The Fairbanks Journals, days 2-3

December 23 and 24. Sunrise 10:59 a.m. Sunset 2:41 p.m. Temperature -16F and -34F. Clear.

The second morning dawned clear and cold, and very late, as we were still conditioned to linger over our breakfast and coffee until the sun made its first appearance on the horizon. It's interesting how much people depend on the sun to regulate circadian rhythms, which just doesn't make any sense when there's only four hours of daylight — unless you plan on sleeping sixteen hours a day, which some people effectively do up here in the winter. Joel told us that local movement tends to stop altogether below minus forty. I'm a night-oriented person and can thrive in darkness, even excessive darkness. But I still can't manage early mornings, even when they skew toward 11 a.m.

 Since the second day started so late, we decided to make a short run, 5.5 miles in two hours. My legs were achy from the first day's march, and it was beginning to become apparent how much stronger the boys were compared to me. I often broke into a halting "run" to catch up, and had to hold that strenuous stride just to match their walking pace. Temperatures dropped into the minus teens and I was stripping layers as they added clothing. It seemed like I was working harder for the same pace and argued that this was probably the case, as I'm smaller than them and possess a lower ratio of muscle mass to weight. As a pack animal, I'm just not as fit as boys. If I were one of Captain Scott's ponies, I would be among the high-spirited but small and weak horses. Yes, I would be like Jehu, the pony who pulled with heart but in the end was the first to be shot.

 Beat does make up for the discrepancy by pulling an unconscionably heavy sled. He actually purchased forty pounds of cat litter to add to the load, as he was toying with (and hopefully smartly rejected) the idea of going unsupported to Nome this year. From my perspective, even 40 pounds of extra weight doesn't seem to slow him down much. He is a proficient pack animal.

On Monday night, Beat gave a talk about his 2013 Nome trek at Goldstream Sports, an outdoor store in Fairbanks. Our friend Corrine threw this event together at the very last minute, so I was surprised that the event had a respectable turnout, probably in the range of two dozen people who came to see Beat's photos and listen to some of his stories about manhauling a thousand miles across Alaska. Earlier that day, with the cat litter in tow, he confessed that he couldn't fathom how he ever did it in the first place, let alone how he was going to manage it again. His talk was entertaining, and included a popular slide depicting the relative attitudes of each participant in this obscure multi-sport endeavor:

Bikes, of course, have an indisputable advantage on good trails, and because of this bikers can become spoiled and throw tantrums when backcountry trail conditions are bad (and, oh yes, I've had some epic snow biker tantrums.) Skiers have a slight speed and workload disadvantage compared to bikers, but a skilled skier can eat up miles on good trails and still not suffer too much on bad trails — a not-so-secret reality that makes most skiers incredulous as to why anyone would ever bother with any other method of winter travel. For the manhaulers, however, life is always hard. And when trails are bad, it's even harder. Is it pretty much idiotic to want to walk 350 or 1,000 miles across frozen Alaska wilderness? Yes. Yes it is. I grapple with snow biker guilt and questions of motivation almost every time I think about this goal. But deep inside is a desire to power myself there the hard way, the old-fashioned way — on foot. It may be an inexplicable desire, but it's there. Shouldn't that be enough?

On Christmas Eve, the cold deepened, and temperatures dropped into the minus thirties in low-lying valleys around Fairbanks. We wanted to do a hill climb but couldn't find a place to park near the trail crossing. We ended up getting our rental vehicle stuck in a pullout and had to dig and push it out of a ditch at -30. Afterward, already soaked with sweat and deeply chilled from periods of sedentary waiting, we started our march at the Goldstream River, pretty much the lowest and therefore coldest point in the area.


But manhauling sure is work, and with well-rested bodies and bellies full of food, we warmed up fast. At least Beat and I did. Liehann seemed a little more cold shocked but he was surprisingly cheerful given his very first winter experience quickly dunked him into the sixty degrees of frost range, towing a sled, which is something he'd never done before this week. Luckily endurance mountain bikers are an altogether hardy bunch and Liehann weathered the challenges well.

