Lost on Blackerby Ridge

There are a lot of gray areas to the state of being lost, but the moment of realization is always definitively clear. Gut-piercingly sharp and as heavy as lead, it's the moment you realize what it means to have absolutely no idea where you are.

To have no idea whether you're moving forward or back the way you came.

To have no idea which way is safe and which way is going to drop you straight off a cliff.

To have no idea what's more than five feet in front of you, because everything beyond that is fully shrouded in fog.

And it's hard not to panic. It's hard.

And I probably would have panicked, however briefly, however unjustified it would have been. I probably would have panicked had I not been hiking with a friend who I had invited (i.e. tricked) into heading up with me early this morning because "the fog is supposed to burn off. It did yesterday. It will today." I would have panicked if he hadn't been there, having equally no idea where we were, and following me with full faith.

I did not want to lose face. So I gulped it down. I death gripped my GPS. Even viewed from the 500-foot setting, my dotted path was a mess of curvy, crossing lines created when my friend and I lost each other briefly. There were times we double-backed. Then we would move forward a little more. We were so close to the base of the peak I have wanted to reach since 2006, but it was always too far away. Today, we were close. So close. I could see it. On my GPS screen. But everything else was fog. Just fog.

But it wasn't until shortly after I decided it was still too far away for today and turning around that the reality of the fog sunk in. The line of the wide ridge was invisible. Its rising and dropping contours were distant memories. We were nowhere. And it was so disorienting that I only had to turn around once, and suddenly I didn't remember whether I had made a 180-degree turn, or a 360. I did not know if I was facing up the ridge or down it, or maybe looking off to the side toward an unknown drop-off. There was no discernible trail, no landmarks. There was only my GPS, and its confusingly erratic dotted line that marked the way we came, so I had to follow it.

After a mile or so of successfully sticking to my electronic "trail," I became overconfident and stopped paying attention. We diverged off a side ridgeline and walked down it until we came to a sloping dead end. We were dropping too far. I held up by GPS and saw the big "Y" it had drawn. I had no idea how far the ridge dropped below us, or whether it was possible to reconnect. So, with panic bubbling back up my gut, we backtracked.

After that, I did not take my eyes off GPS. Hiking was like playing a video game, trying to trace the existing line as perfectly as possible and losing hard-earned anti-panic points any time I veered too far away from it. I loved that dotted black line. I love my GPS.

And I hate being lost. It's interesting how unsettling it is even when you have a GPS or compass - it's the sinking feeling that you are no longer able to rely on yourself. You are no longer in control of your situation. I have no doubt that had I not had the GPS with me, we would have been wandering in circles on top of that ridgeline until the clouds lifted or night fell, whichever came first. And I can all-too-clearly imagine the urge to panic in a situation like that ... well, did I mention I love my GPS?

I love my GPS.

And I've learned my lesson about hiking in fog. I had no concept before of just how truly disorienting it is. Plus, it's pointless. Nothing to see, no reason to go. GPS told me that we ended the day with 5,700 feet of vertical elevation gain and about 12 miles of hiking (its slow-moving mileage readings never seem even close to accurate, so I usually go by map estimates.) The whole debacle took seven hours, but it was pretty mellow aerobically. Add to that my three hours of Mount Jumbo on Saturday, with 3,300 of climbing and five miles of walking, and I've had a full weekend. Feels like my "high-impact" fitness is right where it needs to be - knees feel strong, legs feel strong. Hip flexors are a little sore (my hips seem to be a particularly weak point in my weight-bearing fitness. Need to work on those.) But the thing I feel best about is just being off that $%&@! mountain.

I love my GPS.

Obstructed view

There has been this ongoing theme this week of rain, mist and fog in the mornings, followed by beautiful afternoons. It works well for most people. Not so much for me. But September is nearly here and I've come to the troubling realization that I've spent precious little time in the mountains this summer. My high ambitions are slipping away with the approaching snow. I hoped to get up early and try to reach Cairn Peak today, but after my alarm went off at 6:45 a.m., I looked out the window to a low bank of fog obscuring even the tops of buildings downtown. So I went back to bed. Hiking for the sake of hiking is all well and good, but not at 6:45 a.m.

I woke up again at 9. It was still foggy. I no longer had enough time to push for Cairn. But I figured I might as well make the most of what was supposed to be a dry day, and head up Mount Jumbo. No new territory there. But I like Mount Jumbo. I can walk out my front door and be on the trail in less than five minutes. Climbing 3,500 feet in 2.5 miles is a brutally efficient workout. Plus, it's always scenic ... even in the fog:

Sure sign of fall: When the devil's club leaves begin to wither.

At the peak. I purposely made myself look like a marmot.

Just below the peak, the big cloud finally moved out of the way.

Come September, I'm always on the lookout for those first hints of termination dust. I've seen dustings of new snow already on 5,000-foot peaks, but it's a little early at 3,500 feet.

Cruise ship in the clouds.

