And then I forgot the name of the mountain

Expectations are an interesting thing. A collaboration of past experiences and future hopes, expectations cast such a strong light on the present that no single experience can really stand on its own. But when experience surpasses expectations, those "ah-ha" moments of discovery stand as singular mileposts on life's winding roads. Take moving to western Montana, for instance. A nice place, I expected, but certainly lacking in the varied terrain of Utah or the vast sweeping wilderness of Alaska. Then I came to Montana, and I saw great gray monoliths towering over the prairie, I watched bears amble through the spruce forest and I stood on the edge of rocky ridges overlooking vast tracts of rippled mountains. And I thought, "ah ha."

That simple realization that Montana is in fact an expansive, wild and beautiful place has been continuously jolted by six weeks' worth of small discoveries. And still, my expectations remain low. Take the Bitterroot Range. Straddling the Idaho-Montana border, the Bitterroots are a largely undeveloped range, cut off by a wide tract of wilderness protection. From Missoula's low perch on the northeastern edge of the range, I pictured soft, rolling hills with lots of spruce forest. I thought someday I would plan a long bikepacking trip on the Bitterroot periphery, but for now, there was too much else to explore.

Then, Dave suggested for our weekly Wednesday night endeavor that we go for a hike instead of a bike ride. He's in heavy taper mode for the Butte 100 this weekend; I'm in light taper mode for TransRockies the following week, and I think we're both starting to wonder, "what next?" As I seem to do every late summer, I'm already glancing deeper into the mountains for quieter adventures and more distant opportunities. Wednesday evening seemed like a good day to walk into the Bitterroot.

Thunderstorms and humid heat followed us out of town and into the Bitterroot Valley. We thought lightning would chase us out of the high country but we went there anyway, climbing into the white pine forest and the cool air and the barren ridge. Clear sky opened up around us and Dave pointed out places that seemed impossibly far away — the Pintlers, the Swan, and the beautifully sculpted, unexpectedly rugged mountains of the Bitterroot. We spent at least an hour on the windless summit, 9,300 feet in the sky, watching warm light flicker across a wild expanse.

These peaks are called the Heavenly Twins.

It's these quiet moments when expectation shifts toward possibility, and an entirely new experience opens up. It's an experience anchored in neither the past nor the future, only the extreme present, when "ah-ha" is nothing more than a deep, satisfied, "ah."

Into the taper

"Mountains should be climbed with as little effort as possible and without desire. The reality of your own nature should determine the speed. If you become restless, speed up. If you become winded, slow down. You climb the mountain in an equilibrium between restlessness and exhaustion. Then, when you're no longer thinking ahead, each footstep isn't just a means to an end but a unique event in itself."

~ Robert M. Pirsig, Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance

On Monday my lower body was mostly useless, blistered feet and fried quads, still cooked from a lot of walking downhill. I did my laundry and my dishes; I made me feel conventionally useful, but a little bit like I was somehow missing out. The sunset burned with deep summer intensity; I missed it in the way people often miss their spouses while they're away at work - it was out there, but not close in the way I was accustomed to. I watched it from my balcony, pleasant but distant, like calling on the phone to say hello.

Tuesday was the weekly ride with the Dirt Girls, the perfect solution to launch my taper 10 days prior to the next big adventure. The plan called for a mellow ride up the Rattlesnake Recreation Area with lots of chatting and resting, followed by a fast, fun descent. My legs were recovered and already feeling strong thanks to prior fitness; it takes more than a weekend's worth of pounding to really faze them for long these days. But my legs' strength made the rest of me feel restless and a little bit impatient. Big mountains turned gold beneath the storm-filtered sunlight; they whispered silver-tongued seductions that I had to ignore. I turned for home as the subdued sunset slipped beneath the rugged skyline.

I think about fitness and I wonder what it means, really means, to me. My body has never been a big priority for me; as far as I'm concerned, all it's mainly good for is carrying me through this world that I am madly in love with. It's a vehicle, like my bicycles, which in turn are an extension of me. And like my bicycles, sometimes I let my body get out of tune, and sometimes I leave it too long in the elements, and sometimes I bash it against the rocks. But when I feel fit, really fit, I feel like there's nothing in the world that can stop me from traveling relentlessly over the mountains and fields, through the valleys and streams, splashing, squealing, sprinting toward that blissfully elusive horizon I think of as freedom.

I plan adventures because their promise drives me. Adventures are a sublime sunset that I can chase. I grind my body into the dust and dirt and pavement toward the horizon, that elusive line I think of as fitness, which is really just a color-streaked threshold between my body and a borderless expanse of discovery. But as I approach that line, I discover there's nothing there but more horizon, more reasons to keep grinding away, and I realize that even if could somehow become exponentially stronger and faster, I would only chase sunset forever.

And I wonder what it means, really means, to me, to have no real destination. But instead of pressing for an answer, I slow down lest my body burn out. I take the breaths I badly need. I let the darkness surround me. And I steel myself for the next big cycle, because the sun is going to come around again, and again and again, whether I chase it or not. Bodies are limited but discovery is infinite, and somewhere therein lies the balance of life, the equilibrium between restlessness and exhaustion.

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!