The tradition

When I tell friends I'm heading to Arizona to hike across the Grand Canyon, I've heard the response, "Didn't you do that last year?"

"Well, yes," I'd answer. "I do this most every year."

"Why?"

"I go there with my dad. We hike together."

"Don't you and your dad want to do something different one of these years?"

"Well, no. It wouldn't be the same. Rim-to-rim is the tradition."

 Tradition is an interesting concept, isn't it? Repeating the same activities, year after year, generation after generation. Tradition has perpetuated things nobody likes, such as fruit cake and Black Friday, but it also generates a sense of familial belonging and stability. One could argue that the best traditions combine the warm fuzzies of familiarity with elements of awe and wonder. Fall Grand Canyon is top shelf in this regard.

 I'm not sure my dad was setting out to create a tradition when he invited me to join him and a group of family friends for my first rim-to-rim hike in October 2004. Among this group was a guy my age who was something of a childhood nemesis when we were classmates at Sprucewood Elementary School. He would openly mock me for being bad at the team sports were were compelled to play together in gym, and I would quietly seethe about it and then scrawl his name in my Trapper Keeper with "I hate" in bold letters on top. By my mid-20s, these playground events no longer had any meaning, but it's funny how the emotions stay fresh long after the context has faded. I was a little bit mortified when I found out he was going to hike with us.

 At the time I hadn't yet ventured into endurance sports, and had real and strong doubts about my ability to crank out a 24-mile hike with 6,000 feet of climbing that was all at the end, in 100-degree temperatures. Dad had been training hard all summer. My life was in a bit of disarray, and I was at the highest weight I've ever been. Even without admitting to my dad just how inadequate my preparations had been, he reminded me about the terrible ramifications — the "mule of shame" — if I couldn't haul myself out of the canyon. It's funny how far determination can take a person. With the dark shadows of my nonathletic childhood trailing me, there was no way I was going to let myself fail this time. When I set foot on the South Rim at the end of a tough but incredible day, I couldn't help but wonder — what other "really hard" things were within my reach?

 Completing a difficult challenge is always rewarding, but what really made that first trip special was spending that time with my dad. We're both verbally reserved, and I think we both struggle with interpersonal communication. The stunning expanse of the Grand Canyon can only open hearts and minds. As I sloughed off childhood hurt, I opened up to my dad about some of my current struggles. I told him I was interviewing for a job and considering relocating to Idaho Falls, by myself, which is something I hadn't even yet admitted to my boyfriend at the time. Looking up from the depths of the canyon, I could visualize the chasms I'd created in my life. I resolved to pursue more openness, less stagnation.

Life didn't really become less volatile as I decided to stay with the boyfriend and move to Alaska the following year. I moved 3,000 miles away and started a new job just one month before the trip, but I wasn't about to pass up another Grand Canyon hike with my dad. It continued that way for years, even as my life lurched and shifted directions with the wind. Fall Grand Canyon was one anchor of familiarity that helped keep me from going completely adrift. All the years I was in Alaska, I never went home for Christmas, but I was back in Utah every year for Fall Grand Canyon. It's my favorite tradition.

Now it's been a few years since I've been back, at least to the depths of the canyon. In 2013, a government shutdown prevented us from entering the national park. In 2014, I'd torn a ligament in my knee and couldn't hike, so instead did the drive-around with my mom, who joins every year to support the crossing. This year, my dad proposed a rim-to-rim-to-rim, hiking north to south one day and then back, south to north, the next. I suppose one might argue that a true R2R2R must be done in a day, so this is more like a back-to-back R2R. I'd still never completed the out-and-back, and was excited to see the canyon from both directions in the same weekend.

 Dad always invites his hiking buddies, and this year we were joined by his friend Raj. Another friend, Tom, was forced by injury to decline at the last minute. When Tom found out that the weather forecast called for temperatures in the 100s that weekend, he said to my dad in a prophetic tone: "May you rise like a golden biscuit from the oven floor to the canyon rim." We got a lot of laughs out of that statement. Dad immortalized Tom's words on the message board at the Manzanita rest area on the North Kaibab Trail.

 Another tradition of Fall Grand Canyon is the side-trip to Ribbon Falls for a snack and a light shower. The canyon had already cranked on the oven, so it's a welcome respite.

 Looking through Ribbon Falls toward the canyon. I have no doubt I've posted a set of very similar photographs on my blog before. I don't care; this is my blog.