 Although I am frightened of temperatures this low, in the relative safety of a short day trek near town, I very much enjoy the experience of deep subzero cold. I become acutely aware of my inner furnace and lovingly stoke it with effort and fuel. And in turn, my body rewards me with free movement through an ethereal landscape, immensely quiet, tingling with ice crystals and a time-halting stillness. The low-angle winter light is fleeting and magical, and the simple output of heat becomes a precious gift. Much more than fast, much more than strong, I relish the feeling of being warm amid deep-space cold.


I think Beat very much enjoys it as well.

 We trekked across the Goldstream Valley and up a barely-broken and soft Eldorado Creek Trail until we ran out of time again, and ended up with nine miles in three hours and 11 minutes. Beat has designed these great digital thermometers with sensors accurate to 40 below that log the temperature every minute and record the range on an SD card. He calls these devices "Cold-o-Meters" and they're attached to the sled poles, so we can check the temperature at any time. It was fun to watch the temperature swing from as low as 35 below near the river to as high as 18 below up Eldorado Creek, a soaring 400 feet higher.

 I got some great testing on two pieces of gear I very much like — a Mountain Hardware Monkey Man Airshield fleece jacket and Skinfit primaloft shorts. This windproof fleece jacket, combined with a thin polypro base layer, worked wonderfully in a wide range of temperatures and conditions, including this 35-below march. It actually does block wind while insulating and venting well. The outside "fur" of the jacket will become damp and frosty with expelled moisture, but the inside stayed surprisingly dry. I'm very happy with this piece of gear. It may be the secret to giving up Gortex, although I'm not confident enough to leave my shell at home just yet. The Monkey Fleece won't keep out rain, anyway. The primaloft shorts provide a bit more protection against "cold butt syndrome" compared to a down skirt. Full puffy pants are too warm for walking, but shorts insulate hard-to-heat areas (usually where we hold onto the most body fat, and for women this is often butt and thighs) while still venting excess moisture from the legs. The shorts are ugly, for sure, but effective.

Corrine served us a wonderful Christmas Eve dinner complete with presents of chocolates, peanut butter cups, Diet Pepsi and fire starters (thanks Corrine and Eric!) Later that night, since the temperatures were so low, I opted to test out my new sleeping bag by snoozing outside. It was actually Beat's Nome bag from last year, a PHD Designs sleeping bag that I inherited when Beat acquired an even better one, the Feathered Friends Snowy Owl. With the thermometer still hovering near minus 35, I donned a cotton T-shirt and fleece pajama bottoms and cozied up in the down cocoon, leaving a big enough breathing hole in my bivy sack that I could peer out occasionally and watch a weak but consistent display of Northern Lights dancing overhead. It was magical in a watching-for-Santa kind of way. I slept fitfully, dreaming about wolves and other cold-weather anxieties. At one point I dreamt that Beat came bursting outside to warn me that it was 50 below, and I felt an urgency that woke me up. I had to pee anyway, so I crawled outside in my short-sleeved T-shirt and checked Joel's porch thermometer just before my bare fingers went completely numb. It read exactly 50 below. I knew that this thermometer tends to register 5 to 10 degrees too low, but I'm certain it was at least 40 below overnight. I was toasty in that bag. Definitely a confidence booster. That confidence in my survival system would prove comforting when we set out on our first backcountry trip the following day, just as the weather started to become challenging. 

The Fairbanks Journals, day 1

Sunday, December 22. Sunrise 10:59 a.m. Sunset 2:40 p.m. Temperature: 11F. Light snow. 

We arrived in Fairbanks, Alaska, late on Solstice, the shortest day of the year. The purpose of our trip is twofold, to test various gear systems, as well physical preparations, ahead of the Iditarod Trail Invitational, which begins in a mere two months. Or perhaps this goal is a mere excuse, a reason to enjoy the holidays in a wintry landscape, a space where peace and solace happen as swiftly and deeply as apprehension and discomfort. Seeking the darkness for the light, as they say.

On the flight from Seattle, I picked up re-reading the journal of Capt. Robert Falcon Scott, written during the fatal South Pole expedition of 1912. Scott's record of events include two old-fashioned terms that I appreciate and plan to adopt into my vocabulary. The first is "manhauling" to describe the act of using human power (in Scott's case, they were all men) to haul supplies over the ice. There's something pure and raw about "manhauling" long distances on foot — the ultimate act of self-sufficiency. The second term is "trying" as an adjective to describe a particularly difficult situation. Temperatures of 73 below, white-out blizzards, major gear failures — events I would describe as catastrophic — Scott characterized as "trying," as though they were just another methodical challenge, a test with a difficult but ultimately achievable solution. I need to adopt this attitude in my endeavors. Although, of course, there are limits and always will be, as Scott discovered too late.

