The World at Large

Thunder rumbled from the north as I neared the crest of Cleary Summit. A dust-swirl of wind drove a mass of indigo clouds toward me, so I pedaled faster. I ignored the buzzing from my cell phone, indicating it had found reception from the outskirts of Fairbanks. I glanced over my shoulder to the north and the looming thunderstorm, the low rolling hills of the White Mountains, and beyond that, the great wild unknown that is northern Alaska. "This is as far north as you've ever been," I said to my bike, "Kim" the Karate Monkey, who I spend a lot of time with and admittedly sometimes talk to. "Last summer it was all south to the Mexican border. This summer, who knows?" Hard rain started to fall as I rolled into the highway pullout. I ducked into my car to check my voice mail. Violent raindrops pounded the windshield as I listened to the message. The voice was muffled. I held my breath, as though my own stillness would create clarity amid the clatter. I hit repeat and listened again. Rain and thunder continued to fall. I felt my own hot tears begin to roll down my cheeks. I couldn't help it. It was the best and worst news I had received in a long time. And it meant I faced one of the toughest decisions I ever had to make.

In early April, right around the time that I was moving from Juneau to Anchorage, I received an e-mail from Kent Peterson with a link to a job ad. "Look at this; this is your job!" he wrote. I browsed the job description and he was right. It had everything ... journalism with both editorial and design elements, plus writing and photography, for a magazine that highlights bicycle travel: Adventure Cycling. The only drawback - a drawback that most cyclists would consider a perk - was that the job was based in Missoula, Montana, which is a wonderful place, but it's not Alaska.

I agonized over the decision to even send Adventure Cycling my resume. I consulted my family and friends in Utah, where I was visiting when I actually went through the process of applying. I finally relented to their consensus that it was worth a try. The job seemed like a long shot anyway. I was a small-town newspaper journalist - an unemployed small-town newspaper journalist - and this was a national magazine. Still, I was perfect for the position, and I knew it. If the company recognized that fact, they would offer it to me. And if they didn't, well, I didn't have anything to lose. It was nearly the end of April before I sent off my resume. I spent the next month - this wonderful, perfect-weather month of May - building a new life in Anchorage. I made new friends. I explored new places. I wrote a few articles and made quite a bit of encouraging progress on my book - not only in polishing up my initial draft, but also in garnering the interest of a couple of agents. But I recognized that my fantastic summer-in-Alaska lifestyle wasn't sustainable. I also realized that I did not have a desire to be self-employed. Eventually, I would have to return to the real world of income, taxes and health insurance. When I did, would I seek out my dream job regardless of where it was located? Or would I cling to my location regardless of what I did for a living? Somehow, I knew I would have to make a choice. So I spent a month bracing for it.

"Ice-age heat wave, can't complain.
If the world's at large, why should I remain?
Walked away to another plan.
Gonna find another place, maybe one I can stand."

It seemed fitting that I was riding my bicycle in the boonies north of Fairbanks when I received the job offer. I had spoken to several people at Adventure Cycling during a series of interviews, and I had become more and more excited about the job opportunity and the company. They made it clear that it wasn't my newspaper experience that helped me stand out as a candidate, it was my hobbies - my avid cycling, my Tour Divide ride, and my blog. It was becoming a perfect example of "Do what you love and the rest will follow." I could be a bicycle adventurer AND a journalist AND live in the mountains AND make a living. But how could I leave Alaska? A huge portion of my identity is wrapped up in Alaska. My blog is called "Up in Alaska." Even my extended family members now refer to me as "Jill from Alaska." I've lived here five years and hardly scraped the surface of the landscape and lifestyle. At the same time, I'm anchored to nothing and I could drift away with ease. But much would be left undone. Much would be left behind.

I move on to another day,
to a whole new town with a whole new way.
Went to the porch to have a thought.
Got to the door and again, I couldn't stop.

I left Fairbanks late Friday evening, whirling with the overwhelming prospect of it all. It was 10 p.m. and the sun burned hot and high behind a film of wildfire smoke. I wasn't yet ready to return to Anchorage. I needed time; I needed space to process the swirl of thoughts storming through my head. I remembered reading online about an Alaska Endurance Association ride scheduled for the next day, a 140-mile gravel grinder on the Denali Highway called the Denali Classic. It seemed perfect - a day to spend pedaling through my thoughts, and night in camp with other crazy cycling Alaskans, who might help me understand why leaving the state was so difficult. It seemed a little reckless to pull a 140-mile self-supported mountain bike ride out of very little planning, with whatever food I had in the trunk of my car and a bicycle in severe need of a tuneup (after a seemingly exhaustive series of adjustments, my brakes were still rubbing, and on top of that my bottom bracket was loose.) Luckily, my friend Eric had expressed interest in coming up to the Denali Highway for a weekend fishing trip. We agreed to meet up Saturday night in camp, so at worst he could serve as my safety net. The plan was in place.