We crossed the Colorado River on the "Silver Bridge," which leads to the Bright Angel Trail. There's another pedestrian bridge across the river just a quarter mile away. The "Black Bridge" leads to the South Kaibab Trail, which is shorter but has no water sources along its length, making for a tough climb when temperatures are in the 90s. Besides these two bridges, the only span across the Grand Canyon is the Navajo Bridge on U.S. Route 89A at Lee's Ferry. (The Glen Canyon and Hoover Dam bridges are technically outside the canyon.) This is why my mother has to drive for four hours just to link up a 24-mile hike. (Thanks, Mom!) One of my favorite rim-to-rim accounts, from another family who has this annual tradition, is by a woman who accidentally took a different bridge than her companions in 2012. I was telling my dad about this hilarious blog post, so here's the link: Rim-to-Rim, A Tragecomedy.

 The classic trail sign at Indian Gardens, warning people not to descend any further lest they become thirsty and dizzy and die. Although temperatures didn't quite reach the forecasted 100s, I thought it was plenty hot on this day, and this is about the point where I ran out of ice. (I always haul a ton of ice on hot-weather outings, if I can. Worth it.)

 Evening light and dusty haze on the South Rim. Hiking into the canyon is a worthwhile experience, but you really can't beat the views from just a few meters off the main road.

 We were up bright and early the following morning to hike the South Kaibab Trail back into the canyon. Dad had some foot pain — I offered up Beat's magic lube as a remedy — and otherwise wasn't worse for the wear on the second day.

 Raj decided he wanted to try running rim to rim, so it was just me and Dad on Saturday. At the trailhead, we were approached by a group of volunteers from the University of New Mexico who were conducting a study of rim-to-rim hikers and runners. They were gathering data such as before and after body weight, blood oxygen levels, water intake, and calorie consumption, in an effort to gain more insight into hyponatremia and other maladies that make hikers and runners ill. We agreed, but ten minutes of questioning threw off our purposeful schedule, and we ended up behind both a full bus of people and a mule train. Doh.

 The South Kaibab switchbacks. Similar to the Bright Angel and North Kaibab Trails, this trail is an engineering marvel and a thing of beauty, turning rather rugged and exposed terrain into an easy walk. It gets a little crowded sometimes, but I don't think anyone can complain about such a unique opportunity.

 We took a leisurely break at Phantom Ranch for a morning "lemmy" (a glass of iced lemonade. These were one dollar on my first rim-to-rim hike, and now cost three dollars.) I purchased two more refills of just ice to top off my three-liter bladder. We took another break for lunch at Cottonwood Campground, collecting our trash in a plastic bag for the study. (I ate two fruit snacks, one granola bar, one pita bread with Nutella, 10 ounces of lemonade, three ounces of saltine crackers, three ounces of tuna, and a handful of nuts for our S-N hike. Plus about 3 liters of water, total.) I thought about the ways this journey has changed for me since 2004. It's no longer this arduous, intimidating thing — actually, it's become rather relaxing, strolling through this gorgeous canyon on such a well-built, nicely graded trail. Sure, there's a 6,000-foot climb, but only one. It's so ingrained into my muscle memory that my legs no longer become tired or sore. I'm not trying to brag by calling the rim-to-rim hike easy, just making a personal observation about the ways perspectives change with experience. And still this is every bit as enjoyable, every bit as incredible, and still something I'd love to do again and again.

 It's also interesting to observe how strong my dad has become. He's always been strong, but he seems to only get stronger. I almost forget that he's 62 years old — out on the trail we're so evenly matched that my youth and even my ultra-running experience don't give me much of an advantage. We kept a steady, fast pace on the 4,000-foot, five-mile climb from Manzanita rest area to the rim, enough so that we passed a few trail runners who we watched fly past us earlier. Dad jokes about his senior citizen status, but it's not too much of a stretch to imagine us doing this together 15 years from now, when I'm the age Dad was when we first started our Fall Grand Canyon tradition, and Dad is nearing 80.

It's a beautiful dream. I hope it comes true. 

And then everything was beautiful

It was as though the mountains were laughing at all the runners still milling around Courmayeur, collecting soggy drop bags and awaiting truncated race results as blue skies blazed overhead. That the sun came out just a few hours after the Tor des Geants was cancelled, and effectively stayed out all weekend, caused some grumbling around town. Beat emphasized that organizers did the best they could with the information they had. The first night's snowstorm had already created significant hazards for more than 800 runners. Around 450 people were still in the race on day four, and asking hundreds of runners to navigate high-alpine terrain in pea-soup fog, where even experienced volunteers became lost, could ignite a large-scale emergency. It's one thing to go for a mountain adventure on your own, but as part of a race, you have to abide by a safety standard that works for a large group. This is the case even among the hardest of the hard-core races. But for some runners who had slogged through rain and snow for four days only to reach an unexpected cancellation, the sudden onset of beautiful weather stung a little.

