The Fairbanks Journals, day 10

December 31. Sunrise 10:55 a.m. Sunset 2:53 p.m. Temperature -10. Still clear. Awesome. 

I couldn't leave Alaska without getting in at least one bike ride. Happily, Joel's roommate let me borrow his Salsa Mukluk while he was out of town. He was gone all week, so I suppose it's a shame that I only managed one ride. As it turned out, even New Year's Eve was a tight squeeze. I had been awake for most of the night before finishing layout on the Alaska newspapers that I contract for, and we were flying home late that evening (we enjoyed salmon and fondue dinner, fireworks, and a raunchy card game with Joel and Erica, but spent the stroke of midnight at the Fairbanks airport, which is as sad as it sounds.) Still, snow bike ride, yay! Finally, I was going to fly!

Except the trails were still soft, and the rolling was strenuous and slow. I did not find 5 mph to be an acceptable pace, so I laid into the pedals, working near maximum capacity just to produce that feeling of actually riding a bike. I had to pull down my mask and take big ragged gulps of 10-below air. And it's amazing how frosty you can get when you really let yourself sweat. After 45 minutes I could no longer see through my icelashes.

Only after making this Fairbanks blog post series did I realize that we spent ten full days in Alaska. It passed in such a blur, like a long weekend, and suddenly it was over. If it hasn't become obvious yet, I am very happy when I am in Alaska. I acknowledge that this is largely because, since I moved away, any time I've spent there has been focused on playing and adventure. Living in the 49th state is a much broader experience, more subdued, and more trying oftentimes. But the dream remains that someday we will return for a longer period of time than a week here, a month there. I'm satisfied where I'm at right now, but "North to the Future, Again, Someday" is the dream I still hold in my heart. If I had an Alaska permanent base and work location was no concern, I think I'd most prefer either Fairbanks, Palmer, or Homer. All have their benefits and drawbacks, and it's oh-so-tough to choose. (Homer is my favorite community, but so far away from everything. Fairbanks people are fun and winters are amazing, but seven months of it probably gets old. Palmer is a pleasant town near big mountains, centrally located, but it is culturally part of the Mat-Su Valley.) And then there's Juneau. Sometimes I think I could return. When it's beautiful in Juneau, few places in the world that I've experienced can match that beauty. But then I remember that at one time I desperately needed to escape the isolation and gray, and there's probably no going back.


The winter gear-testing went well, and Fairbanks gave us a fair range of conditions in which to try out new stuff. I know such things are boring additions to a narrative blog, but I benefit from keeping these records, so I'm posting the gear list I'm working on. There are probably some things missing, and I hope to continue to tweak it and maybe shed a few items over the next few weeks (so hard for me. I do not have unbending confidence in myself or my abilities, quite the opposite, so I feel the need to be prepared for all contingencies.)

It's funny, because one of the reasons I took up running is because I was sick of all the gear-oriented focus of cycling. Running is shoes and a water bottle, right? How I continue to find myself venturing into extremely gear-oriented activities is a mystery to me, because in a different life I would *love* to be the kind of person who owned one bike, one pair of shoes, and a water bottle. But, alas, my complicated passions have rendered me as gear-crazed as the worst of them, and this is what I think I need to run (walk) 350 miles across Alaska:

Clothing: 

Outer layer, for stopping: PHD down pants, PHD down parka, RBH Designs VaprThrm mittens
Wind layer: Skinfit shell pants, Outdoor Research Mentor Jacket
Insulation layers: Mountain Hardwear Airshield Monkey Fleece, North Face ThermoBall jacket, North Face wind pants, Skinfit primaloft shorts
Base layers: 66 North Polartec pullover, Under Armour top, GORE windstopper tights
Head: Mountain Hardwear monkey fleece hat, Mountain Hardwear windstopper hat, fleece balaclava, windstopper buff, goggles with nose piece, Beko face mask
Hands: Mountain Hardwear monkey fleece mittens, windstopper gloves, trekking pole pogies
Underwear: Isis briefs (x3), sports bras (x3)
Feet: Montrail Mountain Masochist Gore-Tex shoes, size 10.5; Acorn fleece socks, medium (x2), extra-large (x2); Integral Designs vapor barrier socks, Drymax socks (x6), Outdoor Research gaiters
Sunglasses

Sleeping: 

Thermarest Ridge Rest SoLite; PHD down sleeping bag; Integral Designs South Col II bivy sack; Bivy bundle; Down booties.

