Ventana Wilderness: Cures for what ails you

I've had a "mid-July backpacking trip" on my mental calendar for months. I believed the timing would be good for a necessary shakedown for my big trips in August, for gear testing and to see where my conditioning stood. Since I hurt my knee, the scratch marks over these plans grew thicker with each passing week. Recovery just wasn't happened at the rate I thought it should. There were two main problems — range of motion, and stability. I couldn't bend my knee to a 90-degree angle or higher without pain, and I couldn't put much weight or force on the joint without feeling wobbly. These two problems aren't great for anything, but they're workable. After three weeks of no activity to low-impact activity, I began to wonder if the fix might require some long-term downtime. Maybe to get through the summer, I was just going to have to learn how to work with it — or at least, learn whether I could work with it. Perhaps a shakedown trip was needed to figure out just what my knee could and couldn't do.

But more than dubious self-prescribed physical therapy, I admit I needed a mental reset. Beat and I decided to embark on an overnight backpacking trip in the Ventana Wilderness, in the coastal mountains of Big Sur. We pored over the maps and found an intriguing spot at the southern end of the range — Cone Peak, a craggy marble summit that climbs from the sea to 5,155 feet in less than three miles as the gull flies. There's a questionably passable but direct route appropriately called "Sea to Sky," but we decided to take a more meandering route in and out of several drainages, starting at the Vicente Flat trailhead. If we made it to the peak, our route would likely be 15 to 16 miles with well over 6,000 feet of climbing one way. We decided we'd hike as far as we felt like, camp, and turn around to retrace our steps the following day. No big commitments.

At the trailhead, Beat and I hoisted our 25-pound packs and let out a harmonic "oof." I'm not much of an ultralight packer. I just don't like to fuss with meticulous planning and don't necessarily mind the carrying part (actually, "muling" is something I consider one of my strengths.) But there's no getting around the fact that weight makes everything harder and slower, especially on what was effectively our first loaded trip of the summer. The bulk of what we were carrying was water, because it's the height of summer and there are few guaranteed sources in these thirsty mountains.

The first steps were a struggle, but after a half mile I hit my stride and felt as light and free as I had in weeks. An unknown wilderness loomed in front of us and a thick layer of fog added an air of mystery and excitement. The pursuit of new experiences — adventure — creates such a depth of satisfaction for me that simply embarking on a wilderness hike can wipe away weeks' worth of angst that occasionally accumulates like grime on my psyche.

Yes, I was stoked to be out there. So much so that I forgot all about my wobbly knee, only to occasionally be reminded when we had to climb around deadfall or descend into a rocky drainage. Above the marine layer, the temperature rapidly increased and the sun beat down with startling intensity for our low elevation. But the canyons were deep and cool, sheltered with towering redwoods but surprisingly, at Vicente Flats at least, without water. Not even a trickle.

We walked another two miles, up and over another ridge, and descended the steep sideslope of a drainage that had water. A bow hunter was sitting in the creek with his shoes off. When we told him we planned to continue beyond that point, he warned us that "these mountains are as dry as I've ever seen them" and we weren't likely to find any water at higher elevations. We decided to fill up our carrying capacity — between us, eight liters — which we thought would be more than enough until evening. I'd pumped about a half liter when I handed my filter to Beat, who then accidentally broke the handle off the pump. Shoot. We had chlorine tablets as well, but those take four hours to purify. Still, we had about four liters of "good" water, and filled four more with water that would become okay to drink at 5:30 p.m. "Good luck," the hunter said as we started climbing out of the creek. "I doubt anyone else is headed that way. You'll be all alone up there."

After another mile we reached the intersection with the direct "Sea to Sky" ridge route and — what can I say? I am a sucker for a brutally steep climb. Beat asked if I wanted to try the "shortcut" and I didn't even hesitate. Yes! The bow hunter also told us we'd be nuts to try the ridge — "It goes straight up" — and this made it all the more enticing. Anyway, we could probably connect with the main trail for the descent, avoiding an equally steep descent that might trigger knee problems.

The ridge route was indeed brutal. It had all the steepness I expected, with the added challenge of bushwhacking through spiky brush and extremely loose dirt underfoot. Gaining 1,500 feet per mile was the easy part. In the grassy sections where there was no brush to grab, it was often difficult to gain enough purchase to take a single step. The soil would just crumble away beneath my feet, taking clumps of dry grass with it. The spiky brush tore up our arms and burrs stuck in our fingers. The heat was downright astonishing. At 4,000 feet we were now above the upper reaches of the marine layer, and the region had a different climatic feel, as though we were suddenly deep in the interior and it was a hundred degrees. I was probably not actually 100 degrees (it was likely 90) but it felt extremely hot, and both Beat and I were sucking down large amounts of heated water as we hacked our way up the ridge.

