shop after my ride so I stopped in to give it to him. "You should go," he encouraged me. "It's probably not windy there." Though I hate making long drives solo, I was again convinced: I should go. At least check it out. Back in the car, I turned onto the Seward Highway and headed to Twenty Mile.

After Girdwood and just before the road to Portage, I could see people on the ice in the distance. I could catch them. I turned onto a short access road that runs next to the railroad tracks. There were two other cars in the parking lot: Yvonne's and one I didn't know. I geared up, crossed the tracks and headed out, following two sets of tracks. Not knowing the route, I tried riding up a slough, but didn't get far. I turned around and decided I'd follow closer to the river. That's when I noticed my front tire was losing air.

Out in a clearing I looked at the tire. There were several thorns embedded in the soft rubber. I'd picked up a few of these thorns before when I'd done a ride on the mudflats in Anchorage two weeks before. I laid the bike down and pulled out my pump, figuring I'd put in a little air so I could ride out and fix it later. Then I noticed the rear was a little lower than when I'd started riding. I'd made a huge mistake in riding where I should have known I'd pick up thorns. I should have stayed on the river bank or gotten onto the river ice, but since it was my first time there, I hadn't known the route. I started walking my bike. Then I heard a gunshot.

I looked up and yelled. I could see two people standing on the railroad tracks. I guessed one was a guy I'd seen earlier on my outbound trip. Hunting for rabbits, he'd told me. The second guy must have been the friend he'd mentioned. I didn't have time to take any more steps. Another shot rang out. I heard it land in the marsh grass. I didn't have time to panic. Terrified, I began yelling.

I yelled and waved my arms, sure I'd grab their attention in my green jacket and orange mittens. "Stop shooting! Do you see me? Stop!" Suddenly, I was afraid for my life. They must see me. How could they not? Why would they shoot toward me if they see me? Were they trying to scare me? I shouldered my bike and kept walking, then noticed they'd left the tracks. I hiked under the railroad bridge and to the parking lot. There I ran into a friend but told him I had to have words with these two guys.

"Were you the ones shooting?" I asked, recognizing the rabbit hunter. They were. "Didn't you see me out there?" "We saw you." They told me that those bullets hadn't come as close to me as I thought: "you were hearing the echoes," one said. "That was not an echo," I told them, "it was just feet away from me." I replayed in my mind the sound of the bullet sailing past me then hitting something in the grass. "But we were shooting into the ground." I suggested that it had ricocheted off something, like a rock. I didn't have much else to say. They didn't think they'd done anything wrong. If they had, they probably wouldn't have been in the parking lot when I returned.

I should have written down their license plate so I could have reported it - something about this had to be illegal - but I didn't. Instead I wrote a note to put on my friend's windshield so they would know that I'd tried.

It was a beautiful day at Twenty Mile. The sun was shining, there was barely a breath of wind. I didn't do much riding, but I am glad to be alive and unhurt.

icy rides

2011-01-11T21:12:00.001-09:00

Bicycling on river ice is a bit like riding on the narrowest singletrack next to a steep drop-off, because for both, you don't want anything else on your mind. Just focus on the line. Where to ride. As soon as you stop paying attention, something bad could happen.

The worst thing that happened on my ride on Monday was that my toes got a little wet. But when the temperature is hovering in the mid-teens and you're maybe five or six miles from the car, the last thing anyone in a group wants to hear is: "Water got into my boots." Dang.

Following Jon up-river.*

It was my third ice-biking outing in four days thanks to the big melt that arrived with the new year. Snow had been blown away or melted as the temperatures soared into the 50s. After several days of warmth, temperatures dropped, freezing the mudflats and rivers. The cold refroze ice on Portage Lake that had begun to break up in the warmth. It's not unusual to get a few of these Chinook-driven warm spells followed by a good long freeze each winter, but I don't remember any last winter. That would explain why I did so much snow biking and skiing while my ice bike sat neglected until spring break-up.

On Monday, I was riding with Jon and our friend, Scott, on the Placer River. We'd started on the frozen slough between the two channels of the river that flow under the Seward Highway and into Turnagain Arm near Portage. We dropped onto the west channel, wary of the mirror-like reflection on the ice that made it look like it was still wet from a recent overflow event. Then we made our way up the river. An ice skater had been there before us which helped mark the sections of good ice.

River ice has so many different characteristics. Black or clear ice seemed to be the most solid. White ice was usually very thin and often suspended a few inches above the next thin layer which could have other similar thin suspended layers beneath it from the changes in the water level. (It reminds me of the dough of baklava which seems almost impossibly thin and flaky.) In a few places thick, clear ice held white shelves of ice in place beneath the surface. Sometimes bubbles were frozen inches below the surface. I could have spent hours just studying all the shapes in the ice.

On the marsh between the two channels of the Placer River.

Playing among the dead trees.*

Looking at all the layers and shapes, at the frost-covered plants and cracks could be pretty distracting if I hadn't always been aware that I was on a river where the frigid water could pull me under the ice and out to the saltwater. Nothing terrrible happened when I stepped onto ice that pancaked layer upon layer under my foot. The water went into the boot before I realized what was happening and had lowered my other foot. I climbed back onto the bank and stood there. Do I take off my boots and wring out my socks? Go immediately back to the car and get into dry socks and boots? Though I could feel the water settling between the toes on my right foot and barely drip onto the toes of my left, I decided to continue on, but promised to pay attention to my toes and to the ice.

Luckily, my battery-powered heated insoles were cranking out some warmth and both my sock layers were 100 percent wool. We kept riding up-river, over some crusty snow sections that had been tracked out by snowmachines before the warm spell. Finally we reached a section where the river was almost entirely open with running water rushing from the mountains to the inlet. After a snack, and studying the situation, we turned around, and with the sun at our backs headed down-river.

Open water on the Placer.

Riding where the water level has dropped.*

Sure, it's one of those weeks when the people with snow bikes are whining a bit, but having the option of riding the ice on studded-tires makes the cold days much more fun. I'd almost forgotten how much I love getting out onto the ice.

Me, Scott and Jon - soaking up the sun on the Placer.*

*These photos taken by Scott Christy.

a new year's writing vibe

2011-01-05T17:03:00.005-09:00

I'm starting the year with a positive vibe. Maybe watching fireworks from our friends' deck as we toasted the new year with a group of friends was just what I needed to shake loose the melancholy which had taken hold over the last few months. As we were leaving for the party, I felt I was forcing myself out of the house. But once we were there, enjoying snacks, drinks and stories, I didn't want to be anyplace else. I gained inspiration by talking about ideas and projects for this new year. I know I'm lucky to have good friends.

The first few days of the new year have been active & very productive: a snow bike ride on the 1st; helping Jon install a window on the 2nd. Loading old aluminum siding for the recycler, sorting through boxes of inner tubes, organizing my office. Oh, and not writing.

I've been trying to figure out this dullness in my writing; this fear of putting much of anything (my thoughts & ideas) into words. I'd thought about working on my fiction, but something was holding me back.

Then I got an email from the 49 Writers to attend a "Resolve to Write" gathering. I want to go. I'll know lots of the people, but before I commit I need to actually resolve to write. I started thinking about what might be holding me back. It's not that I'm lazy; I'm a damn hard worker when I'm dedicated to a project. So what is it? On Tuesday, it occurred to me: fear.

This is very strange and it all goes back to what I was working on last summer. I was trying to remember some of the things my mom had told us while growing up; strange things people did. For example, she once heard that the township snowplow driver had gotten stuck and stopped at someone's house. The woman who lived there let him in to use the phone, then offered him something to eat. She then wiped a plate on her pants leg and served him pancakes on that plate! I know; that's a crazy strange thing to do. But I started thinking about what kind of distraction could drive a person to do something like that and used that as the basis of the story. I used a few of these mysteries as writing cues.

Then in early August, I began writing something that was somewhat based on my family. It was about a woman who returns from a wilderness trip and learns that her father has died. I described how he died with a level of detail that included him falling in his bedroom, hitting his head and dying. Ten days after I began the story, my dad fell, hit his head and died. He may have had a heart attack, but that doesn't matter. What mattered and what kept flooding my thoughts when I tried to write any other fiction was this story.

