Odyssey

There are moments when time seems more circular than linear, like a minute hand ticking its way back to twelve o'clock. The midday sun lights up a sheen of snow across the Caribou Hills, sparkling on a frozen swamp I'm trying to cross. I've forgotten my sunglasses, again, and the reflection is fully blinding. I have to close my eyes. They remain closed as I jog along, listening to the crunch of my steps and the scraping groans of my sled.

In that moment I feel fully present, but when I open my eyes again, I see the Caribou Hills in a different light — dawn's twilight. It's mid-January, and the sound I hear is the squeak of studded tires rolling over cold-packed snow. My memory sharpens; I see the ski gloves clinging to handlebars, a cheap Cateye headlight, feet clad in three pairs of socks and hiking boots, turning pedals, and a sharp chill surrounds everything. 

It must be about seven years ago. I'd set out down the Caribou Lake trail for a day-long training ride for the Susitna 100, an upcoming endurance race that I'd accepted as the most daunting challenge of my life. But the first miles of this training ride brought the depths of my fears to the surface — it felt perilously cold, and this landscape was caked in menacing ice and snow. I had no idea where this trail would lead me and wasn't sure I wanted to find out what discomforts and perils awaited at the end. Alaska turns to backcountry fast, and just a few miles from East End Road the silence was already deafening. There's nobody out here. I'm all alone.

When I read "Homer Epic," the first thing that comes to my mind is a Greek poem — a classic rendering of the universal journey home. I'd been hoping to find a winter race challenge for 2013 and the Homer Epic 100K seemed ideal — a hundred kilometers in the place where I first lived in Alaska, on trails where I occasionally trained with my mountain bike. The timing was ideal for Beat's Nome run, and the distance was appealing — far enough to be challenging, but not so far that I'd have to block out adventuring to make too much room for pre-race rest and post-race recovery. And although I lay claim to a lot of "homes," going home to Homer was the most appealing aspect of the Homer Epic.

Although the Homer Epic had the standard winter-racing format with multiple modes of travel that would allow me to ride a bike, from the start I resolved to do this one on foot. I also decided I wanted to drag a sled — even though the minimal required gear could easily fit in a backpack. This one baffled others but made sense in my convoluted way of thinking — everything is training for something else, for life. While Beat has been out sled-dragging his way across Alaska, we've chatted about someday doing something like that together. I'll be the first to admit I don't love dragging a sled, but a little practice never hurts. I also have to admit that I wanted to finish this race — which had what was in my opinion a tight cutoff — so my sled load was pretty light. It included food for 24 hours (about 4,000 calories), a liter of water (to supplement the two on my back), lights,  snowshoes, trekking poles, and extra layers. I never weighed it, but it was probably somewhere in the range of 15 pounds. Probably not much heavier than some of the backpacks I saw out there. But I was the only person in the whole race with a sled. 

There were about eighty participants in the Homer Epic. I didn't count the number on foot, but guessed there were seven or eight of us (as it turns out there were eight finishers.) All of the guys had tiny little backpacks and looked fast. I knew one of them, Dmitry, because he joined Beat for much of the last half of the Tor des Geants last year. Dmitry was strong, I remembered, and I didn't see another woman runner at first glance. "Well, I'm going to end up at the very back of this race," I thought, and braced myself for it.

As promised, the trails were perfectly groomed, wide, and hard-packed. Skier trails. A snow biker's dream. It was a definitively runnable surface, and I wondered how much of this race I'd be able to run. I haven't been running enough lately to pull out a hundred kilometers without some damage, and the sled shortened my stride in a way that might also cause some pains. Although I'm convinced I could walk across the country without (too many) issues, I don't consider myself a natural runner and always worry about the physical implications of any event with lots of running. Still, I had those cut-offs to meet. I resolved the keep running while the running was good.


