And the world, still so wild, called to me

In March I had some incredible experiences in Alaska and intended to write them down, but it’s hard to pick up a lapsed habit. My writing has slowed to the edge of nonexistence since last June; even social media has become a struggle in concentration. Often I think I shouldn't force it and instead pick up an entirely different creative outlet, like music (doubtlessly I'd drive Beat crazy with an instrument I can barely play, but they make keyboards with headphones, right? I haven't played since I was 18.) Still, I do want to renew my writing practice, even if it’s just a daily gratitude journal. But I also intend to continue irregular blogging, if only to prevent months and then years of experiences from slipping into the fuzzy confines of memory. So I figured I’d record my latest adventure and work my way backward from there. 

 Beat and I had been home from Alaska less than 24 hours when the evacuation orders began. He wasn’t even four days removed from the Iditarod Trail, where he won the 1,000-mile foot race in his sixth and fastest finish to Nome in the sixth fastest foot time ever recorded on the route — 22 days, 22 hours, and 42 minutes — on March 22, 2022, no less. I went to excessive lengths to meet him there, including returning to Denver from Alaska shortly after finishing my race (my original plan) and then flying back less than a week later. But in the end, a single flight was canceled and I couldn’t get to Nome in time. Beat finished his journey just as my rebooked flight was descending into Anchorage from Fairbanks. He was mere seconds away from the burled arch when flight attendants insisted I stow my laptop and I couldn't refresh the Nome Cam any longer. I missed it. I’d see him in Nome that night, and for the next two days as he ate and slept while I wandered along the edge of the frozen sea and wondered what was real and what was a dream. 

Two days after the fire, snow and frost returned. The mist wafting from the dry ground looked like smoke. It was especially beautiful because it was not.

 We returned to Denver on March 25, with Beat still very much in a daze and me deciding that yes, the past month was probably all a dream. The following morning I set out for a trail run, unacclimated to both spring and altitude and wilting in the 75-degree heat. I’d barely cooled off and opened up my daily dose of Hellscape (Twitter) when I caught news of a fire in the open space west of Boulder. Winds were gusting to 50 mph and humidity was in the single digits. Echoes of the Dec. 30 Marshall Fire rang in my head, and sure enough, within the hour nearly all of South Boulder had evacuated. Things looked grim enough, but then the winds shifted from north to northeast, and suddenly Eldorado Canyon was in danger. It wouldn’t take a lot for flames to race up the canyon toward us. And sure enough, our neighborhood ended up on the edge of the evacuation zone. Beat and I hadn’t even unpacked our Alaska bags yet. We had to grab items to repack into wildfire escape bags. 

I don’t have words to describe how much I dread the coming summer. I used to feel about summer the way I imagine most people feel about winter. I'm heat-sensitive, fair-skinned, and allergic to many types of pollen and bug bites. For me, summer used to mean a few months of discomfort and more preparation when it came time to recreate outside. (Seriously; I can just throw on a shirt, tights, hat and gloves for a two-hour run when it’s 25 degrees. If it’s 90, I need a backpack with 2-3 liters of ice water, sun sleeves for arms and legs, full neck covering, sunscreen, sunglasses, allergy medication, bug spray, blah blah, etc.) 

That was all fine when it was all there was to it. But these days, I can’t help but view summer as an approaching apocalypse. Will the air fill with wildfire smoke and trip my asthma in a way that leaves me fearing for my life when I’m hours from help? (This happened to me in Utah in August 2021.) Will all of the public land surrounding me be closed for weeks? (This happened in Boulder County in October 2020.) Will my house burn to the ground? The fact that this region has already seen one catastrophic fire and one (now two!) near-misses in a season that effectively counts as winter does not inspire confidence that summer won’t be a disaster. 

 It is heartening that the NCAR Fire was a near-miss. Having learned a hard lesson from the Marshall Fire, the mobilization of firefighting resources was quick and extensive. Air tankers arrived from Texas and firefighters on the ground attacked the advancing flames, preventing them from consuming nearby neighborhoods. The shifting winds were also a blessing, even if they made for an anxious few hours for those of us in the western foothills. When another fire erupted in a similar spot one week later, everyone in the county collectively wondered if this is just what life is now — choking on smoke amid a year-round fire season, packing our go-bags in backpacks in case the flames advance so quickly that we need to escape on foot. 

 All of this is to say that I was already near my anxiety tipping point earlier in March, and in one hazy swoop, this fire undid all of the good meditative work I’d managed by racking up Alaska Air miles and dragging a sled for 100 miles around the White Mountains north of Fairbanks. I recognize that I need to find more sustainable coping mechanisms than expensive travel and physically draining endurance efforts, but I immediately looked toward a potential chaser for early April. I’d been wanting to visit my Mom, so what could I do in Utah? 

