Return to cripple valley

I did a great hike today with friends on the Dan Moller trail. As we ambled up the long and narrow strip of wooden planks, the seasons changed with each mile. The full bloom of summer faded into the stunted grass of late spring, which regressed into the skunk cabbage and mud of early spring. By the time we reached the cabin, we were clawing through petrified snow drifts. Somewhere beyond there, winter still lingers. But no matter where I am on the Dan Moller trail, winter is all I see.

The Dan Moller trail is one of those places that represents an abrupt hiccup in my life. For some reason, the remnants of emotions and memories from most of my personal upheavals come to rest on very specific places. There's a park in Salt Lake City that I couldn't bear to walk through for years after one of my first boyfriends broke up with me. My early frustrations with Juneau always come flooding back when I pass Mendenhall Lake campsite No. 5. And now, I can't walk up the Dan Moller trail without thinking about all the painful steps I took through the packed snow earlier this year.

It feels strange, because I didn't think this trail ... this experience ... would haunt me. It probably shouldn't. But it does. There was a time in March and April when I hobbled up the Dan Moller trail two or three days a week, just to get out, because I went so stir crazy sitting inside. Now, I look over my shoulder to a faintly familiar valley shrouded in heavy clouds, and I think about how far I've come. I think about how far I have left to go. I think about how everything's changed. I think about how the landscape looks the same. I think about never having to go back to last winter. I think about the ways it still blocks my path. I tromp through yet another snowfield, and I think about never completely escaping.

As I was leaving work this evening, I caught a rare glimpse of the sunset. People were stopped on the bridge, just standing there, watching it. What makes sunset so stunning some evenings, so mundane others? Maybe it's because an experience can never be defined by its place in time and space. Experience doesn't have to be attached to anything. Experience just ... is.

Thinking about heat

Date: July 6
Mileage: 89.2
July mileage: 91.7
Temperature upon departure: 57

Before leaving for my ride this morning, I put all of my handlebar bag gear in a little pile ... Nutrigrain Bar, Clif Bar, camera, extra wool socks and mittens. "Mittens," Geoff said. "It's July! You don't need mittens."

I pointed out that it was raining from the large bucket outside. "Once I get wet," I said, "my hands and feet are going to be cold. I don't care if its nearly 60."

As I set out into the downpour, I did have to pedal hard early on to generate heat. As I was doing this, I thought about Utah. Geoff told me that the state hit its all-time high yesterday, in St. George, with a 117-degree scorcher. It took me back to a ride I did in July 2002, when Salt Lake hit what was at that time its all-time high, 107. I decided to pedal to my parents' house in Sandy, which was less than 20 miles from my college commune. I set out with what I though was a reasonable amount of water - 64 ounces - and took my normal route along the pavement of 700 East. With visible heat waves wafting off the blacktop, it only took five miles before the soles of my shoes felt like they were resting on hot coals. By seven miles, my legs felt like they were twirling around a rotisserie. By 12 miles, I had sucked down every ounce of the water I was carrying. By 15 miles, I felt like I was about to pass out. By 17 miles, I was fairly sure I had cooked the protein in my brain beyond recovery. I was probably near heat stroke by mile 20. But the feeling was closer to a very toasty grave. I think about that ride sometimes when I am especially cold or soggy. I'm convinced that there are few situations worse than riding a bicycle in Salt Lake City in July. Give me below-0 temperatures any day.

Still, it is funny to go for a July ride and worry about hypothermia. Last summer, when the temperatures warmed up a bit and I let my guard down, I had a few seriously shivery rides. So I am much more cautious this year. It turned out to be all for naught. The sun came out at mile 20, and I found I couldn't stuff enough of my extra layers into my handlebar bag. I actually had my rain pants wrapped around my waist at one point.

I cycled out to the end of the road. It was much harder than the same ride three weeks ago. A front moved in and bumped up the south wind to 15 mph - a headwind I had to fight the entire 45 miles home that was definitely not there as a tailwind for most of the 45 miles out. Also, I think my recovery renaissance has ended. Now that I'm convinced my bad knee can handle these rides, the rest of my body feels comfortable rebelling again. Plus I (ironically) ran out of water. I left with a 24-ounce bottle thinking I would be able to refill it somewhere along the road, but beyond mile 17, there was nothing - no spigots, no stores, no parked trucks with five-gallon jugs in the back. Geoff tells me I should just drink out of one of the hundreds of waterfalls that line the road, but I am not brave enough to do that. At least, not when it's 60 degrees out and I have only 30 miles to ride before a known source of treated water.

Beyond that, though, I had a great ride. I was thrilled to pedal far enough north to hit some sunshine. Although ... I really hate wearing my bike shoes on longer rides. I think if I had any early-warning sharp pains in my knee I'd never notice, because I'm too heavily focused on my throbbing toes. In the future, for 5-hour+ rides, I'll probably just switch over my clipless pedals to the platforms. Good ol' platforms. Then I'd actually be able to do some hiking.

It is beautiful out the road, regardless of weather or other misadventures. I definitely need to toss the clipless pedals, buy another water bottle cage, and spend as much time out there as I can.

My favorite island, with some cool cloud formations in the background. Seriously, how will I ever be able to endure a non-Alaska summer again?

No fish

Today I spent seven hours in a boat with a fishing line dangling in the water, but I only caught one fish. People in Alaska would call it a "baby halibut." People in Utah would call it a "big, ugly fish." We threw him back. Then, even with a cyclical catalog of boppin' 60s hits blasting over the satellite radio, the ocean gods never smiled on us again.

My co-worker Brian was nice enough to invite me on his day out on the boat. He spends his summers stocking and restocking the freezers of his entire extended family, and he was flabbergasted at the idea of no fish, no fish at all. I always bought into the idea that just by showing up in Alaska and making some attempt to tie a herring to a line and then place it in the water, you were all but guaranteed to catch a fish. If that is true, it must be more of a Homer thing, because I've never had any luck in Juneau. And as the afternoon wore on and my dream of gorging myself with halibut meat for dinner quickly faded to thoughts of yet another freezer-burned veggie burger, I tried to console myself with other perks. Eagle Glacier looming over the rain-pocked harbor. The sun nearly breaking through ribbons of clouds. Humpback whales spouting in the distance. But I couldn't shake the thought that I was the bad luck, and that Geoff was going to be so disappointed when I came home empty-handed. Also, I was thirsty and hungry, I was sharing a small boat with a male co-worker, and I had no hope of a bathroom for seven full hours. The day was all about biological abstinence and false hope. And Steppenwolf.

At least Brian let me drive the boat as we headed in, at least until we hit four-foot swells. Then, just as I was joking about being the only person with the ability to capsize a boat that size in four-foot swells, he nervously offered to take back the captain's chair.

It's all in a day's work. But in the end, I'm probably better off sticking to the bike. And veggie burgers. And no more Steppenwolf.