Maybe I had to leave

Every morning, the still-unfamiliar sound of my alarm clock blares through the sweaty stillness of deep sleep in a hot room. I slouch out of bed, turn my bleary eyes to the bright sunlight streaming in the window, and brace for it ... the sadness, the homesickness, the cold realization that I have left the place that I loved. I brace for it every morning, because I expect it will hit any day now. But this morning, like yesterday, and the day before that, there is only anticipation, the electric buzz of possibility igniting a day where anything can happen.

I make my breakfast and scrape away the last of the peanut butter in the jar I hauled all the way down from Alaska. I pause for a minute before throwing it away, but the sadness doesn't come, and I toss it without regret. I take a slightly cool shower and squeeze remaining drops from big shampoo bottle that took the ferry ride from Juneau before making its way to Anchorage, then road trips, then south. There's a tiny bit left, so I save it, just to be sure.

I walk into the sun-drenched morning and hop on my bike. I'm wearing all my work clothes already because around here, heavy fleece and rain gear isn't an automatic prerequisite in July. I see a new, interesting street and I take it, and then I get lost. I forget I don't know my way around yet.

The work day flies by quickly. I take midday walks to the coffee shop and the sandwich place. There is still much to take in, but little to stress about. It still feels strange, not having a deadline bearing down on me every day. Suddenly, it's late afternoon, and time to go for a ride.

I like to ride alone. I'm used to it, and I enjoy having all that time to think. But around here, there is something new and exciting going on nearly every night, and it's difficult not to ride with others. I especially like Thursday nights, and the Thursday Night Riders, a group ride that appears to attract a fun combination of unpretentious fast people, longtime Missoulians and intermediate mountain bikers like myself, looking for a challenge. Today is the "Hayduke Ride," an ambitious one, 3,400 feet of climbing all on singletrack. I start from town, which makes it more than 4,000 for me.

Heat wafts off the pavement as I ride down Orange Street. I pass a digital thermometer that reads 95 degrees. My pasty still-Alaskan skin cells look for a retreat but find none. My jersey is already so wet and sticky that it feels like it would take my skin with it if I tried to peel it off. I suck down huge gulps of warm water from my Camelback and think fondly back to the days when I needed fleece and rain gear to ride in July. Honestly, right now I'd rather gouge my eyes out with icicles than ride my bike, but I tell myself I'll warm up to the task at hand, somehow.

I arrive at the trailhead just as the group is riding up the road and seconds away from leaving me behind, just like last week. I kinda wish my timing wasn't so good, because I've only ridden seven miles and already I feel like my head is swimming in a pool of lava. "I'll acclimatize to this eventually," I tell myself, but then I remember that I grew up in Salt Lake City and somehow never adapted to summer. Some of us were just born for ice and snow. That doesn't mean we don't love the sun, but we love it in weaker doses. I dig for energy beneath my overbaked skin. The group starts up and I lag behind. I figure I'll catch up when evening does.

We climb and climb and climb. I catch up to a few riders and mostly talk about how I miss Alaska and fleece gloves in July. But all around me, the world is opening up. There are wildflowers on the hillsides and sweeping mountains on all sides; the sun casts bright streaks of color across the sky and there are a lot of mountain bikers laughing and smiling. Elevation and evening creep up on us, and I start to perk up. Maybe it's because the temperature eased up a little, but more likely it's my view of much of what is right and good about the world.

We reach the 7,100-foot summit and gather, a dozen strong, to look out over this right and good world and anticipate our well-earned reward. Two hours of climbing disappear beneath a swift and blissful descent. We're tired but there's more adventure to be had, so we veer up another climb and turn on a winding piece of singletrack down a brush-choked hillside.

After a mile or so, the group halts. I skid to a stop behind a cluster of riders. Not more than 20 yards in front of us is a black bear, with hair bristling like needles off her shoulders and back, standing and pacing and fretfully retreating. Her tiny cub, no larger than a six-month-old baby, is wrapped around a tree that we have to ride right by. They're the fourth and fifth bears I've seen on trails since I arrived in Montana less than three weeks ago, and are now officially more black bears than I saw in all of 2009 and 2010 in Alaska. Someone turns and says, "It's your fault, Alaska." I'm gaining a reputation for being something of a bear magnet among the Missoula mountain bikers. I'm not too worried about this one because our group is massive and momma bear obviously knows we're here and hasn't charged yet. But just to be sure we cluster tighter and roll slowly away from the young family. We breath relief and drop into the deepening sunset, then ride home in the dark.