Survival: 

Multitool; Spare knife; Duct tape; Flint firestarter; Lighter; Waterproof matches; Mirror; Handwarmers x4; sled repair kit? (screws, rope, allen key.)

Electronics: 

Garmin eTrex 20; watch; personal locator beacon; Lithium AA batteries (x12-16); Lithium AAA batteries (x4); Fenix headlamp; Spare Black Diamond headlamp; Cold-O-Meter; Camera; iPod shuffle (x4); Spare camera battery.

Foot kit: 

Leukotape; {keep warm — Benzoin Tincture; Hydrolube (2 tubes?)} Blister patches (x6), safety pin; Neosporin.

Med kit: 

Wet wipes (x10); Advil; Aleve; Sudafed; Imodium; Caffeine tabs; Toothbrush/paste; Floss; Small soap; extra hair ties; Chapstick; Tums; Dermatone SPF 23; Sunscreen stick backup?

Cooking: 

MSR Whipserlite stove; Fuel, 11 oz; Pot; Pot holder; Spoon.

Misc: 

Northern Sled Works 4' Racing Pulk; Pole system; Deuter duffle; Bungees (x2-3); Stuff sacks for gear and food (x3-4) Wiggy's waders; Black Diamond Ultra-Distance Z-Pole trekking poles; Backpack/harness; Camelbak Shredbak bladder 2L; Hydro Flask 40 oz; Thermos; Northern Lights snowshoes; Paper maps.

The Fairbanks Journals, days 7-9

December 28 to 30. Sunrise 10:57 a.m. Sunset 2:50 p.m. Temperature -3 to -25. 

 Back in Fairbanks after the Tolovana trip, the temperature was near minus 30. A smog-saturated ice fog hung over the streets like a dirty curtain, empty cars idled in parking lots, and we pulled on our down coats and went out for a burrito because this was quickly becoming our new normal. We had only about twelve hours to shop for new supplies, eat, and sleep before it was time to pack up in the pre-dawn chill and head north again, this time for a three-day trip to the White Mountains Recreation Area. This trip plan had me especially excited, as I love the White Mountains. With all of the beautiful spots in Alaska, it's difficult to explain while this particular space holds my heart so tight — the Whites are a small mountain range, dotted with anemic spruce trees and large swaths of burn, not immediately remarkable in any way. But my time here has always been filled with joy, and awe, and just enough fear and fatigue to strike a memorable chord.

On December 28, it was hot. Those words did come out of my mouth. "It's hot." Wispy clouds moved in and the temperature shot up to a few degrees below zero F. Thanks to the clouds, we actually convinced two friends to join us for the first night — Jay on his fat bike and Tom on skis. Both were not particularly interested in spending a night at the cabin, which sits in a low-lying valley on the banks of Beaver Creek, if the temperature was as low as it had been at Jay's house two nights before — minus 45 (as it turned out, the Tolovana winds prevented us from experiencing the depths of the cold snap, which dropped into the minus 40s in Fairbanks and as low as minus 58 in Chicken, Alaska.) We got a particularly late start so we could convoy with Jay and Tom to Wickersham Dome, and let them speed on ahead and warm up the cabin as we made the twenty-mile march to Borealis-Lefevre.

Beat drops down the Wickersham Wall, a 1,200-foot descent off the Dome. You can see the trail snaking out into the valley for miles ahead.

