My night on the PCT

Simplicity. To pare life down to its basic necessities. This is the very reason I love backpacking and bicycle touring so much. And, paradoxically, it's also my largest obstacle to embarking on overnight and multiday excursions. I don't particularly enjoy poring over gear options and I'm especially resistant to the planning part of any trip. In my perfect world, a backpack full of gear and food would materialize and I would just pick it up and wander off into the mountains with no clue where I was or where I was going. Of course, if you want to return in good condition or at least alive, a plan-free trip is simply not realistic. But on Monday morning, as I tapped away at my computer and contemplated a hiking binge week, I wondered about the real possibility of an overnight, nearly-plan-free backpacking trip.

Keep it simple. I wrapped up my work and went to my gear closet to pull out my summer sleeping bag (down, rated to 20 degrees), Thermarest and bivy sack. A down coat, hat and mittens for the evening, headlamp and flashlight, sunscreen, bug spray, toiletries and a paperback ("Man's Search For Meaning" by Viktor Frankl.) For food I simply went to my kitchen and grabbed what was available - a bagel, a packet of tuna, some smashed and resolidified candy bars left over from the TRT100, and some fruit bars. I had two liters of water and knew for extra I could simply stuff handfuls of snow into the bladder. Twenty minutes later, I had everything I needed, crammed into my little Osprey pack. (At the trailhead I realized that I was backpacking for fun, not suffering, and decided to bring my tent, which is why the Thermarest is strapped to the outside.)

Since I was headed toward Utah, it seemed most simple to connect up with an iconic backpacking trail, the Pacific Crest Trail, where it intersected with I-80. Beat and I hiked in this area several weeks ago. I remember looking over at a nearby, broad ridge and saying, "I bet that's an awesome ridge to hike." I didn't even know it at the time, but the Pacific Crest Trail follows that very ridge.

High ridge walking, sweeping views, mountains, solitude, snow and the golden light of evening. I was in Jill Heaven.

I didn't begin hiking until quarter to seven, so the light began to fade quickly. No matter. This is backpacking, where you travel with everything you need and you're not in a hurry to get anywhere. No stress about the hours or the destination or the mileage. It's a beautiful way to travel.

The hike was complicated by lingering swaths of snow that masked the trail in the trees and swept across slopes that were often perilously exposed. Traveling alone as I was, I had to gulp down surprisingly large hits of courage just to punch in my poles and tiptoe across the ramps, knowing that no one was coming to save me if I lost my footing and slid into oblivion. As darkness fell, the temperature plummeted and the snow developed an icy sheen. I came to a snow field on the bald face of Anderson Peak that sent shivers right to my core. It wasn't that steep - about 35 degrees - but it was at least 200 meters long, nearly as slick as a slip-n-slide, with a long run-out into rocks or trees that either way could only end badly. There were steps frozen in and I knew I could do it, but fear gripped me and I turned around. As I hiked back down the trail, already half sure I was just going to retreat all the way back to my car before the snow I had already crossed hardened up any more, I realized that this was one fear I could confront, and should. Danger yawned from the void below but I knew it was doable, and careful steps were all I needed. "I need to do more things that scare me," I said out loud, and marched back toward the snow. As I tiptoed onto the slope, the last hints of crimson sunlight reflected on the speckled ice. I focused in on my tiny section of the world until all I could see was snow, quiet snow, tinted in eerily warm light. It made me think of Alaska, which made me happy, and before I even realized it, I was on the other side.

Here is a section of the snowfield the following morning, slushed back up and looking decidedly less scary. But that brief night crossing was in itself a powerful experience, and I'm glad I did it.

I followed the yellow light of my headlamp two more miles to a perch just below Tinker Knob. Even though I was a mere seven miles from the trailhead, the ridge felt eerily remote, and I felt very much alone, in a good way. I opened up my small pack and set up my tent, rolled out my warm sleeping bag, and donned my down coat, hat and mittens. I walked to a high point on the ridge and sat with my back to the gusting wind, willfully oblivious to its cold bite as I munched on my tuna sandwich. The white stream of the Milky Way soared over my head as the lights of Auburn twinkled a world away, far below me. I thought about Beat, who is racing a crazy tough and technical foot race in the French Alps. I pulled out my cell phone to send him a text, just to let him know that I missed him.

