Moving on

Date: Oct. 2
Mileage: 30.1
October mileage: 30.1

My recovery from my Golden Circle ride seems to have been nearly instantaneous. The typical muscle rigor mortis never set in, and by Sunday morning I was raring to go again. I only had a five-mile ride to the ferry terminal, but I felt energetic and strong (the pseudo-hurricane of the night before had mostly let up by daybreak.) I took a day off Monday to deal with my wreck of a house and a bunch of other chores, and took advantage of a sunny window Tuesday morning to hike up Mount Jumbo. These pictures are from the quick Jumbo jaunt.

I did my first ride since the bike trip today. My finger numbness and saddle sores have almost entirely abated. This surprised me, actually, because the pavement along the Golden Circle is seriously rough. I'd say gravel road rough, in many spots. By the end of the trip, I was really wishing for full suspension, or at least rear suspension. After I rode the Golden Circle last year, my pinkie fingers were numb for at least 10 weeks. I expected the numbness to linger this year as well, but it's almost entirely gone already. In fact, it seems the only "injury" I have left over from the trip is an itchy chafing rash around both knees, caused by wearing knee braces all day long. Sometimes I wonder if those things cause more maladies than they prevent, but I've gone more than a full year now without knee problems, so I'll continue to hold on to my placebos, even if chafing is the cost.

I think my lack of need for recovery time shows I really am becoming better at pacing myself for multiday endurance trips. Although my Golden Circle trip was pretty lax by "ultra" standards - 10- to 12-hour days as opposed to 16- to 18-hour days - I think I have found a moving pace and a comfort level that I can maintain day after day after day. Of course it would be nice to find ways to go "faster." But, for me, "sustainable" is a pretty good victory.

My final stats for the trip:
Mileage: 367.45
Total ascent: 15,624 feet
Maximum elevation: 3,451 feet
Minimum elevation: 0 feet
Moving time: 29 hours 59 minutes
Stopped: 3 hours, 26 minutes (this is only the time I was stopped while riding. I turned off my GPS at the end of each day.)
Moving average: 12.2 mph

My next big trip is a hike across the Grand Canyon with my dad and his friend on Oct. 11. After I voiced my frustration about not being able to get time off in early October to ride Trans Utah, my boss pulled some strings and helped me take a few days off over the second weekend so I could do this annual trip with my dad. It's a fair compromise, and I'm really excited to take a trip down to the desert, even if is a brief one. Trans Utah, as it turns out, was first postponed and then moved ahead to deal with a major storm that is supposed to move through the area this weekend. I believe some of the riders are out there right now. Here's wishing them the best of luck and the driest of weather.

I'm hoping to get out for a longish hike tomorrow, depending on the weather here, just to make sure my hiking muscles are still in good shape for a long trek across the Grand Canyon. After I return from my desert trip, October is typically my "speed work" month. I hope to spend more time on hill intervals this month, as my Golden Circle trip proved I still have a lot of work to do on my climbing. Then, after that, who knows? The season is young. :-)

Golden days on the Golden Circle, Day 3

Date: Sept. 27
Mileage: 105
September mileage: 893.0

I woke up to the horrifying noise of something chewing on what sounded like bones, directly below me. The wooden platform I had set up my bivy on was propped several feet above the ground, and something was down there, shuffling around and gnawing away. My first reaction was to freeze with fear, but I knew I couldn't live like that all night, and figured whatever it was already knew I was up there. It didn't sound too huge and grizzly bear-like, so I decided I would have to scare it away. I unzipped the layers of my bivy sack, turned on my headlamp and started to yell. A streak of gray fur darted through the light's beam and scampered away. I never got a good lock on it with my headlamp, but I figured it was a fox or possibly a coyote.

The animal continued to terrorize me throughout the night, creeping back under the deck multiple times and crunching away until I stirred from my restless sleep, wrestled out of my bivy and jumped up and down on the deck in my socks until it ran away. Toward morning I was more irritated than scared, and sick of watching its gray butt disappear into the darkness as a cloud of condensed breath swirled in my spotlight. Thick frost was forming on everything and the night had become deeply clear. I could see stars behind stars behind stars. I was glad I had packed Geoff's -20 degree winter bag, even if it was overkill. After the fox/coyote/baby-wolf-from-hell ran away, I could slip back into my cocoon of total warmth and slowly drift into oblivion.