Dressing for the cold is an art, and in my experience it's not the same in similar temperatures even for individuals, depending on a multitude of other factors. I put on the same layers that felt perfectly comfortable a mere six days earlier at 11 degrees above zero, and felt uncomfortably hot at 3 below. I did the usual — took off my hat, unzipped the insulation layers, pushed down my trekking pole pogies, and made an effort to vent as much as possible without exposing my more sensitive parts or bare skin to the still-subzero cold. Along the Wickersham Creek it dropped to 9 below, which felt nice, but I was still pumping out more heat than I thought was prudent, pretending I was in a universe where a warm cabin didn't lie just a few hours away. Heat means sweat, and sweat eventually means chill. It's great to feel warm, but bad to feel hot. Still, I felt pressed to continue the strenuous output. The boys, especially Liehann, were pumping out a break-neck pace and I was determined to keep up with them. It was such hard work, this sled-dragging at three miles per hour, and again I tried to push future implications of such slowness out of my mind. "Think of Jehu, the little pony," I thought to myself. "Keep up or end up as dog food."

We arrived at Borealis after six and a half hours of marching, feeling great. I'm not sure I could afford that same high level of effort during the long march of the Iditarod, but overall it does feel better to move "fast" rather than "slow." I felt so good toward the end that I even chased after the boys, who had gotten about a quarter mile ahead of me before the descent into Beaver Creek. I looked up my pace for that downhill sprint on Strava. 7:16-minute-mile pace! Who says this stuff has to be a slog all of the time?


Spending the evening at Borealis with Jay and Tom was good times. Thanks to their faster methods of travel, they had a good fire going by the time we arrived, as well as wood gathered for the night. In this BLM area, cabins are as bare-bones as they come. There's a Coleman two-burner stove and propane lantern — you pack in the propane and matches. You also pack in your own dishes and supplies, and gather all of your own wood from the surrounding forest. Cabin etiquette stipulates that you gather and split enough wood for one extra night before you leave, so there's a fair supply when the next party arrives. This is much less work if you arrive with a snowmachine and a chainsaw than it is if you're on foot with a cabin hatchet and a small saw. Drinking water is acquired by either melting snow in a pot on the wood stove, or chopping a hole in the ice on Beaver Creek and boiling the stream water. In the 12' by 16' foot log structure, there's a small table, a counter, two bunk beds, and a heat-trapping loft that Tom calls "the dehydrator." Rather than squeeze onto one of the thin upper bunks, Liehann opted to sleep on the floor where there was a slick of ice that never melted. It's rustic living out there, but the rentals are only $25 a night, and you can't beat the awesome location at any price.

The next morning, defying a weather forecast that called for more warming and some snow, the clouds cleared out and the temperature dropped to 20 below. Tom, who was on skis, was especially annoyed by this, as cold temperatures reduce glide and make for a slower and harder ski out. "It could take seven hours," he lamented. We pointed out it would probably take us seven hours to hike out, which did not make him feel any better. I was honestly glad that it was cold again. Cold meant clear, and clear meant magic light.

Our plan for the layover day was to hike farther out the trail toward Windy Gap, as long as we felt like hiking, before turning around. Only one set of tracks had been laid since the last big storm, and the trail was very soft and — because our sleds don't glide well in cold temperatures either — extremely slow.

But I was so blissed out, comfy cozy in my fleece jacket, tights, and primaloft shorts. And while my hamstrings did ache from the hard march the day before, I quietly hoped this day's march would go on for a long while.

As the day swiftly waxed and waned, the temperature continued to drop, even though we were gaining elevation. At mile four it was down to 25 below. Beat suggested we go one more mile.

Beat and Liehann at our agreed-upon turnaround, mile five, still 25 below. "I'm really enjoying myself," I announced. "If it's all right with you guys, I'll keep going for another mile or so and then turn back."

Beat did not seem to like the idea of me striking out alone. "If you don't come back, we're not going to come looking for you," he said gruffly.

"I'm going to be spending a lot of time in the Iditarod by myself," I argued. "I have everything I need. I'm fine."