These trails were just the way I remember them — rolling hills, scattered spruce trees, wide open spaces, and the grand skyline of the Kenai Mountains on the horizon. And it was a grand day to be out — clear skies and fluctuating temperatures that ranged from single digits in the lower valleys to 20s on the hills. But it all felt comfortable, even pleasant.

I kept a small group of runners and skiers in sight and followed them down a big drop and back up an equally long hill through a powerline cut. Near the top of the hill, I became suspicious of the number on my GPS — "Six miles? We were supposed to turn right by now I think." I switched to map mode and, sure enough, we were traveling the wrong way up the counter-clockwise loop. I waved my arms but the rest of the wrong-way group was too far ahead. The mistake netted me about two and a half bonus miles, or 4K in Homer Epic parlance. The rest, who eventually passed me again, gave numbers ranging from 6K to 14K out of the way.

The trail was perfect, in a sort-of-infuriating way. I admit I started longing for my bike, especially after twenty miles when my feet started throbbing the way they do when I run that far on dirt. Running this trail wasn't exactly like running on dirt; even well-packed snow puts up a lot more resistance, and feet still punch tracks into the surface while skis and wheels can glide over the top. Still, with the exception of steeper hills and a few deliberate breaks, I'd kept up a solid running pace since the start. It was not a fast running pace — the best I can do is still a 12- to 14-minute mile average; that hasn't changed. But it was a hard effort and it felt great, except for the nagging foot pains.

The harsh reflection of sun on snow began to feel like an oven. By early afternoon I had stripped down to my base layer and would have stripped down farther if I didn't think my sled harness was going to chafe horribly on bare skin. The weird thing is that the temperature could not have gone above or even all that close to freezing, as the surface of the snow remained frozen and hard. But I felt like I was overheating severely, and the increasing length and steepness of the hills wasn't helping my comfort levels.

In hindsight, the overheated feeling was probably the initial warning that I was headed for a bonk. I've noticed in these winter races, when I'm not adequately fueled, my body doesn't regulate temperature as well. I go from hot to cold to hot to cold in big, often inexplicable swings. For whatever reason, I haven't had much of an appetite while I've been out on the trail lately, and it didn't help that I only brought three things to eat — brownies, Swedish fish/gummy peach mix, and Chex Mix. Seriously. I've spent so much time prepping drop bags for Beat during this trip that I didn't want to deal with another set of requirements for myself. I just bought big bags of crap at a gas station in Soldotna, packed a baggie of left-over Chena River to Ridge brownies that Ed gave to me, and called it good. Big mistake.

After 50K, the trail veered off to a long (very long) out-and-back through the North Fork hills. Most of my biking friends, and, well, most of the bikers, had long since covered this section on these super-fast trails and were already finished with the race. The first runner passed me not far from the turn, at least twenty miles ahead of me. Wow ... count me as impressed. But I didn't think I was doing that badly. I hit the 50K split a bit under eight hours, and although I knew the second half would be hillier, was still feeling well enough to believe I could hit ten for the second half. An eighteen-hour finish was far better than my expectation of "I'm going to need every one of those 24 hours to finish."

The Homer Epic advertises 6,500 feet of climbing in 100K. After the first 50K only had about 1,500 feet of climbing, I thought, "Oh, that has to be wrong." It was not wrong. The second half was nothing but hills. Trail runners will think that 6,500 feet sounds mellow for a hundred kilometers. I do not agree. Snow adds a level of resistance that at least doubles if not triples the perceived effort of an incline, in my opinion. This likely also has something to do with the fact I willfully chose to drag a sled. But last year I ran the modified UTMB with its 20,000 feet of climbing in a similar distance, and it was not harder than 6,500 feet in the Homer Epic. Well, maybe it was. Why do I even try to compare snow running to trail running? They're really different games, at least for me.

