Desperately seeking winter

The past few days in Anchorage have been wet and gloomy, and I've been in a funk. It seems I've snagged myself in this emotional loop of stress about my coast trip, insomnia, and missing Beat.

I know — I'm usually so thrilled just to be in Alaska that I can easily leap over the everyday angst. But I think a combination of the weather and the fact I left California with a lot of loose ends to wrap up, have made the transition tougher. I've even met with a few friends in town, but it didn't really cut through the loneliness. Beat calls three times a day, and this just makes me miss him more. I keep refreshing the race tracker instead of focusing on what I should be doing, then lose focus altogether. I scour the one duffel bag of gear I brought with me and make little piles, trying to determine what to take to Unalakleet, where it should go on my bike, and why. Then I re-arrange the piles. I gathered everything I needed for an overnight tour here in Southcentral Alaska, and then nixed those plans because of rain. I feel wistful and wish I was just walking to McGrath with Beat, even as wet and miserable as it all sort of sounds right now.

Alas, I suppose this is what happens when you take a California dweller who doesn't even realize she's addicted to sunshine, and put her in what for all practical purposes resembles late-term break-up season in the north. I know deep down I'm glad to be here; I just have to push through the surface gloom. I've enjoyed watching the Iditarod Trail Invitational so far. A nice freeze-up just in time for the race start created hard-packed, dirt-like trail conditions, prompting another year of record times for the lead bikers. This turned out to be a narrow window that closed quickly, and now those still out there are slogging through wet snow and thawing conditions. These things are to be expected and Beat is taking it in stride, still moving well on his way over Rainy Pass.

A bout of sleeplessness last night at least prompted me to finish up some accounting I've avoided (tax season for the self-employed. I can't stomach doing it all at once, so I break it up into slightly more palatable pieces.) This was the last item on my immediate to-do list, so today I got out for what turned out to be a five-hour ride around Anchorage trails. The trail conditions were consistently bad — I effectively rode 31 miles of slush and glare ice, wearing microspikes on my boots so I could hike out the worst sections. A misty rain fell all afternoon, which had a strange effect of making the climbs feel humid and hot, and the descents clammy and frigid. I wasn't loving the ride but stuck with it, mainly because I hoped a long ride would improve my mood. And actually, it did. After three hours I gained more confidence in my studded tires and relaxed enough to find a rhythm.

I find sometimes when I'm in a flow, I lose all visceral sense of time and place, residing only in each fleeting moment. This meditative state reliably leads to startling snaps back to three-dimensional reality, where surprises lurk. This moose crashed through the brush as then stopped at the edge of the trail as though waiting to cross a street. I slammed on my brakes because, yikes, moose! Then we had a three-minute standoff that carried an air of politeness — "After you. No, after you. No, after you." Finally it became clear that she was not going to continue until I was gone. Passing her was my only way forward, so I did, stealing a quick snapshot as I went by (Moose make me very nervous. But she didn't appear agitated, so I didn't sense danger.) After that I had a good laugh about forgetting completely that I was even in Alaska, let alone riding slush ice rather than dirt. I was just out for a bike ride.

Still, I think it will be good for me to get out of town, so I'm heading north on Thursday — a few days camping in the Denali area, and then Fairbanks. Beat is starting to find his flow as well. The first few days are always difficult as bodies settle into the new workload and minds adjust to the wildly swinging emotions and solitude. This is why he sets out on these journeys — to find the deep vein of strength and serenity that is often buried under our everyday angst. I could use this attitude adjustment as well. 

2015 Iditarod Trail Invitational, day one

Well, Beat has embarked on his third journey to Nome. We flew into Anchorage late Friday night and had the usual whirlwind 36 hours before the 2015 Iditarod Trail Invitational started at 2 p.m. Sunday. I'm not participating this year, which left me simultaneously relived and disappointed. I cheered for everyone at the start, then prepped my fat bike for a spectator ride out the Iditarod Trail. Trail conditions were so hard-packed and fast that I caught everyone effortlessly, even the indefatigable Dave Johnston. I ended up riding all the way to Flathorn Lake slough — 50 miles round trip — and still returned to the Knik Bar just after dark. 