After the animal's 7 a.m. breakfast call, I decided it was time to finally get out of there. As I packed up, I checked the thermometer inside my Camelbak pocket. The red line hovered right around 20 degrees. Which meant, yup, my water was frozen. Should have slept with it. I also decided the night officially counted as my first winter camping trip of the season.

In the low light of morning, I could see another long descent into what turned out to be the Million Dollar Falls campground, so I bundled up accordingly. The road had, luckily, mostly dried overnight, but there were still patches of ice dotting the shoulder, so sometimes I veered into the rough gravel to dodge it. The sky also was beginning to cloud up again. I caught a few pink rays of sunrise before the gray hues closed in.

I never heard a car go by in the night, and didn't see my first one in the morning until nearly an hour after I hit the road. I would later learn the driver, a local rancher, mistook me in my baby blue down coat and balaclava for "an old Russian guy" who seemed to be in need of help (not sure what I had been doing to make it appear that way, besides riding a bicycle.) I guess the rancher didn't try to stop and help me himself because he thought I was a scary old Russian guy. Those Yukoners aren't like us Alaskans. We keep an eye on those Russians. Just ask Sarah Palin.

The landscape was beautifully frosty, with hints of Wyoming in early winter. There was even a ranch up there in the high plains below the pass, with horses dressed in green felt coats. I didn't like to imagine what their life must be like in January.

About 20 miles down the road I ran into another bicycle tourist, which completely shocked me. His name is Ed and he had originally planned to ride his bike from Anchorage to Denver. I knew this about him because I had randomly stumbled across his wife's blog just a week earlier during my regular Web surfing. My first reaction was that Ed was way off the Alaska Highway, and I wondered if he had intended to take a 70-mile detour. Turns out he ran into snowstorms at a couple of passes out of Alaska and decided to hop the ferry south from Haines to Bellingham, Wash., and ride from there. He told me the story about the rancher, who had stopped to talk to Ed after ignoring me. Ed said I did look a little extremely bundled up. But the temperature was still in the 20s! Ed was wearing the kind of get-up I put on when it's 55 degrees and raining in Juneau. But whatever. I get it. I'm a cold wimp.

Ed and I rode together for a while, talking about his trip and our bike set-ups. I don't think he was too impressed with my bivy bundle. I explained to him how I could just roll it out and crawl inside without any set-up, and how nice it was to tour rack-free. He told me he'd probably stick with rear panniers. Bicycle tourists. Such purists. ;-)

Ed decided he wanted to stop for a while and I told him I wait up for him later so we could pull each other through the always infuriating afternoon headwinds along the Chilkat River. Alone again in the highlands, I was riding strong and relaxed, my legs hardly noticing the 300 miles behind them, aware that I was probably riding what would turn out to be my favorite section of the entire trip. Throughout my life, my memories and experiences have been strongly influenced by the landscapes that frame them. I am a connoisseur of space. In the same way that some people cultivate gardening and cooking until they can't separate their hobbies from their more abstract values of growth and creation, I have come to view human-powered travel as the only way to read the language of the landscape. And what I understand, I fall in love with, unconditionally.

Although I live and love my life in the rainforest lowlands of Juneau, I find the landscapes I am most in love with are often high and barren. I sometimes wonder why this is. Maybe it's because they're more difficult to reach. Or because they're largely untouched by human interference ... places almost primordial in their wildness and wholly indifferent to my presence ... places I can move through freely and that move freely through me.

Just beyond the pass is the best 20 miles of road biking I have had the privilege to ride - the screaming descent from Haines Highway Summit to the U.S. border. I rode this stretch once before, in May, and was was completely enthralled by the way the mountains hurtled toward me like I was a spaceship about to crash into a snow-dusted planet. This time around, I was tearing through a blur of gold and green with tears streaming down my face in the cold wind. All of the weight on my bike gave me that extra bit of oomph to really push the limits of speed. The last 11 miles passed in a couple of blinks ... a few beautiful minutes of weightlessness. As I approached U.S. customs, I had this fleeting desire to ride back up to the pass and do it all again. But I am not crazy. OK, not that crazy.