Still, I loved that North Fork spur. Much of it rolled along a high ridge overlooking the Cook Inlet and several volcanoes. Clouds had moved in and the light flattened out, which added a peaceful atmosphere to the run. I was still trying to run, but my feet were beginning to hurt badly on the downhills and many of the climbs were slowing me to a trudge. Another woman, Kerri, caught and passed me, which came as a surprise — another woman in the race! It also made me feel a bit less lonely, as I'd begun to feel that back-of-pack sting as the last bikers and skiers passed me on their way out.

Sometimes, when I feel that tinge of shame about ending up at the back of a race, I imagine Adam Sandler's graduation speech in "Billy Madison:" "I know most of you are saying 'hey, any idiot could do that.' Well it was tough for me so back off!" As the day waned, I gnawed miserably on frozen Swedish Fish and imagined a magical fairy god-moose would come and turn my sled into a bike, and I could take my hurty feet off the ground for good. I considered riding my sled down the hills, but they were increasingly more steep and at least a half mile long. I probably would smack into a tree or hit a moose and be stomped to death. Too scary. The sunset did not disappoint, however. Homer has the most consistently beautiful sunrises and sunsets that I've ever seen. Even on this mostly cloudy evening, the red glow managed to make an appearance.

The checkpoint two cabin was cramped and crowded with volunteers, and I didn't feel compelled to linger long. But about a mile down the trail, just as the last bits of daylight were fading, I decided to stop and attend to my feet. Sure enough, the skin on both soles was creased and pale white — a result of being wet and hot for too many hours. Runners often call this condition "trench foot" although it's not the same as actual trench foot. But it does hurt something fierce, like an open blister, or running on hot coals. The same thing happened to me last year during the Susitna 100; I tried to avoid it this year by wearing only two lighter pairs of socks rather than my heavy insulated system. But I still had the Gortex running shoes that are designed to keep water and snowmelt out, and my feet had apparently marinated in sweat, again.

It was all I could do to clench my teeth and make it down hills, whether I was walking or running. I still passed the 50-mile split at 14 hours, which I decided was not terrible and I was still actually on okay pace to finish in 18 to 19 hours. My wrong turn meant I still had 14 or 15 miles to run to the finish, but I could probably cover it in four hours. The return trip on the North Fork spur confirmed there was only one other runner still behind me. If he passed me, I would be at the official back of the race. This prospect frightened me a bit. It's strange — I can go out alone for 12-hour rides in the remote White Mountains in subzero weather and feel confident and self-sufficient. But being alone during a race is another type of condition that seems to cause insecurity.

Shortly after I hit my 50-mile split, I caught up to the other woman runner, Keri. She had stopped on the side of the trail and appeared to be waiting for me. "What's up?" I asked. "Can I walk with you for a bit?" she asked. "I'm not feeling great."

"Of course." Keri was shivering slightly and I asked her if she was cold. "A bit," she said. She told me she was sick and couldn't eat. I could empathize and agreed we should stick together through the next checkpoint, which was still about seven miles away. Keri's pace continued to slow. Sometimes I asked a question and she didn't seem responsive, but more often she made jokes and showed the demeanor of an ultra-runner who was just going through a low point. The cold wind picked up and I stopped to put on more layers. We'd walk a bit more, and I'd turn around to find she'd stopped not far from the last break spot and was again a few hundred yards back. As I waited, the chill crept in and I put on more layers. Soon I was wearing most of the extra layers I'd packed in my sled. It wasn't extremely cold as far as extreme cold goes — temperatures were probably in the single digits again, maybe even zero, but with a decent windchill. In addition, I was more than a little bonked myself. My body was no longer efficiently making heat, and once I lost body heat, it didn't come back easily. I started running to warm up, only to look back five minutes later and find I'd gone so far that I could no longer see Keri's headlamp.