I won the argument to go on and Beat decided to accompany me. Liehann opted to turn back. We were marching toward these sun-kissed mountains and the devil on my shoulder prodded me to find a way to keep going, to continue pushing toward those mountains, deeper into the Whites. But Beat was the angel on my other side, reminding me what might be at stake. "With it clearing like this, it might drop to 40 below overnight," he reasoned. And he was right that getting too tired out the day before a twenty-mile march would not be prudent. The game really begins to change at 40 below, and operating at anything but full energy and alertness is a gamble. My worst moments in my first Iditarod Trail Invitational happened because of fatigue in the deep minus 30s. I remember them all too well. 

So Beat won the argument to turn around. The trail on the way back was considerably harder to negotiate, because a bunch of moose had come through and stomped it full of holes. Oh wait, that was us. I took the obligatory daily selfie, this one at minus 25. I'm wearing a fleece balaclava that I've owned since I was a senior in high school. I love using fleece balaclavas in cold temperatures because they can be easily adjusted to warm the skin on my face as needed, and all of that frost buildup can be beaten away to the point that it's almost dry. The front face piece does soak through with breath moisture, and of course freezes solid. But without wind, the resulting ice mask is not uncomfortable. It still catches heat from my breath and redirects it toward my face, which means no goggles are needed unless it's windy, or possibly when it's colder than 40 below. (I hate wearing goggles with a fiery passion. I do like my eyes so I will wear them if necessary.) Beat is considering a fur ruff, and that's definitely a good idea. But for something that cost $20 back in 1997, the fleece balaclava has to have the highest value ratio of any piece of gear I've purchased.

Thanks to clear skies, the Northern Lights again came out to play. We never had a spectacular display during our time in Fairbanks — activity remained moderate to low. But they were consistent, often still out hours later as we made midnight dashes to the outhouse.

I need to point out that Beat took all of the aurora photos. One of the reasons I do not consider myself a photographer is because I have no patience for fussing with camera settings. Luckily Beat took over and captured some decent ones.

Ah, Borealis. So many good memories here. This cabin serves as checkpoint four in the White Mountains 100, at mile 78 of the race. The first time I arrived at this cabin was around midnight during the 2010 race. The trail had been very difficult — lots of wind and overflow — and I was rather undertrained because, well, I had been fairly depressed during the winter of 2009-2010. As night deepened, the temperature dropped to 25 below — somewhat rare for late March — and all of the racers were suffering. The cabin was full of people with varying degrees of fatigue, some sickness, and some frost-nip. I stomped in after also letting my core temperature drop way too low. A volunteer handed me a cup of coffee, and a half minute later I became so wracked with convulsions that I spilled every last drop of it onto the floor. I spent more than an hour there thawing my butt and feet, chatting with the growing crowd, and generally soaking in the awesomeness that is the White Mountains 100 race, and the White Mountains in general. My experience in 2010 was deeply affecting. I made peace with my decision to leave Juneau, and accepted the uncertainties of the future at a time when I felt most frightened and alone and ready to retreat back to the world I knew even though it was making me unhappy. In many ways, the White Mountains changed my life. Maybe that's why I love them so much.

We were relieved when we woke up and discovered the temperature hadn't dropped much lower — 28 below on the creek bed, but the sun was on its way up, promising what minimal warmth it could bring.

Another day, another noon "sunrise."

Beat soaking up some rays as temperatures climbed into the minus teens.

I was again very comfortable and happy on this day. Twenty miles is a decent march but not outrageous. A half day in relatively friendly conditions doesn't quite venture into the territory of adversity, and thus offers its small enjoyments — a long gaze toward the pink hillsides, a frozen peanut butter cup nibbled with bare hands in the cold sunlight, indulging in some iPod listening as the boys marched on ahead. I love listening to music most when I am in a good mood, singing out loud if no one is in earshot. A song that has been one of my favorites since the PTL, "Humiliation" by The National, got put on repeat a few times. "Tunnel vision lights my way. Lead a little life today."