 We established the week's base camp in a massive yard sale gear explosion at the home of our friend Joel, which looks like a cabin in the woods but resides in Fairbanks proper. The region had received about six inches of new snow in an overnight storm. By the time we cobbled a haul load together and set out in the early afternoon, snow was still lightly falling and it was 11 degrees above zero. We were grateful for relatively "warm" temperature to help acclimate our California bodies to cold weather again. Beat decided to try out a vapor barrier shirt as his sole upper layer, and a pair of integrated gators on Hoka trail-running shoes that he designed himself. We joked that he looked like a Japanese Anime character.

 Also along for the trip was our friend Liehann, who is from South Africa and currently resides in the Bay Area, and had almost no winter experience as a result. The mere presence of snow was a relatively new experience for him. He had nothing but enthusiasm for the Alaska adventure, but I'll be honest and admit that I was apprehensive about having Liehann along for the mini-expeditions. In more urgent winter weather conditions, it can be difficult enough to acknowledge and take care of one's own needs without having to observe and advise an even less experienced member of the party. But Liehann did do his homework and did buy or borrow a lot of good gear specifically for this trip. I figured if things became "trying," Beat would take care of Liehann since they already have a bit of a big-brother, little-brother friendship.

We were off into the fresh fluff with purposefully heavy-loaded sleds. Although I'd like to pare down my sled weight to about 30 pounds, with the stuff I'd like to carry and two to three days' worth of food, it still weighs closer to 40 and I have to give deeper thought to what I can both afford and feel comfortable about leaving behind. Thus the purpose of the training/testing Fairbanks trip. And also, of course, to see how my trail-running trained body coped with the (in my opinion) more strenuous physical task of manhauling at slow walking paces over soft snow.

 We got a late enough start that the sun set just over an hour into our trial run. Gray faded into darker gray, and Liehann I think was more freaked out by the sudden immersion into subarctic gloominess than he was by the single-digit temperatures. He was also recovering from a cold, and opted to turn back at mile two. Beat and I marched and huffed for five more miles to the edge of Creamer's Field. I was running way too hot, but it was difficult to balance outside moisture protection from the falling snow against the sweat moisture steaming out of open vents in my jacket. I thought about sled dogs, which tend to run best when the temperature is 20 or 30 below, and overheat more easily above zero. Humans are pretty pathetic when it comes to natural insulation, and have this annoying tendency to sweat, a physical adaptation that is only detrimental to us at subfreezing temperatures. But with the right mix of artificial insulation and sweat management, maybe we're more like sled dogs than we know.

Distant light reflected through the clouds, illuminating the landscape with rose-colored light well after sunset. We walked until nearly 5 p.m. without headlamps, even though the sun had been gone since 2:40. It took us 3 hours and 34 minutes of moving time to cover 10 miles. As much as I try to explain it, I too am mostly mystified as to why I love slow slogging so much. But something about the act, especially in these stark, unforgiving landscapes, resonates with a meditative sense of beauty and peace. My hamstrings were sore and my whole body was quivering at the time equation of 350 similarly strenuous miles at less than 2.5 miles per hour. But I had an inkling that this week was only going to get better.

2013 in photos

It's become a tradition each December to post my favorite photos from the past year, one for each month, with a top favorite photo of the year. Favorite photos often become so because they capture a particularly memorable moment or event during the month, which is why I consider myself more of a "photo documentarian" than a "photographer." My favorite photos always evoke strong emotions, and this one is, from a personal standpoint, one of the most powerful snapshots I've ever taken. I look at it and feel a flood of emotions, questions, longing, and uncertainty, every time. It's a photo of Mont Blanc at sunrise, on the fourth and final morning I spent in the Petite Trotte a Leon, with my race teammates Giorgio (wearing the silly cape) and Ana descending a pass shortly after crossing into Italy. I was so blissed out in this moment; it's one of the few times during that experience that I was able to step outside of my fear and malaise and be purely happy. I'm still trying to parse out what that whole experience meant, but every time I look at this photo, I get a little closer to understanding.