It wasn't as though I was prescient. He'd fallen before. When I'd visited two months earlier I watched him standing with the wobbliness of a child just learning to walk. I saw the fall coming and I chose to write what I saw coming. So when I got the call and went back to Wisconsin, there was a certain strangeness to knowing what I'd written.

I know that what I write is not destined to become reality. (Remember that show about the little boy whose drawings come true?) And maybe writing about this event ahead of time was my way of preparing myself for what was to come. My biggest challenge is to break away from this fear I have and start writing stories that hold the same level of intensity and truth as the one that I was trying to write in early August.

But truth (even in fiction) - truth about human nature and relationships - is very tough to write about. I guess the fact that it has haunted me for all these months means that I am capable to taking my writing to an uncomfortable level. The level where the truth of human existence can be found. I think I'm beginning to understand. And I hope that through understanding I can finally sit down and embrace my writing. It's a new year; I need to write.

this year

2010-12-31T19:19:00.012-09:00

I remember:
This year
I saw cranes.

Feeding, calling
On wing,
nesting.

Taking flight,
in pairs
flying overhead.

Disappearing
in the reeds
along a county highway.

This year
I want to remember:
many times
I saw cranes.

1. Springtime in Russian Jack Springs Park.
2. June, on the 400 Trail in Wisconsin.
3. August, at Baxter Bog, less than a mile from our house.

not necessarily a grinch

2010-12-22T16:25:00.002-09:00

This holiday video is going viral. I first found out about it on the Alaska Magazine site. Then it was in the Anchorage Daily News. I've shared it with other people.

It's quite charming: a fifth grade class and other residents in a small coastal Alaska village flash cards with words or syllables printed on them to the tune of Hallelujah. Even those of us who aren't religious can see that it was probably lots of fun for the kids, elders and other residents of the village, especially when it came time to view it at the Christmas program at the school.

Yet, here I am twitching. Because I'm a stickler. As I pointed out to another stickler at a solstice party last night: "Sticklers are so annoying, unless they're me." And that's the thing, isn't it? I'm not perfect. I make mistakes, some in writing; some verbal (like today at lunch when I commented that Jon had given me a little spoon so I could eat my salad; only it wasn't a spoon, it was a salad fork). I do these kinds of word errors frequently enough that in public I sometimes have to stop to think about what to call something.

So, what's my beef with the video? An apostrophe, that's all. Okay, it's not just that apostrophes are mistakenly used on pluralized, non-possessive words. It's that the video, and I assume the flash cards, were made by a teacher. It is a very simple rule: we don't use an apostrophe before the letter "S" when a word is pluralized.

That's it. I've said it. And if that makes me a grinch, at least I'll be a grinch whose apostrophes are in the right place's. I mean "places."

why, look at the moon!

2010-12-21T11:58:00.019-09:00

December 20, 2010 - start of the lunar eclipse.

Last night and early this morning, thousands - maybe millions - of people on our spinning orb stopped what they were doing, turned their faces to the sky and looked at the Moon as the Earth's shadow cast itself across its surface. The Moon slowly grew dim, making one of the longest nights of the year in the northern hemisphere a little darker. Yet spirits seemed lifted as the eclipse played out.

I watched the beginning of it as I shoveled a skiff of fluffy snow from the driveway, glancing up every minute or so to watch as it progressed. Jon arrived home and agreed to join me for a walk. Our tenant, Dave, decided to go along. We strolled down the hill to the bog where the trail had already been packed through the fresh snow. We watched the eclipse's progress from a boardwalk before moving on to a large field. At least three other groups of people stood alongside the snowy field watching the eastern sky, some taking photos, as the Moon changed to light orange.

Lunar eclipse

After we walked home in the 4 degree night a haze of clouds moved in and obscured the sky.

I logged onto facebook and was surprised by how many of my Alaska friends had posted their eclipse-watching experiences in their status updates: "watching from my hot tub," one said; "in my living room," said another; on a mountain; from the edge of a canyon. The fact that the eclipse corresponded with the solstice and that the skies were clear may have contributed to all the people out there experiencing the celestial phenomenon. Because often people just ignore the Moon.

Why look at the Moon? I sometimes wonder. This fall when I was staying at a cabin with a group of friends, I was excited that we were there during the full moon. When I urged one friend to stay up late to see it, she quipped, "I've seen the moon!" It was funny how she said it and we laughed. But really, why would we want to leave our cozy cabin in the middle of the night to sit on the cold deck waiting for the Moon to appear between two mountains? Do I really have to try to answer that?

Maybe I like to watch the moon because it reminds me of the cycles of nature; of the months, the seasons; the ebb and flow of the tides and of our lives. It is the constant companion to Earth as we travel through the solar system; dependable when so many other things are not. It doesn't matter what your beliefs are; the Moon will be there. Or, it could be something more simple. Maybe I like to watch the Moon because it is a beautiful bright light in the otherwise cold, dark sky. Isn't that enough?

Thanks to my niece, Diane Mead, for allowing me to use her photos which were taken at Point Woronzof in Anchorage.

round about on the tubes

2010-12-14T13:37:00.002-09:00

Huge thanks to Duke Russell for posting our little film on YouTube. This was the 24-hour film challenge entry I mentioned the other day. Thanks for watching. You'll need to turn up your volume to catch everything.

Oh, what did I do? I did some of the camera work and helped come up with ideas. One of my ideas was one you might least expect from me but it ended up being kind of funny. And I'm also in one tiny scene; Kip is the other person in the scene.

For a little background, Duke (the star & instigator) and Kip (our lead cameraman) both worked on the Everybody Loves Whales film crew this fall. Duke commented that what would sometimes go through his mind while preparing yet another wall for paint were: spackle, sand & women. Enjoy.

short film: round about

2010-12-12T12:40:00.004-09:00

I promised I'd post a link to the film we made, but I'm a little challenged. Please bear with me. My friend posted it on a facebook group, so, if you're on facebook, you'll be able to view it by using this link.

If you aren't on facebook, we'll work on it so you won't be deprived. It should happen after the fest is done.

The rules were: the film had to be from two to 10 minutes long and had to in some way incorporate three elements: lavender, excelsior and squeal. I know. At least 90 percent of the footage had to be filmed during the 24-hour period and the film had to be delivered by 8:15 on Saturday evening to be in the competition. We worked right down to the last moment, including Duke burning the DVD as I drove to Out North. And after all that, our film missed the deadline by... get this... two minutes.

While we weren't in the running, the film was shown and even garnered some laughs and words of appreciation from the audience. Duke was also pleased that it was the penultimate film to show... if only we'd been in the running.

As for the five-day challenge. I just couldn't get into it. I felt a little bad because I started on it, but my heart wasn't in it. I just wasn't feeling the creativity & drive that's needed to do a project like that. And honestly, I'd rather watch films during the fest than spend all my time fretting over whether I'm doing a good job on a short deadline. So, while at first I felt I'd let the team down, in the end it was better to let them work on a great idea they came up with. I'm looking forward to seeing the final product. Excelsior!

the big watch 2010

2010-12-06T17:14:00.000-09:00

I think I've recovered from a weekend of watching films. Shorts, animation, documentaries and features. And that's just the first two days of the Anchorage International Film Festival. I'm starting to get into it this year although at first I debated even getting the pass. Jon and I buy passes almost every year and gorge ourselves on 10 days of films. This year I began reading the descriptions and was only drawn into a few titles. It seems my enthusiasm has been lacking lately. But now that the films have started playing, I'm glad I have the pass so I can see as many as I please. If that means staying at the Bear Tooth for seven hours or more, then so be it. After all, there's really no reason to leave the Tooth once you step inside: films, local brew, wine, food. No reason to leave at all.

Now that I've begun the Big Watch, I've put my editor's brain into action. Some of the films, while good, could have used more editing. I remember a writing instructor saying that sometimes as writers we can fall in love with a line or a sentence. We love it so much that even when it doesn't fit into the story we want to keep it, just as we hang onto old clothes thinking one day we can fit into them again. There comes a time you must just look at it, then discard it. It can be hard; that's why we have editors.

At a filmmaking clinic last year, one of the filmmakers stressed the importance of a good editor who is not the director or writer. When an editor is not as closely attached to every one of the clips, it's much easier for them to cut things. Just as with writing, we need an unbiased person to look at our project and be honest about what works. We need to someone to evaluate each passage: does it move the story along or does it cause it to bog down?

