I pack up my belongings and I head for the coast

"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
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 World at Large" by Modest Mouse

Last June, when I was anticipating a move from Anchorage to Missoula, I went for a 140-mile bike ride in an effort to make peace with life as a drifter. Seeking and embracing change is a big part of who I am. I move, I discover, I grow, and I move on. Anchorage held an unbelievable amount of promise, but the allure of change prompted me to take a chance on Montana. I left Alaska believing maybe I would find "my place," the place that would entice me to finally settle.

There are several reasons Missoula didn't quite work out; it wasn't just that I found a boy and dismantled my whole life for him. Although the boy, of course, was the overwhelming motivator for my recent move, he wasn't the only reason. It was starting to become apparent that I didn't quite fit in in Missoula. I regret that I had to leave a few truly great friends behind, not to mention some gorgeous terrain that I barely skimmed the surface of, but I knew that sooner or later I would need to choose between the few strands of potential woven into Missoula and the incredible potential of further developing my relationship with Beat. He couldn't move to Missoula for me. Even if I were completely dedicated to my life there, there were still no options for him. The ongoing joke in Missoula is: "How many Missoulians does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Only one, but twelve will apply for the job, ten will be electricians and eight will have doctorate degrees."

I of course have no idea what the future will bring, but I sincerely believe I won't ever regret this move. I certainly don't regret moving to Alaska for Geoff, even if, in the end, neither Geoff nor Alaska became a permanent part of my life. It was still the best thing that ever happened to me. I strongly believe this is the right next step, the next best thing to happen to me.

This move probably seems to have come abruptly, but it has been a longer time coming than this, as most of my friends and family members suspected. The window opened after Susitna. There was no longer a need to stay so I packed up my stuff. It didn't take long — one of the benefits of moving around so much is you never have time to accumulate a lot of excess stuff. I can still fit most of my life in my 1996 Geo Prism, although my life is heavily weighted in a single direction these days. Inside my car this time were two people (Beat was out for the weekend anyway and gave up his return ticket to help me drive down), one annoyed but increasingly accepting cat, and five — yes five — bicycles. Also some clothing, outdoor gear, a few dishes, and miscellaneous items. All the important stuff was in there, or stacked on the roof, Beverly Hillbilly style (I even kept the bike box for Beat's Fatback. It did not survive the Biblical rains of the Sierras.)

We left Montana on Saturday afternoon, bound for Salt Lake City. (My parents took this recent move surprisingly well. I think my many years of drifting has worn down their defenses.)

I can't say I felt a whole lot of emotion about leaving Montana. I really didn't spend enough time here to get attached, although I imagine I'll be back as frequently as I can afford, to visit my friends, ride some epic logging road loops with Bill in the Bitterroot, hike some goat trails in Glacier National Park with Danni and Dave, and finally climb all three of the Lima Peaks.

The drive of course was grueling. Turns out a 15-year-old car with 191,000 miles loaded to the brim with gear — and with wheels and a box stacked like a sail on the roof — can't move faster than 70 mph, and that's only on steep downhills, with a tailwind. Geo was at the limit of his endurance, but he motored along, just like he always has, ever since he was a young buck of 38,000 miles and I loaded him to the brim with camping gear and hit the road for my inaugural drive across America, back in 2001.

We blazed through many of my old stomping grounds — Idaho Falls (2004-2005), Sandy, (1983 to 1998) Salt Lake City (1998 to 2003), and Tooele (2003-2004 ... the place where my cat Cady was born.) Then we kept on going west. I told Beat all of my stories of my experiences in the Oquirrh Mountains, the Stansbury Mountains, Skull Valley, the Bonneville Salt Flats, Wendover, Elko, and the Battle Mountain rest stop where my family was stranded for half a day after the car transmission died during a vacation to San Francisco in 1989.

The farther west we traveled, the fewer experiences I had to share, until we crested Donner Pass in a wet snowstorm, I told Beat what I knew about the history of the place, and held my breath for the newness and strangeness of California.

