Pictures of Glacier

Temperatures in Missoula this past weekend were forecasted to climb to nearly 100 degrees. My TransRockies partner, Keith, was planning to visit one of his friends in Kalispell, about two hours north of this insufferably hot place. I've been wanting to visit Glacier National Park, which I've never really explored beyond the Going-To-The-Sun road. These three factors sparked a fantastically fun weekend, the kind that leaves me with a loss for words and an excessive number of pictures to post on my blog.

Keith's friend is an ultrarunner named Danni, who works as an attorney for a firm in Kalispell. She used to be a lawyer for a high-powered firm in Chicago, with prestige, salary, and everything that goes with it. Then, one day about four years ago, she attended a "Woman-to-Woman" conference put on by her firm, where topics ranged from "What Not To Wear" (basically, the things she wore to work most every day) to "How to Balance Work and Family," where a woman talked about forgoing dinner in favor of "nighttime snack" with her kids. Danni went home that day and immediately plotted her escape to the mountains, and landed in Kalispell, Montana, where she still has a good job, a beautiful historic home and a husband who cooks beingets (New Orleans fry bread) for Sunday brunch. Oh, and sometimes she goes out and runs 100 miles. And she's super funny. By the end of the weekend, I wanted to ask her if she'd be my new BFF, but I didn't want to seem too forward, given we'd never met before I showed up at her doorstep late Friday evening.

Danni took me to her favorite spots in Glacier National Park, starting Saturday morning with Gunsight Pass.

The one-way hike is 20-21 miles (depending on what signs you believe) from the east side of the Continental Divide to the west. We parked at Lake McDonald Lodge and took the shuttle over the precarious, narrow, cliff-edge road to the Jackson Glacier trailhead.

The park's Web site had warned of lots of snow on the pass, and we were prepared with ice axes, but it turned out to be nothing more than a few short snowfields, not even long enough to glissade. We especially had to laugh at the minimally dangerous conditions after we passed a couple of backpackers near the trailhead who told us the snow had turned them around, and basically implied that we were probably doomed if we chose to continue on our epic attempt to traverse the entire trail in a single day.

I do think 21 miles is a decent day hike, but certainly within the grasp of most fit people. While we walked, Danni indicated which parts of the trail she would normally walk and which parts she would run. It was a little eye-opening, actually, to see that ultrarunning doesn't necessarily have to be about logging eight-minute miles for 100 miles straight. Many ultrarunners do a lot of walking, which makes it seem more obtainable for those of us who have leaned heavily on wheels for most of our "fit" lives.

While Missoula melted in the sun, the weather in Glacier was absolutely perfect, 70 degrees and clear.

Gunsight Pass.

Danni crossing under a waterfall below the pass.

We started to see lots of mountain goats right on the trail. This kid goat was so adorable. Both Danni and I wanted to reach out and pet it, but of course we did not. Funny how strong the urge is, though, when you see a cute fuzzy baby animal.

Then we encountered the billy goats who did not want to get off the trail. We herded a small group for several yards until they finally relented to letting us by. We finished the hike in about seven and a half hours (hardcore ultrarunners probably wouldn't even let you call that a day hike; more like a "half day.") We cooled down in the lodge with Diet Coke and beer in front of a sparkling Lake McDonald.

The next day we were able to enjoy a relaxing breakfast in Kalispell while we waited for Keith to make his way from the eastern half of the state, where he had been visiting friends. We all met up in East Glacier at 11.

Our Sunday hike was the Dawson and Pitimakin Pass loop, another favorite of Danni's. It wasn't hard to see why.

Starting at noon was a bit rough on both of us, tired as we were from the day before and struggling a bit as we climbed in 80-degree heat.

But it was minimal work for jaw-dropping views the entire time.

Keith lives in Banff, Alberta, and feels his home is the most beautiful place in the world. But he was willing to allow that maybe Montana is maybe kinda pretty, too.

The Sunday hike was strikingly different from Saturday's, just by nature of its location on the front range of the Rockies. Even though it's only a few dozen miles east of the Divide, it's a much drier and rockier place.

From the saddle where we perched to eat our lunch, we could even see the beginning of the American prairie, a flat expanse on the far horizon. I hadn't before really realized how close I am to the plains here in Western Montana. I'll have to get out there for a visit someday soon.

Instead of mountain goats, the Dawson-Pitimakin loop had bighorn sheep. We saw two separate groups — one all rams and the other all females.

The females were especially protective of the trail, but they eventually let us by.

