To the wind chill

Date: Dec. 3
Mileage: 25.1
Hours: 2:15
December mileage: 45.6
Temperature upon departure: 4

Geoff and I set out to sleep in the back yard last night as a way to test out gear neither of us had used before, and bridge the wide gap between normal camping and winter survival. It was 6 degrees outside with 30 mph winds gusting to 50 when we rolled out our bivy sacks on the sharp, frozen grass. I lingered outside in my long johns and sock feet just to soak up some of the wind chill and carefully prep my gear. It seemed like cheating to go straight from the warm house to camping, but it was definitely the smart way to start out.

As I slipped inside my sleeping bag, the effect was instantaneous. Warm air swirled around me as I slithered deeper into the down oven, wrestling with zippers and finally coaxing the bivy shut. The wind ranged and howled and violently jolted my bag, but I couldn’t feel the gusts. It was so comfortable that it wasn’t long before I slipped out of my meager clothing so I could use it as a pillow. After about an hour, Geoff announced that he was sweaty and clausterphobic and didn’t feel like accepting a crappy night of no sleep just so he could confirm that his bag could probably handle temperatures 30 degrees colder. I stayed outside and eventually fell asleep, but not for long. The howls and bangs of the gusting wind woke me up with regularity, shaking my bivy and blasting my face with the sharp, frozen flakes of my own respiration. At one point, I woke up because I was actually sliding sideways across the grass, pushed by a hurricane-force blast like a helpless burrito. At about 4 a.m., I decided that I agreed with Geoff. I didn’t really need to spend any more time awake out there to gain confidence in the toastiness of my sleeping bag, which, at least in temperatures above 0, is absolute. And now I know that if I ever need to hunker down in the wind, the bivy will protect me well, but I might as well not count on getting any sleep.

The wind didn’t let up at all this morning, which I decided was all the better for an extreme biking experience. After yesterday’s hike, completely exposed to the full brunt of windchill at higher elevation, I took a lot of liberties with my layering. I headed out with the strong gusts at my back. I knew there was tailwind back there, but I didn’t feel like it was helping me. I just wasn’t going very fast. I probably just needed to work a little harder to warm up, but I was already working hard enough just to keep gulping down that frigid air and pry my eyelashes open as they continued to freeze shut. After a while, I just tried to minimize blinking.

But with the wind at my back, the ride out North Douglas was eerily calm. The temperature felt much colder at the end of the road. It was 4 degrees when I left the house; it was easily 5 or 10 degrees colder out there. When I turned to face the full force of the wind, which was still blowing at 30 mph and gusting to 50, wind chill temperatures easily reached 25 to 30 degrees below 0. At least, that’s what the NWS wind chill chart would put the "feels like" temperature at. As I gasped my way to a blistering 8 mph into the howling wind tunnel, I believed it. I was happy for the opportunity to work hard.

I was amazed how quickly the normally swift-flowing creeks and waterfalls of Douglas Island had frozen to quiet solidity. White steam poured off the open water of the Lynn Canal. It was fascinating to see my rainforest home transformed into a barren Arctic landscape. It helped put my struggle in perspective. I was moving slower because the world was moving slower. There was congruity in it all, and peace.

I hear a lot of comments about my sanity in regard to the conditions I chose to bike in. But it’s moments like these that make all of the pedaling worth it to me. When I can plunge into the 30-below windchill with a smile on my face, I feel like I can do anything.

Sorry for all of the head shot pictures. You probably can't tell, but in this one, I'm smiling.

On the Arctic blast

This is the point in the hike where I began to feel underdressed, and just a little bit frightened. Several minutes before, I had been standing in the Douglas Ski Bowl, just below treeline at an elevation of about 2,500 feet. I watched in stark wonder as the wind coursing at my back ripped streams of snow off the ridge and carried them hundreds of feet into the deep blue sky.

Just an hour earlier, a weather station at Sheep Mountain - a 4,000-foot peak less than five miles as the crow flies from where I stood - recorded 100 mph winds and a temperature of -8F. Standing among the last protective strand of trees in the Douglas Ski Bowl, I could almost understand what that kind of weather looked and felt like. An eerie howl echoed down the bare slopes and blasted the tops of trees until I was certain a few would tumble. Clouds of gritty, sand-like snow swirled over the top of the ice sheet I was standing on, old snowpack that had frozen to a solid sheen. The obscured sun cast a chocolate-colored glow on the mountainside, and I thought I should take a photograph. But as I removed my mittens to rifle around in my inside pockets for my camera, I could feel my fingers instantly stiffen, as though I had stuck them inside a flash freezer. I quickly pulled the mittens back on. I could not believe the windchill. The scene was more evocative of the moon than a place on Earth, and in that moment you really couldn't have paid me enough money to climb above treeline. Luckily, today I had the luxury of making that choice. So I took one last breath to end my hard climb, pulled my face mask on, and turned around to face the gushing wind.