I stopped along the Chilkat River and ate my lunch - which turned out to be what little I had left of my food: a few crushed rice chips, almonds, and my last Clif Bar. Since my horribly under-fueled first day, I had been eating well and a lot, and actually underestimated the food I'd need for the last leg of the trip when I left Haines Junction. I saved my last peanut butter cups as a special reward - a carrot to ride toward in case the Chilkat winds tried to break me. I waited for a little while for Ed, but eventually set out alone.

The afternoon headwind, which is a near constant in this region, was extremely kind. It was strong, but mostly moved through in gusts. For long stretches, the air would be almost still. I was beginning to feel the physical effects of my ride - hints of saddle sores, tight shoulders, a kink in my back where the Camelback rested, mushy quad muscles. But for the most part, I felt good, and happy to be on my bike. When hunger pangs started to kick up, and when light sprinkles started to hit my face (the first rain I had felt the entire trip), I just told myself that cycling is fun and everyone should be so lucky to ride along the Chilkat on a beautiful Saturday afternoon in autumn. I was almost disappointed when the mile markers entered single digits and I realized I had less than 10 miles to ride to Haines. It's hard to really describe how much stronger, more relaxed and content I felt during the last 10 miles of my trip compared to the first. It was like day and night.

I rolled into Haines a little before 4 p.m. and got a hotel room downtown. I walked to the grocery store to pick up a bunch of snacks and breakfast. Not much more than an hour after I arrived, the wind picked up considerable speed and rain began to fall in force. The near-hurricane continued for the rest of the night. I just stood by the window, eating a bowl of cereal, listening to cable TV in my warm hotel room, watching daggers of rain tear sideways through the darkness and thinking, "wow, what would that be like to be caught out in that?" But that horrible storm just missed me, and I had overall great fall weather for the three days I was on the road. What did I tell you about me and the Golden Circle? Lucky, lucky, lucky.

Still, I thought about how I wouldn't mind another day or seven out on the road, with nothing to do but ride my bike and take in enormous amounts of beautiful space. I love bike touring. Adding the endurance factor, the distance and the long days, seems to make the experience even more rewarding. Last year after riding the Golden Circle, I had this huge sense of accomplishment. My feelings this year were more subdued - that I didn't overcome any great adversity. That I was already over the learning curve before I started. Still, I did learn new things about myself out there, and about cycling - especially the power and liabilities of riding alone. I'm sure I'll be back out there again someday, hopefully someday soon. But right now, I have visions of longer fast tours edging into my dreams.

Golden days on the Golden Circle, Day 2

Date: Sept. 26
Mileage: 154
September mileage: 788.0

"I guess I lied about it being light at 7:30," Sierra told me as we pedaled groggily toward downtown Whitehorse in the pre-dawn cold. "I swear it was two weeks ago."

"I'm sure it was two weeks ago," I said. Daylight fades fast this time of year; an entire hour can be taken away in two weeks time, and we were already facing more darkness and light. I could tell by the gray pall over the sky that it was significantly more cloudy than it had been the day before. I had planned for rain but really, really wanted it to elude me. This was, after all, my vacation. Not some endurance training death march.

We parked outside a small convention center and lined up at crowded buffet tables, piling paper plates high with pancakes, hash browns and eggs. I suckled caffeinated beverages and juicy oranges and all of the warm fuel I could stuff down. I was randomly visiting Whitehorse on a Friday morning, and managed to line up my trip with a huge United Way fundraising all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast. What did I say about me and the Golden Circle? Lucky, lucky, lucky. It was a great way to start day two.

And I really was feeling much better as I climbed away from the Yukon River and began the trek up the Alaska Highway. I had a tough day one, but I'm really not in all that terrible of shape for fast touring. I wasn't sore and my stomach was feeling much more calm despite the fact I had just eaten a large amount of greasy, sugary food (I usually try to keep my meals small and frequent when I am riding.) The rising sun filtered through breaks in the clouds and cast streaks of light over the valley. All around me were dark patches of scattered showers, but the road seemed to skirt all of them. I began to shed my layers as the temperature climbed comfortably into the mid-40s. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

Most of the trees along the river valley were barren, the grass dry and the road covered in brittle, brown leaves. I smiled at the idea that in a single 24-hour period, I had managed to ride my bike from a region where fall was still in its half-green infancy - Skagway - to a place where fall was pretty much over.

There still were patches of color among the grays and browns - holdout trees. Muted sunlight continued to find its way through an overcast sky. Traffic along the Alaska Highway was light, which surprised me. It is, after all, the main corridor between the Lower 48 and Alaska. But not that many tourists care to be up here this time of year. I can't figure out why.