I had every intention of taking advantage of our last two days in Europe, and planned a couple of hikes. Even though he was just a day removed from the Tor des Geants, Beat didn't hesitate to join. Although his feet were a mess, he claimed he felt great. His knee pain had mostly diminished, and Beat was annoyingly speedy. I couldn't keep up with him. I swear he just gets stronger as he goes. The only time I stand a chance of matching his pace is when he's "well rested."

Look how happy Beat is! I have witnessed this guy slip perfectly into his element in two places. The first is Alaska. The second is here.

Miles, our new friend from Canmore, joined us for a trek up the TMB trail to Rifugio Maison Vieille. A light rain storm had blown in for a couple of hours in the morning, but cleared out again as we sipped espresso and lemon soda at this cozy hut in the hills above Courmayeur.

We continued hiking beyond the rifugio because, views. Beat and Miles stopped frequently to reference the GPS and point out intriguing scrambling problems on the other side of the valley. It's funny to observe mountains like Mont Blanc, where you know every single minute problem has been solved and climbed hundreds or thousands of times. But somehow, when you're a hiker on the TMB trail on a quiet Friday in early fall, you can almost pretend that you're discovering this place for the first time.

Miles making his way up to Arete du Mont Favre. Although the weather was dry, a brisk wind had arrived with the unmistakable taste of autumn. The last time I visited this mountain, during UTMB, temperatures were in the upper 90s and I saw at least one runner being treated by an emergency medic for what appeared to be heat exhaustion. I prefer the cold wind, and won't miss summer when it's gone (it doesn't really go away in California.)

We enjoyed lunch on the ridge — chocolate and crackers from Beat's TDG stash — along with nice views of scree-coated Miage Glacier, the longest glacier in Italy. I congratulated Beat and Miles on a stout post-TDG outing, as the hike turned out to be 13 miles with 4,600 feet of climbing. They just shrugged, because that isn't all that much in the scheme of things.

The following day I couldn't shake these guys, who were still up for more adventure. I wanted to climb something high, but Beat had his own ideas about traversing along Val Ferret. I felt I'd already made that trek enough times this year (once on the low route during UTMB, twice on the high route over Testa Bernarda earlier in the week), so I veered off early and continued climbing to Col Malatra.

Col Malatra is the final pass in the Tor des Geants, which runners ascend from the other side before dropping 11 miles into Courmayeur. For that reason, I think a fair number of TDG runners chose Col Malatra as a nice Saturday-morning pilgrimage where they could bring closure to their races. That, or this trail is incredibly popular for a high-altitude grind on a cold day in September. There were a lot of people on the trail. I should have been used to that, as I'd been hiking the race course all week, but I found myself becoming impatient with the crowds. I wanted to bound up the hill and see if I could hit that elusive redline once again, but settled for a scenic march.

Col de Malatra is just a tiny notch in steep cliffs.

The altitude is 2,925 meters (9,600 feet), which was disappointing, as I mistakenly thought Col Malatra was one of the 3,000-meter passes.


But the views! Sweeping panoramas more than make up for lowly height.

I felt great. Although it was no Tor des Geants, I had a decent week of foot travel myself — 69 miles with 29,000 feet of climbing — and couldn't detect the slightest hint of soreness in my legs. My IT band would only nag at me on the steepest descents, and even that pain had diminished quite a bit. My lungs had really taken a turn for the better since the weather cleared. I hadn't even realized how obstructed my airways felt before they "opened up" on Thursday evening. It's a little difficult to describe. Could it be allergies? The wet weather? Psychological? I don't know. But it felt as though I went for this one hard run, and in doing so blasted my respiratory system clear. Whatever the reason, I was pretty stoked on life up on Col Malatra.

In an effort to avoid the crowds I took an off-trail route down the valley, ascending and descending a couple of minor ridges in the process.

Looking back up the valley toward Col Malatra.

I regained the main trail but broke off again to ascend a minor col and drop into the Arminaz valley. Although I'd shaken off my early-week malaise, there was a sadness to this descent — a realization that this was it, the last day in Italy. Beat and I had a long stay in Europe this year — nearly a month between France, Switzerland, and Italy — and I was undoubtedly homesick. I couldn't wait to see traffic lights again, and ice in drinks, free water at restaurants, grocery stores that aren't closed all afternoon, English on the signs, and Diet Pepsi! (they made Diet Pepsi aspartame-free? Ew. Maybe now I can finally kick the habit. Maybe.) But leaving the Aosta Valley is always bittersweet. A sad happy. I would love to live in the Aosta Valley if I could learn Italian. And if I could accept cutting back dramatically on my cycling, because both road and mountain biking would be terrifying here.