I nested deep into my sleeping bag, where I listened to the cold wind and read my paperback until 1 a.m. - just because I could - but I was up with the sun anyway at 6 a.m. I climbed Tinker Knob to eat my candy bar breakfast and enjoy the views. I already knew I didn't want to hike back over the snow in the real freeze of early morning, so I decided to go for a run, continuing down the PCT toward Squaw Valley. The run turned out to be surprisingly difficult - not so much because of foot pain, which I'm still experiencing to some extent, but because I had a surprisingly strong reaction to the elevation. I started sucking wind almost immediately, and quickly became dizzy. Breathing proved difficult at even a moderate pace. Luckily, the trail dropped far into a valley, which spared me both the oxygen deficit and more snow fields. I ran 4.5 miles, and attempted to run but mostly hiked the steep return to camp.

Nine miles, and I was quite tired, but grateful for the opportunity to traverse the ridge in full daylight. The snow fields did prove to be much less intimidating in the heat of the day. Endurance mode kicked in and I really perked up after the scary snowfield, actually running most of the way back even with a pack. I didn't see a soul on the trail until two miles from the finish, where after the trail was quite crowded. A couple of hikers assumed I was a full PCT "fastpacker" and actually stopped me to ask questions. (I had to disappoint them by admitting my trip was less than 24 hours, although I'd love to go much longer with minimal gear someday.) I burned through the rest of my food and water with less than a mile to spare. 23 miles total, lots of challenging terrain, incredible scenery, and a bit of sleep, all in less than 18 hours. The perfect unplanned trip.

The afternoon was filled with the long drive across the desert, which I actually really enjoyed (those huge, open spaces inspire me.) I crossed the Salt Flats right at sunset, where the remnants of a dust storm muted the light to a deep bronze, saturating the blank landscape. Even though I was running about two hours late, I stopped anyway to soak it all in, and took a few silly jumping self-portraits. On closer inspection, I think this one turned out better than the one I posted earlier. It's sharper and I like the sun twinkle at my ankle. It was, simply, a beautiful day.

When it pays to not stay put

Beat flew to Europe on Sunday, leaving me with a full week of solo time. I had one deadline to hit and always other things I should work on, train for, or otherwise make good use of my time trying to finish. But then my dad acquired a permit for the Narrows in Zion National Park for this coming Friday. I've never hiked the Narrows; I've always wanted to, and I thought - why not make a whole trip out of it?

I worked hard and late all day Sunday and early Monday to finish up my one mandatory project, and hit the road at 2:30 p.m. Leaving California is always a chore. I basically sat in traffic for 150 miles. But once I cleared Auburn, I was free.

I will write more later but I thought I'd post a few pictures of the trip so far. I embarked on an amazing spontaneous overnight trip on the Pacific Crest Trail near Truckee, Calfornia. I started hiking from Donner Pass at 6:30 p.m., camped seven miles from the trailhead, hiked/ran nine more out to Granite Chief Wilderness and back in the morning, and then hiked back to my car for the 550-mile drive to Salt Lake City. Big day, and it's only just the beginning of this whirlwind trip. But so far, so worth it. So worth it.

Sunset last night on the PCT.

Woke up here early this morning.

Breakfast and a view on Tinker Knob.

Sunset on the Salt Flats.

Tomorrow ... Lone Peak!