I wasn't sure whether I should worry about Keri. She seemed to know what she was doing, lived in Anchorage and thus had plenty of cold experience, and was still moving even if slowly. But I didn't think I could go on like this for four or five more miles, barely clinging to body heat myself. As I thought about it, I decided the best thing I could do was go to the next checkpoint and voice my concerns to someone with a snowmachine, who could actually help her if there was a problem. And if there were any immediate issues, I knew the last runner, Nicolai, wasn't far behind us. In the next mile, the trail veered up a long hill and I could still see her headlamp behind me, so I knew she was still moving.

I lost track of Keri when the trail turned to the right on a two-mile spur. It was there that my bonk really set in. I should have stuck with Keri because I doubt I was moving any faster at that point. I was wrapped in all my layers, plodding along, hating my feet, feeling silly for struggling so much in a "measly" 100K in "easy" single-digit weather. "It was tough for me so back off." At the checkpoint I told the volunteers about my slight concern for Keri and that she wasn't far behind me so if they didn't see her within a half hour, it would be prudent to go check on her. The checkpoint had a ration of two cookies per racer, as all the checkpoints did. I didn't like those cookies much at checkpoints one and two, but this time around my angry stomach sensed desperation and let them in. And because I was near the back of the race, the volunteers didn't care if I stuffed my face with extra cookies. All the cookies! I must have eaten ten. I was suddenly ravenous.

Photo by Keri Riley, taken in Ninilchik, a village about twenty miles as the crow flies from where I was at this time

I saw Keri just a quarter mile from the checkpoint as I was leaving, looking better, although she'd stuffed her emergency blanket under her coat. (I can relate. I was just about that desperately cold myself at times.) She said she planned to take a long rest at the cabin, so I decided to keep going. There were 7.2 miles to the finish, and my bonk had eased enough that foot pain and returned to the forefront of my mind. I shuffled along and tried not to let it encompass every thought.

As I emerged from the woods on an open ridge, I noticed a shimmer in the sky. Cloud cover? I wondered. I turned off my headlamp and noticed a splatter of stars. The clouds had moved out and the night was stunningly clear. The streaks of light began to ripple, and as my eyes adjusted, I noticed definitive hues of green, bright white, and even a faint bit of red. The Northern Lights! All this time I'd been in Alaska, I'd seen only a single weak display. Nearly every night in Fairbanks, I went out at least once to search for them, to no avail. And here I was in Homer, as far south in Alaska as I'd been yet, and this had to be one of the most spectacular displays I'd ever seen. Streaks of light continued to move through the sky, reaching out from the horizon and rippling like a piano whose keys light up when you play them.

For three more hours I marched along, every so often searching for the trail, but more often craning my neck to watch the northern sky. I was still moving painfully slow, but concern about my pace was forgotten. My feet still hurt something fierce, but that was surprisingly easy to ignore. The original inhabitants of this region believed the Northern Lights were communications from the spirit world, voices from the past. I gazed at the ebb and flow of color, the light cycle, and imagined what they might be saying, what secrets the past had yet to reveal. The lights were knowingly vague, promising only that life would always be beautiful and good.

I was surprised to find five people still awake at 4 a.m., waiting for me at the finish. They rang cowbells and hollered and handed me a St. Patrick's Day balloon as I strode across the line. My finish time was 19:53 — third from last. But I was given a beautiful hand-designed mug for winning the women's foot division. Keri would come in three hours later after a rest at checkpoint three. I was just waking up from a nap on the floor of the elementary school, and we were able to congratulate each other on our podium finishes.

I thought back to that first Susitna 100, the training, all those big leaps into the unknown that brought me to this strange but transformative way of living. The clock shifted back to the present, the swollen feet, dry mouth, and raw emptiness in my stomach. But daylight was emerging, and the sunrise was beautiful. Exactly as it had always been.

Best (and worst) taper ever

Wednesday morning — three days out from the tough hundred-kilometer snow run I've had on my calendar since December. I woke from a restless and yet disorienting sleep, with lungs raw from processing subzero air and legs feeling like they'd been injected with sand. My fingers were swollen and my eyes were scratchy and red. My appetite still hadn't returned, but cup after cup of hot water mixed with Starbucks Via coffee powder went down with ease.

