Anticipation

Beat and I spent several hours on Sunday finally putting all of our Iceland stuff together: Locating our flag-adorned T-shirts, rain gear and five *required* pairs of socks; compiling med kits and a surprising abundance of required odds and ends (including but not limited to an emergency bivy, two Ace bandages and a mirror);  and packaging little daily "lunch" baggies to discourage overeating of supplies in the early stages of RTP Iceland. The final verdict for my pack with all gear, seven days worth of food, and 1.5 liters of water: 27.3 pounds. Beat's pack was similar in weight. We'll probably have two of the largest packs out there, but I bet most of the participants — save for the most competitive runners —will have starting weights ranging from 23-30 pounds. Given we packed similar stuff for every day, I can already envision what each day will be like:

Sunrise: Wake up. Spend ten minutes mulling how I can avoid climbing out of my toasty sleeping bag. Inch my way out and pull on my down coat (so glad I brought that!) Put on a fresh pair of socks and underwear (figured if I was required to bring five pairs of socks, I might as well have an equal number of underwear.) Ah. Put on same clammy shirt and tights I wore all day yesterday. Ugh.

Breakfast: Two cups of Trader Joe's coffee (100 calories), one granola bar (190 calories) and one serving peanut butter (250 calories.) Wish I could mow through all of my Snickers Bars instead of trying to subsist on this meager breakfast.

Stage begins: Looking at another 25-plus-mile day. Hopefully it's not that 42-mile day. If it is, I probably have a pit in the bottom of my (growling) stomach.

Follow the course markings into the vast open expanses of Iceland. Hopefully the weather will be gorgeous and we'll be able to see for dozens of miles in all directions. Odds are the weather is cloudy and drizzly, with the potential for low-lying clouds and heavy rain. Either way, I anticipate much soaking in of ethereal beauty as we shiver in our cheap rain gear and puffy insulation layers (so, so glad I brought that!)

As the miles grind on, we'll find ourselves among familiar faces who share our general pace. We'll chat with our new friends from Hong Kong and Singapore and Scotland. One of the coolest benefits of an organized event like Racing the Planet is meeting like-minded people from all over the world. As fatigue sets in, I'll retreat into my introspective zone. And I'll probably have Sigur Ros playing on my iPod shuffle (so glad I brought three of those!)

Lunch: Actually just a small assortment of junk food eaten on the go: Two candy bars (500 calories), one granola bar (190 calories) and one bag of happiness courtesy of Haribo (500 calories.) Really, 1,200 calories of carbs? That seemed like so much on my spreadsheet. I'm hungry. But at least I feel awesome. Yay sugar!

Stage wraps up. My knees are getting pretty achy and my feet — I don't like to think about my feet. Pretending they don't exist is really the best course of action. But at least the pack gets lighter every day. I crack into my treat — a can of Pringles — that I hoped would last the week, but by day three it's already gone. (200 calories.)

Pre-dinner: Hang wet shirts, socks and tights inside the tent with all of our tent mates' gear. It smells fantastic in there. Put on our camp slippers (so glad we brought those!) Give ourselves sponge baths with tablet towels and attempt to treat our increasingly mangled feet. If it's still raining, I'll put on my Tyvek suit and go for a walk because the tent makes me claustrophobic. If it's not raining, we'll hang around the camp fire with folks telling adventure stories.

Dinner: One Mountain House Meal (600 to 800 calories) and one hot chocolate (150 calories.) If I had a good day, I'll probably rip apart the packaging of my meal and lick it clean. If I'm deathly ill like I was in Nepal, I'll try to pawn it off on a local boy who will take a sniff, crinkle his nose, and hand it back to me. (Actually, in Iceland, we're not likely to see many people not associated with the race. So make that a sheep. I'll try to give my food to a sheep.)

Sleepy time: Spooning with eight of my closest friends.