Some of the films I saw lacked this kind of editing. I sensed it when the film about jazz musician Vince Guaraldi veered off the main thread of the story into a strand that I hoped would hook back in. There were great quotes and reminiscences from some jazz legends; shots of historical moments to frame the film in a certain time in America. Some of it would be great material for another film, but was not relevant to this story. It made the film drag under the weight of the extraneous clips. It needed an editor to be brutal with the material, yet sensitive to the story.

So, why such a critic?

This year I helped a friend make a film for the 24-hour film contest. It was a pretty loose group; we had little structure. Mostly, we had his idea which we brainstormed to flesh into a story. It took on a life of its own. We filmed that first night, met again in the morning, at which time he almost threw in the towel. Two of us convinced him we were still in it; we would see it through. We filmed some more. Then he sat down to edit. It took a long time (as we'd been warned) but together we were able to cull a story from what seemed like a dozen strands of ideas.

It's dark, it's light. It's funny, it's serious. It's a first attempt. A start. It screens tonight (I'll post a link after the showing). Now I'm asking myself: should I participate in a 5-day contest that begins tonight? I have no clue.

art is

2010-12-06T12:16:00.003-09:00

Taking flight along Highway 89, north of Flagstaff, AZ

A couple weeks ago I ran into a woman I've known for a few years. Angela and I had been in a writing class together a few years ago. She's an artist and at the time was looking for feedback on a graphic novel she was working on. We chatted over coffee and she asked if I'd seen any graffiti done by a guy who goes by the name "Meno." I hadn't. (I probably don't get out enough, I suppose.) Then she told me that she wanted to meet him because she had heard he was just a young guy but has incredible talent, especially when it comes to cutting his stencils.

The next Sunday, I turned to the arts section of the paper and there he was. Elusive Meno. Like the UK artist Banksy, Meno didn't want to be photographed. Which is understandable because he's a graffiti artist, painting his art around the city. Now, he's gone inside with an exhibit at the MTS Gallery in Mountain View. His work looks intriguing.

It reminded me of the art Jon and I saw as we drove through northern Arizona last month. Photos & drawings, enlarged to life-size or larger, were glued onto abandoned buildings and old water tanks. All the works were along two-lane highways through reservation land. I don't know who the artists are, but Jon made a u-turn to take photos of the first site. After that, whenever we saw something, he pulled over and grabbed the camera. I wonder who made them and what statements they were trying to make.

Storage tanks along Highway 89, north of Flagstaff, AZ

along Highway 89, north of Flagstaff, AZ

3D detail

abandoned construction: looking ahead

guardians of abandoned construction

I don't know... but I like it.

At the abandoned Standard Oil station on Highway 160.

Do you know the artist(s). I'd love to give them credit.

nice and warm

2010-11-29T16:01:00.015-09:00

Wondering what to wear when it's this cold?

Every year, it's the same challenge: how to keep warm enough - but not too warm - while biking the trails. I have my layers: including windfront bib tights and a windfront jacket. Yet no matter what I wear, when it drops into the teens and lower, I can't keep my bootie warm!

I noticed that my friend Amanda wears a skirt when she rides. I've seen people wear them when they ski or hike or snowshoe, too. I've heard that teachers pull them on over their pants when they have playground duty. The Skhoop insulated skirts are sold at Skinny Raven, a local running shop that also has some great clothes for the Alaskan lifestyle: good looking, comfortable and warm.

A couple weeks ago, they held a fashion-show fundraiser for the YWCA. Included in a goodie bag was a 20% off coupon. I pulled a plaid Skhoop skirt on over my twill pants. Finally, I was ready to join the cadre of Alaskan women who swear by this recent introduction to our outerwear toolbox.

Can I get some style points even if I don't ride the skinny bridge?
Thanks, Kevin, for the photo-shoot.

Sunday, when it was 10 degrees in the park, I decided to give it a try while on the bike. I pulled the skirt over my bib tights, then unzipped both sides almost as high as they would go, making it easier to swing my leg over the bike and pedal comfortably. I biked to the park and rode around for a couple hours. I stopped and chatted with Kevin, who works at the shop. It may have warmed up a tiny bit, but when I got home, my butt wasn't nearly as frozen as it normally is at those temperatures.

I think I have a new addition to my winter biking wardrobe. And it looks great while I'm strolling around downtown, too.

white rim washout 2010 (pt 4)

2010-11-15T16:29:00.004-09:00

On Day 4, with wool baselayer and socks. The toe covers served me
well, but at the end of the final day, the bottoms became shredded
from climbing over boulders. My only gear casualty!

Part 4
The washout
All the photos used in this post were taken by my friend Corinne. Many thanks, Corinne!

On the last morning of the trip, I knew before climbing out of our tent that it was cold outside. I'd known it the night before as I'd left the firepan circle. Jon had held up a cloth he'd used to wash the river mud off his legs. It had frozen stiff instead of drying atop the tent. I thought of telling the girls who were still sitting around the hot charcoals, but Jon suggested that I not mention it. He was right: nobody needed to know it was already below freezing.

I could hear the low-roar of the stove as I emerged from the tent, found my wind pants in my drybag and pulled them on over my thermals. "Twenty-two," Brin told me from behind the cooking table. "Really?" The water for washing our hands had froze in the line. Camelbak hoses were frozen. My nose chilled in the morning air. It would be a long time before the sun reached the Potato Bottom campsite.

Divas emerged, some draping their sleeping bags over their shoulders to keep cozy just a little longer. They further reasoned that this way as the frost inside their tents melted, the water wouldn't rain on their gear. Coffee flowed. The sun rose. Omelets to order for breakfast. Jon and I moved our tent to the sun, shook off the water and let it stand longer. I hauled my gear to a sunny boulder, placing my black gloves over my Camelbak hose to get it to thaw. It seemed we would never get started. But a part of me didn't want to leave the White Rim. A part of me wanted to stay out on the trail with Jon and these women who kept their spirits up through wind, rain and cold.

Most of us were still in camp, packing our gear, when two cyclists entered camp. They had biked from the trailhead we were heading toward and would drive the gear van back out from the direction we'd come, allowing both our guides, Brin and Ben, to accompany us to the top of the canyon and drive us back to Green River.

By late morning we were out on the trail, going around the locked gate that closed off the washouts from all but bike and foot traffic. Climbing up Hardscrabble, I mentally prepared myself for a short but tough day. Parts of the trail near the river bottom held deep sand, some of it wet; some dry. The riding was a lot like snow riding: hold that wheel straight and just keep on pedaling. At one point, the trail had completely washed out leaving about a four foot drop to the sand below for anyone who wasn't paying attention. It took a moment to know which direction to go, but soon the gang was on track, beckoning me in the right direction through the sandy wash. This was the last time I saw Jon until the ride was done.

Years of sand that washes and drifts to the
canyon floor gets rearranged during floods.
Anne appears to be waving at me as I head
into the dune.

We passed an old stock corral and exited the national park (or was it the other way around?) Soon, we were at the bottom of the Mineral Road switchbacks. Since the road had washed out in August, one of the guiding companies had done a little work making a series of switchbacks so riders can hike their bikes past one missing switchback, then cross the washout and climb out of it on the other side. But before we got there, we had to bike up the start of the climb. Then cross a boulder field where the road used to be. Then climb some more.

I slurped down an energy gel, remounted my bike and started pedaling up the hill. It was surprisingly manageable; a gradual, sustained climb rising from the canyon. Rocks were scattered on the trail. I dismounted the bike where there were too many to navigate. Up ahead, I heard the cries of two ravens that were soaring on the updrafts of the canyon as the temperature rose. Their calls sounded unfamiliar, as though the Utah ravens spoke another language from our Anchorage ravens. I stood still, watching, listening. One dipped and climbed next to the canyon wall as the sun cast its twin of a shadow against the red rock. I could have watched it fly there all afternoon. Instead, I rounded the bend and climbed back on the bike, making my way toward a debris field where someone had swept the rocks aside to leave about a two-foot wide path on the road.