Today I started unpacking, but quickly got more wrapped up in an urgent need to go for a long bike ride. I put my fixie together and headed over to the Google campus to have lunch with Beat, then continued grinding into the wind along the gravel trails that line the San Francisco Bay. It was a strange sort of place, both muddy and dry, and guarded by a fortress of towering electric lines. I watched a chorus of shorebirds rip through the air, breathed the salty air with pungent hints from the Palo Alto landfill, and soaked in a lot of sunshine. The return tailwind was so strong that the fixie almost ripped my legs off. In a space that holds millions of people, I saw very few. I allowed myself to feel some sadness for the end of winter, the end of my time in Montana. And yet, I only saw positive potential on the path in front of me.

I'll write more tomorrow about my plan for California, and what Beat and I have planned for the upcoming year. For now, I will say that, yes, this is going to be quite different. I rode around all day in a cotton T-shirt and a single pair of socks, passing people on the bike path who were wearing down coats (in other words, I'm sweltering in the heat and it's not even hot.) Yes, for the foreseeable future, the snowy photos in my blog will have to come from visits away from home, and the regular photos will probably appear more, well, regular. Maybe this blog will be less interesting. And you're certainly under no obligation to keep reading. But somehow, I doubt it. I am only excited about the future and all of the adventures in front of me. California isn't the end of the road. Not by a long shot.

The journey reveals more along the way

This week, I went for bike rides. I went for bike rides the way I used to in the summertime, when there was daylight to burn, and I had no agenda, and the miles and space slipped away like so much dust in a warm breeze. I just wanted to ride, to somewhere. I usually didn't know where, until I got there. They were always amazing places, these summertime places, bathed in pink light and the pungent aroma of pine. They helped me leave Alaska behind, for a while, and reminded me that happiness is not a place; it's a series of moments. The moments come and go like the summertime wind. Following happiness is like following the wind. Sometimes you will go miles in a strange direction; other times, you'll weave erratically back and forth in the same place. Eventually you may realize that the place you are seeking isn't a place at all; it's the movement itself. Happiness isn't carried by the wind. It is the wind.

On Monday, I rode through the crowded part of town and headed up Grant Creek Canyon, into the opague edge of a sleet storm. As pellets of ice pelted my face, I attempted a jaunt up the Ravine Trail. The narrow packed-snow singletrack was too slushy and soft to gain enough traction, so I turned around.

On Tuesday, it snowed. I looked for more trails in Pattee Canyon. Mount Dean Stone had been reduced to a single ski track beyond the gate. Crazy Canyon Road wasn't much more feasible. The descent was a full-body shower of gray slush and little bits of gravel. Winter is losing its battle, but it's still strong enough to block out the expansiveness of summer. I felt like I was on the front line, trying to choose sides. Do I seek solitude and tranquility, or energy and expansiveness? On Wednesday, I rode in pursuit of both.

Butler Creek Canyon — a seldom-used utility route for power lines and TV towers. It's not trafficked by the general public. Finding a rideable snowmobile trail was a far-away chance, but I took it. I rode my snow bike 10 grinding miles into the wind just to see what new kinds of places existed on the far side of town. It had been four months since I last came here.

Despite temperatures in the high 30s and waning but strong streaks of sunshine, the lightly tracked trail was in decent if soft shape. The grade is relentless, even in the summer. I rode to the limits of my endurance for a blistering 4 mph until I was ready to blow up, then pushed until my sore feet started to complain. It was a good, happy slog, my best since Susitna. The cool breeze chilled the droplets of sweat on my face, and the sun warmed my soul.