By the time we reached the summit of Twin Peak — a close neighbor to Cone Peak and just below 5,000 feet itself — we had 6 ounces of good water between us. It would be another hour before we could drink the chlorinated stream water.

The route to Cone Peak looked precarious at best — big cliffs blocked the summit and from our position, it wasn't obvious where we could skirt around, or if it was even possible. We didn't have enough spare water to go on an exploratory mission, so we decided to head down the nearest drainage to a water source — knowing we'd have to drop a few thousand feet to find it. Still, we hadn't given up on Cone Peak just yet. We could return in the morning on the known trail if we were feeling energetic.

The backside of Twin Peak had a few major problems that we were not aware of before we started our descent. A major wildfire tore up this slope in 2009, bringing down several massive redwoods and scouring the surface, leaving a layer of very loose dirt and crumbling rock. We had to leave the ridge to pick our way around the deadfall, only to find a steep surface that was so extremely loose that gaining purchase was nearly impossible. We'd take a step down and slide until enough dirt built up to stop us, and do it again. I was certain if I lost my balance, I'd start sliding and keep sliding, getting torn to shreds and probably smack into something before I stopped. The dirt had as much integrity as rotten snow, and when we tried to climb onto rocks, they broke off in our hands. At one point I slipped onto my butt and slid a foot or so, stopping shy of a really steep pitch that went right into a huge fallen tree trunk. When I tried to scramble back up, I just started sliding again. I panicked for a few minutes and Beat had to come talk me through it.

Life didn't get much easier when we regained the ridge. We still had to hack through brush and struggle down loose dirt. While trying to work our way around a wall of boulders, I lost my footing and slammed onto my butt, but my left foot remained anchored and wrenched my bad knee violently as my butt slammed into my heel. An electric flash of pain blocked out my vision and stole my breath, then washed over in a wave of nausea. It was so much more painful than the initial bashing that spurred the injury. As soon as I could collect my awareness from the white swirl of pain, my first thought was, "How am I going to get off this mountain?" Not "Oh, there goes another three weeks of training." Not, "Shoot, I just wrecked the rest of my summer plans." No, my first concern was whether or not I'd even get out of there without major intervention. It felt like I tore something clean in half.

In my initial panic to not let Beat know how frightened I was, I stood up quickly and mumbled something about being fine. Surprisingly, I was actually able to put weight on my leg. I stood still for another minute or so, absorbing the pain, until Beat climbed back to check on me. "I fell on my knee," I admitted. "It really hurts. But I think I can use it."

Stumbling down the mountain, I was surprised I could bend it, but it was still sore. Then I fell again. Owwww! I cried, but it actually came out as more of a whimper. I was still so scared. There was no way of knowing what I had done. But with pain like that, it couldn't be good.

It took us more than an hour to descend 1,500 feet. During this time, we cracked into our stream water and drank most of it. We were so dehydrated and exhausted that the two of us plowed through the better part of a gallon within the next hour. We hit the trail and I decided to stop peg-legging and see how bad it felt to bend my knee. The soreness was still there, but it was different than I expected — almost the kind of soreness you feel when you rip a bandaid away. Superficial soreness. The joint itself felt surprisingly loose, and dare I say ... strong? I was so confused, but I didn't complain.

We dropped into another narrow canyon and found a cool, flowing creek at 2,500 feet elevation, next to a beautiful camp site overlooking the sea. My knee felt ... not just not bad, but almost great in comparison to how it had felt in recent weeks. I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to have strength in both knees. It was inexplicable, but Beat speculated that perhaps I had a bunch of scar tissue from the initial injury that finally broke apart in this second blow. Or maybe some band of tissue had been out of place, and then snapped back into place. Since I never knew exactly what was wrong, I have no sense of what might have fixed it. But I felt like the sitcom character who throws out her back, only to have some unknowing friend give her a big bear hug and snap it back into place. Like accidental Rolfing for the knee. A double negative somehow makes a positive.

We'd already decided after my painful fall that we wouldn't try to return to Cone Peak, but we still had a 12-mile hike out. I did some stretches before bed and even got myself into a full squatting position, something I also haven't been able to do since I injured my knee. We drank a bunch of water, ate Mountain House meals, and the next morning I woke up completely refreshed and pain-free.

