Grandchild awesomeness

Ever have one of those days when everything works out perfectly? Like when you go to Safeway to buy cheap sushi, and they have exactly one pack of California rolls left, and exactly two packets of soy sauce remaining in the bin? Or when your avid alpine junkie friend Dan is in town for exactly one day in five weeks, and the weather has called for a 90 percent chance of rain, and you wake up to fog and go anyway, and you get, well, let me show you ...

I posted a borderline obnoxious number of pictures today, but I feel justified in indulging myself because I'm pretty sure it is probably the awesomest bundle of photographs I have ever taken.

We decided to head up the Grandchild Peaks trail. There is something mysterious and almost secretive surrounding this trail. It's not on any Juneau map that I have seen. Its entrance isn't marked in any way. Few people I've talked to about it have even heard of it. The ones who have, haven't been there. Dan, who has lived in Southeast Alaska all of his life, fell into this latter group. I jumped at the chance to introduce him to a trail that contains the best of all of Juneau's ridge day hikes combined.

Dan was feeling pretty lousy today. He just returned from a trip to Utah, where he crewed for Geoff in the Wasatch 100. I found out today that Dan actually ran the last 25 miles of the race, in the dark, at high elevation, having never run nearly that far or high before. I was impressed. I almost felt bad for dragging him up a ridge in the fog. Almost.

Dan brought along a gun in case we ran into a deer near the trail. Carrying guns on hikes seems to be a common theme among males in Alaska. I think they bring them because it makes them feel like their hike has purpose, rather than just being the frivolous activity that it really is.

He didn't find any bucks, but we did see a lot of goats. Dan often stooped over to gather clumps of matted white hair on the ground, telling me that he collected goat hair all the time, and someday he would have enough to spin it into yarn and knit it into a mountain goat hat.

We were at about 2,800 feet when we saw our first breaks in the clouds.

The partially unveiled sun offered up some dramatic light. I expected fall color to be far past peak, but the tundra did not disappoint.

The view from our lunch stop. Keith, I took this photo while I was talking to you on my cell phone. I'm really sorry I did not call you back tonight. Do you forgive me now that you've seen this photo?

Clouds continued to move through, and we caught our first glimpse of the ridgeline.

We pushed on for the first Grandchild Peak, and were hit my a sudden downpour of freezing rain. Not just cold rain, but rain that literally freezes before it hits the ground. We stood on the knife-edged ridge for a couple minutes as daggers of ice pelted our coats, debating whether to continue. We decided to continue.

I'm so glad we did.

It was up there that I had a repeat of what I call my "Cairn Peak epiphany." I often complain that Juneau is a small place, limited in scope, closed in and cut off from the world. But when I climb to these high places and look out over an expanse of land rippled with jagged mountains, cascading ice, tree-covered islands and a web of sparkling salt water, I remember that Juneau is in fact an enormous place, an insatiable place, that I have only tasted with the tip of my tongue.

Token self portrait on the peak.

Even though it was time to turn back, we found a few minutes to assess terrain and point out all of the places we would go "next time" when we had unlimited time and overnight packs and less chance of freezing rain.

There was a lot of fresh snow on the Mendenhall Towers.

More dramatic light coming down.

It's cliche to say, but pictures don't do these places justice, even in the smallest ways. But they do capture tiny frames of quiet moments, and for that I value them.

Wondering when the clouds were going to engulf us again.

Filtered light in the rainforest.

After we came down, I stopped at Safeway for dinner, scoring the last sushi and soy sauce, along with my very favorite comfort food in the world - a jug o'soda. I settled down for dinner and a sunset in my front yard (full disclosure: I actually have to cross the street and walk 25 yards down a path to get to this place.)

From my picnic spot, I could look out and watch evening settle over the ridgeline where Dan and I had just been.

It was pretty much the perfect day.

Still forever changed

I finally took him out today, the 2004 Ibex Corrida "Luxe Tour" bike that I call Roadie. Our rides are few and far between these days. Today I pumped up the tires from 10 psi - that's how long he's been sitting. I'm generally just a phone call away from listing him in the freebie classified ads, but every time we go out for a ride, I can't remember what about him made me think he was such a junker. He's a perfectly competent bike. I want to believe in him.

Also today, I picked up from the bike shop the 2008 Surly Karate Monkey that I call KiM. After dropping her off a cliff on Monday, I had to get the brake lever fixed. I also had them swap out her suspension fork for a rigid one. This weekend, I'll outfit her with skinny tires and my bikepacking gear, and shore up Roadie with a few new cables, brake pads, and a rack, all in preparation for the grand fall tour, the Golden Circle. I hyped up this trip enough to convince fellow enduro-nut John Nobile to come all the way out from Connecticut. I told him he would experience "real Alaska" (even though 90 percent of the route is in Canada), complete with wind, cold rain and maybe even a little September snow. We're setting out to relive our Tour Divide glory days on some of the most remote pavement you can find in North America.