I tend to look for signs that I made the right decision about moving - the weather, the sunlight, the recurrences of amazing sunset rides for days and even weeks unbroken. Then I see the bears that remind me of Alaska most of all, and I really think the universe is reaching out to me, telling me that home is wherever I make it, and that's OK. I don't have to be homesick, if I'm home.

One year past

At half past 5 on Monday, July 6, 2009, I rode through the sun-baked desert toward a shimmering clump of trees called Antelope Wells, which would make today (Tuesday, although late, still technically July 6) the one-year anniversary of the day I finished the Tour Divide. In this year's race, since the only woman out there is still making her way toward the Mexican border, that means (I think) I held onto the TD women's record for one more year. Hooray! It actually still strikes me as humorous that I have my name attached to something like that - you know, the women's record holder of "the world's toughest mountain bike race" (don't mock me! This phrase just occurred to me and I think I'll use it as the lead in my book proposals.)

But still, regardless of my feelings about my own experience out there, as my dad pointed out, it's still something to be proud of. While this year's Tour Divide progressed, a lot of people asked me if I would ever ride the course again. The answer is "probably, in several years from now, if by some strange stroke of fate I'm in a good position to return when I'm 35 or 40 years old." The better question is whether I'd return to the race, or to an effort to reclaim the record. I of course recognize that my 2009 time is full of holes. I lost full days to mechanicals and injury in Wyoming and northern Colorado. I lost full days to mental anguish and mud in southern Colorado and New Mexico. And, of course, I opted for comfort over distance whenever the opportunity arose. But as I said to John Nobile when we stopped early one evening in Elkhorn Hot Springs, Montana: "This is three freakin weeks of my life. I'm going to enjoy myself." I still feel that way. Maybe more so now than last year. So while shaving days off my time would be easy in theory, it would be much more difficult in practice.

Speaking of this year's race, I was telling my mom about the strange parallels between Kent Peterson's race-ending mechanicals, and my own in the Great Divide Basin. Like Kent, my freehub began sticking as I crossed the bone-dry, remote sinkhole between Atlantic City and Rawlins. Kent and I first experienced our problems in almost the exact same spot, about 25 miles east of Atlantic City. This is just a few miles beyond a historical marker dedicated to Willie's Handcart Company, a group of Mormon pioneers who crossed the Basin in 1856. The company suffered major setbacks while crossing the plains, and dozens of pioneers died when winter caught up to them in Wyoming. Historynet.com had this to say about the Willie Handcart Company:

"The farther west the companies marched the more problems they had with axles and wheel hubs. In the humid Midwest, the climate better preserved the green wood, but as the air became drier, the unseasoned material dried too quickly and cracked."

As I told this story to my mom, she informed me that I actually have direct ancestors who traveled to Utah with the Willie Handcart Company. When my freehub began to fail, I was lucky enough to be able to coax it into Rawlins. Kent wasn't so lucky, and had to push his bike dozens of miles to Jeffery City. Now, I'm not superstitious ... and I by no means intend to imply that the spirits of my pioneer ancestors are out there exacting wheel revenge on unsuspecting cyclists ... but, if I do happen to write one of those "true life" ghost stories someday, you'll know why.

I just returned to Montana from my short weekend trip to Utah. My dad and I were able to get out for another hike on Monday morning - this time one that is arguably the best route in all of the middle Wasatch Range - the Pfeifferhorn via Red Pine Lakes. It's been at least a decade since I climbed up here. The view is as stunning as ever.

Pfeifferhorn is quite the majestic peak, guarded by crumbling knife ridges that are full of fun scrambling.

Looking out toward the Salt Lake Valley and the Twin Peaks, which my dad and I tried to climb on Saturday. If you squint, you can actually see the snow-filled couloir we decided not to ascend. Looks pretty much vertical from this perspective.

The big mountain in the distant center is Lone Peak, which is still listed on some of my early Web sites as my favorite place in all of the world.

My dad and I on top of Pfeifferhorn, at about noon Monday. The elevation is 11,326 feet - the highest I've been since the Divide. And, yes, I could feel the altitude.