But it's back to California and hopeful training for the coming winter. That's pretty okay, too. 

How Jill got her groove back

"Accomplishments are ultimately meaningless. Experience is what matters."

I typed that sentence somewhere in a document shortly after UTMB, but ultimately scrubbed it from the detritus of post-race stream-of-consciousness. Still I continued to squint into the murky flow, trying to make sense of why I seek challenges that are well beyond my pay grade, throw aside all the medals and patches and belt buckles when I succeed, and yet feel so bewildered and unmoored when I fail.

"Four failures in the Alps. Four!" I came to UTMB in 2012 well-prepared and well-trained, only to be thrown into a shortened, dramatically different race when a snowstorm forced a major reroute at the last minute. I finished the 110K, but it's always felt like a failure. I signed up for Petite Trotte à Léon in 2013 because I really had no idea what I was getting into, but that challenge sounded so much more adventurous than UTMB. PTL was a mistake from the get-go — negotiating frequent scrambling, navigation and tricky route-finding with limited mountaineering experience, a shaky sense of balance, communication difficulties with my teammates, and extreme sleep deprivation. I held on for four days until my vision was blurry and I'd effectively lost my mind to stress and fear, and then I timed out at 200K. Terrible. Worst thing I've ever done to myself. And still ...

I came to the Tor des Geants in 2014 because it seemed like a much nicer event than PTL, and it was. TDG was hard — far more difficult than I anticipated even after watching Beat make his way around the Aosta Valley for three years. But the race was fun, and I was doing okay until I slipped, wrenched my knee, tore a ligament, and had to crawl out from a remote ridge so I could drop out of that race at 200K. After eight weeks of recovery, frustrated that I'd failed yet again, I made the decision to sign up for UTMB in 2015.

Argh, why did I have to start that thing? But UTMB was so beautiful, with indigo shadows and intensely bright moonlight. The day was so colorful and hot, the mountains so much bigger than I remembered. Even though I was nauseated and bleeding in places that you really don't want to be bleeding, I drew some incredible experiences from the endeavor. But why did I have to fail, two thirds through the race, yet again? Suddenly these vibrant memories have this gray shade drawn over them. "You failed, you accomplished nothing."

Who's telling me this? But this is the message I receive.

So I've had a bad year on the accomplishment front. I admit it's gotten me down. This is how these emotions start, and then negativity gloms onto negativity, and soon I'm mired in despair about California wildfires and drought, the Syrian refugee crisis, the prospect of a winterless winter in Alaska, and missing my cat (long story, but I recently gave away my cat of 11 years to the woman who takes care of her while we're out of town, for the cat's welfare and also for our friend's happiness. It was the right decision, but it broke my heart.) And what's up with my respiratory system? Do I have asthma? How do I even begin to address that? Does it take this long to recover from pneumonia? Is it Overtraining Syndrome? That vague phrase that effectively means "I'm an active person who doesn't feel well and I don't know why." It's become this catch-all explanation that no longer describes anything. People don't get sick for five years because of "overtraining." I'm sorry, no.

The musings keep spiraling out from there, but it all winds back to being a sad sack for the better part of a week. I tried to push the Eeyore rain cloud aside because I wanted to be positive and supportive for Beat and other friends battling out the difficult conditions in the Tor des Geants, and because damn it, I was on holiday in the Italian Alps! But denying and berating yourself for emotions doesn't make them any less effecting. I would lie awake at night, and sometimes drop a few tears while driving through the tunnels of the A1. Even that one thing that always makes me happy — hiking in the mountains — proved discouraging. My inner critic was constantly nudging me: "You're terrible at this. You're never going to be good enough."

On Thursday the Tor des Geants was cancelled due to poor weather, and it continued to rain hard all morning. Beat returned to Courmayeur on the bus around noon. We spread his soggy gear all over the apartment, and then bundled up to walk into town and have pizza with Miles. Both Beat and Miles were chipper and upbeat (they'd had a full night of sleep at the life base while the race was on pause for 12 hours.) I was probably more bummed about the race cancellation than they were; I just remember how disappointed I was about shortened UTMB in 2012. They reasoned that they'd had fun while it lasted, and both will probably be back for more soon enough (Beat almost certainly will.)