The Wickersham Wall loomed, and the Wickersham Wall has broken me many times. But on this day, I felt only a small hint of sadness — because this march would be over soon, and soon we would be leaving Alaska.

But for the moment, we were still in the Whites.

Maybe marching just a little bit slower, lingering on the fading pink light.

Couples selfie — a little too late for the Christmas card.

With 2,400 feet of climbing, the march out took just over seven hours. Although we'd planned to leave early so we'd get back in the afternoon, fears of 40 below caused us to skew our schedule to leave 90 minutes before the sun came up. We finished about 90 minutes after sunset, and never once had to use our headlamps in seven-plus hours outside. I know that it's dark in mid-winter in the North, but here, in the Whites, sometimes not so much.

I made it onto the roster for the 2014 White Mountains 100, so in theory I get to come back in late March, with my bike! I'm so excited. But first, the Iditarod. A daunting prospect so close and yet so far, all at the same time. 

The Fairbanks Journals, days 4-6

 December 25 to 27. Sunrise 10:58 a.m. Sunset 2:46 p.m. Temperature -25. Wind Force 6. 

Tolovana Hot Springs. Comfortable rustic cabins and outdoor, natural mineral hot spring bathing in Alaska’s remote interior. It sounds relaxing, doesn't it? But of our adventurous Fairbanks friends with frostbite stories, the majority happened at Tolovana Hot Springs — or, specifically, the trailhead, an exposed ridge where the wind virtually always blows at 20 knots and vehicles that have sat too long in subzero temperatures fail to start. We reserved a cabin for Christmas Day and were really hoping an experienced local or two would join us, but everyone was busy. Turns out the Californians would have to navigate this adventure on our own.

The trailhead is located here because it's the closest direct point from the Elliot Highway to the springs. The trail plummets down this ridge, crosses the low-lying valley and then climbs directly up that small mountain, called Tolovana Hot Springs Dome, before plummeting steeply into the Tolovana River drainage. Eleven miles with 1,500 feet of climbing inbound and 2,600 feet of climbing outbound. This is not as easy as it sounds.

We parked the car with fear in our hearts but set out comfortably at 12:30 p.m. in temperatures around minus 15 and a moderate breeze, gusting to about 20 miles per hour. Not that bad, all in all.

The climb up Tolovana Hot Springs Dome was a real grunt, effectively straight up the mountain on a wind-blown trail sometimes buried in knee-deep drifts. The sled tugged from behind like a boat anchor and I became so overheated with the workload that I took off my hat and stripped down to my base layer — just a base layer, at 15 below! This relative nakedness only lasted until we crested the ridge and met the full brunt of the wind, again.

Wind is a cruel taskmaster. The experience of cold is all relative, but when it comes to windchill, there's truly nowhere to hide. It penetrates every crack and exposes every flaw in your gear and your body itself. You wrap buffs around your nose, stuff rolled socks into your hat and pants, cover your eyes and mouth until you can hardly see or breathe, can't eat or drink, just march, march, march in a interminable effort to escape the wind.

Tolovana Hot Springs Dome may be wind-blasted, but it is stunning. The views up there were endless. We could see the hills rippling toward the Yukon River to the north, the dark silhouette of Denali to the south, and all around us a whole lot of seemingly uninhabited wilderness.


When we arrived at the cabin we'd rented, we found it occupied by a British man and an American women who were sort of from (or at least moving to) Santa Cruz, California — effectively our neighbors back home. They were originally going to ski the 11 miles into the cabin, but after nearly running out of gas on the highway and stopping in the village of Minto, they decided to pay some locals to shuttle them in on snowmachines — which was, from our perspective, one of the few smart decisions they made. Their outdoor clothing looked like the kind of fashionable downhill ski gear you'd find in Aspen on people who go out for a few runs and spend most of the day in the lodge. The woman admitted her rented cross-country ski boots did not fit well and her feet were still numb from the ride in, so they didn't even bother to go out for daytime skis during their time at the springs. Instead, they constructed an elaborate Christmas tree from a spruce that they apparently chopped down, and then duct-taped extra branches to the trunk to make it look prettier. They made ornaments out of bunched plastic bags, cardboard, tin foil, pine cones, and radishes that had frozen on the ride in, complete with a tin foil and cardboard star at the top of the tree. It was eight feet high and filled most of the small front room.