The White Rim: 100 miles of rugged jeep roads around the perimeter of Island in the Sky in Canyonlands National Park. It’s become a popular multi-day route for mountain bikers, as well as a single-day blitz for racer types. I’ve never fully understood the urge to ride this route as fast as possible, even though I understand the thrill of racing. It’s just that White Rim is so difficult to access to begin with, and it’s so gorgeous. Why travel all the way there just to stare at the ground the entire time? (And don’t tell me this isn’t what you’re doing when you’re trying to pedal semi-technical rocky and sandy terrain as fast as possible.) For this reason, I only tried to ride the route in a day once, as part of a three-day trip along the Kokopelli Trail and then White Rim while I was training for the Tour Divide in 2009. I ran out of water and had a terrible experience. Perhaps that’s the actual reason I’ve embraced multi-day tours ever since. 

I do love the White Rim, and logistically one day is the simplest way to experience it. The permit is easy to obtain and you don't need to plan and pack days' worth of water and food. My post-Alaska endurance was solid and it seemed a shame not to use it before the pollen and smoke of summer whisk all of my fitness away. My experience on the Iditarod Trail proved I could manage long days in the saddle without debilitating back pain, although I’d still need to carry a lot of water for 100 miles of pedaling in the desert with only winter conditioning behind me. As I drove west on March 31, another brilliant idea struck. I’d probably have enough time to hike down to the rim from Island in the Sky that evening. 

I purchased two 1.5-liter bottles of water from a gas station and arrived at Gooseberry trailhead just before 5 p.m. The weather on the rim was somewhat harrowing — fierce wind, rain, even a little sleet. It was 37 degrees. I was still banking on perfect weather for April 1 — indeed, the Moab forecast called for lows around freezing and a high of a mere 65 degrees under clear skies. In weather like that, I wouldn’t even need the 6-7 liters of water I’d planned for, but I am far too frightened of the desert to give it any benefit of the doubt. The effort to cache three liters on my route was a decent grunt, though, descending more than 1,500 feet in just a mile while switchbacking along a precipitous cliff that looks vertical from afar. 

I trudged another mile and a half down a sandy wash until I reached the road, then found a nice rock outcropping that I’d doubtlessly recognize, but also marked a GPS waypoint and took a bunch of photos just in case because, again, the desert deserves the height of doubt. A couple of jeeps drove past just after I hid my cache. I smiled and waved as the passengers gawked at me like I was an alien beamed down from above. It was an hour before sunset and I was dozens of miles from the nearest exit point on the road. If you didn’t know about the hiking trails from the rim, you’d probably assume hikers down here were very lost. 

I barely slept at camp that night. I was so excited. At one point I stumbled out of the tent in my sock feet to marvel at the night sky, the stars upon stars and the swirling Milky Way, rendered in that startling clarity I have only witnessed in the desert. As I made my way back I managed to step directly on a tent stake, all but impaling my foot. The cut wasn’t deep but it did bleed, and for the next week, a deep bruise burned with pain, similar to having a sharp rock in my shoe that I couldn’t remove. Well. It just wouldn’t be a proper Jill adventure if everything about it was perfect. 

 Of course, I finally managed to fall asleep just before my 5 a.m. alarm buzzed. The morning was deeply cold, well below freezing. I stuffed hand warmers in both shoes and mittens even as I packed four liters of liquid fear in my bike bags. Ah, the desert, the simultaneously frozen and thirsty land. Coffee and oatmeal boosted me forward, although my legs were wobbly at first. I hadn’t really been back on a bike since I left the Iditarod Trail in McGrath, what was it, three weeks ago? Four? Did it even happen? 

My stake-impaled foot burned and my cold leg muscles balked, but eventually, I got the pedals turning. Soon I was flying down Mineral Bottom Road, the stars upon stars burning overhead, singing at the top of my lungs to “Wild” by Spoon. 

And the world, still so wild, called to me. 

I was lost, I’d been kept on my knees.

I plummeted toward the Green River just as the first golden strips of light crept down the canyon walls. It would be a few more hours before the morning warmed enough to remove my puffy jacket, but I was already sucking down water because, well, I had a lot to consume. I crossed the national park boundary at mile 20, finally beginning to feel warmed up. The road along the Green River is narrow and sandy, undulating with short but steep pitches in and out of washes. I watched my power meter regularly spike above 300 watts, but then my legs said no more of that, and I had to walk on my sore foot. 

Still, I felt nothing but pure, exhilarating joy. I was riding my bike in a place that I loved. There was no agenda. There was nothing to fear. There was only motion and breath, time and space — the simplest, purest way to be. The long, undulating climb toward Murphy’s Hogback took me deeper into this flow, reflecting on the ethereal nature of time and space. Here, time seemed to slow, stop, and bend back upon itself. I was a terrestrial body existing in this space, but what if it could simultaneously be another time? I remembered the stories my father told me as a child, about riding his motorcycle around the White Rim with his father and brothers. My imagination conjured a vivid image of this space in 1985, my father as a young man, my grandfather in his prime. Dad was smiling, that brilliant, heart-breaking smile. His hair was a wild mop of blond as he removed that ridiculous thrift-store helmet he used to wear. Dust settled around the knobby tires of their Honda dirt bikes as my grandfather and uncles pulled up beside him. They were laughing. They were so happy. My heart swelled as I imagined this, as though these were my memories, as though we were here together. Right here, right now. 