Recovery binge

How does one recover from an 80-mile, 28-hour, pain-soaked mountain running odyssey? I woke up early Monday so stiff that I had to summon my last remnants of courage just to roll out of bed. I spent a fair portion of the morning lurking near my overturned luggage, stockpiling motivation and energy just to haul my laundry downstairs and clean out my race gear. I spent the afternoon muddling — no, flailing — through a sleep-deprived fog in a futile bid to try to get some work done. On Tuesday, I was slightly more productive until I tried to ride over to Google to meet Beat. My still-swollen feet throbbed in my bike shoes and my right IT band was stiff and painful, to the point where I opted to pedal most of the last six miles home with my left leg only. On Wednesday, I dozed off for a morning nap that dragged on until 1 p.m., and by the time I emerged from 11-plus hours of sleep, I could almost walk with a normal stride again.

When I woke up on Thursday, I felt the strangest sensation. It was so familiar, so invigorating — like I was strong again, not just searching for courage; like I had actual energy, not just a caffeine headache; like I was really excited about the upcoming day. I just had to go outside, just had to, in any way I could. I grabbed my road bike. I promised myself I would take it easy. I vowed to turn around at any hint of IT band pain. The afternoon sun was hot and vaguely draining, but it felt so good to feel the wind on my sweat-streaked face, to breathe thick, moist air, and work up a solid effort doing something that didn't hurt like hell. Yay for bikes! Yay for recovery! I somehow ended up at the 3,000-feet high point on Skyline Drive for 29 miles and 3,600 feet of climbing. Not a bad recovery ride.

I returned home just as Beat was contemplating an evening recovery ride of his own. My blistered feet and oversensitive toes couldn't handle another minute in my bike shoes, but I agreed to join him on any bike that had platform pedals. We ended up on our snow bikes, Pugsley and the Fatback, grinding the fat wheels up Montebello Road for the sheer fun of it. We were going to turn around after an hour, but I hinted that a hundred more feet of climbing would net me 5,000 feet on the day. The evening was so nice, and the ridge so enticing that we overshot my goal for 16 miles and 2,150 feet of climbing, for a total of 45 miles and 5,750 feet of climbing on the day. It feels fantastic to not be a stiff, sleep-deprived robot once again.

I didn't have any IT band pain at all, interestingly enough. And although I wasn't pushing any high levels of intensity, I didn't even feel especially fatigued afterward, thanks to four days of rest. Bikes on pavement are nearly impact free, and after the beating my body took on Saturday, riding feels nearly as relaxed as rest. I'm not sure when I'll try running again, but I admit the thought of it still terrifies me.

As for my "hurty foot" problem, it does seem the pain has mostly abated. I can still feel a vague soreness on the bottom of my feet when I walk on hard surfaces, almost as though the bottoms of my feet are slightly bruised. But there doesn't seem to be any tissue damage or any hint of plantar faciitis. I've gathered many theories about my foot pain since my race ended. My mom mentioned that she had a similar issue a decade ago, and her doctor sent her to physical therapy for excessively tight hamstrings, which solved her problem. My friend Harry speculates that because my entire running career encompasses all of 10 months, the first five of which I spent running almost exclusively on soft snow and the next five on my heavily cushioned shoes (Hoka One Ones), that my feet just haven't had a chance to toughen up yet. My friend Steve also thinks I need to just run more. My friend Robin, a distance skier and hiker in Anchorage, recommended Tuf Foot to help thicken my skin. Other friends think a trip to the podiatrist and possible orthotics or physical therapy are a good idea. My boyfriend Beat thinks I should just HTFU. (I kid, I kid.)

I'm inclined to believe that a combination of most or all of these could help. I do think many if not most ultrarunners started the sport with a decent base of running, including shorter trail distances, road running and marathons, so they probably never had to cope with completely "new" feet in quite the same way. It's similar to the way I secretly roll my eyes when people not accustomed to riding bicycles start complaining that their butts hurt after five miles. I just can't relate to their pain at all, because it's been so long since I had "new" sit bones.

Either way, now that the foot pain has abated, I find myself fantasizing about going for a hundred again, like signing up the the Bear 100 in September, which for many obvious reasons would be completely idiotic. I really should focus on staying healthy, getting to the root of my body issues and building my running base before I swing frantically at goals that are still quite likely beyond my physical capabilities. But bikes have this way of making me feel invincible.