I didn't want to let optimism get the better of me just to discover something horrible had happened after all, but I couldn't help it. The stoke took over and I felt weightless the whole way back. I realize I made some questionable decisions and perhaps just got incredibly lucky, but what if my knee was actually fixed? Could a person really receive so much goodness from one simple weekend hike? Beat enjoyed the outing too, except for being terrorized by hundreds of tiny burrs that stuck to everything. I actually opted for nylon pants and hiking gaiters (which I lent to Beat for the second day) instead of running clothes, which proved to be the better choice. Boots would have been better than running shoes for a lot of this terrain. I forget that hiking is not just "slow running." Hiking can be a whole other harsh animal in the wilderness.

The fog moved away, offering us a glimpse of the Big Blue on the return. Twenty-four hours later and survival needs abated, my knee is still-pain free. Fluke that it might be, I feel indebted to the Ventana Wilderness — steep, brutal, and stunning.

Moving through the world

Sometimes Beat complains when I go too many days without updating my blog. I tell him I just want to avoid writing anything that sounds too defeatist or whiny. It's just been one of those weeks. Or months, I guess. Even at age 33 I find myself thinking things like, "I don't like July 2013. How many days until July is over?" As though the simple flip of a calendar page can turn everything around.

Not that I should complain. Work is going well — both Alaska newspapers and collaborative book projects (my own projects, sigh ... they need a boost. But it's hard to motivate toward creative projects when I'm feeling blue.) Beat is on fire at his job, and he's pumped about that. We have great adventures planned ... all the more reasons to count down the days in July. But I've been feeling frustrated about my physical state. My left knee continues to improve daily on an incremental basis, but the fact that it isn't 100 percent yet seems worrisome. I wonder if the bashing three weeks ago triggered some underlying overuse stuff. It feels a bit like chondromalacia, which gripped my right knee for years but strangely doesn't seem to crop up anymore. Maybe it's left knee's turn? I wonder.

Careful (perhaps arguably over careful) handling of this minor injury has limited what I can do outside, which also makes me feel a bit blue. I fight it, though. Motivation slips with my mood, but I get myself out there anyway even if I have to run easy, just so I can look at the world. Even when it's hot again and running feels like the last thing I want to do, I do it anyway. Inevitably, the simple act of going outside lifts me up. Yesterday I had to take my car in for service, and spent the two hours it took wandering the neighborhood — in the outskirts of San Jose. Pawn shops, car dealerships, and an outdoor mall. But the simple act of just walking around and observing the traffic of life had a positive effect on my mood; I was happier and more fired up for Beat's and my planned run in the evening. Staying on the move, looking at the world — that I think is my base motivation for nearly everything I do. I am just not wired to sit happily in one spot.

Our Wednesday run was relatively difficult (relative, that is, to my current abilities and perceived fitness, which is a disconcerting realization in itself.) So I decided to go for an easy road ride today, just up to the top of Steven's Creek Canyon and back. As I was pedaling up the canyon, a black truck with tape across one of the taillights buzzed me close, pulled into a pullout directly ahead, and turned around. I didn't think much of it until about a minute later, when the same truck buzzed me again, this time even closer. I could feel a whisk of forced air against my shoulder, and then I saw the driver waving his middle finger out the window. About a hundred meters ahead, he flipped another U-turn. At this point, I was frightened and wondering, "What's wrong with this guy that he's so angry at me?" I was just a solo cyclist, pedaling on the right edge of winding dead-end canyon road with a posted speed limit of 25 mph. And the next thought, "Well, here it is, the incident that's going to turn me off to road biking for another year. Who knows what he'll do when he turns around again?" And then, "What is he going to do? Why does he have to be so ragey? Why the hell do people hate cyclists so much? We cost them seconds of time and they respond with acts of terror."

After several more minutes he had not returned, but I was still frightened. Maybe he was waiting for me in a darker corner near the bottom of the canyon. I had no desire to turn around and find out, so even though I planned an easy out-and-back ride, I veered onto a spur road called Redwood Gulch, which climbs 1,000 feet in less than two miles. Some of the switchbacks are way too steep for my tender knee, but I figured a little knee pain was better than being assaulted.

The climb was strenuous and instead of feeling better at the top of Redwood Gulch, I just felt more upset about the incident, so I kept climbing. I pedaled a little bit harder to try to push out some of the anger. The knee pinched a bit but really, it's probably in better shape than I give it credit for. I climbed to the crest and turned onto Skyline Drive. There was still this irrational fear that this guy was back there somewhere, and I was not keen on turning around. I passed the Long Ridge trailhead, and even though it rightfully annoys Beat when I ride his nice carbon road bike on dirt, I decided I could use a brief off-pavement venture to relax at the overlook, away from cars.

Funny, but plowing those skinny tires through a thick layer of summer moondust on singletrack did wonders for my foul mood. It was kind of silly, kind of exciting, and required enough concentration to funnel my thoughts into the moment. Fifteen minutes later at the overlook, with the marine haze shrouding the golden hills, I was smiling again. I pedaled down Page Mill and turned a one-hour ride into something closer to three, but it was worth it.