The Sunday loop ended at about 17 miles, for a 37-mile weekend. I'm sore! But Keith agreed I could count it as a good training weekend, because there will be plenty of hike-a-bike in TransRockies. Only two more weeks! I'm officially in taper mode now. I'm hoping I can use that as an excuse to volunteer for the Swan Crest 100 next weekend. After spending 37 miles on my feet this weekend, I have this whole new fascination with Montana trail running and the possibilities therein (not that I'm going to start running on a regular basis all of the sudden, but I do admire the possibilities it creates, especially when you have the ability to travel 37 miles in one day as opposed to two.) But what a fun weekend! Thanks Danni and Keith!

Christmas in July

I need to find an online photo workshop for "Taking Photographs with Your Limited Point-And-Shoot Camera While Trying To Keep Up With A Massive Peloton During A Group Mountain Bike Ride." It can be frustrating to watch compelling image after compelling image rip by you, only to whip out your camera and grab a blurry shot of half of somebody's butt. Faster members of Missoula's Thursday Night Riders simply blaze ahead and then wait at a strategic perch, capturing dynamic shots of a 21-rider paceline grinding up a smooth ribbon of singletrack.

The rest of us get rear shots. And a face-full of this grass that I am fairly certain I am highly allergic to. During my Friday Death Ride, I attributed my early bonk to overtraining, but now I'm wondering if part of it was allergies. John and I went whipping through a few miles of this stuff on Friday night, and shortly after that I began to feel like my entire head was slowly filling with warm ooze. Then again, on Thursday, a ride through the grass was followed by lots of sneezing, coughing and more of that disorienting "lead head" feeling. For five years in Alaska, I had nearly no problems with allergies, but now I am back in the land where summer can be mildly toxic. Time to go purchase some Claratin.

Right now, I am looking to purchase a new point-and-shoot camera. I like the Olympus Stylus, but now that I am living in a spot where rain and grit is much less prevalent, and destruction of the camera isn't imminent, I'd like to buy something with a better lens and stronger zoom. Someday I will upgrade to an SLR with the goal of shooting a few magazine images, but I still suspect I'll carry the point-and-shoot on most of my rides, so that priority comes first. Anyway, I've already received a few good recommendations, but I'd love to hear more if you have any.

Being able to shoot close-up images would also be nice. I spotted these fireweed blooms as I was walking down the loose scree of the "Huckleberry Headwall." As I moved off the trail to take a photo, Bill asked me about the famous fireweed gauge. "Doesn't the flower height mean there will be a lot of snow this winter?" he asked. "No," I replied, "When the blooms reach the top of the plant, that means summer's over. So, see, this one shows summer is half over, which makes sense, cause it's late July." Just as we were discussing this, another guy came skidding out of control around the corner and toppled over himself, landing face first in the dirt. And I totally missed it, because I was taking a dumb photo of a flower.

Spending time at higher elevation helped clear my head, but then it was time to get back into the grass on the descent.

These Thursday night groups have been great fun, but my giddiness about a month straight of near-perfect weather and excitement for my upcoming weekend hiking trip to Glacier National Park could only be eclipsed by the arrival of my first new bike in two and a half years:

It's a fixed-gear commuter! Built by Mr. Fixie himself, Dave Nice of Over The Edge Sports in Hurricane, Utah. When I first moved to Missoula, I was badly in need of a new commuting bike. My old Ibex touring bike has served that purpose well, but it recently lost a bit of its brake lever and rear brake arm (Who knows when or how. I can't even say I was 'just riding along' when this happened.) "Roadie" has served me well, but I've had it now for more than six years and who knows how many thousands of miles, and it's starting to become difficult just to keep it on the road. When I considered my needs - a simple bike for commuting in a flat city, where the weather can be icy and wet during the winter, and a bike that doesn't have pieces regularly falling off of it - the fixie made perfect sense. Enter Dave, who had a vision, and an extra Fuji Obey frame lying around. He built it up and shipped it via UPS - i.e. "Brown Santa" - and it just arrived today.

The funny thing about purchasing a fixie is that I've never ridden one; not even once. I knew it would take some getting used to, so I took it out for a spin around the neighborhood, sticking to side streets and cautiously approaching intersections like a teenager in driver's ed. I learned that the fixie is a strict interpreter of Sir Issac Newton's First Law of Motion - a fixie in motion wants to stay in motion, and a fixie at rest is difficult to coax forward again. The pedals fight a lot when you're trying to achieve a quasi-stop. I can finally understand why some fixie riders don't bother with brakes, because your legs pretty much serve as your stopping force. The front brake just makes you feel a bit better. Anyway, it was a fun experiment. I can't wait to start commuting with it next week!