January: Yosemite Falls

During January, we took a couple of trips to Yosemite National Park so Beat and Steve could get some overnight training for the Iditarod. We opted to camp on top of the 8,000-foot Sentinel Dome to ensure as much cold and wind exposure as possible. Those were actually some long nights, but the upside was waking up at dawn to watch the light show that happens when light from the rising sun hits the freezing mist of Yosemite Falls — a spectacular, dynamic rainbow.

February: The Great One 

My awesome Alaskan pilot friend Dan Bailey took me on another flyover of the first 90 miles of the Iditarod Trail on the second day of the Iditarod Trail Invitational. This photo is two cyclists pedaling up the Yentna River with Denali and the Alaska Range looming on the horizon. It was a beautiful, clear day, and we were able to spot Beat and other friends several times on the river, and even landed at Skwentna Roadhouse to chat with a friend who was leading the foot race, Dave Johnston, and a few cyclists. The thing I'm going to miss the most about actually racing the ITI this year: My flyover with Dan.

 March: The Invisible Highway

Three friends and I embarked on an amazing and grueling three-day bike tour of the Denali Highway in early March. I chose this picture of the road sign Maclaren Summit at dawn on the third day because I relish in the idea that we were four women riding a "highway" that in actuality was a barely-there handful of snowmachine tracks at 10 below with the whole sweeping wilderness of the Alaska Range all around us. Wow, I loved that trip. I really loved everything about my month in Alaska. I was so happy there.

April: Back to California

And then, in April, we returned to California. I acknowledge I have a fortunate existence and there are many things I love about my life here, but I have to be honest. I was bummed out for a while. I did not make the transition well, and felt run-down and burnt out, even though Beat — who actually walked a thousand miles across Alaska — had no issues rolling back into the routine. The week after we returned, my friend Leah and I planned a weekend trip to the Santa Lucia Mountains. Temperatures were in the 80s, the roads and trails were dusty, the riding was tough, and Leah and I were hungry and thirsty ... and it was everything I needed. Great trip, and a reminder of why California is pretty amazing, too.

May: Beat's Birthday Run

Ah, the Bryce 100. A bout of what I can only assume was altitude sickness caught up to me at mile ten, and I was pretty miserable without relief for the next ninety miles of slog. As a result, the photos I took during the race were rather uninspired, but it wasn't for lack of trying on the landscape's part. For a hundred-mile ultramarathon, the Bryce 100 has to be one of the most inspired routes in the United States, except for of course those grueling final twenty miles on jeep road (which I heard have been removed for next year's race.) This photo brings back all of the magic — feeling like death in a beautiful place.

June: Tangled

The Laurel Highlands 70-miler. Not my worst idea of the summer ... not quite. But Beat was headed out to Pennsylvania on business and the timing coincided with a race that a friend of ours directs, and that I ran last year and loved. The bad part about the timing was that it was one week after the Bryce 100, which gutted my health. I wasn't nearly recovered by the time we had to get on a plane, fly to the East Coast, and wake up at what amounted to 12:30 a.m. Pacific Time to run a tough, rocky, hilly, rocky, 70-mile trail run. I thought it would be good training for the PTL — relentless forward motion when I wasn't feeling well. I suppose it was realistic training, but I lost enough time to squatting in the woods that I missed a cut-off at mile 46. I like this photo because it depicts the a bit of the misty, ethereal feel that the forest began to take on once I really became depleted. The Laurel Highlands were the leaping point into a summer of injury and disappointment.

July: Bench With a View

Okay, okay, summer was pretty awesome. I certainly can't complain. But a knee injury incurred during a fall in mid-June lingered for weeks and led to much angst and frustration, not to mention limited training at a time when I felt I really needed to be putting in the miles ahead of PTL. At the end of July, Beat and I traveled to Switzerland to celebrate his brother's wedding anniversary. Since we were en route to Iceland, Beat opted to spend the layover week working at the Google office in Zurich, and I had some free time to go exploring. My knee was just starting to come around, so I packed my hiking gear and hopped on a train headed toward the Alps, picking a destination at random. I arrived at a beautiful town on a cerulean lake, Lungern, and started hiking up a mountain right from the train station. After 4,500 vertical feet I arrived at the crest of a ridge to find a rugged jeep road, this bench, and a well-dressed older couple quietly enjoying a sweeping view of the Bernese Alps, which I was seeing for the first time because the clouds had just then started to clear.