Far, far up the mountain, the direction I wanted to go abruptly ended. There was a single ski track, no trail. I could slog through thigh-deep snow for two miles to Snowbowl Ski Resort, or I could go back the way I came. I had this vague feeling that I had been here before, in a long-ago moment in the summertime. In the midst of a 50-mile evening ride, I came to this junction from the Snowbowl side. Darkness was coming, and I was afraid of the unknown path ahead. Did it dead end? Shoot out on the wrong side of the mountains? I wanted to go back the way I came. But something pulled me toward the setting sun. I launched down the Butler Creek Canyon side, with no idea where I might end up.

I am moving to California. I am moving there to follow happiness, my relationship and my adventures with Beat. It is a long story that is impossible to tell in a blog post, but the details have been here all along. I made a life-changing decision to leave Alaska; then the winds changed, and I had to choose again. There are so many things I have to leave behind ... a good job, great friends, amazing mountain biking, regular access to winter and the brilliant expansiveness of summer in Montana. It is hard, and yet beyond the narrow focus of dismantling my entire life, again — I feel only optimism. I don't know where this wind will take me. But if I don't follow it, I will spend a static life always wondering where it went.

Recovery

I've been quiet this week. Lots of changes since Susitna. More on that soon, but for now I thought I'd pop my head up lest my family think I've started sleeping 12 hours a day. For the record, that pretty much was my average my first two nights after I came home from Anchorage, where I doubt I slept 12 hours in five days. The cold I had before the trip of course reared its head with a vengeance, and the rest of my body decided it no longer needed to listen to me. It's interesting how one day you can feel lousy and still travel 100 miles on foot, and two days later struggle to find your way to the fridge for a glass of orange juice. I really can't say I felt that much worse than I did at times during the race, but I was firmly floored by fatigue and illness in the aftermath.

Then I popped out of it, and got on my bike. It was cold and windy in Missoula, with temperatures in the single digits and fierce windchill - not to mention heinous wind drifts across the trails and more bike pushing than my sore feet would have preferred. I didn't go hard, but it felt good to get out, even if I was annoyed by how cold it was ("Susinta is over! It's time for spring!") while being simultaneously amazed by how "warm" that kind of cold felt (8 degrees and 30 mph winds. Bah! That's nothing.") There was lots to think about. Digest. Pedal. Peace. Physically, I felt OK. A bit overtrained, but it definitely feels good to ride versus walk (push.) I'll be taking it easy for at least another week, but I'm still hoping to get in some good saddle hours before the White Mountains 100 on March 27.

I spent the weekend in Kalispell with Danni, so we could share post-Susitna indulgences such as eating freely out of Danni's leftover M&M/Reeses Pieces/Jordan Almonds "race food" feed bag, commiserating about our post-race malaise and difficulties re-integrating back in the "real world," soaking in the hot tub and riding the lifts at Big Mountain Ski Resort in Whitefish. Sunday was actually an awesome powder day, with tons of new snow and fresh pillow clouds billowing between the trees. Danni and I were quite the pair, getting vertigo together in the summit whiteout, complaining that our feet were too swollen for our boots, and moaning about our tired legs. Danni's friend Shannon was a good sport to hang out with us, and we actually had a lot of fun.

I only need to go lift-served snowboarding about once or twice a year to remember that I am an endorphin junkie, not an adrenaline junkie. Because of this, for me, ski resorts essentially take all the fun out of the activity - which of course is the climbing part. I know I could pursue backcountry skiing/splitboarding, but that's a complicated sport that requires a lot of gear, skill and risk acceptance, and still includes the less-fun part, which is the downhill part. Maybe I don't have to be ashamed to admit that when I saw a group of snowshoers slogging up the mountain while I was breezing up the lift - who were not carrying downhill devices of any kind - that I kind of envied them (although I would never snowshoe at a crowded ski hill.) All kidding aside, I had a surprisingly good day on the board given my rustiness/timidness. I was punching through powder clouds and carving semi-decent turns on black diamond runs, thank you slow snow. I love that feeling of weightlessness when you rise on top of untracked powder and weave through a maze of whitewashed trees. It is almost as awesome as riding a bike ... almost.