This frozen world

Date: Dec. 4
Mileage: 32.6
Hours: 2:45
December mileage: 78.2
Temperature upon departure: 7

"It hurts, it literally hurts me, to go outside," one of my co-workers announced. Journalists are known for hyperbole, but I couldn't help voicing my skepticism. "It's not really that cold," I said. "I mean, when it's 5 degrees in Fairbanks, little kids go out to recess in their T-shirts" (As I said, journalists are known for their hyperbole.)

"Well, it's cold here in Juneau," he said. "Sure," I relpied. " I guess." And with that, I nestled further into my down vest and knit gloves that I was wearing to type at my computer, because, contrary to the "winter junkie" image I try to project, I am one of those employees who is always too cold at the office.

But the reason why I feel I can't go to work wearing less than two layers is probably the same reason why my co-worker can't go outside right now without feeling pain. It's all a matter of perception vs. reality. I perceive the state of being chained to a desk as involuntary down time, and tend to slip into a sort of sleep mode in which I feel compelled to cozy up. And outside, snowless and sunny as it is, there's a perception of warmth and summer when in reality, everything is deeply frozen.

I'm deeply fascinated by all the new ice formations. Anxious as I am for some kind of snowfall, it's fun to see the creases and colors of elaborate ice sculptures in their unmasked state. It's like seeing Juneau locked in suspended animation - a world without winter, frozen. Today I rode out to the Mendenhall Lake area. The wind was mostly gone, which made the air feel leaps and bounds warmer than yesterday, even though it never climbed out of single digits. I can understand how those Fairbanks kids become conditioned to go outside in T-shirts.

Anyone who has ever visited Juneau on a cruise ship will probably get a kick out of this photo: Nugget Falls, frozen solid. With its suspended streams of white ice, the waterfall looks very much like it does in the summer. Only now, it's much more quiet.

My co-worker Brain took this photo of me as I was riding along the Mendenhall Lake shoreline. He often catches me out riding while he trolls the streets and trails for his latest masterpiece of photojournalism, but they never make it to print, so I hope he doesn't mind if I post this picture on my blog. I heard him screaming at me, but I didn't know it was him and couldn't tell what he was saying. I thought he was some jerk telling me to stay off the lake; meanwhile, the shifting icebergs and calving glacier moaned and roared like a deafening pod of humpback whales. "Does that guy think I'm some kind of idiot?" I thought. Instead, he took a picture. I usually don't manage to snap a photo that captures the thrill of riding the lake shoreline, but I think this one comes pretty close.

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.