It doesn't need to be much. I just like to get out there. At the base of my outdoor, endurance-focused lifestyle, that's really all it's about. 

Summertime blues

I have a mild case of summer-onset seasonal affective disorder, more commonly referred to as the "summertime blues." I've always been susceptible to this — overly sensitive to sun, allergic to lots of green things and bugs, find heat oppressive and too easily lapse into lethargy. "Most people are summer people but some of us genuinely are winter people," I try to explain, but am more often then not met with confused stares, especially now that I live in the Golden State. "Who doesn't like summer?"

I don't not like summer. I just struggle when it's 90 or 100 degrees and my favorite activity, going outside, becomes a chore. Outside isn't as much of a sanctuary for me in the depth of summer; it burns my skin, blisters my lips, dries out my throat, wears me down. I slow down and feel unreasonably stale. I spend days working indoors with beads of sweat clinging to my arms and legs, looking grimly out the open patio door at the white-washed sky and dreading whatever short outdoor activity I have planned for the afternoon. Because of my knee injury, I haven't run in two weeks. Occasionally I force myself out the door to ride my bike because low-impact movement really is therapeutic; it helps keep the joint loose and seemingly pushes out some of the inflammation or whatever tightness is causing pain — in other words, I feel worse after a long day of sitting and better after riding. But the rides are pretty sad; they just have no power, no heart. Truth is, if I didn't think light exercise was helping my knee, I might not even bother. Yeah, might as well curl up on my couch in a pool of my own sweat with a tub of ice cream and a spoon. It's that time of year.

But, I'm not despondent. I recognize this for what it is, a bit of SAD, not at all anchored in reality. I have awesome adventures coming up. I don't even really care if I'm a tub of melted goo because just being there will be an amazing experience. Anyway, past experience has shown that my fitness doesn't fluctuate all that much, and perhaps doesn't even matter when it comes to multi-day adventures. After about twelve hours of continuous activity, I'm the same tub of goo no matter how much ass I kicked in the months leading up to the grand adventure. It's all maintenance after that. Endurance I have.

Not having much power in my left knee means I've avoided riding my mountain bike, which really is more of a task-master than the gentle spin of the road bike. Beat had to work over the holiday weekend so I had some solo time and potential for quiet trails that I didn't want to waste, so I resolved to set out on Thursday.

Because the high that day was 98 degrees, I waited until as late as I possibly could and still squeeze in a three-hour ride before dark. Problem is, that time was 6 p.m., which is usually around the time we eat dinner. Creatures of habit sometimes forget their emergency trail snacks. A surprisingly flexible knee spurred me to climb hard, relishing in that searing sensation coursing through my legs for the first time in what feels like weeks. Of course, by 7:15 p.m. at the top of Monte Bello, I hit the bonk wall. Meaning, I actually felt reasonably light-headed. Temperatures were still in the high 80s; I'd been shedding so much sweat that my top tube was soaked, and this was hard work. I did not have a snack. But, like SAD, I know that bonking is largely an emotional response — especially at my lower wattage capabilities — and it's usually more satisfying to keep powering through.

I climbed over Black Mountain with the saturated light of late afternoon, as dry grass swayed in a gentle breeze that finally wicked the sticky layer of sweat from my skin. Without extra energy I couldn't concentrate on much besides the spinning pedals, the crackle of tires on loose dirt, the warm breeze on my cheeks. Living in the present. Curtains of marine fog poured over the mountains, sucked inland by a high-pressure vacuum of heat. Normally in my SAD state of mind I would think, "Wow, I live so close to the coast. Why don't I just go there? I could just lay on the beach until I start shivering. But it's like two hours of driving. If it wasn't for these dumb mountains blocking the way." But on this afternoon, reduced by low blood sugar to a simpler, more animal state of mind, I simply thought, "Wow."

I launched into the singletrack descent, dried by weeks of no rain and churned into a slippery, gravelly chunder. Normally I fret about these conditions and actually dislike mountain biking during the depths of summer in California, as summer is when I experience my worst slip-out crashes. But on this day, I just flew, flowing with the loose trail, leaning into curves without losing my traction and grinning with the flickering golden sunlight. Time no longer registered, only moments — trees in varying shades of green, deer loping through the tall golden grass, long shadows stretching across the hillside. "Sometimes," I thought later, "I just need to get out of my head." Most times? At least outside, in motion, I operate so much better in the present.

Living in the present — not anchored in time, not imprisoned in a season, just experiencing the world one moment at a time. I needed that.