You don't know where and you don't know when.
But you still got your words and you got your friends.
Walk along to another day.
Work a little harder, work another way.

The drive seemed to drag on forever and it was after 1 a.m. by the time I rolled into the Brushkana Creek campground. Twilight cast the valley in blue shadows, and the campground was eerily quiet. I crawled into my tent and tossed and turned for a while; hours, maybe. The sun came back up. I opened and closed my rainfly, blinking against the golden light. I had a vague, sleepless sense of time passing, and then the sun was hot and high. The AEA organizer, Carlos, walked up to my tent and announced there was a riders' meeting in a half hour. It was 8:04 a.m. Carlos's wake-up call made me chuckle because I arrived late and had never indicated that I planned to ride the Denali Classic. The was no reason he should have known I was there. I decided he must have recognized my car, which I hadn't taken to an AEA event since the 2006 Soggy Bottom. It filled me with a warm sense of community, a feeling of belonging. It reminded me of something I recently read in a book called "Born to Run" - "We don't race to beat each other as much as we race to be with each other."

Well uh-uh baby I ain't got no plan.
We'll float on maybe would you understand?
Gonna float on maybe would you understand?
Well float on maybe would you understand?

Still, alone time was important. I dawdled away the first half hour and walked over to the pre-race meeting in my jeans with a bagel in my mouth. The pack of 12 or so riders took off and I finished packing up my stuff. I feared thunderstorms so I packed warm clothing and rain gear. I feared heat so I packed a full Camelback of water, iodine tablets, and food. I feared bike breakdown so I packed the bulk of my tool kit, spare spokes and chain links, zip-ties, duct tape, electrical tape and a pocket knife. Several of the riders had sag wagons and carried almost no gear, but I didn't mind the disadvantage. I needed to be self-supported. I needed to be alone with my thoughts. I took off 20 or 30 minutes later.

The days get shorter and the nights get cold.
I like the autumn but this place is getting old.
I pack up my belongings and I head for the coast.
It might not be a lot but I feel like I'm making the most.
The days get longer and the nights smell green.
I guess it's not surprising but it's spring and I should leave.

You could say it was a beautiful day. I would say it was a hot day. The sweet stink of wildfire smoke swirled in the air, and Memorial Day traffic kicked up long clouds of dust. The Denali Highway is rugged and fairly empty, even on holiday weekends. The road stretches 135 miles across the wide river basins beneath the Alaska Range, and connects the tiny towns of Cantwell and Paxson. It's as close of a road to nowhere as roads get, but the state maintains it because it's a good route for hunting and wildlife viewing. The Denali Classic ran from the campground at mile 105 to McClaren Pass at mile 35, and back. So even though we weren't riding the entire highway, we still had to ride 140 miles of jittery gravel on a dusty road that included more than 8,000 feet of climbing. It was an intimidating ride. I spent the first 25 miles feeling lousy but gradually brought myself around by stuffing my face with Sour Patch Kids. By the time I began the long climb out of the Susitna River valley, I felt a sweep of new optimism. It was a beautiful day! The green blaze of spring was emerging everywhere - alder buds, sprigs of grass and tiny white flowers fluttered in the breeze along the high, dry road. "This is so much like the alpine regions of Wyoming," I thought even as I wondered why I am always connecting thoughts and sights to pieces of my past, no matter where I am in the present. "I'm not in Wyoming, I'm in Alaska," I reminded myself, but still my mind flickered through vivid memories of Wyoming.

I like songs about drifters - books about the same.
They both seem to make me feel a little less insane.
Walked on off to another spot.
I still haven't gotten anywhere that I want.
Did I want love? Did I need to know?
Why does it always feel like I'm caught in an undertow?

The pursuit of introspection with a bicycle is a paradox. The time to think is there. The space to think is there. There is no better way to connect with both body and environment, but mental clarity remains elusive amid the physical strain. On the Denali Highway, beautiful images and memories of Alaska flickered between gray blips of fatigue and pain, like an old-fashioned silent filmstrip. My Camelback pressed hard into my lower back and no matter how I adjusted or loosened it, the pain cut deeper. Pretty soon all I could think about was my back, even as I strained to enjoy the scenery and remind myself that I otherwise felt good. But the loathing shouted louder. I wanted to throw my Camelback into the woods, but I couldn't because the temperature was pushing 85 degrees and I needed water. I wondered if my pain was even the Camelback's fault, or if my back simply hurt because I hadn't exactly trained to ride 140 miles of chunky gravel. My back didn't care whose fault it was. It blamed me for not stopping and screamed every time I launched my bike over a pothole. I stood up for every climb; climbing was my back's only relief, but I was tired and couldn't fully appreciate the brief release of the pressure valve. I knew it was fruitless to focus all of my attention on my back. I had already climbed the pass and turned around. The other riders and their sag wagons were in front of me. I was going to have to ride until I finished. And that was fine. With struggle comes satisfaction; as soon as it's over, there will only be another, and another. Life is still beautiful and good, not in spite of struggle, but because of it.