One aspect that really stood apart for me on day two was how much strength I derived from the effort of cycling. Rather than feel weakened by the passing miles, I felt empowered. GPS indicated a respectable speed average, and I could feel the pleasant burn of my quad muscles firing with every pedal stroke. It helps that the climbing was much more easy-going than it had been along the Klondike Highway. The air remained almost completely calm, and the breeze was a tailwind when it was anything at all. My pace continued strong, relaxed but determined, as I paralleled the snow-capped mountains that I would eventually have to cross again. But with no definite plans about where to stop for the night and everything I needed strapped to by heavy-but-burly bike, I could sit up high, drink in the subtle colors, and enjoy life in the moment.

I stopped in Haines Junction for a late lunch, 100 miles already behind me and a mere 150 more to go. The comfortable routine of distance touring was sinking in, and 100 miles was already starting to seem like a short distance. I found a general store and walked around in a bike-addled haze, completely confused by the Canadian choices before me. Not only is everything wrapped in half-French labels, it's also weighed in grams, not ounces, and always seems to be just a little bit different than versions of the same food in the U.S. I wanted peanut butter chocolate chip chewy granola bars, but could only find raspberry ones in a box of six, not ten. I sought out more peanut butter cups, but they were horribly expensive given the equal exchange rate, so I settled on these strange giant Kit Kat bars, which offered more calories on the dollar. I couldn't find Clif Bars, so I bought almonds, then loaded up with fruit, vegetables, bread and Gatorade that I planned to devour at a picnic table out front before I headed into the remote, serviceless, "no fuel" wastelands of the Haines Highway.

As I climbed away from town, I decided I would keep riding until dark and then find a good spot to bivy. Even though I was carrying a magazine, I didn't think sitting around camp as temperatures dropped below freezing would be all that fun, even if I did motivate to build a fire. No, I was going to ride to nightfall and then sleep good and long - after all, the darkness still consumed more than 12 hours of the day. Fall color began to return to the trees as I pedaled south. It was almost like moving back in time.

By dusk, I was well beyond the spot where I camped last year - Kathleen Lake - and aware that I was somewhat close to a campground called Million Dollar Falls. The idea of trying to reach a campground was appealing. Yukon campgrounds are sometimes equipped with covered picnic areas, and I was still dodging rainstorms that soaked the highways and were starting to hit me peripherally as snow flurries. I decided to push for it. Darkness descended and the already extremely light traffic stopped altogether. My headlights cast an eerie white glow on the rough, wet pavement, which was glittering with flecks of ice. I began to develop an unsettling awareness of how alone I was. The old familiar feeling was frightening, almost debilitating, and to top it all off, the sleep monster had started to creep in. Ditches and small notches in cliffsides started to look like appealing places to take a nap. Still, I thought, the campground couldn't be far.

My pace slowed considerably because I couldn't tell wet pavement from black ice. The road started to dip into some long descents, and I realized a crash out there could be especially dangerous, since another car was not likely to drive by until morning. I listened to the creepy squeal of my wet brakes as I death-gripped the levers, actually praying for the downhill to end. When I finally bottomed out, I pounded at full, red-zone throttle up the next long hill, sucking air just to burn off the residual fear. I ended up at a scenic overlook, with a wooden deck built over a hillside. "This is perfect!" I thought. "It will get me off the ground and there's even a bench I can roll under if it starts to rain or snow heavily." You might think it's strange that with all of that beautiful forest surrounding me, I would choose to camp on a deck. But it's vastly lonely out there, and like I child who can't give up her security blanket, I find myself clinging to any outposts of human civilization.

I didn't know at the time that I was less than three kilometers from Million Dollar Falls. If I had ridden about 300 yards further, I would have seen a sign indicating the campground was two kilometers away. But the overlook wasn't a bad spot to bivy down. The time was just before 9 p.m. I looked up to the sky and noticed large patches of clear sky that were nearly whitewashed with millions of glittering stars. My GPS indicated I had stopped at about 2,900 feet - an elevation nearly as high as some of the alpine peaks around Juneau. None of this boded well for how low the temperature might dip overnight, so I bundled up in my sleeping bag and shivered nervously, hoping my heart rate would slow down for just a few minutes so I could fall asleep.