While they waited for their ride, they also cooked a massive dinner of rice, vegetables, and fire-roasted peanuts that they intended to share with their drivers. The snowmachiners finally arrived well after 6 p.m. — a Native man from Minto and his teenage son. The man predictably rejected the mushy vegan food, sat down at the table and pulled out a can of beer and a plastic water bottle filled with whisky. "Smooths the bumps," he explained. The woman started to put on her ski boots, and the Native man pulled out a pair of Sorels that he'd brought for her. "It's 25 below," he said, "you better wear these." She balked but eventually put them on. The Native man consumed the beer and a slug of whisky, and they set out in the darkness, leaving behind a large amount of uneaten dinner, dirty dishes, unswept floors, and of course the massive Christmas Tree. "It's just a bit more to carry out," the woman said rather unapologetically. I inventoried what they left behind — a plastic bag with about six pounds of fresh vegetables that had frozen and thawed to wilted slime, about two pounds of mushy cooked brown rice, a pound of cooked mushrooms and carrots, a half pound of coffee, some tea and sugar packets, a trash bag, and of course, the tree. I'm not sure why these people thought it was okay to assume three walkers towing sleds could carry out all of their trash, but they did come across as rather clueless. I ate the cooked carrots and mushrooms, and we stowed the plastic and foil bits, but opted to burn most of the rest of it. Liehann and Beat especially seemed to take pleasure in dismantling and incinerating a Christmas tree on Christmas Day.


After we'd completed most of the clean-up, we headed out to the springs for a soak. The hot springs sit beside a small stream that comes down a steep hillside. Small plastic tubs are fed by two pipes, one that funnels ridiculously hot water from the natural spring upstream, and one that brings in ridiculously cold water from the river. These springs are difficult to regulate. The outside temperature was minus 25 and the wind was still howling when we headed out and stripped naked. The water temperature inside the tub was on the ouch-too-hot side when we got in, so Beat redirected the cold-water pipe. I ended up at the far end on the tub, dipping my body further into the water as the wind blasted snow in our faces and turned my hair to an ice helmet. I was so preoccupied with head discomfort that I didn't notice how cold the water was getting. After about twenty minutes, my core temperature had dropped sufficiently that I started shivering, which was the first sign that alerted me to the fact this "hot" spring was actually cooler than body temperature where I sat. I was in a bad spot, because the cabin was a three-minute walk away and I'd have to expose my naked body to brutal windchill for several long minutes before I was dressed enough to walk back. I sidled over to Beat and Liehann's warmer side to try to increase my core temperature, but it didn't seem to work. My scalp was beginning to burn, and I was now as worried about head frostbite as I was about hypothermia. I jumped out, bare feet on glazed snow, and managed the clothing transition as best as I could before violent shivers took over, then hoofed back to the wood stove as fast as my wooden feet could muster. For the rest of the night, my scalp ached with minor frost nip. Needless to say, I did not find the soak at all relaxing, and I was not compelled to go back the following night. Beat and Liehann did, better equipped with hats that time around.

The clear night did treat us with a Northern Lights display. They boys discussed getting back in the hot spring to watch, but I was more than happy to stand outside in my down coat and enjoy the light ballet.

We rented two nights at Tolovana, so we had a layover day. We'd hoped to check out the first part of a longer mushing trail that heads out the Tolovana River Valley, but couldn't find access to any other trails near the springs, so we set out for a day's exercise of dragging our sleds back up the dome. The trail was considerably more wind-drifted than the day before, often obscured altogether. Because the wind was so strong in the valley, there was no inversion. It was 19 below at the cabin and 25 below on the exposed ridge. With wind sustained at 25 miles per hour and likely gusting to 35, the windchills were breathtaking, in the literal sense of the term. Windchill charts would place them at 55 to 60 below. I took this photo right before I relented to putting on goggles and a Gortex shell, and even then became uncomfortably cold all too quickly.