After cramming down most of a grilled vegetable pizza that was the size of an end table, I waddled outside to see sunlight streaming through a break in the clouds. Beat and Miles were heading home to take naps. "It looks like it's starting to get nice out," I said. "I think I'll go for a hike."

The quickest, best way to reach views from Courmayeur is the TMB trail to Rifugio Bertoni, which is part of both the UTMB and TDG courses. Keep marching up the ridge and you can gain 3,000 feet altitude in two miles — quite some bang for the buck. Clouds cleared rapidly as I climbed, until the sky was bright and blue. Mist rose from the saturated trail and wet grass, and the late-afternoon sun cast a rich glow on the glaciers and cliffs of the Mont Blanc massif. The air was infused with autumn-like crispness, and the effect seemed to open my lungs. I haven't been able to go all that hard since my Tour Divide illness, but for the first time since June, I found myself flirting with high intensity without experiencing the sensation that my airways were constricting. My heart rate shot skyward, so I took quick, satisfying breaths and marched faster.

People poke fun at Strava, but one thing I really like about the software is the way it allows me to quantify my efforts and analyze how realities match my perceptions. I felt great, but was I really moving any better than normal? Strava confirmed solid stats for the 1.25-mile, 2,000-foot climb to Bertoni: Just under 40 minutes, which is a full 10 minutes faster than my previous best — when I was in decent running shape in 2012 — and 25 minutes faster than my slog up the hill during UTMB three weeks earlier. Seventh out of 61 women, with the QOM owned by Stephanie Howe. Only 2 minutes slower than Julien Chorier's best Strava time (the runner who won Hardrock in 2011.) Not bad!

I crested the ridge a thousand feet above Bertoni and broke into a jog. All of the mountains were out, the air was crisp but warm, and even though the trail was a swamp, it was fun to splash through the mud as sheep bleated at me. I was grooving to my 2009 Tour Divide playlist — I'd recently rescued the files from an old, dead mP3 player and moved the whole group onto an iPod shuffle. There was a lot of music I hadn't listened to since, and I was filled with nostalgia about the good old days, when I took on challenges that were way above my pay grade, and succeeded all the same.

I kept looking at my watch, because I'd told Beat I'd be back before 7:30 — about two and a half hours after I started my hike. Even if I deferred that promise, I'd still be racing daylight, so I had to make the best use of my time. I vowed to turn back after an hour and a half, but as I jogged along the ridge, I was getting so close to Testa Bernarda. The 2,500-meter peak would make such a nice destination for this fantastic outing. Could it be done?

With 1:19 on the watch, I was still three quarters of a mile and 700 feet below the top. The peak looked like it was right there, but that annoying inner critic crunched the numbers and told me it was time to turn around. Finally, the voice of enthusiasm and optimism who had been so quiet all week piped in and said, "Run!" So I broke into a run, weaving around the bleating sheep and clawing through the mud and grass as the grade steepened. My heart was pounding and I was positive I hadn't reached this level of intensity in months, but my airways were clear. I ran harder.

At the time my iPod was playing "Read My Mind," by the Killers, which is a song I once posted on a poorly made (pre-GoPro) video about my first good bike ride after recovering from frostbite in 2009 (link here.) I still associate it this song with the sensation of breaking free, overcoming setbacks, and feeling strong again. With 1:25 on the watch, I turned off the trail and onto the grassy face of Testa Bernarda, flipped the Shuffle back to the beginning of the song, and absolutely redlined. The fuzzy tunnel around my vision narrowed, thoughts disintegrated to gasps and groans, lungs and legs seared with hot acid, but they were working. I was working! The snow-dusted cliffs of Grandes Jorasses came into view, my feet touched a bump that went no higher, and the Killers came roaring back into my oxygen-depleted mind:

"I wanna breathe that fire again!" 

I raised both arms into the air and pumped my fists, almost involuntarily. Wow. This is it, right here. The edge of livability. The fullness of experience.

Not an accomplishment, not really, but a moment I sorely needed, all the same. I bounded down the hill, wondering if I could turn this victory into a quick descent. Fears of slippery surfaces and falling on my face fought back with equally empowered ferocity. Still, I thought, maybe my lungs are just fine, or at least on the upswing. Maybe someday I will find my groove for running in the mountains, and I'll no longer be too slow or clumsy to finish a big race in the Alps. Maybe it will snow in Alaska this winter, and remain cold but not too cold for good trails and incredible experiences. Maybe California will get some rain. Maybe Syria will, too.

This flood of optimism carried me all the way down the mountain, brimming with possibilities.