Doing all of this started me thinking back to the Tour Divide. It's been exactly two months since I returned to Juneau. It's amazing to me it's only been that long. It feels like I've been "off the road" for ages, settled back into the mainstream of my life like I never even diverged from the flow. Still, little changes from the summer linger. A few ways I am different:

1. Every time I walk into a gas station (often to pay for the gas I just put in my car), I still find myself "casing" the place for bike fuel sources, zooming in on the Snickers Bar inventory and gummy candy selection, checking to see if they sell cheese curds and rare pieces of fruit. I find myself doing this even though I can't buy any of it, anymore. (Sigh.)

2. I'm significantly more fearless than I used to be. Take today: My friend offered to take me to one of Juneau's old mine sites, where you can wander three quarters of a mile into the slimy guts of a mountain. Pre-Tour Divide, the very claustrophobic, eternally dark thought of that would have sent shivers down my spine. But now, such an activity sounds very appealing, and I can't wait to try it.

3. Since July, I have yet to complete a ride that seemed either "long" or "hard" in my mind, even as different body parts screamed at me and told me otherwise.

4. Every time I zone out on bike rides, I "come to" with a jolt of that same panic I used to experience when I realized I hadn't looked at my maps in a while.

5. I still haven't switched out my iPod playlist, and I keep willing Cat Stevens to pop up between the Bad Religion and Modest Mouse.

6. I've developed a habit of stopping and staring off into the distance for a few seconds, for no reason at all.

7. I can't shake my monstrous appetite. Wish I could, but I've already gained back the weight I lost in the Tour, and now I spend most of my time being hungry.

8. I'm completely annoyed by how much stuff I own, and, yes, it still all fits in a one-room apartment and two car trips of a Geo Prism.

9. I'm less convinced than ever that adventure can't be a long-term lifestyle.

10. I've planned little, but I dream big, and these days, I dream in color.

Good morning sun

The air was thick and saturated when I rode home at 1:15 a.m. last night. I cut through the cloud, draped in the blissful silence and blue glow of the hours that are neither today nor tomorrow, the solitude hours. Water vapor swirled in the beam of my headlamp, collecting on my clothes until I was so wet that it might as well have been raining. I smiled and breathed in sweet, damp air until I could almost taste the perfect day ahead. The are a lot of standard definitions that Juneau weather isn't (fair, dry, comfortable), but one thing it is, is predictable. Fog in the night means sun in the light.

I will go to great, great lengths to experience the little tastes of stark clear skies that Juneau is willing to send my way - not because they're unique, but because they're transcendent. So I was upset that Monday just happened to be the day I had a long block of meetings scheduled in the morning, starting at 10 a.m., followed by my normal work day that promised to keep me locked in an office building for at least 13 hours. I was not about to let that beat me. I set my alarm for 6 a.m., four hours after I went to sleep, for no real reason besides the promise of sunlight.

Even though clear skies over fog is the norm, it still requires a certain leap of faith to slouch out of bed in the gray light of dawn, look out over a yard still obscured behind a curtain of fog, with the neighborhood beyond completely shrouded, and assume that you will find UV rays if you climb. But that's what I did - because I was short on time, with my bike, up the Eaglecrest Road - and that's what I found. It did not take long.

Gray low, spectacular high.

Eventually, later in the day, this will all burn off and everyone will get sunlight. But in the early morning air, atop a frost-crusted mountain, the sun seemed to still belong only to me.

I did a little bit of hike-a-biking, trying to connect pieces of singletrack along the ridge. I was walking down a steep slope with my bike on my shoulder, when I reached a particularly marshy spot and put my bike down so I could stoop low to negotiate it. But I slipped before I was all the way down, skidding down the slope about five feet and losing my grip on my bike, which was propped up on its wheels. It rolled at least 20 feet by itself before toppling and flipping over the edge of a rocky outcropping. I watched in horror as it bounced like a crumpled can and disappeared into a void. I bolted up and foot-skied down the slope until I caught up to it. Luckily, damage was fairly minimal. The fall bent the poplock, snapped the fork-lockout cable and housing, and broke the back brake lever. I played with the cable until I was able to jam it back in the lever enough to get the brake to work again, a little, so I could at least get down the mountain. But, man, what a stupid fall! At least my body wasn't involved.

Then it was back down to the fog, the gray, the 13-hour workday on four hours of sleep. But I felt victorious because I had been out there, in the sun, and no one could take that away from me.

I used my dinner break to head out to my new apartment to pick up a key and drop off a few things. Moving day is tomorrow, or whenever I have time to actually do it (more 10 a.m. meetings tomorrow, Wednesday and Thursday.) It will be my first permanent residence in five months. I have been dreading it in some ways, because I will be living alone for the first time in four years, and it is out there - a fair distance from both work and town. But this picture, this is it - my new front yard, Fritz Cove. And as I stood here today, looking at a fresh dusting of snow on Stroller White, I felt a new sense of peace, and anticipation. Change is good.