The sun set over what I guessed was Denali, as we marched into the wind. Our plan was to travel to an abandoned water tank with a small rabbit hole cut into the leeward side, intended as a wind shelter and sometimes referred to as the "Tolovana Hot Springs Hilton." It was only three and a half miles from our cabin, but felt like a very long march.

The ghost trees must live a hard life on these hills. My feet became disconcertingly cold on the way to the shelter, and I wanted to put on my shell pants, but opted to high-tail quickly back to the more wind-protected forest instead. I had to run much of the descent on painfully thawing "screaming barfies" feet, especially my right foot, which is still overly sensitive to cold because of frostbite damage five years ago. I vowed to figure out a better foot system for windy conditions. I didn't even bring my vapor barrier socks on this trip because I'm so frustrated by the trench-foot effects they can cause. But now I'm back to being more concerned about frostbite than I am about "Susitna foot," so a pair of VB socks will come with me on the Iditarod, along with shell pants that I will put on before windchills really get bad.

As we hiked out the following day, I decided to leave nothing to chance. I put on my Gortex shell, face mask, and wind pants before we crested the exposed ridge. I did get a bit more damp than I'd like, but I was considerably more comfortable, including my feet. That's really the thing about feet. If your core temperature drops, feet are the first to go, and more insulation will do little to keep them warm. But with a warm core, you can wear a pair of waterproof trail-running shoes and two pairs of fleece socks and remain comfy and fine in 55-below windchills.

When it's this windy, though, you do have to stay on the move. I still haven't figured out the goggle dilemma, and the ones I own fog up quickly, so I opted to rely on my hood and face mask for protection. As a result, I ended up with some frostburn (a brown, flaking scab, similar to sunburn) on my cheekbone. Liehann acquired a nice patch on the right side of his nose. As I said, wind is a cruel taskmaster.

Sunrise, which is effectively the same thing as sunset this time of year. Near Solstice, this latitude has four hours of dawn/dusk, which makes for the most amazing light. I believe that four hours of amazing light and three more hours of useable twilight is preferable to the nine and a half hours of normal light we get this time of year in California. My opinion might change if I ever actually lived this far north, but I'm a night person anyway and have a feeling that the long darkness might not get to me that much, just as long as the cold sun came out often enough to cast the land in magic light from time to time.

The trail was almost entirely drifted in, to the point where I frequently wandered off of it. Navigation became a challenge. As we descended, my mask iced up to the point where I couldn't pull it down easily. My Camelback was buried in two layers that needed to remain zipped up, so while my water was not frozen, it was effectively inaccessible. The return trip took nearly five hours to complete, during which time I did not eat and drank very little. This is also something I need to formulate a better strategy for, but wind is mean, mean stuff.

It was still 25 below at the trailhead, and our biggest fear remained — would the car start, or would we be stuck on this wind-exposed dome without protection or cell phone reception for the hour-plus it would take us to deal with the situation? In anticipation of that possibility, we'd borrowed a weed-burner from our friend Ed. It's a large torch attached to a propane tank, along with a short metal chimney pipe that is used funnel heat from the torch flame toward the engine block, warming it up enough to start. It's a trick to do this without melting plastic parts or setting the car on fire, which people have done. Arriving at a trailhead after five hours of hard marching without food or water, tired and sweaty, exposed to 55 below windchill, makes this a Herculean task. I suggested that if the car wouldn't start, we should crawl into our sleeping bags and get rested and warm before attempting the task. Luckily, happily, the car did fire up after a nervous few seconds of sputtering. The ice scraper that the rental company included was so bad that I had to use my Global Rescue card to clear the windows, and then it was a good 45 minutes on the road before the interior was even warmed up enough to start melting the ice on my hat. Good times! Really. We felt enormously satisfied.