August: Iceland

I loved Iceland. It is truly a unique place — a volcanic outcropping on the cusp of the Arctic Circle, stark and colorful, with a culture that is at once modern and lost in time. I loved the moonscapes and the lush valleys, the mineral-rich mountains and the black sand coast. And although I joke about my year of bad races, Racing the Planet Iceleand was one that went quite well for me — almost flawlessly, all things considered. Before this 250-kilometer stage race started, I joked that I hadn't run since May, because I was so sick at Bryce and Laurel Highlands, and then became injured shortly after that. But hoisting a thirty-pound pack and trekking over rough terrain is my kind of thing; I took it conservatively and finished each day feeling strong, relishing in every mile of scenery. The weather was overall horrible, but that was expected; ultimately the 50-mph winds and frigid rain added to the memorability of the experience. Someday, hopefully soon, I will return to Iceland, in the winter, with Snoots in tow.

September: Down the Col, Down the Col

Beat has now raced the Tor des Geants in Italy, with its 80,000 feet of climbing over 200 miles, four times. The route climbs 25 passes — or "cols" — and it's become an expression of ours, when faced with a difficult task, to whimper in a defeated tone, "Up the Col, Up the Col." Beat started this year's race one week after he finished PTL, and I helped crew for him and hauled my own ragged body up and down several of the cols, because regardless of how tired you are, that's really what you should do when you're in the Italian Alps. This is a photo of Beat descending the highest pass on the route, Col Loson, which is where he really started to hit his stride and become stronger after a predictably rough start. I was so amazed at his resilience when I was still reeling through the emotional turmoil of my own experience at PTL — coming down, as they say.

October: Foiled Again

I had a lot of photos from October that I liked, and it was difficult to pick one. I settled on this photo of my dad descending Mount Timpanogos shortly after unpredictable snow and ice conditions turned us around before the saddle. This was the second year in a row that Dad and I attempted a late-season ascent of what can be the most benign of hikes during the summer, but seems to become a real mountaineering challenge when you throw a little snow in the mix — well, enough snow to bury the summer trail. This photo has a formidable look to it that matches my own impression of Mount Timpanogos.

November: A Beautiful Sort of Monotony 

After four years, I think I've finally ridden enough laps around Frog Town. As years go by, I've found myself feeling less and less interested in racing for the sake of racing — such as using turtle strategy to knock out a respectable finish at a 25-hour mountain bike race. Those competitive spirit days are probably gone now if they were ever really there, but in Utah this November I realized that all-day-all-night lap racing no longer has the same fun appeal that it once did. Even though my heart wasn't really in it, the 25 Hours of Frog Hollow was a fun and beautiful diversion, and a chance to visit with friends who I haven't seen in a long while. Crashing out after ten laps wasn't the way I intended to finish, of course, but it's probably a fitting way for someone like me to exit mountain bike racing (at least of the non-winter and non-multiday-bikepacking variety), maybe forever.

December: Golden Hour

I'm pulling out a December photo early this year because Beat and I are headed to Alaska for the holidays, and I'm not sure how much time I'll have for blogging between now and January 1. This is a photo of Marshall Beach near the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, were I went for a quick training run. One of the best aspects of setting big, possibly unattainable goals is that they force me out of complacency and provide a defensible reason to go out and have little adventures, whenever I can. With only about an hour and a half to burn before a meeting in the city, I set out on an unknown beach, crawling over rocks, skirting foamy waves, discovering hidden coves and scaling old military structures, all in the name of "training." I admit that I'm an adult who simply wants to go out and play, because that's how I view life — a passage of an infinitesimally small allotment of time on a swiftly changing planet, meaningful only as far as you believe it to be. I find moving through the world to be endlessly purposeful, even as I struggle to define that meaning in the absence of tangible products. I spent hours of 2013 taking photos, and probably days of time writing in this blog, if only to make a record. But the meaning is still out there, written in simple footprints in the sand for a moment before the ocean sweeps them away.

Photo posts from years past:
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010 part one, part two
2011
2012