Anne and I reached the big washout at about the same time. Brin had been ahead of us with Jon and a couple other riders. He left his bike at the top, then hiked back down to help ferry bikes up the steep hike and through the washout. I chose to carry and push my bike as far as I could, sending Brin farther down the trail to help other riders. I wanted every inch to be accomplished under my own power. But once I reached the crossing point of the washout and saw I'd have to lower my bike more than 5 feet, I relented and handed my bike down to Brin, then climbed down to walk the bike across the rocky gap and back onto the trail.

Ben shoulders a bike along the switchback washout.

Another rider approaches the washout.

If you open the photo, you can see where the makeshift trail just
left of the washout helped us bypass the largest section of the washout.
It was pretty steep and precarious trying to carry or push the bikes
up the narrow trail. The guy in the white t-shirt is the Minnesotan
who gave us a hand. I was wrong: there is chivalry on the trail!

As people made their way up the crude hiking trail, we began passing bikes, bucket-brigade style across the gap. Hoisting bikes on his back, Ben carried one after another up the steep detour and handed it off. Brin lowered it into the washout and passed it to Anne who passed it to me. I lined up the bikes along the side of the road where they would await their riders. A couple visiting from Minnesota stopped to watch and the husband even stepped in to help in the bike passing. When all the bikes were across, we started heading up. I was able to pedal the final switchback, then crossed the cattle grate to where the van was waiting.

In case you're wondering what happened to Jon, when Brin returned from the top of the canyon to help us, he told me Jon had taken off to ride the road and requested that I make him a "respectable sandwich" for lunch. Okay... After making my own lunch and after everyone else made and ate their sandwiches, I put together a stack of meat, cheese, tomato and lettuce that he would love. Then we all piled into the van. All thirteen of our un-showered, tired bodies. A few miles down the road, we picked up Jon who had biked to where the dirt road met an intersection, then turned around. He was happy with his extra miles and even more happy that he was done climbing!

Plenty of people ride the White Rim in a single day, pedaling through some of the most beautiful canyon country in the Southwest. We took five days. I can't see myself wanting to ride it much faster than we did. I would miss so much.

Acknowledgments:
Thanks to Anne for instigating this unforgettable trip.
Thanks to Corinne for allowing me to use some of her photos here since I had none for this final day. They really add scale & perspective to the washout.
And, thanks to our guides, Brin & Ben from Holiday Expeditions. They were always helpful (even when Brin's estimate for the daily mileage was a little shy of what my odometer read) and kept the coffee flowing each morning. They also made sure nobody lost any weight on this trip (not sure if I should thank them for that). They now have nine places to stay if either of them ever decides to visit the Anchorage area! Of course, they'll have to bring their Dutch ovens...

white rim washout 2010 (pt 3)

2010-11-15T14:04:00.002-09:00

Part 3
I woke in the middle of the night at Murphy's and made my way to the outhouse. The nearly-full moon had risen, lighting the sky so much that all but the brightest starts and planets disappeared from view. I stood looking at the sky then returned to our tent. At around 2, I got up again and strolled toward the outhouse. I thought it would be a nice night for a walk, with the moon lighting the way. But Jon was asleep and I knew I needed sleep, too.

I should have gone walking because back in the tent I was restless. Maybe it was from eating too much guacamole or from the beans in the fajitas. Maybe it was the beers or the wine. Maybe it was the Gatorade. Whatever it was, I was wide awake and full of energy. And all I could think of were my parents. I remembered helping my mom sort through her dresser drawers before she moved. In that week after Dad's funeral, we "kids" kept ourselves occupied with the busywork of sorting and packing. It occurred to me, lying in my tent how we never just sat down together and cried. And how that would have been a very good thing to do. Instead, we kept things moving, organizing and being very practical about things. Leaving the room when we started to cry. Hiding instead of holding and consoling each other.

It's easy in the middle of the night, during the stillness around a camp to think about the bigger things, and that was what was going through my head. I recall now that one thing that had troubled me before my dad died this August was the fact that I'd had three back-country trips planned that would take me out of communication range for several days at a time. I'd worried that if something were to happen, I couldn't be reached. I'd even started writing a story about a funeral of a parent where the daughter hadn't been located so she missed it. Not even two weeks later, I got the call. When I'd visited in June and my siblings and I had talked with him about moving into an assisted apartment, he'd resisted and said, "In the fall. We'll talk about it in the fall." It makes me believe that he knew that his time was short but in his typical stoic fashion, he wasn't going to fill us in. He wanted to be home. Grieving is a long process and I was just beginning to learn that. It's also something that turns your relationships upside-down.

A few weeks after I'd returned from Wisconsin, I was listening to an interview with an author. He's maybe in his 40s or 50s. A few years ago, he'd lost a friend to suicide and it was then that he finally felt that he'd grown up. I understood what he was saying. For those of us without kids, the middle years offer the luxury of extending our own childhoods. We're responsible for ourselves only and that gives us lots of freedoms even as we work jobs, buy houses and establish relationships. We have free time and can afford to enjoy it. Then something happens. Finding out that Mom has Alzheimer's changed the way I talked to her and it changed the way I listened to her. I listen better; I encourage. I tell her that what she thinks or feels is normal and okay. It's intensified now that Dad is gone and I'm aware now of how much she needs me and each of my siblings and all the other people who are in her life. I have this new idea of what it is to be grown up: it's that knowledge that someone else not just depends on me but needs me. That's a huge responsibility. I didn't want to grow up.

My thoughts finally turned away from family and back to the trail, and I was able to recount the previous day: the hike, the ride, the evening surrounded by friends and the endless starry sky. I remembered that I'd packed some medicine that my doctor had recommended for my allergies that was designed for heartburn, took a dose and turned off my headlamp.

Lori and Anne

By the time I woke, the temperature had dropped to the low 30s and the wind had picked up. I was attuned to the roar of the stove heating water for coffee and, despite my lack of sleep, emerged from the tent. I tried to make conversation with a raven that was perched on our boulder. Instead of answering my throaty calls, it took flight and headed for the van. As it tried to land on the front wheel of Ben's bike, the wheel began to spin. Surprised, the raven flew off to the west as Brin and I watched, laughing. I quickly forgot about the long night as people emerged from their tents. We huddled with our hot drinks out of the wind, urging the sun to rise over the canyon, as we awaited our hot pancakes.

The day promised mostly gentle riding, except for a downhill to match the steepness of the climb from the day before as we now descended from Murphy's. The guides had proposed a short hike in a slot canyon that would leave from our lunch spot, but once there, decided it was too wet for hiking. Instead, we would ride a few more miles, then Brin would lead us up a cliff to an ancient granary that had been built around 800 years ago.

I'm writing our names in a logbook at the granary which dates
back to the 1200s. Thanks to Brin for sharing this place with us.

It was another sunny day (though cold), a great day for riding, gazing at the scenery and sprawling out on the warm rocks during the lunch break. The granary was in sight of the trail and just a short hike up a small canyon where it was built under an overhang. The walls were made of stone and the roof of tree branches. From the site, we could look down at the road where other cyclists rode by, unaware of the site we were exploring high above them. Back at the trail, we gathered our bikes and continued our ride. Soon we were descending, riding nearer to the river until reaching our camp in early afternoon.

Sunny, but chilly ride.

Again we had the luxury of setting up camp in calm weather. While the guys went off to check out the river, we Divas hung out in camp - some of us again in our colorful sarongs - enjoying wine and the sun's rays, knowing that this was our last night on the trail and that the next day would bring some tough pushing. The next day would be Washout Day.

snow ride

2010-11-10T18:14:00.001-09:00

I don't know if there is anything as serene as following a tunnel of light over a narrow, packed line of snow. I sometimes search to find that calm place inside me. That place where I'm not worried, I'm not thinking about my next move; some big decision; what I'm writing. All thoughts just disappear and I'm following that tunnel through the darkness.

The trees are outlines of black and white. Light and shadow. I hear my tires rolling softly on the surface. It's in the mid-20s; not cold enough for the squeaky snow of mid-winter. I'm not thinking about my fingers or toes. I don't have to cover my face. I can hear myself breathing. I see nobody.