When I left the house earlier, the thermometer read 12 degrees - down from the 17 it had been first thing in the morning and steadily dropping. But 12 degrees didn't seem too bad, and I dressed to hike hard uphill ... a single leg layer (snowboarding pants), liner socks, wool socks, winter boots, gaters, long-sleeved shirt, midweight polar fleece jacket, Gortex shell, mittens and a hat. The clothing served me well on the climb, but it became apparent fairly quickly that it wasn't enough to block the wind blast on the descent. Needles of icy air punctured my layers and scraped at my skin. I tried to bundle up as much as I could ... closing all my vents and maneuvering clothing around exposed patches of skin. Common sense told me I had a short walk home and I was plenty covered enough to avoid hypothermia, but as soon as the body's comfort level deteriorates, a fear factor sets in. I couldn't help but be afraid. So despite the frosty glare-ice condition of the trail, and despite the impact downhill running has on my knees, I began to jog at a fast clip. Gusts of wind stole the breath right out of my throat, but the jogging worked. I pretty quickly jolted by body temperature back up to a toasty 98.6, and I only slipped and fell once.

That seven-mile hike netted lots of valuable learning experiences. I had to stop and pee three times in two hours because I drank so much water, mostly for fear that my Camelbak hose was going to freeze up. Then, after I pulled on my face mask and ceased the endless sipping, the nozzle froze anyway, despite being wrapped in Neoprene and a plastic cover and stuffed inside my coat. I am still not good at doing things with mittens on, and the temptation to remove them was too strong. It is easy enough to bring fingers back to life after short freezing exposure, but definitely best to avoid it if I can, so I need to look for better ways to layer up my hands. And above all, I need to take windchill very seriously. It is not an arbitrary number on a weather report. Windchill is a very real temperature situation.

As far as camping in this weather ... I am now officially, genuinely frightened. I no longer have that self-assured swagger I carried with me during my ill-fated flat fest last week. I will have to talk to Geoff and see what he thinks about heading out tonight. Maybe there is a certain dignity to starting out in the backyard. Baby steps. And when I do set out into the wilderness to camp in this crap, I will be one humbling hiking experience wiser.

Feels hot out

Date: Dec. 1
Mileage: 20.5
Hours: 1:45
December mileage: 20.5
Temperature upon departure: 22

This seems to happen every time an Arctic blast moves through Juneau. The clouds completely fizzle from the sky. The temperatures drop 20 to 30 degrees. I don't change a thing about the way I dress to go cycling, and I yet feel like I'm frying.

There's just no real substitute for damp chill, try as the dry cold might. As far as layering goes, I'd have to say the amount of clothing I need for for 20 degrees and sunny is more similar to what I'd wear if it were 45 and raining. Who knows what kind of cold 35 degrees and raining mimics? I think it's fair to say it's down in the brrr zone. I've had to strip off layers while I'm riding just to avoid overheating in this cold snap. Then again, during normal weather I always dress as though I'm planning to get drenched, because I always do. But there's just no substitute for the dry cold. I'm loving it.

Today's ride was a little rough around the edges, though. For the first time in a while, I never found my groove. I actually cut the ride five miles short, because I began to feel those familiar sharp knee pangs. This time, the pain was in my left knee, which is my good knee and has never given me problems before (those sharp pangs still flare up in my right knee from time to time.) It's probably nothing, but I've been uber-paranoid about both my knees, since they are my weakest link and the most likely obstacle between me and the starting line of the Ultrasport. There's a chance that this paranoia has me babying my bad knee to the detriment of the good one, and now it's showing symptoms of what my doctor expertly refers to as "angry knee." Whatever the problem, it's a good reason to take a day or two off the bike and wrestle my snowshoes out of the closet. Cross-training: Good. Repetitive motion disorder: Bad.

The weather forecast for Sunday and Monday has me excited in a way only those crazies training for winter survival races can be excited. As the Arctic front moves through, forecasters predict increasing winds in the 30-40 mph range, possibly gusting to 60. Couple this with lows between -2 and 5 degrees, and we're facing 30-below-0 windchills. I'm trying to talk Geoff into camping with me tomorrow night. Because of our equipment and travel disparities, the only way for us to go together is to both walk and carry backpacks. We both agree that camping out in the yard doesn't make much sense, since: 1.) We live in an almost entirely wind-protected area. 2.) Going from a warm house straight to bed doesn't really simulate trail conditions, and 3.) It makes it too easy to give up at the first sign of any discomfort. Plus, it's just not as much fun. We're thinking about climbing up to elevation just above our house, a place where we can face the full brunt of that madness but retreat quickly enough if things start to go badly. I don't come home from work until 10:30 p.m., so we see how well we make that a reality.