It was a gorgeous day, and I was on Cloud 9 with this ride. These rolling hills of the Susitna River Valley, and this loosely distributed but tight-knit community of people, have been intricately woven in my life since 2006. Returning to this place is always intensely meaningful for me, as is participating in the "ritual" — even if only on the periphery. I don't have the time right now to write about the experience, but I wanted to post some photos of the race start: 

 Steve Ansell, Tim Hewitt, and Loreen Hewitt digest their final meals at the Knik Bar — officially "Mile 0" of the Iditarod Trail.

 Final preparations at Knik Bar.

350-mile foot racer Jason Buffington is on the right. Last March, he heated up some lasagna for me the minute I arrived in McGrath, and for that I remain grateful.

 Beat and his sled. This year he constructed a carbon pole and custom-machined (by him) titanium joints. Note his husky, Bernie, in the foreground, is along for the ride again this year.

The start of the race was warm (30F) but with a stiff breeze. Beat was prepared. 

Steve is also going for the full distance to Nome this year. Here, he contemplates 1,000 miles.

 Beat chats with Kevin Breitenbach, the defending champion of the McGrath race and holder of the 350-mile bike record.

 Jason Boon. We spent some time with him on the trail last year as well. He's one of four walkers aiming for Nome this year. There are 12 Nome racers in total.

 Dave Johnston, holder of the 350-mile foot record, racing in memory of Rob Kehrer. Rob is an ITI veteran and longtime volunteer who died last summer during the Alaska Wilderness Classic.

Saying goodbye. Note the lack of pretty much anything in Dave's sled.

 Final GPS check before the start.

 Andrea Dubenezic of Fairbanks. She accompanied Beat and me as I wheezed my way through the last 20 miles of the Fat Pursuit 200K in Idaho this past January. She's awesome ... and pretty nervous. First time on the Iditarod Trail. She'll do great.

 And they're off. The journey of a thousand miles begins ...

 Dave Johnston's son, Miles — already being indoctrinated into sled-dragging culture.

 Look at that snowless marsh. Snow cover was slim to non-existent in open areas. The surface of the trail was glare ice with a dusting of about a centimeter of powder. Further down the trail, it was sugar snow with a reasonably solid crust. Trail conditions were frequently treacherous, yet the studded-tire fat bike made riding seem effortless. I try to imagine what this race would be like seven years ago when most everyone had Surly Pugsleys with 65mm rims, and no one had studded tires. Or in the 1990s, when fat bikes did not even exist. But things pretty much don't change for the walkers. One of the many reasons why the softest spot in my heart is reserved for the foot racers.

 Jason Boon, "I'm just getting a few more things dialed in."

 3 Mile Hill, the first of many short but steepish climbs that ripple across the Susitna Valley.

 Fellow spectator Shawn McTaggart trying to catch up to her husband, Tony, and Dave Johnston. Shawn is the only woman besides Loreen Hewitt who has completed the thousand-mile journey to Nome on foot, and she's done it twice.

 Tony and Dave, looking fresh as a daisy at mile six.

 Biker and Mount Susitna.

 Jill loves these wide open spaces. People tell her that this first section of the Iditarod Trail is boring, and she strongly disagrees.

 Dave, still looking fresh as a daisy at mile 22 — three and a half hours after the start. Amazing sled-dragging pace.

 Bye Dave! I'll told him I'd visit after he returned from McGrath and that I'd make sure to bring him a six-pack of Budweiser. "Make it a margarita," he said.

 Snoots is sad because she wants to go to Nome.

 Beat and Steve, both looking great at mile 17. If all goes as well as it can, this will be the last time I see Beat until he arrives in Nome, hopefully under four weeks from now. This is always a tough but satisfying goodbye.

Bye Beat! Have a great trip to Nome. 