I was contemplating which day I should make a break for Southcentral Alaska when I received an e-mail from my friend Joel, inviting me on a twenty-mile ride around trails on the outskirts of Fairbanks. Joel was one of the three-way-tie winners of the Chena River to Ridge 45-mile race on Saturday. He's a fast guy. My legs said no but my heart wasn't so sure. When was I going to be back in Fairbanks again? How many chances would I ever have to ride these great trails? And if Beat can get up every day and drag his sled for forty-plus miles, then there must be something to the notion that consistent movement can delay the need for sedentary recovery. Could we make it a shorter ride? I inquired to Joel. Sure, he replied. We could shave three miles off the route by cutting out the Ballaine Road climb. Seventeen miles it was.

It took a few miles to shake the sand out of my legs, but as soon as we veered off the University bike path into a skier-packed singletrack trail, I found my fire. Joel led the way as we wended through the woods and veered onto a rolling powerline beside Ester Dome. The snow was packed hard and I could pump out a 10 mph average with ease. I don't think I've traveled that fast on a bike since I left California. It felt like flying. So fun. We wrapped up the seventeen miles with breaks in less than two hours, but afterward the sand in my legs solidified to a painful cement. No worries. It will take me two days to drive from Fairbanks to Homer. Rest days.

My trip to Fairbanks was so fantastic. Every day, friends and just-met new friends fed me dinners and lunches, invited me on rides, and gave me a warm place to stay. It was a social flurry and actually tough to break away for the solo ride in the Whites that I had been planning, even in the middle of the week. Fairbanks is a frigid place full of warm and friendly people. I really do like it there. I left Thursday afternoon to more blue skies and great views along the Parks Highway.

I spent Thursday night with Dave Johnston and Andrea in Willow. Dave is recovering well after his incredible near-record run in the Iditarod Trail Invitational. It was great fun to chat with him and listen to his take on his experience ... "Walking is hard. It's just easier for me to keep running." "Oh this hat? I've had it for years. I like the flaps over the ears." "I brought too much stuff and had to justify it by using things when I didn't really need them. Then I wasted too much time putting on stuff I didn't need. Next time my sled's going to be lighter."

"Next time?"

"Oh yeah. I've already forgotten how much it hurts."

I woke up Friday morning to bright sunshine and headed out the door in my short sleeves to start packing my sled for the Homer Epic. After about ten minutes my fingers went rigid. "What's up with that?" I wondered. "It's not that cold." I moved to go back inside and noticed the thermometer read zero degrees. Acclimation?

I lived in Homer from September 2005 to August 2006. I made many drives up and down the Kenai Peninsula during that time and rarely appreciated how stunning that stretch of highway really is.

Somewhere near Turnagain Pass. My fingers had thawed so I did more sled packing here.

Near Cooper Landing. "If my legs are up to it I should hike part of the Res Pass trail on my way back," I thought. Hmm ...

The view that captured my heart as we rounded this corner on September 11, 2005 — Baycrest Hill. It's strange, because I left Homer almost seven years ago and have only been back once during that time. Still, more so than other places I've lived — even Juneau — I can wander the streets of this Cosmic Hamlet by the Sea and feel like I never left. This is the place where Alaska won my heart. Regardless of all of the wonderful things that came after, Homer has those deeply embedded first love memories.

The Homer Epic 100K held a pre-race banquet at Land's End. This is the group photo of many of the participants of the ski, bike, and foot race. I didn't make it outside in time to be in the photo, but I was able to take a photo. The banquet was fun but had the jittery atmosphere of pre-race nerves.

I had no reason to feel anything but terrified at the prospect of dragging my baby sled for 62 miles over the steep climbs and frozen swamps in the hills beside Kachemak Bay. Still, I felt this gratifying calm — a sense that everything was just exactly right. 