Then, about nine hours later, I was here - 20 miles north of Dillon, Montana, making my way back to Missoula. I needed to pee something fierce but I raced past Dillon because I could see pink sunlight starting to emerge below the rain clouds, and I wanted to round the western mountains in time to see sunset. I was not disappointed. A six-hour, high altitude hike followed by an eight-hour drive certainly did make for a long day Monday, but it was all worth it.

Closer to home

I think it was Wednesday afternoon when I first found out about the holiday weekend. "Holiday? What is this thing you call a holiday?" Newspapers don't have holidays. We worked midnights, weekends, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and we especially worked on July 4, a day when their tends to be a lot of news opportunities between parades and fireworks and inebriated revelers. But nonprofit organizations are not like newspapers - they seem to think that people should celebrate America's independence by not coming into work. Which is just crazy talk, really, but this announcement brought up a new urgency to figure out what to do with my three-day weekend.

A quick search of Google maps revealed that Salt Lake City is a mere 500 miles from Missoula. Since my new location suddenly puts me "close" to home, I decided a trip to see the fam was in order. A July trip meant I could do some hiking with my dad, gorge on my mom's cooking and visit my sister and nephew - who has nearly doubled his size since I saw him last, and at 4 months weighs nearly 20 pounds. It also would give me an opportunity to visit my grandpa, who has dealt with a string of struggles recently, and, not to put it too delicately, probably won't be alive the next time I see him. These opportunities in life never come twice.

When people ask me where I got my adventure spirit, I always reply, "My Dad." It's not that my sisters and I grew up doing crazy outdoor adventures. In fact, I still find myself joining in the commiseration when they bring up that time he dragged us on an "insane death march hike" that was actually a mere six miles through a burnt-out forest in Yellowstone. But my dad has always been athletic and has always loved the outdoors. When I was 15, he began inviting me on his longer hikes in the Wasatch Mountains. My first big one was Mount Timpanogos. We walked 18 miles, through aspen groves, flower-carpeted meadows and high-alpine moonscapes to a wind-pummeled weather tower in the sky. If I had to pinpoint a day I fell in love with the outdoors, that was probably it.

I still love to get out with my dad whenever the opportunity arises. At age 57, he's as strong as he ever was. He and his friend, Tom, were already planning to spend Saturday hiking to the Twin Peaks when I called to let him know I was driving down for the weekend. He actually brought an ice ax for the occasion. Although he's an avid hiker, he usually just does the sensible thing and waits for the snow to melt before he heads high. Still, the window of no snow is a small one in the high country, and he's looking to expand it.

My dad has always been my mentor and teacher in the outdoors, so it was an interesting experience to stand on the other side of the divide - the one where I'm a bit more comfortable and experienced than him at something. In this case, trekking on steep snow terrain. Not that I'm all that experienced. I just bought my first ax last October. But the experience is there. Tom and I explained the self-arrest and glissading techniques. I tried to stay out in front, but around 10,000 feet, I started to struggle. My lungs just couldn't keep up with my legs, so every 50 steps or so, I found myself gasping for oxygen that just wasn't there, and I had to stop moving until I could breathe normally again. It was as though the mountain was sucking fitness right out of my body. I surrendered to slowing down, concentrating on my breathing, and absorbing the stark beauty of my high-altitude surroundings.

Around 11,000 feet, we came to the crux move of the route. As we expected, the 60-degree couloir was filled in entirely with snow. The snow was crusty and hard. Dad and Tom talked it over and decided they weren't comfortable continuing up terrain that steep. I felt more insistent. I offered to forge ahead and cut individual steps in the snow with my ax. They pointed out that climbing a couple hundred feet that way would take a fair chunk out of an afternoon that was already growing short. I finally agreed that it wasn't realistic with our equipment and experience, but it's funny how disappointed I felt about it. After all, I came to Salt Lake to hike with my dad, not climb the Twin Peaks. I have to remind myself about that - it's about the journey, not the goal.

We had a fantastic hike just the same, beautiful and challenging, and the elevation - both climbing and altitude - left me feeling sufficiently downtrodden by the time we geared up to see the local fireworks show (in Utah, most communities celebrate Independence Day on July 3 when July 4 falls on the Sunday. Yeah, it's funny. But it's my home.) I went to see my grandpa today. He was in good spirits, but it's still difficult to witness firsthand what the end of life often means - that it's slow and painful and strips away a person's vibrancy and even personality before it finally takes their body. I feel even more grateful that I can live my life now, doing the things I love, with the people I love. Thanks, Dad.