Dave asked me color of chain I wanted, and I said "pink." I thought he was kidding, but I guess chains really do come in colors. I love the look of this bike - it's so sleek and stylish. I am thinking about naming her "Contessa." Contessa is the word for an Italian countess, which seems fitting for a skinny (only 21-22 pounds!) rigid, fixed-in-her-ways bicycle with the model name Obey. But really, I came up with the name from a song that popped into my head earlier today, "Streets of Fire" by the New Pornographers:

Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, fire in the street,
Let's sully every stage.
Lick my lips, twist my hips,
But Contessa ... I already did.

My new favorite trail

One of the best aspects about being new to a region is that sense of discovery in everything you do - like a trail was created just for you; like you invented that tricky traverse. Of course this is far from the case; these places have been explored again and again, by tourists and college kids and REAL Montanans, who are second only to Alaskans in their ability to view long-term residency as a quantifiable gauge of status. So everyone and their brother has been to this lookout or that trail. What matters is that you haven't. You wander these mountains with an explorer's eyes, and you still see the mystery and wonder that are too easily forgotten.

I've had a bit of a hard time recovering from Hell Week. I took Monday completely off, as planned, and then on Tuesday headed out for a mellow ride with the Dirt Girls. We rode the Ravine Trail loop, about 25 miles and 2,000 feet of climbing total. The Dirt Girls are known for their fun, social pace, so I felt discouraged by how creaky and tired I felt trying to hold the paceline up Grant Creek Canyon. We collected the rest of the group at the trailhead and tackled the shaded singletrack 14-strong. I started off the far back but eventually passed most of the group. At the saddle, three of us encountered three guys who told us there were 17 men total in their group, all gathered at the SnowBowl Overlook. When we told them we were heading a group of 14 women, one guy said, "Awesome. We'll have a party at the top."

One woman replied, "Sorry, most of us are married."

"I didn't mean it like that!" he exclaimed with a huff, and took off. I had to laugh at the implication, but it's still quite the phenomenon when you think about it - 31 mountain bikers in two separate, segregated groups, all gathered at a remote little mountain knoll on a Tuesday night. But, unfortunately, there was no "party at the top." The guys took one look at our massive group of girls crowding the overlook and fled.

I still felt wooden and achy on the long, rolling descent, and contemplated taking Wednesday off as well. But then - and I should mention this happened while screaming over some guy's painfully earnest rendition of Bon Jovi's "Bed of Roses" at a karaoke bar late Tuesday night during Dave's wife's 26th birthday party - Dave mentioned a trail he was thinking about riding Wednesday night. "I've never ridden it before," he said. "So I'm not sure about the conditions. It could turn epic. "

How does one say no to that?

We got an early start right after work Wednesday evening, and brought lights and extra water, braced for a hopeful three-hour ride but a possible six-hour adventure. We churned up the loose gravel of Mormon Peak Road. My legs started to ache early and I decided not to push it, hoping Dave wouldn't mind of I dawdled a bit. Even on the access road, the ride was stunning - sweeping overlooks around every corner, soft evening light filtered through dark thunderstorms, and even bright pink fireweed blooms lining the hillside (I didn't even know Montana had fireweed!)

I thought, "The trail can't be better than this."

We came to the Mill Creek trail junction and started up the singletrack, lined with sweet-smelling spruce trees and bright green groundcover. After the fireweed sightings followed by a trail through a loamy corridor beneath thick, tall forest canopy, I felt like I had found my own little slice of Alaska in Montana.

I thought, "The descent can't be better than this."

We came to a junction where Dave pointed out where a mountain biker could climb another 2,000 feet to a high ridge on a more ambitious day. The ridge offered high-alpine hiking access to the Bitterroot Wilderness and a number of peaks. I vowed to return on a more ambitious day, and we dropped into the singletrack descent. A thin ribbon of moss-lined dirt switchbacked tightly through the woods and suddenly popped out along the edge of a steep, rocky ravine. That's where the rock gardens started, and Dave attacked them with zeal, yelling out as his single-speed Karate Monkey rodeoed over the boulder minefield. I took the obstacles a lot more slowly or not at all, my rock technical skills largely untested and my confidence small. But I vowed to return to this Mill Creek trail again and again, and practice and practice until I too could squeal out uncontrollably as I bucked down the trail.

"I forget sometimes that riding a new, awesome trail is the best feeling in the world," Dave said at a rare quiet moment against a sweeping backdrop of green mountains.

"Pretty much what I've been thinking for the last month," I said. "But this one is definitely the best."

If a ride is nothing but amazing fun the entire time, does it even count against recovery or toward fitness? Often, I wonder.

Dave thought Mill Creek was fantastic, too: "Ride of the Year."