I'm one with bike and trail. I know where the bike will go; I don't have to think about rising from the saddle; don't have to wonder about braking or shifting. I'm flowing. Pedaling and coasting. I'm smiling.

white rim washout 2010 (pt 2)

2010-11-07T21:15:00.001-09:00

Snow on La Sal Mountains -

day 2

Part 2

Elevation plays tricks on us. Here in Anchorage, we live among the mountains but at or darn near sea level. A trip to the Canyonlands takes us a few thousand feet above sea level where the air is less rich in oxygen, our legs feel a little heavier and the liquor will more quickly go to our heads. (There has to be some bonus.) Luckily, Jon and I had been riding at higher elevations for over a week before the White Rim trip started, so that made it a bit easier for us. Most of the gang, however had little time to acclimate. Still, after the first day, we all knew what to expect: the sun sets quickly in the desert leaving cold nights when it's clear; too many breaks for photos on the trail might leave people once again arriving at camp after dark; and we would be well fed.

The second day of riding gave us clouds and winds, but the rain stayed away all day as it did for the rest of the trip. It was as though Mother Nature had thrown all her tricks at us that first overnight and we had passed the test. We made light of the weather: it's prettier with clouds in the sky; people don't remember the perfect calm, clear days; they remember the challenges. One of my challenges was staying awake long enough to jot down a few notes in my notebook before my nose landed on the page and I was asleep.

Lunch-time Raven.

Pools on slickrock.

The rain from earlier in the day left puddles on the slickrock alongside the trail and it was more fun to walk among these pools than to huddle in the wind eating my lunch. A raven kept guard near the lunch site, waiting for food to blow from careless hands. Of course, we were careful to not leave anything to reward the bird and he kept his distance while we ate.

Our second camp was 21 miles from the first. White Crack is over a mile off the main road, near the rim of the canyon. We made camp, grabbed beers (maybe not it that order) then strolled off on a short hike to watch the sun set while Brin and Ben made dinner. That was a huge luxury: having someone else look after the cooking and cleaning. We had no shifts to work; no division of labor. Only set up and take down our own tents and get our gear to and from the van.

Lounging poolside at White Crack Tent City.

Just a few minutes' walk from Tent City. Sunset in the canyon.
Tomorrow, we'd be hiking into the canyon.

We had dinner around a fire pan as the stars came out. The moon rose over the canyon and I don't know who started it but we all began to howl, our cries rising into the cold, starry sky. Next morning, I was the first one up (besides Brin, maker of coffee) and I crossed the camp to a low rock overlook to await the sunrise. It glowed a piercing white before it was fully above the canyon wall, then the light began to soften and the coffee was ready. The rest of the gang began to stir.

Sunrise at White Crack. All our gear, food & water
fit into this van. That's Brin making sure we all have
our coffee or water for tea.

This day would be a short ride; just nine miles to the next site. Brin knew of a hiking trail that starts at the top of the crack or gap in the white rock that gives "White Crack" campsite its name. We'd strolled right past it the night before without knowing a trail could take us alongside the canyon walls, to the bottom of the canyon and all the way to the Green River if we wanted. We'd decided the previous evening that after breakfast those who wanted could do a hike in the canyon, then we'd return to break down camp and have lunch before making our way to Murphy.

To get the scale, click to open this pic, then
look below the pinnacle to see the hikers.

A great way to stretch your calves after all that biking.

I've heard and read in a few places that most people who do group trips on the White Rim do just 2 or 3 nights out camping. They probably aren't scheduling a night at White Crack or any time for side trips or the all-important hanging-out time at camp. Though I know we could have done the trip in one less day, having the hike and a short ride made the trip feel just a bit more relaxed, especially after the first two days.

Following the short bike ride, day 3 ended with an impossible (for me) climb up Murphy's, then the entire group at the top cheering Ben on as he drove the support van up the steep, narrow road. And for several in the group, Day 3 ended with a chilly shower the guides (aka "The Boys) set up at camp.

Go, Ben! Go! (We just want our beers!)
Here's a tip: careful opening your beer
after it's spent a day in the van! Phtzzz!

I, instead, opted for hanging out in my sarong and t-shirt atop a viewpoint rock that was the focal point of our campsite and where the guides had placed a handful of camp chairs. Brin gave me a boost to get up onto the rock. From there, we could watch the sunset, see a raven fly and imagine it was a hot summer evening. Of course, eventually I had to get off the perch and Jon helped me out by climbing down first then letting me ease my way down onto his shoulders.

Corinne sent this photo of me
getting a shoulder ride from Jon!

We hovered over a huge bowl filled with guacamole, wary of a raven who was ready to swoop down if we were to all leave our post, then enjoyed dinner in our group circle. As the sky began to darken, we again looked to the starry, moonless sky, gazing at the constellations and the Milky Way. In the last hint of twilight, I could see a thin cloud layer draped like a puff of cotton over the snow-capped La Sal Mountains in the distance. It was the only cloud in the sky. It could be a cold night.

white rim washout 2010 (pt 1)

2010-11-06T18:30:00.002-08:00

and now, back to our regularly-scheduled bike posts...

Part 1

Day 1 on the White Rim.

It was in the works since last winter: a five-day fully-supported bike trip on the White Rim Trail in Island in the Sky district of Canyonlands NP, Utah. Ten women and four guys (two of the guys were our guides). Anne, our trip organizer, and a couple other women had done the trip last year. Their slide show compelled our little biking group to make the commitment to this fall's trip, but maps and photos can't begin to promise what will happen on the trail.

Especially this year. The year of the Mineral Switchbacks Washout. We found out in early September that a flash flood had caused the washout on the final climb that was to take us out of the canyon to the trailhead. The guide company presented alternatives: another trail, an out-and-back, a refund. Nope. We decided, we're doing the White Rim and if there's a way, we'll hike up the washout. As one Diva pointed out: it'll be an adventure. There's something to be said for doing something others have done, except under more adverse conditions. Maybe it's bragging rights. For me it's knowing that I've taken a tough route and come through it successfully. The bragging right is the internal one that says: you did that; now what else can you do?

Still, just when we thought we knew what to expect our first day, the plan changed before we even hopped on our bikes. Normally, people start the ride at an access trail called Shafer. But a day or two before our trip, a park truck had slid off the rain-slicked road and the Park Service closed the road. Nobody told us, though. So our van had to backtrack several miles then take us to a third trail, Potash Road, outside Moab to begin the ride. Believe me, the day we started the trip at Potash the thought crossed my mind that this was now the only open access point for our trip. I hoped nothing happened to close this road!

There's a biker somewhere...

That first 24 hours turned into the biggest challenge of the trip. A promised descent with a 20-mile ride to the first campsite became a 26-mile ride that started an hour late and with a climb. Some riders arrived at camp in the post-twilight darkness. Gear was distributed from the van, Brin & Ben made dinner as we scrambled to set up our cluster of tents in the Airport D campsite, fighting the evening wind that threatened to make kites of our little homes. But that was just the start of the wind.
After Jon took this photo (I think) and put the camera away, a few of us stood talking with our guide, Brin, who had his back to the canyon. We all heard a sound like tumbling rocks just below us. Brin got a nervous look on his face and we all turned to look down the canyon. Suddenly, a ram with 3/4-curl horns scrambled up out of the canyon onto the road, not 20 feet away from us. The ram looked at us, crossed the road and climbed up an impossibly-steep, sheer rock then disappeared. We looked at each other in surprise at what we'd just seen.

Jon on Musselman Arch, which I think should be
called Musselman Bridge.

Early in the morning the wind picked up. It blew the sides of the tents so fiercely that the walls hit our faces and campers braced to fight the fabric and claustrophobia. Fine desert dust had been blowing into the mesh walls of the tent for hours and the grit coated my lips, then my tongue as I inadvertently moistened my lips. Just as the wind seemed to be dying, the rain came. The wind returned with more power pushing the soaked tent walls one direction, then the other. I sponged up water with a towel. People stayed in their tents and waited. Then I heard some of the girls talking.

The rain let up. People emerged. Though I felt I had only slept a few hours, I didn't feel tired. Instead, I felt energized. Jon wanted to tell people that the rain was the best thing that had happened after the night of dust. We'd been in a similar storm two years earlier at the 24-hour race outside Moab. That dust storm lasted a day and when it was over we had sand dunes in our tent and the camera shutter refused to open or close properly. I'd finally given up and convinced Jon we should go into town & get a hotel room. To us, the rain was a welcome guest at the camp. It would put down the dust and clear the air. Besides, there was no going back to town. We had three more nights of camping. Our main hope was that that water wouldn't turn the trail to gumbo.