 “He was here, and all that’s separating us is time,” I thought. “That’s all. Thirty-something years. It’s most of my life so far, but relative to the timeline of the universe, it’s simultaneous.” 

The more I envisioned myself as an infinitesimal speck swirling through infinite space, the more I marveled at the incredible chance that I should end up as a human in this world with the father that I had. My heart swelled with gratitude, and then the fearsome final pitch of the Hogback jolted me back to reality. The final climb to Murphy's is one mile of truly impossible grades, but the racer-types can clean the Hogback, so maybe I could. I laid my sore foot into the pedal and spiked my power meter to 300 watts, 400 watts, higher than I can even go on my trainer when I’m trying to win a virtual sprint. My swelling heart all but exploded, my vision when dark, and I practically toppled over before I gave into my truth and put a foot down.

The remaining push was more grueling than I remembered, and I felt fairly toasted at the top of the Hogback, just 50 miles into my 100-mile ride. I limped to a campsite outhouse and then toppled next to my bike, checking my shoe just in case there was a real rock in there (nope, still just an open wound.)

“Way to burn all your matches early,” I thought with a smirk, but I wasn’t worried. I had drinking water. I had trail mix. I had the otherworldly red cliffs and deep blue sky and shimmering ribbon of the Green River far below. I had time. I had an overabundance of time. And while none of us know how much time we ultimately have, I can tell myself a story about the fluidity of time and almost feel free of it, almost believe I’m motorcycling with my father in 1985, separated only by a thin veil of consciousness. 

Murphy’s dipped into a few more rollers before flattening out to a line that traces to the true edge of the White Rim, skirting mere feet from sheer cliffs along a sandstone bench that can be difficult to navigate. Afternoon had arrived and I began to see other humans, mainly unladen mountain bikers traveling with vehicles, and a few independent jeeps. I was a little annoyed at the broken solitude. My long morning reverie faded and I couldn’t quite retain my gorgeous fantasies, but perhaps that was fatigue setting in as well. The temperature stayed comfortable, even cool with a stiff breeze out of the north. I came upon the Boulder group of five traveling clockwise, including Beat’s co-worker Dale. They had the same idea as me the previous day, to hike water in from the rim, which is how I knew they were going to be out here. I asked Dale if they found their cache. 

 “Yeah, but all we needed was the beer,” he said. 

Both of our water fears had been unfounded. The desert was going to allow easy passage today. Of course, 100 miles on a mountain bike is never truly easy, thus the wisdom of stashing beer. 

 I located the cache at mile 66. My ongoing flow had been so satisfying that I felt reluctant to stop pedaling and hike up to the rocks where I’d left my water, but of course, I wasn’t going to leave plastic bottles as trash. I sat beside the rock outcropping and tried to guzzle as much as I could because I didn’t want to waste this hard-earned fluid but I also didn’t want to carry it out. I laughed about my human fragility that drove me to cache my fears, even in my own body. Soon my stomach was heavy with sloshing liquid. That didn’t seem great either, but I wasn’t worried. For the first time in seeming months, I was entirely free of pain. 

Still, my legs continued to become more sluggish for the rolling climbs to Shafer, which culminate in a grueling grunt of a three-mile climb that starts at mile 90. The road switchbacks up another impossible cliff, not unlike the Island in the Sky hiking trails, necessitating double-digit grades for most of the climb. It’s so narrow and precipitous that if you were in a vehicle you’d probably believe you were about to plunge off the edge — at least this is what I’d believe. On a bike, all you feel is the up, seemingly endless up. 

I no longer had the oomph for 400 watts, but at the same time, I didn’t feel pain. Sure, my legs were heavy, and I still hadn’t expelled all of the excess water that was now causing serious bloat, but my back didn’t hurt. This was a revelation because my back hurt a fair amount on the Iditarod Trail, and I hadn’t tested it since. It was as though I was being carried through my own imagination, as though this reality was actually a story I was telling myself — all beauty, no pain. 

And then I was on the rim, with the snow-capped La Sals framing an expansive horizon, and the sun-drenched red mesa of Island in the Sky stretched out in front of me. It was still before 5 p.m., which meant I was going to wrap up my ride in less than 12 hours. To be clear, this is still about double the record. But it was quite a bit less time than I was expecting, given I’d planned to ride comfortable and take a bunch of photos — which, with the exception of my failed effort to clean Murphy’s Hogback, is pretty much what I did. It had been a full, satisfying 12 hours, but it had also been a blip, an instantaneous flash, and it was already over. Time. What even is time? 

I arrived back at camp with plenty of daylight to spare. I was almost disappointed, as I’d looked forward to bookends of stars upon stars. I was beyond grateful that I’d embarked on this adventure, that the universe saw fit to make April Fools Day the most perfect day possible, and that my body cooperated with the wild machinations of my mind. If the desert can be gracious, perhaps summer can pass in peace as well. Of course, the anxiety didn’t end for me, it never does, but a more expansive perspective is always a good thing.