And all along in the city, the sun was shining.

Maybe Cairn Peak tomorrow. There's always tomorrow.

Big day for Alaska

Date: Aug. 28 and 29
Mileage: 36.2 and 76.7
August mileage: 748.3

"Six hours," I told myself. "I should ride at least six hours today." After a failed attempt at a long ride on Thursday, lead legs, scattered rain and an actual doubleback while deciding to quit twice, I was all set to go at 9:30 a.m. I had slammed down a quick breakfast, browsed the morning paper, packed up my backpack and had even cinched on my helmet when I remembered I hadn't checked my e-mail yet. It was mostly junk and a one liner from Geoff: "McCain is picking Palin as his running mate!!!! busy day at work on saturday for you."

He had to be joking.

So I started to make the full rounds - CNN, New York Times, Anchorage Daily News, the Juneau Empire (to make sure they picked up the story.) Then it was on to all the inane little Anchorage Daily News reader comments, the political blogs, the Alaska blogs. There was an electricity to the air, even in my dark room in front of my computer, the kind of buzz you get when you realize you're witnessing a little piece of history. Because regardless of what your politics are, or how you feel about Sarah Palin (and believe me, I'm not a cheerleader), this is big for Alaska. We are a small state in political terms - 670,000 people, about the same as Memphis (where's that?) Veep nomination in a major political party is a big step for this small state, and it's exciting.

Of course the politics of the whole parade went through my mind, but first and foremost, I was enthralled by the notion. Here is a woman I see once in a while strolling down the streets of downtown Juneau. I even nodded at her once as I pedaled by, and she smiled back. There's a closeness to it, a sense of someone I know hitting the big time, and I couldn't pull away. Before I knew it, it was 11 a.m., and the phone rang.

It was my boss. Calling me in to work.

The Juneau Empire is a six-days-a-week newspaper, which means we don't publish a Saturday edition. Ever. But since this Palin thing is the biggest news to hit the state since Sen. Stevens was indicted, and this was actually semi-good news, no one wanted to wait until the story was good and stale for Sunday's paper. So they mobilized the staff to create a special Friday afternoon paper, an actual "Extra" edition. I can't imagine there are too many newspapers left in the U.S. that bother with extra editions anymore. I could almost see the paperboys in their wool caps and knee-length shorts waving papers around the streets of Juneau screaming "Ex-tree! Ex-tree! Read All About It!" And that was exciting. Even if it meant coming in to work on my day off. And forgoing my long bike ride.

So I rode into the office. The next four hours were a mind-numbing blur of stress and pressure. People breathing down my neck as I frantically dug around for archive photos and tried to make sense of the grand design. I rarely have high-blood-pressure days at work, but today was one of those days, and by the time we wrapped up the "Ex-tree!" edition by 3 p.m., my heart was pumping about 130 beats per minute and I was seeing double. But it was only 3 p.m. I still had time to get in at least some riding today. I headed north, planning to loop a few trails near Dredge Lake.

But when I reached the valley, I noticed clearing to the north. And, well, I am a sun chaser if ever there was a sun chaser. I amped up the effort and stayed on the pavement, burning the high octane as I raced out the road until I had a full shadow riding beside me. I turned around after two hours so I'd have plenty of time to make 7:30 p.m. dinner plans. But then I rode by Eagle Beach. And all around me was the intense sparkle of the sun contrasted against dark curtains of storms. And there was this rainbow, stretching like an umbrella over a patch of blue sky, and I couldn't take my eyes off of it. So I rode along the beach and stopped several times to take pictures. OK, dozens of pictures. OK, close to 60.

And of course, the pictures never come close to capturing these landscapes, but I have this tendancy - OK, this crazed desire - to try to hold on as long as possible, to hold on to these moments of color and light and sweeping vistas so startling that I forget all about my fatigue and my lead legs from Thursday and even about Sarah Palin and whether or not I've even given any thought to how I actually feel about it all. No, for a few beautiful minutes I'm just amazed. That's all that I am.

After my photo safari, I had to race toward home at even higher effort. I knew I was going to be late for dinner. I was becoming ravenously hungry, since all I had eaten for lunch was about a half pound of grapes, a bag of fruit snacks and two Quaker chewy granola bars, and that was all I had packed (I, stupidly, tossed a bunch of Power Bars out of my bag when I made the gear transition from "long ride" to "commute.") My friend promised to cook up a big lasagna for dinner and I started to think often about that, but as the evening sun descended, the color show moved forward. A sharp golden glow lit up the street, the spruce trees, the cars, the buildings, the devil's club-choked hillsides, until every color looked ultra-saturated, like an overeager Photoshop job gone awry. But it wasn't Photoshop, it was real life, so it was beautiful.

And even though I was hungry, and yes, probably tired, my pace never slowed. I was high on color and light, and I wasn't even all that late for dinner. And to think that I was almost out the door at 9:30 a.m., that I nearly missed out on all of it. Thanks, Sarah!