Near the outhouse a river of red-orange water flowed from a neighboring campsite, over the road, along the slickrock and finally poured over the cliff into the canyon below. I walked along its course and was impressed with how much water was flowing after what seemed to be a short storm, but when you're on a mostly rock surface, the water can't seep into the ground; it can only follow gravity.

During the lull after the rain, Brin and Ben got the coffee going and made our breakfast, Jon helped people with any bike issues they had and lubed chains. Everyone waited for the tents to dry before taking them down. It was just after breakfast, as the guys were cleaning up, that the hail came. Not huge hail, but it was cold and hard. Everyone dashed for their tents to again wait out the storm. It was a relatively short one and soon I heard the voices outside again: "there's a suckerhole." "Yep, I see another one."

Being a sucker for a suckerhole, I climbed out of the tent to study the sky. The day before the trip, I'd gone online and this was the only day for which the weather site had promised rain. I was going to take their word for it. I stood in the middle of the site with my arms outstretched as the sun began coming through. Though windy, it would be a good day to ride. A few at a time, riders left camp. By 12:15 I was pedaling away from Airport camp, bound for White Crack.

one indian summer

2010-11-04T10:55:00.011-08:00

Where did that sadness come from that woke me early this morning? I got up, made coffee in the press and sat on the sofa to finish the book I began while on our trip. When I don't want to face tough moments in my own life, reading about someone else's experiences distracts me. For a while.

Memories converged yesterday while talking on the phone with my mom. A month ago she asked me what day Dad died and I'd had to think: when I got the call it was still Monday, August 16. For her, it was the 17th. She had a hard time remembering. Yesterday she told me that she had relayed a memory to my oldest brother about seeing a man lying on the floor next to a bed. She asked Mike who it was. He confirmed that this had been Dad. I silently cried as I struggled to keep my composure. Her memories slip and slip. She sometimes interchanges the name of her beloved hometown in Ohio with the town in Wisconsin where she lived for over 40 years while raising us kids.

After Dad's funeral, we kids started going through each room of the townhouse they'd been renting for the past half dozen years, sorting through paperwork and clothes, books, trinkets and photos. In Mom's desk we found the guest book and all the condolence cards that had been sent when my brother John died in 1983. He was a month shy of 20, almost two years older than I was. I remembered getting the phone call.

I was a freshman in college, living with my aunt in Madison when my aunt woke me at what must have been 4 or 5 a.m. on November 4. "It's your mother." I immediately thought of my dad. Instead, Mom told me that John had died in a car accident. I slumped to the floor in Aunt Margaret's sewing room and listened. It was a Friday. I packed my bag, decided to go to my Italian class to take the weekly quiz, told a friend what had happened, then went outdoors to meet my aunt.

She drove the back highways to Elroy. It was a clear fall day. People were at the house. Other family members were on the way. Mom wanted my help deciding what John should wear. I chose a wool pullover sweater with a pattern on it. Still, it didn't seem real. I'd been home the weekend before. We'd talked; I'd borrowed a sweater from him that I liked. Bugged him while he got ready for a date; took his picture.

Going through a death is like walking through a dream. Only some moments are remembered. Like I remember telling my aunt, Anna Mae, that I didn't like that the funeral worker had matted down John's unruly curly hair. She walked with me to the casket and handed me a comb to rearrange his hair but I could barely move it and gave up. I also remember my young nephew Sean saying, "I know why we're here. We're here because John died." Children can speak what's going on; they just don't know what it means. Of course, I didn't either.

John was cremated and his ashed were kept at my parents' house. A few years ago during a visit to my parents after they'd moved into the townhouse, I met Aunt Anna Mae for lunch. We talked about my other aunt, her sister Maxine, who had died that spring. I hadn't been there for the funeral, but Maxine was buried in the family plot in the Catholic cemetery on the outskirts of town. Then Anna Mae mentioned John: "Nobody talks about John," she said. Through tears, I agreed, but because I hadn't lived there for such a long time, I was really in no position to agree. Still, the reminder of my long-ago grief was splayed on the table between us.

Rain was pouring in an August thunderstorm that promised a relief from the humidity. After lunch I drove to the cemetery and parked the car. The rain had stopped and I walked up the hill in the soggy grass until I found the plot where my grandparents were buried. I paused at Aunt Maxine's still markerless grave, then looked again at the spot where my grandparents were. Laying flat on the ground were two bronze plates. One was inscribed with my parents' names and each of their birth years. The second was inscribed with John's name and the years 1962 and 1983 on either side of the cover for his urn.

When they'd moved into town, my parents had John's ashes interred there. But in a family that doesn't always relay much news, nobody had told me. They probably didn't think it was worth mentioning. So I wasn't prepared to read my brother's name on the metal plate, just as I wasn't prepared to read my parents' names. The discovery tripped an emotional switch that had been tampered with all day and for the first time in years I cried at the loss of my brother.

I remember when I turned 21 and realized I was older than he'd been when he died. While at his grave more than 20 years later, I thought of some of the things I'd experienced; the places I'd been that he'd never had a chance to experience. I remember when I was in my twenties going to movies and wondering what John would think of them. But soon, the daily thoughts dwindled and promises to myself to remember him every day faded like the autumn leaves.

Now, it's my dad I think about every day. And Mom's failing memory. And those thoughts tangle together with that 27-year-old memory of our family losing John. How it aged our parents; what a stress it must have been on my two younger brothers who were still in high school at the time; how uncomfortable I was visiting and how I tiptoed around the unspoken emptiness and pulled away into my own world.

So, what can I tell you about my brother; what set him apart from my other eight siblings besides his curly hair and our closeness in age? In high school, he played the tuba in the band, sang in the chorus and played center in football. He went to a tech school to become a diesel mechanic and was just starting his career.

But what do I remember? For one, he taught me how to tie my shoes. Not very well, but I got the basics from him. Also, he taught me how to blow snot from one nostril when I didn't have a tissue handy (a critical life-skill). He allowed me (probably reluctantly) to hang out with him and his friends. We tossed the frisbee in the front yard in the summer and I believe he introduced me to the music of Warren Zevon. And how could I forget the time Mom scolded him for singing his own lyrics to the theme from Born Free? "Stay Free! Stayfree mini pads!" I imagine Mom was laughing because he was too young to know what he was singing about, though maybe this was why she boycotted any feminine product that was advertised on TV... but that's another story.

So, here's to crying while laughing and laughing while crying. Man, life is filled with those moments.

lower forty-eight days

2010-10-22T20:47:00.006-08:00

It's sometimes hard to set aside enough time to post during a vacation. Especially when out camping and far away from any wifi zone. Jon and I have been in Arizona for just over a week. Riding, camping, driving to the next spot. Seeking singletrack, a decent place to lay our heads and good food & drink to keep us going. So far, it's been a success! (And when we find a hotel with internet access, we can even check in with the world.)

We began just outside Las Vegas, in Boulder City, Nevada.
with a little ride in Bootleg Canyon.

Then we rode a stretch of the AZ Trail that's just south
of the Grand Canyon. The camping was good, too, if you
ignore the hunters who get up early and fire their first shots
at elk at 6:15...
This lookout tower is used for fire spotting and control. You can
see the north rim of the Grand Canyon from the top!

The day after we rode the trail, just before we packed up, we met a rider coming off the trail. He's been traveling the country and spent some time in Alaska, riding from the North Slope to the Lower-48. His name is Cass and he knows a few people we know... even camped in our friend Alan's back yard in Anchorage! The cycling world is sometimes a very small world.

Cass recommended this other ride on the AZ Trail, just
north of Flagstaff. Yes, it was a beautiful stretch of
singletrack. Even a few sprinkles couldn't ruin this ride!

We spent a few nights camping in the area...

More singletrack, accessed right from Flagstaff. Jon makes the drop.
We found out about this ride from a woman named Linden who works
at Absolute Bikes in Flagstaff.

More of the AZ Trail, Flagstaff.