Beat and I took our properly loaded packs on a trip up Black Mountain with our friend Martina this afternoon — ten miles round trip with 3,000 feet of climbing. I forget what a burden thirty extra pounds can be — temps were in the high 70s and we were drenched in sweat. I couldn't muster much of a run on the climb, but we put in a hard effort on the descent and ran nearly all of the five miles back. I could feel each footfall heavily in my knees — more so in my right knee, which has been my good knee for the past few weeks and is more fatigued from bearing the brunt of my efforts. But the good news is, my left knee feels strong. If it can handle a 3,000-foot descent with a 27-pound pack, well, it must be reasonably solid.

Racing the Planet Nepal doesn't begin until Aug. 4, but it feels like we are in our final days of "training." I can't really say I'm going into a taper now, since I effectively started tapering when I bashed my knee four weeks ago. But there's much to do before we leave for Switzerland later this week (for Beat's brother's anniversary party and work obligations at the Google office in Zurich.) So I suppose the taper has begun. With luck, I'll be able to escape on a train into the Swiss Alps for one final "shakedown." 

Optimism

The knee issue was puzzling. When it comes to injury therapy, I can be skeptic. I don't believe in miracle cures. But there was no denying that I'd been struggling with limited mobility for three weeks; then I took an accidental and painful fall, and suddenly everything felt a whole lot better. I wasn't sure what to think; I called my doctor to possibly schedule an appointment, but he is out of the office until July 20. Because of lingering concern about stability, I went for a run on Monday to test things out. The joint felt markedly more stable than pervious weeks. There was no pain when I tried the higher kicks that are typical of a full run (rather than the ultra shuffle that I admittedly prefer.) With this new boost of confidence, I even increased my pace on the descent. Nothing. No pain, no wobbliness.

Today I went to see a massage therapist in Los Altos that Beat and I really like, Angelo, who works with a system of orthopedic therapy called the Hendrickson method. As much as I don't believe in miracle cures, he's helped me work out some nagging pains I've had in the past. Angelo worked around my joint and said he could detect thickened tissue that would indicate scarring on the side of the knee cap. I explained the fall I took on Twin Peak — my right foot slid out but my left foot remained anchored against a rock, resulting in considerable pressure on my left knee as it was forced into a hard bend. Angelo explained that similar motions are common therapy for breaking up scar tissue — a physical therapist applies torque to manually range the knee. He speculated that my limited range of motion was likely a result of scar tissue, which tightens up as it develops. Feelings of instability can be a symptom of a medial collateral ligament tear — which can result from a direct blow to the knee.

I am still considering consulting my doctor, but I can't say I even have any complaints to relay to him. Angelo said he couldn't detect any inflammation, and I don't have any points of pain. Even the superficial soreness has diminished. Although I resolved to take it easy for a few more days, I couldn't resist an urge to go for another run on Tuesday, just to relish in this new freedom of motion. Eight miles went flawlessly — it felt like my best run of the summer.

I could still have issues with this knee. If there is scar tissue as Angelo speculated, that means there was some initial tearing, which can be easy to re-injure, especially if I take another jarring fall. I plan to get re-acquainted with a more aggressively supportive (even if chafing and ouchy) knee brace for my long hauls.

But for now, I am embracing an optimistic outlook. Which means I can finally start looking to my two big summer events as though they're not going to be complete disasters. Finally, the scale between stress and excitement is tipping in the right direction.

In early August, we leave for Reykjavik to participate in Racing the Planet Iceland. This is a semi-supported stage race on foot, traveling 250 kilometers over six stages in seven days. The race organization supplies water drops, hot water at camp, and group tents. We're required to carry everything else we want over those seven days, including food. I like to look at it as a fun group backpacking trek in a beautiful northern region that I have wanted to visit for most of my life — with the added bonus of big miles. I love big miles. There are two 25-mile stages, two 28-mile stages, one 42-mile stage, and a final six-mile easy day. If I'm feeling good and my knee is strong, I want to put a good effort into this race — meaning I do plan to run within reason. But it is possible to be deathly ill and hike it out and still finish. That's effectively what I did during the 2011 Racing the Planet event in Nepal, when I came down with the worst stomach bug I've ever had during the night before stage one. I couldn't keep any calories down for the first two days, ate minimally for the remaining five, and still eked out a mid-pack finish. I suspect it will take a lot for me to feel worse in Iceland than I did in Nepal.