White joy

By Tuesday morning, Fairbanks was Fairbanks once again. Daylight was still gaining at a rate of seven minutes per day, but all the heat faded from the glaring March sun. I'd hoped to embark on a long solo ride in the White Mountains while I was up north, and wasn't going to let subzero weather deter me. Still, the prospect was intimidating. As I drove to the trailhead at the relatively late hour of 9 a.m., I saw the temperature fall to as low as 23 below zero in a low-lying valley.

I packed up all of my camping gear, mostly for safety, but also included a few comfort items in case I actually did decide to camp. I knew the prospect of camping by choice wasn't likely given the possibility of minus forty, but adventure hopes spring eternal. All of the cabins in the Whites had been booked that night, so any "camping" I did would mean unrolling my bivy bundle and taking a desperate nap in the snow. Not actually fun, but it would allow me to ride farther into the Whites. I was still torn on the decision to camp or not, so the down booties came with. So did a gallon of fluid, because when it's that cold I'd rather go thirsty than stop and melt snow, but snow biking is hard work and I tend to get terrible headaches and feel chilled if I don't quench my thirst. The result was a ridiculously heavy bike, but I did feel prepared for the worst — a good feeling to have when I'm alone in the Arctic cold. 

The trailhead sits at 2,400 feet near the top of a high dome. In this region, higher elevations generally mean more wind and higher temperatures because cold air sinks. It was still seven below zero at the Wickersham Dome, and breezy. Back in December, Beat and I went on an overnight trip where we saw eight above at the Dome and 25 below as soon as the low winter sun went down and we dropped into the Wickersham Creek drainage. I braced myself for this kind of temperature swing. 

The day was stunning — clear with the severe contrast of deep black and sparkling white. The trail was in great shape, too. Even my loaded bike coasted well over the hardpacked snow. My legs, however, were still sore and fatigued from the Chena River to Ridge race and other adventures in the days prior. I did not have much oomph while climbing the rolling hills around the dome, and my appetite seemed to be missing as well. I couldn't stuff down more than a few handfuls of cereal before I started, and the last thing I wanted to do was stuff icky frozen candy under my iced-up face mask and into my dry mouth. Fueling would prove to be a problem for the rest of the day.

When riding in the Whites, you never see the same trail twice, so it's always an adventure. The trail along Wickersham Creek was mired in overflow — some sections still wet and ankle deep, and others refrozen to a sheen of glare ice. On my overloaded bike I had packed microspikes for my boots, specifically for navigating these slippery obstacles. However, the spikes collected slush while I was wading through the wet overflow. The slush then stuck to snow, which quickly refroze into ummovable tennis-ball-size clumps of ice on the bottom of my boots. I kicked them against the pedals, trees, trail signs, to no avail. The ice balls were completely stuck in such a way that my only hope seemed to be melting the ice, which wouldn't be happening at 15 below. The ice also froze the spikes to my boots so I couldn't remove them. This happened early and would make everything from pedaling to pushing more difficult for the rest of the day.

Especially when I had to walk across sections such as this with balls of ice stuck to the bottom of my boots — glare ice that slopes downward into a wet swamp covered in only the thinnest film of ice. Scary, scary. Eventually the walking wore the ice balls down to a point that the spikes stuck out again, but for a while the ice crossings were dicey.

I pedaled 18 miles into the Beaver Creek drainage, where Borealis cabin sits. This was my original planned turnaround point, but I reached it faster than I expected. I considered pedaling a few miles farther down the main route toward Fossil Creek, but felt more drawn by a route that veered west and climbed a high ridge beside the limestone mountains — Big Bend. Only three hours had passed since I pedaled away from Wickersham Dome, so I figured I could get away with two or three more hours on an out-and-back trip.

