Signs of fall

Date: Aug. 26
Mileage: 34.5
August mileage: 811.6
Temperature upon departure: 52
Rainfall: .03"

The first sign of fall has settled on Juneau. I remember living in places where the first evidence of fall was a cloud of visible breath in the chilled morning air, a dusting of white powder on the mountain ridges or a single yellow aspen leaf in a sea of green. But in Juneau, I think the most prevalent sign of early fall is widespread salmon stink. Having reproduced and then died en masse, their rotting carcasses choke the rivers and line the shores, where they're haphazardly dragged over trails by bears and tossed into the road by seagulls. When I hear the crunch of brittle bones beneath my wheels and breathe in the suddenly omnipresent aroma of city dump, I know the first snow flurries are not far away.

I am now approaching day 10 since I returned from my bike trip, and I have yet to gain back the feeling in the tip of my left pinkie finger. I'm beginning to become a little worried. I've heard it takes a while for some people's digits to "wake up" after spending a long time propped on a bicycle, but this has never happened to me before ... even after a 24-hour race. It may be a result of the Ergon Grips, which may just not be suitable for my hand placement on long rides. It is hard to quantify the effect of equipment when riding 33-36 hours in a 48-hour period. Maybe losing one's sense of touch is inevitable in extreme conditions. Still, if it doesn't come back soon, I'm going to have to relearn how to type.

I am still feeling the effects of the ride, namely in my pinkie, and also in my right heel, which went into full-blown rebellion and locked up on day 2. I can't help but be concerned about even the most minor, nagging pains in my heel because I have no idea if it's one of those things that might become chronic. I went out hard today and felt great, until the heel pain hit, and then I overcompensated and soft-pedalled home. I miss the days when I could trust my body, but it does seem I have nothing to gain right now by pushing through even small amounts of pain.

The misadventures continue. At least I don't have to worry about getting lost in the woods. All those sun-dried salmon snacks could sustain me for days.

Cold, but it's my fault

I've wrapped myself in every spare layer I could find at the office ... the spare socks in my desk drawer, the neglected-but-dry dress shoes, the mildew-scented cotton hoodie that was stuffed in my trunk. Seems nothing can cut the edge off this blue-lipped chill. It's the kind of cold that doesn't come off ... August cold.

It's always difficult to figure out how to dress for hours of activity in the rain. Do I go for minimum layers soaking wet, or multiple layers soaked in sweat? I've become pretty good at estimating the insulation I'll need for my exertion level in biking. Guessing how much of my own heat I'll generate is much harder to do when I'm hiking.

Today I dressed minimally for the West Glacier Trail because I decided my knee is strong enough now for uphill/level-ground jogging when the trail isn't too technical. And since my whole aim is to go as hard as I can, I figured I wouldn't need all those layers weighing me down.

All went well until the trail veered away from the glacier and began to climb the face of Mount McGinnis. Where the West Glacier Trail becomes the Mount McGinnis trail was a little unclear to me, so I continued along, hoping to find a better overlook. The marginally walkable surface gave way to nearly-vertical granite outcroppings, slickrock smooth and weeping with rain runoff. There were enough good handholds to make the climbing fairly fast. But after several occurrences of nearly losing my footing on the slippery surface, I began to realize that downclimbing wasn't going to be such a breeze.

One wrong step away from a raging waterslide ride into an icy abyss is probably a better description for the downclimb. I had to take it painfully slow, making sure every carefully placed step was secure before moving another limb, all the while lamenting as my fingers and toes slowly went numb and the wet chill worked its way toward my core. By the time I made it back to the main trail, I was shivering, no longer able to calm my chattering teeth, and more than a mile away from the joggable part of the trail. A long hike indeed.
I'm familiar enough with this wet chill to know that it never becomes truly dangerous unless I stop moving. Still, it's uncomfortable enough to impair balance and motor skills, and make any activity I'm not quite accustomed to - say, jogging - even more difficult. I actually fell flat on my face once after slipping in a mud puddle and failing to even put my arms out to break the fall. I finished out the trail speed walking, wary of every rock, and covered in mud. The rain washed me clean before I returned to thetrailhead, which was a good thing since I had taken so long at that point I had to drive straight to work ... if only I could coax my numb fingers to turn the key in the ignition.

Ah, a wet-weather onset of mild hypothermia. Late summer just wouldn't be the same without it.

Another perspective

Date: Aug. 23-24
Mileage: 47.6
August mileage: 777.1
Temperature upon departure: 57
Rainfall: .55"

Our friend Amity from Palmer, Alaska, is visiting us right now. She is the first friend from Outside (Juneau) that we actually talked into coming to visit. She had never been to Southeast Alaska before.

Yesterday we backpacked to the Windfall Lakes public use cabin, a backcountry luxury spot complete with a canoe and a propane heater. We made pasta with pesto sauce for dinner and it was about the worst thing I have ever ingested (a combination of salt overload, MSG, starch water and more than a hint of melted plastic from the cheap bowl I was eating it out of.) I opted to eat it rather than pack it out, even though I had already packed in two magazines, a huge edition of the Seattle newspaper and two cans of Diet Pepsi (hey, you have to have priorities.) We floated on the lake for a while while Amity "fished" and Geoff and I were rained on. It continued to rain the entire night. We played Texas hold'em, betting mini chocolate bars just like children do. Amity cleaned both Geoff and I out in about a dozen hands. I read the most recent edition of "Backpacking" - the "Global Warming Issue" - from cover to cover after Geoff and Amity went to sleep at 10 p.m. I don't recommend reading it unless you want to feel really depressed about the state of things you can not control. Especially if you are trying to sleep on a hard bench in a public use cabin, and every uncomfortable minute of alertness means you are either thinking about your sore back, or you are imagining the beautiful sea of grass that is the sandhills of western Nebraska turning into a Sarhara Desert in less than 20 years.

All in all, though, a fun trip. It's always interesting to see your hometown and your habits through another person's eyes:

On tidepooling: "There's nothing tasty in this one."

On fishing from a canoe: "I'll cast it out front so I don't hook you in the eye."

On the spawned-out salmon that were laboring along the shoreline: "They're really not so bad. They taste a little bit like whitefish."

On Juneau in general: "I just didn't realize it would be so wet here."