And, on a whim, we went to Prescott where we rode more trails on recommendations from a couple people in bike shops. Believe me, bike shop people know where the good trails are! And the guys who run this funky motel know where the good food is in Prescott.

Enjoying the last of the sunlight after riding the trails.

Jon relaxes outside The Motor Lodge.

In another few days, we begin an adventure with a group of friends: biking the White Rim Trail. I'll let you know how it goes when we get back.

eklutna weekend, 2010

2010-10-02T10:54:00.004-08:00

Lakeside - we're heading around that bend.

Last weekend, my friends & I made our annual fall trip to Eklutna Lake to spend some time at the Serenity cabin. When we began this tradition a few years ago, it was a one-night trip and maybe a half-dozen of us signed up. It rained as we biked to the cabin and it rained on our return trip. The firewood was limited and what was there was mostly wet. We had a great time.

In 2008, we extended the trip to two nights to give us a chance to spend some time exploring on the non-riding day. We hoped for better weather. More people signed up. After a summer of rain, we had glorious sunshine. Last year we had sunshine too. I'm not even sure if this was our fourth or fifth year, but after that first year, we've been pretty lucky.

This year, we booked the cabin for three nights, giving everyone extra time to hike and to do their own thing: reading, writing, adventuring. The trip has gotten so popular that we had a dozen sign ups before we even sent out the announcement and had a wait list up until a week before the trip! People really look forward to it, and it's not just the wine.

This year, the last weekend of September felt like the last hurrah for sunny weather. By the time we left the cabin to return home on Sunday afternoon, we had a headwind and wet, over-sized snowflakes. In this case, timing was everything.

Fresh dusting of snow on the peak above Eklutna Glacier.
(This is the view from near the front door of the cabin.)

Friday hike. This time of year, the sun only shines on
the upper valley for a few hours each day before slipping
behind the mountain. This made for slippery footing on
the frost- and ice-covered rocks. We did eventually make
it to the sunny zone where some of us contemplated making
a river crossing in the glacial water. Maybe next time.

Meanwhile, back at the cabin...

Corinne's stowaway.

Line 'em up! Mine is the one with the drop bars.
The cabin is about 12 miles from the trailhead.
No electric, no wi-fi or cell service. Just away.

Early Saturday morning, a 5.4 earthquake jolted
many of us awake. Those who didn't initially wake
up did when they heard the shouts: "earthquake!"
coming from the other bunks.

Rock-stacking meditation.

Rocks, Birch & Cabin.
The river changed course since last year, filling
a different channel and leaving the riverbed below
the cabin as a playground of silt and stones.
The Rock art is by Corinne.

Riding home through the burn area with snow falling on the mountains.

My old friend.
This old cottonwood tree survived an avalanche a few
years ago, though it was scarred by the force of the slide.
This year it was burned in the late May fire. Someone drew
a heart in the charred scar. I wonder if it will live. It's a
tough old tree but it can't survive everything
nature and humans throw its way.

(And, yes, that is a big cook pot on my rack, but it was great
to have it at the cabin when cooking for a dozen people!)

Riders returning to the trailhead on the Lakeside Trail.
We met lots of people on ATVs but they were all very friendly.
I even got one "you go, girl!" while navigating a particularly
rocky section.

Wind and snow, but still so beautiful!

Bikes on Bev's car. The snow was worse on the
road than it was on the trail. That's timing.

berry picking

2010-09-15T13:40:00.002-08:00

Last Friday afternoon, Jon and I hiked for about 45 minutes to one of our favorite blueberry picking spots in the Chugach Mountains. Don't ask me where it is. Frequent hikers may figure it out from these photos, but my juice-stained lips are sealed.

Filling my first container with sweet blueberries,
ripened on the mountainside, warmed by the sun.

Aha! The prize. I found the "wow" patch for the day.

We had a few sprinkles, then the rainbow that led to...

...Jon, the berry stalker, with his pot o' berries.

Jon's pack filled with full berry containers, we watched the sunset as we begin to descend.

As we were hiking away from the berries, I kept turning back to look up the valley. We've picked here many times over the years. We've even camped here, and woke to frost on our tent. The evening light played on the mountains whose colors had already begun to change to spots of red and yellow. I was thankful for the sunny day. I was thankful that Jon was off work and that we could have some time to hike together. These mountains, these days. This is why I live here.

tutka bay

2010-09-07T18:00:00.002-08:00

Just days after returning from two weeks in Wisconsin, with my mind still ricocheting between my sadness and my relief at being home, sinking with the weight of Dad's death and Mom's subsequent move into an assisted-living apartment, I got into my car for the long drive to Homer. A part of me didn't want to go to the writers' retreat even though I'd signed up for it a few months in advance. A part of me wanted to stay at home and try to sort through my thoughts under a familiar comforter.

But a long drive, followed by a short trip in the water taxi brought me and the other writers to a small cove on Tutka Bay. Sunshine poured onto the expansive deck and four of us swung in a hammock, getting acquainted, momentarily oblivious to the group gathering for a brief orientation. Later that afternoon I took a stroll alone to Rocky Beach. I watched an otter curl its shiny body into the water, waited for it to break the surface and float on its back, cracking open a shell and eating the contents. Repeating the process.

My thoughts moved from wonder at the surroundings to sadness at my loss. And not just my loss, but Mom's loss: loss of her husband of 57 years; loss of her memories, carefully recounted in stories; the sudden but necessary move. Her confusion seemed to have scattered my own mind, leaving me with the wrong words on my tongue, words spoken out of order. I wondered if I should be at the retreat. I didn't know if I could string thoughts and words together to create coherent sentences over the weekend. Or ever.

Late in the evening, after the hot tub, its water spilling over the sides from all the bodies soaking; after running down the dock, lowering myself into the bay, tasting saltwater, thick in my mouth as I went under; after showering and after the lights were out in the cabin, I slipped out to return to the deck.

Just over a week earlier, the woman at the assisted living center had asked: is your mom prone to wander? No, my sister and I said she wasn't, though that first night I'd spent with Mom, she'd walked down the hall to my room and asked, Where's Dad? Me: He died. Remember? He's gone. Her soft shoulders beneath my arms; new grief. Me, later, wondering, will she rise each night and leave her room to come looking for him?
A few nights later, having turned the guest room over to my sister while I camped on the living room floor, light entered the duplex. It wasn't quite midnight but the room was silent. The aged clock on the mantle hadn't been wound in days. I peered through the closed blinds, then walked to the front door. I stepped out into the driveway, drawn into the strange glow of the full moon. A good night for a walk. A warm night. But I stopped, glanced toward Mom's window. Upsetting the balance. Do not Disturb. Go back inside. I climbed back into my nest and dozed off.

I sat in one of the rocking chairs near the deck rail, notebook in my lap. The air was still warm after the sunny day and the breeze gentle on my damp head. I could hear the waves lapping under the dock, rearranging pebbles and shells on the beach. I tried to recall moments of the previous two weeks. I hadn't written much while in Wisconsin. Most evenings, instead of turning to my notebook, I'd been opening the book I'd been reading, an Alaskan book that pulled me away from the sadness and the frantic list of things to do, back to the pipeline days of Alaska's recent history. I read and slept. Woke in the middle of the night and read some more. My pen gave up after just a few paragraphs. I hiked back to the cabin and slipped under the covers, hoping my headlamp wouldn't wake my roommates as I continued to scrawl a few facts. I couldn't write thoughts.

In Tutka Bay, surrounded by water and trees, warm people and comfortable rooms, I wanted to spend my free time walking the coastline and trails alone. I was rewarded with otters nobody else saw, an eagle perched in a spruce high above the trail, whales that exhaled then dove back into the cool saltwater. And like the protagonist in a novel - center of their own universe - I believed all the creatures were present because I had willed them to be.

perspectives

2010-09-02T21:15:00.002-08:00

I heard once that no child is born into the same family. With each new sibling, at each stage of the parents' lives and learning, the dynamics are different. After my dad's funeral, I asked my oldest brother, Mike, if I could share with everyone the story he told at the beginning of the service. Mike is 7 years older than me, so his experiences were much different from mine. The older siblings often say us younger ones had it easier growing up. That may be true in some ways, but when a retired sergeant speaks, it doesn't matter if you're the oldest kid or the youngest. It makes you jump just a little. But, I guess I hadn't realized that one of his strengths was also his silence.