The weather in Iceland is likely to be ... Juneau-like. It could be beautiful, or it could rain non-stop for the entire week. Temperatures in the daytime will probably range from 45 to 65 degrees, with nighttime temperatures near freezing. Snow is possible. Sleet, likely. Rain — seven straight days without rain in that region is almost unfathomable. We are preparing to be cold and wet. I used to be really good at these conditions, but I am woefully out of practice.

Beat and I are both using Go-Lite Jam 50-liter packs. The capacity will sound enormous to most stage-race enthusiasts, but what can I say? We wanted our packs to be fully versatile for non-racing backpacking, and we also don't like to tightly condense our stuff. Our packs look big but they're not *that* heavy. Part of the required gear is a 35-liter drybag for clothing and sleeping gear.

Without going into too boring of a gear list, some of the notable things I'm packing are a RAB Quantum Endurance 25-degree down bag, RidgeRest, synthetic puffy pull-over, fuzzy fleece hat and mittens, mitten shells, extra shirt and tights (dry layer for camp), extra Drymax socks, warm wool socks, and Frogg Toggs rain jacket and pants. Why Frogg Toggs? They're cheap (given the nature of this race — running with large packs in wet and muddy conditions — our outer layers are likely to be semi-destroyed by the end). They're light. And they provide excellent rain and wind protection even if they don't breathe. (When it comes to rain gear, hard efforts, and long hours in heavy precipitation, I do not believe in waterproof breathable. I think it's better to bolster wind protection and accept that sweat will happen. There are several manifestoes about this in my blog archives from my days in Juneau.) I will have a spare down coat for camp.

I plan to wear a long-sleeve synthetic shirt, wind-proof tights, Drymax socks, hiking gaiters, a buff, and my beloved Hoka Mafate shoes. Actually my "new" pair is about as worn out as the pair I replaced in January, so it will be a challenge to squeeze 155 more miles out of them. But I plan to do so because I have a feeling this race is going to a shoe destroyer, and I don't want to take a brand new pair (which I'll need for bigger and badder terrain at the end of August.) To save my "race" Hokas, I've actually been training with my old shoes (which I made fun of back in January) since mid-June.

And I can't forget the Black Diamond Ultra-Distance Z-Poles. Effectively my favorite piece of long-distance trekking gear. I would probably give up Hokas before I gave up these poles. I've gotten pretty good at running at a good clip while using them. They help me manage my balance and footing on technical downhills, and help me "pull" on the climbs. Call them crutches, I need them. As a runner I secretly wish I was a four-legged animal, and these are as close as I'll ever get.

Food we're keeping fairly simple. Each night is a bland but filling Mountain House dehydrated meal and a hot chocolate, with packets of Lipton soup as appetizers. After Nepal, I wasn't even able to look at any form of dehydrated meals for about a year, but I've come around on about three or four varieties — the more bland the better. I like Chicken and Noodles, Chicken and Rice, Mac and Cheese, and if I'm feeling zesty, the Veggie Lasagna. Breakfast is coffee with creamer, a granola bar, and peanut butter. Daytime is a variety of granola bars, energy bars, trail mix, and gummy candy. After Nepal, I learned that trail food really is the most versatile form of calories to have during endurance events — bars or candy are the one thing I can usually force down even if I'm feeling considerably crappy. One week is not enough time to become woefully malnourished from lack of fresh foods. The calories will probably amount to about 2,600 a day. (The spreadsheet adds up to 18,500 calories. But we will not need many for the final day, so it's actually more along the lines of 2,850 a day.) It seems minimal for the effort we'll be expending, but I've learned that I'm unlikely to eat more. I do expect the cold weather to demand additional energy. We'll have to see how it goes. We'll be hungry. It will kind of suck, but I really don't want to overpack food. Again, I carried at least 5 pounds of food that I never ate in Nepal. I probably managed an average of about 1,200 calories a day. My digestive system was so angry, but beyond that, I was fine. My performance did suffer. ;-)

The packs with two liters of water will probably be in the range of 25 pounds. I might pack it up this weekend and actually weigh it, and I'll post if I do.

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.