The week of gloom 'n doom

 Beat and I leave for Alaska on Friday amid grim trail and weather reports. I can't believe it's been nine years since I first fretted about "Iditaswim." (I also appreciate how this blog documents all of my famous last words, including this gem from 2006: "I'm fairly certain I could walk 100 miles given 48 hours to do so. Not that I'm about to enter this race in the foot division.")

Still, spending a healthy portion of the month of February obsessing about conditions along the Iditarod Trail has become a time-honored tradition that I can't seem to get away from, no matter how much else in my life changes. The outlook of 2015 is particularly gloomy, as illustrated by this collage of photos I compiled from Iron Dog snowmachiners and others who have been out on the trail in the past few days:

I'm currently anxiously awaiting Iron Dog Snowmachine Race reports from the coast, where I hope to embark on my 250-mile tour starting March 15. But even before then, I was planning to ride out to Flathorn Lake to cheer for the foot racers on Sunday (upper left) and venture out toward Skwentna for a shakedown ride later in the week (middle photos), and I really don't want to think about Beat attempting to cross open leads and fast-flowing overflow on big rivers like the South Fork of the Kuskokwim (lower left.) Since he took time off in March anyway, I told him we should trade in our tickets and go somewhere else, maybe New Zealand. He didn't seem to think I was serious. Why wouldn't I be serious? Really, what is wrong with us?

At least my endurance running/heat training here in California is going well. If only I had a goal to attach to this. Saturday brought my third 50-kilometer run in three weeks, the Montara Mountain 50K in Pacifica. The course is quite the quad-buster, requiring an ascent to the 1,800-foot summit of Montara Mountain, twice, and another loop with two big climbs, three times, so you compile this 7,000-foot monster with twisty descending. The event organizer, Coastal Trail Runs, calls it their second toughest course; I don't know which is the first, although I'm guessing it involves Mount Diablo. Anyway, it's a hard race, and my legs were good and tired from loading them with long runs and fat bike rides for several weeks (in past experiences, this "binge training" is what works best for me when preparing for multi-day efforts. Load them up, and soon that hazy after-50K sensation becomes the new normal and I'm okay with keeping it up for days or weeks.)

It was another warm weekend, and these brushy coastal hills are frequently exposed to the hot sun. Steep terrain also often shelters canyons from the sea breeze, so they heat up like an oven. I resorted to what is usually a mid-summer strategy of freezing a two-liter bladder of water and carrying a block of ice on my back, and still suffered in the heat. My stomach went sour and I slowed down on the second climb of Montara, fearing I might have to "walk it in." Near the top I pulled out my trekking poles for the upcoming rocky descent, and also for proper "White Mountains training," and began to perk up. Something about those trekking poles really seems to boost my spirits ... maybe because they remind me of the long slogs that I love so much.

I ended up with a 6:30 finish, which was good enough for third woman in this small local race. The White Mountains 100 is in just over a month, and I'm still on the fence about flying out to Fairbanks for the pre-race meeting. That decision will depend on what happens with Beat's journey on the mushy Iditarod Trail, as well as my own adventures in March. But right now I feel well-conditioned and excited about the prospect of a hundred-mile run in the Whites, and I hope I have a shot.

I got in one last long ride with Snoots the following day when my friend Jan invited me to join him for trail explorations in the East Bay. I expected more of a Sunday amble, but a combination of map navigation, plenty of short but brutal climbs, and tired legs stretched this ride into the "almost epic" range. We started at Lake Chabot and spent nearly six hours contouring grassy hills, rolling through eucalyptus groves, crossing cattle pastures and descending into shaded redwood forests. We enjoyed sweeping views of the canyons and only crossed a couple of small roads. It's hard to believe this whole region is a sliver of open space in the middle of the greater Oakland metro area.

Beat was in a bad mood when I returned home, as the slushy barrage of gloom and doom really began to flow through various social media outlets. We can only wait and see what next week holds, as is the case every year. Of course I just want him to stay safe, and hopefully have the great adventure he spends eleven months dreaming about, every year. What is wrong with us? I don't know, but the years keep passing by, and I still wouldn't trade it for anything else.