The Big Bend trail was softer due to lighter traffic, and deeply drifted in sections. Even though it was spring break and all of the (three) cabins along this part of the route were booked, I only saw one snowmachine and two people on bicycles during the ride into Borealis. I was all but guaranteed to see nobody on this remote connector trail, which was exciting in its own way. I could hear my own solitude when I stopped pedaling — that depth of silence is something I don't often experience anymore. Small sounds would occasionally break through the quiet — low howls and crunching footsteps, seemingly from miles away, carried through the air like a frozen whisper.

My pace slowed considerably on Big Bend. The soft surface combined with significant climbing meant I was walking most of it. An hour passed, then two. The trail climbed to crest of the ridge and turned to the north, contouring the spine. It was all steep ups and downs but stunning in its scenery, and quite a bit warmer, too. I was even higher than Wickersham, close to 3,000 feet, and the temperature may have even climbed above zero degrees. I could camp up at elevation, I thought, where it might not get that cold overnight. But anywhere high in this area was going to be far away from the trailhead, which would mean a long ride out the next day. Plus, Ed was working when I left and I hadn't had a chance to fill him in on my tentative plans. He only knew I was "riding in the Whites" and knew I didn't get a cabin, so if I didn't come back that night he would probably worry about me. It wasn't fair to him and may have even spurred unnecessary searching. I scanned the sky with my cell phone, hoping for reception, but there was none. That cemented the no camping plan, which was disappointing and a huge relief at the same time.

Even knowing I'd be pedaling all the way back that afternoon, I couldn't help but press farther up the ridge trail. Stoke was running high and pains were few, although I still had no power in my legs and I still wasn't eating. Strangely, I didn't feel sick or bonked, but my energy levels were plummeting rapidly. I sucked on some chalky M&Ms and marveled at Beat's adventure, again. "He has to eat this crappy frozen junk all day, every day. How does he do it?

After I finished up all of my nice and lukewarm Camelbak water, I pulled out a bottle of Gatorade that I had been storing in an insulated container on the rear rack. The Gatorade was still fully liquid with no ice particles at all. But as soon as I cracked open the lid, I witnessed one of the strangest science experiments I've ever seen. After I took the first sip, I noticed ice crystals forming inside the bottle. They floated to the surface and started multiplying like snowflakes, gathering momentum in a purple blizzard. Within seconds my liquid Gatorade had morphed into a thick slush, icy throughout. I'd never seen anything like it — instant Slurpee. Unfortunately, at the time I would have much preferred hot tea to Slurpee, but I was still very thirsty so I choked it down.

As soon as my watch indicated a little over six hours from the start, I decided to turn around despite continued resistance from my adventurous side. I had traveled thirty miles from Wickersham Dome, and far enough along the ridge trail that I could look down into the valley that holds the Colorado Creek Cabin, where Beat and I camped on New Years Eve, accessed from a trail much farther up the highway. It seemed like a long way into the frozen backcountry. I was pleased with the ground I'd covered.

The ride back was serene — still immensely quiet, and I was fatigued enough to shed my fears of the cold and slip into the mechanized mindset of forward motion, breathing, and occasionally stopping long enough to force myself to eat something — dry frozen cookies, drier Wheat Thins. It was strange — I was still so thirsty that I had gotten to the point of rationing my last Nalgene of water. My base layers weren't too wet, so I hadn't been sweating profusely, and I also had only peed twice that day in twelve hours. I'm not even sure where all of that water went — perhaps freeze-dried out of my body and sucked into that cold, dry air.

Clear skies remained and the deep cold returned as the sun went down. Despite low energy it spurred me to pedal faster, until I reached the Wickersham Wall 53 miles into my ride. I've pushed a bike up this wall four times, and it's left me shattered every time. The depth of my low energy became apparent and the remaining ice on the bottom of my boots slipped on the steep slope, causing me to fall to my knees several times. Ah, Wickersham Wall. You never fail to break me.

I finished my ride in the dark after 11 hours and 44 minutes in the deep cold, with sixty miles for the day. A grand day out.