The moths beat themselves to death against the lights.
Adding their breeze to the summer nights.
Outside, water like air was great.
I didn't know what I had that day.
Walk a little farther to another plan.
You said that you did, but you didn't understand.

I had a vague, sleepless sense of miles passing. Every so often I'd experience moments of clarity, moments to look out slack-jawed across the sun-dusted tundra and snow-capped Alaska Range and ask myself, "Is that why I love this place? Is that why it's so hard to leave?" My back ached and the answers didn't come. I reached the campground after 10 p.m., more than 13 hours after I left. It suddenly felt like an instant. I met up with Eric and we joined the others around the fire. I greedily slurped up soup and cobbler as the group discussed bike geek topics - gear, calories and wattage. I smiled knowingly, because I both related to the obsession and understood the triviality of it. The fire crackled and everyone was laughing, talking, drinking. It seemed like we were in a place far away from the 140-mile gravel grinder, and the Denali Highway, and Alaska.

But Alaska was still there. It will always be here.

I know that starting over is not what life's about.
But my thoughts were so loud I couldn't hear my mouth.
My thoughts were so loud I couldn't hear my mouth.
My thoughts were so loud.

(Lyrics from "The World at Large" by Modest Mouse.)

The Great Hot North, part 2

Cyclists are prone to wedging themselves into groups. I am not immune to this tendency, this need to define myself as a cyclist. Am I a mountain biker? Well, not entirely; I ride a lot of pavement. Am I a snow biker? Only in the winter, and even then, only part of the time. Am I a bike commuter? No; I do use my bike frequently to do errands. When I had a job, I rode it occasionally to work; but I still own a car, and I don't make a lifestyle out of commuting. Am I an endurance racer? No; I enter races because they make for fun rides, and train for them because I like to ride, but I haven't been in structured training since I stumbled off the Great Divide nearly a year ago. So what am I? I am a cyclist. This I know.

I often refer to myself as a "bicycle tourist." To me, this means I travel around on my bicycle. Sometimes I travel overnight, sometimes I travel long distances in a day, and sometimes I travel short distances to somewhere completely new to me. I prefer places off the beaten path, places I generally know very little about beforehand, places remote and rugged that require a mountain bike or its even burlier cousin, the snow bike. I like to define myself as a "bike explorer," even if I am only discovering things for myself.


So when I am visiting a new city, like Fairbanks, I like to sniff out unique and therefore interesting routes. This is a strange practice, because all of the biking in Fairbanks is new to me. There are tons of great established singletrack trails here. I have even dabbled in some of them during my short time here (Skarland Ski Trail, Secret Trail, and the UAF trail system.) But when I am alone and have a few quality afternoon hours to spend exploring, I like to set out toward something like the Circle-Fairbanks Trail. It's an old Athabaskan overland route to the Yukon River. I learned of its existence while scanning the Alaska gazetteer before my trip north. It is listed as a "hiking trail, unmaintained." It runs many dozens of miles partially parallel to the Steese Highway. Is it marked? I don't know! Is it still a distinguishable trail? I don't know! Is it overgrown? Boggy? Bikeable at all? I don't know! Let's go find out!

I started at Cleary Summit on the Steese Highway because I learned online that there was an access point near there. I try not to make a habit out of too much online research beforehand, lest it kill the surprises. But I admit I found and downloaded a partial GPS track before I set out. After all, I'm in the far north, and it's remote out here! I don't want to get totally lost. I climbed to the Skiland ski area and rumbled down the steep tundra of a ski slope (brutal on a rigid bike, believe me) before connecting with the trail. For miles I followed a smooth ribbon of doubletrack as it rippled over hills and through charred black spruce forests. Thunderstorms rumbled from the east and I couldn't stop grinning, because this wasn't just bikeable - it was great biking.

Unfortunately, many four-wheelers discovered this trail before I did and ripped it to shreds. The surface went from rough to rougher, and on the swift downhills it was all I could do to keep the rigid, rattling Karate Monkey rubber-side-down. Meanwhile, the thunderstorms crept ever closer and I couldn't help but fret about what a nightmare the trail must become when the dirt turns to mud. I had already bogged down in several low spots, and I knew if it rained too much, I'd be walking. I kept glancing into the tundra for possible bailout points, but there were none. So I let off the brakes and took the horrible beating that was a full-charge descent, knowing that hands and arms will eventually recover from numbness, but the horror of mud slogs lasts forever.