Thanks, Mike, for sharing this experience with us. Good job.
(The service began at 11 a.m.)

As you can imagine, this ain’t gonna be easy. But Dad would probably say, “Just read it, boy. I’m getting hungry.”

We hear the word “sacrifice” used often. We hear the word used in relation to the sacrifices one might make for a cause or a country. There are also the sacrifices that a parent makes for their family. Some parents might remind their children of the sacrifices they’ve made, just as people might brag of their sacrifices for a cause or a country. Dad made many sacrifices, together with Mom, and never spoke of them.

Dad served in a world war. He seldom spoke of it and never bragged about it. The only part of the military he ever bragged about was when he shaved half of a drunken lieutenant’s mustache off while he slept. As for the rest of it, he said once that, “It was a job. We did it and then came home." And he never told us of the sacrifices he made for his family, never reminded us of how many hours he worked every day, every week, every year, to keep us well fed and decently clothed.

There were ten of us children, and we never went hungry a day in our lives. Dad never asked for anything in return, except maybe a little peace and quiet when he got home. We probably failed miserably at that. I don’t recall a single quiet meal with ten children gathered around the table. The only quiet part of the meal was when grace was said.

We all have our own favorite memories of Dad. But for my own part, I’m pretty sure that Dad also sacrificed a few hairs on his head. I probably gave him a few gray ones. He had a drill sergeant’s voice up ‘til the day he died. I know he could make me jump when he wanted to. But his patience, though often worn thin, was beyond reproach.

The one example I will share is when, as it often was, my report card from school was filled with, well, bad grades. Dad picked up the baseball and, instead of lobbing it at my head as I deserved, said, “Let’s go play some catch.” And while we tossed the ball back and forth, all he did was say, “So your grades aren’t very good, are they?”

“No,” I said.

“Well, you’re just going to have to work a little harder.”

He gave some other words of advice beyond that, but I don’t remember any of that. What I remember is Dad sacrificing some time when he could have been sitting down after a long day and putting his feet up, and instead inviting me outside to play catch at the end of the day.

dad

2010-08-21T09:31:00.000-08:00

John L. Austin
June 21, 1921 - August 17, 2010

a farm boy when they farmed with horses
started the stove at the one-room school house
before doing his chores on the farm

chose the army and crossed the atlantic
world war 2; across north africa to tripoli,
to sicily, mainland italy; signal corps

stayed on after war's end
project after project; some hush-hush
traveled the states and the world

didn't talk much about those years
pulling teeth to get him to say the names
of places and what he did and what he thought

My brother said: doing his job
not bragging about what he did
sacrifices made; just what a soldier did

a long life; a good life
on his terms to the last day
then, mom on the phone

when i say sleep tight, tells me
"there will be arms around me
i won't see them; but i know they're there."

when life hands you rain

2010-08-15T22:19:00.004-08:00

and one day, he sprouted in our yard!

For 28 days it has rained. It's official. Longest stretch of rainy days since the record keeping began here in Anchorage. On Thursday I strolled around Downtown. Not many tourists; I parked on the street next to Town Square Park in the early afternoon. The flowers, washed with rain, were bright in contrast to the sidewalks and the gray sky.

I walked toward Elderberry Park. Two bicycle rental companies are positioned just a block away from the park which provides easy access to the Coastal Trail. Bikes lined up, covered in rain, waiting for brave customers to take them out. A rough summer for bike rentals. More fenders would help. And a little sunshine.

Later, in a coffee shop, a group of 20-something women wore the trend in summer fashion 2010: skirts and tights with Xtratufs. Their guy friend in soaked running shoes. But, for all our sun deprivation, in the forest and along streets and trails; in yards and parks around Anchorage, another source of vitamin D is emerging from the soil to feed us. It's mushroom season.

King boletes

Boletes (we call these "yellow caps") ready for
sauteing, then into the freezer for later. (My job.)

The time of year when Jon fills his backpack on his commute home from work; devises another way to cook the fast-growing wonders for dinner. Then after dinner, spends the rest of the evening brushing and slicing, examining and laying out on trays, loading boletes into the dehydrator. In the morning, the garage smells like mushrooms. Laundry hanging to dry smells like mushrooms. It won't stop until. Well, we've heard the blueberries are ripening in the mountains.

The next season moves in like another chapter. He'll leave the fungi-collecting commute, trade it for the car and a larger backpack, an optimistic number of empty containers and head for the mountains after work, squeezing every possible minute of picking into the fading daylight. Another season; another obsession. Another meal; another nod in appreciation. Full freezer; full pantry. Enjoying the harvest through the long winter.

after effects

2010-08-15T11:04:00.003-08:00

Happy at the finish line, about 1:30 a.m.-ish.
photo by Sean Grady

I'm still waiting for the results of the race (beyond this list of survivors), not that my time matters. I'm just curious to know what time Jon and I arrived in Hope. After hanging around the campfire with a beer, we said goodnight, then climbed into the car and headed to our friends' cabin. I shed my muddiest layers on the deck, while Jon went inside the guest cabin sauna where an ember was still glowing from earlier in the evening. He put a piece of kindling in the barrel stove then waited for the room to warm up.

"Dry sauna," I told him. I didn't want any steam; I was done with humidity. I lay on the bench coughing, my lungs scratchy. I remember thinking to myself along the trail that if I got pneumonia, it would be my own fault. By the time I'd washed the sweat and mud off and climbed into my sleeping bag, it was 3 a.m. I didn't sleep long; just four hours later I walked the triangle to the outhouse, then the main cabin for coffee. The sun was out. It looked like a beautiful day for a ride.

After coffee and breakfast with our host, Art, I strolled down the road. There were no signs of our tracks from the night before. A plane was doing touch-and-go landings at the airstrip. I walked to a sunny spot on the wet road and stood soaking up the warmth. Jon and I were pulling together our gear when Tony, one of the volunteers, showed up. The last rider, Allen, still hadn't made it to Hope. A trooper was downtown; Tony thought I should talk with him. So I got into his van and we went downtown. A search plan was being devised. A helicopter would fly over the trail with a spotter from a rescue group. People were worried. I reported what I remembered. Mentioned bad spots along the trail; hoped Al had stopped at one of the cabins.

We couldn't stick around, though. Jon had to work, so we headed back to Anchorage. Eventually, a posting online told us that Al had been "found" though he was surprised so many people were that concerned. Here's what happened, in his own words. Later, I got a chance to speak with Wendy about her trail experience.

After she arrived at Devil's Creek trailhead where people could look at her mud-caked injury, they convinced her to drive to the emergency room, the closest of which was in Seward. She told me that the next day, on Sunday, when she and her husband were heading back to Anchorage she felt terrible about what she had told me: "I told her to do it!" she said to Kevin. Instead of worrying just about herself and her leg that evening, she was also worrying about me! Over the phone, I assured her that I'd enjoyed it; that I'd had a great ride and was happy I'd done it. And it's true. I don't know why I liked it so much. It seems beyond reason. But we humans are odd animals. Who can explain precisely what motivates us? Though for me, on this occasion, it was a commitment to Wendy, our team instigator, and Petra, our first rider. They gave their all, so I wanted to do my share; to not let them down or let their efforts be for naught.

Before I started the race, I said here that I didn't expect I'd learn much about myself compared to the true endurance riders who did over 100 miles solo. Those were the people digging really deep. On the way to Hope the evening before the race, Jon and I had been talking about how difficult it sometimes is to stick to the plans and commitments we make to ourselves. For me, that's especially true of physical challenges. But something changed waiting there in the parking lot and turned into determination on the trail.

My mind and body prepared all day to ride 36 miles. They prepared to do it in the rain; in the mud; in the dark. As I was riding, I felt an energy within. I had good power and rode well considering the conditions. And, despite the conditions, I never got frustrated or bummed out. I have to admit, it was some of the best riding I've done and I loved it. Even the little nervous moments when I thought I might slide off the trail.

The ride reminded me that I just need to set my sights high, prepare myself and attempt bold things. Whether it's a challenging ride or writing a story, you don't learn anything until you push yourself to the next level. Then, with hard work, things will fall into place.