The trail came to a T; the right turn led to more Fairbanks-Circle discovery, the left veered toward the highway and its merciful pavement. The right turn was tempting but I wasn't about to tempt the weather. I turned left, found the highway, and powered the last six miles and 1,400 vertical feet up the road shoulder. The sky opened up just as I arrived at my car. I took a picture to document my satisfaction at my own impeccable timing.

Who knows? The Circle-Fairbanks Trail may be a great spot for a multiday bicycle tour. Or, as the new wave of bike explorers like to call it, "bikepacking." I may never know, but it was fun to discover a small piece of it. John and I went for a short singletrack ride in the evening. Fairbanks trails are rooty and my hands have just about had it with the rigid fork (I finally broke down and took my leaking Reba shock in to be serviced. No new mountain bike for me this year, but hopefully I can bring my Karate Monkey back to a more tolerable level.) We passed by the UAF muskox farm and spotted a day-old, newborn caribou calf. Isn't it cute? I love being a bike explorer.

The Great Hot North

I am in Fairbanks for a brief biking and lounging trip. I was hoping to do a three-day combo dirt/pavement bikepacking trip, but other obligations require that I stay within cell phone range. I decided to come up to Fairbanks anyway to visit some friends and check out the riding around town. My friends think it's a funny destination. "No one in Anchorage comes up to Fairbanks to ride bikes," they told me. It's true that Fairbanks has large, rolling hills instead of craggy mountains, and it's either dusty or boggy with great black clouds of mosquitoes. But then thunderstorms roll in from the south and fill the expansive sky with color, and the rich green birch leaves flutter in the breeze, and the hills roll toward the remote and wild horizons of Alaska's deep Interior. It's a beautiful place. It reminds me of my time riding the Great Divide through southern Montana. I like it here.

The first night I arrived in town, my friend and I sat near the deck chatting away for hours. The sun drifted lazily toward the horizon, casting streaks of bronze light over the tree branches in the yard. A bright sort of twilight followed and then, in an unnoticed span of time that felt like an instant, the hints of light returned. I glanced at the clock. It was well after 2 a.m. Night is a vague dream here, a nearly forgotten place, somewhere far away. It's summer in the North.

On Wednesday I headed out for what was to be a "short" afternoon ride. The temperature was well over 70 degrees, climbing toward 80. I wiped a layer of sweat from my forehead and smiled at the dramatic climate of this place. The last time I visited Fairbanks, it dropped to 25 below zero F, more than 100 degrees colder. That was only two months ago.

I coasted down the long hill from my friend's house and found the trail marker for the Equinox Marathon, a trail marathon that's held every year in the beginning of autumn. I followed the root-clogged doubletrack as it began to climb steeply up the Ester Dome, a deceivingly large "hill" that actually rises nearly 2,000 feet above town. I reached the rounded crest and noticed the rough jeep road dropped down the other side of the dome. I wondered if it connected to the developed road I could see in the far distance. I bounced and swerved down the loose, heavily eroded track, losing an enormous amount of elevation but hoping the road somehow went through to Goldstream Creek, which I envisioned myself crossing in a rush of cold, waist-deep water before reconnecting with the road on the other side. Instead the jeep road dead-ended a ways back from the creek. I pedaled over the berm and began to follow an ever-so-faint hint of singletrack that wended through the trees. The ground was carpeted in dry leaves and strewn with deadfall. After hopping over a minefield of dead birch trees and creeping around alder tangles, I knew that whatever I was following was nothing like a trail, at least not any kind of a summer trail. Still, it was exciting, riding my bike through the woods, letting my GPS make a digital bread-crumb trail to follow back as I pressed deeper and deeper into "uncharted" wilderness. I felt like a biking explorer. I held onto the dream of making my ride a loop for quite a while. But the woods thickened and the ground became more mushy and I was doing a lot more walking than riding. GPS showed that rather than cutting a straight line toward the creek, I had made a big, meandering S back toward Ester Dome. So I surrendered to the out-and-back, and turned to face the looming climb in front of me.

It was a rugged beast of a climb, much steeper and harder than the marathon side of the dome. I sweated and wheezed and really felt like I was somewhere back on the Great Divide, somewhere hot, dusty and difficult, and nowhere near cell phone range. I reached the peak and rocketed down the other side, because I was already running late for the "real" ride that I planned to do with my friend, an evening singletrack ride along a ridge above town. By the time I returned home, my face and arms were crusted in salt, my three-liter Camelback bladder was empty, my GPS had recorded 4,500 feet of climbing over 34 miles, and the sun was still hot and high on the horizon for the two hours of strenuous singletrack biking in front of me. It's manic time. It's summer in the North.