Wind is a difficult thing to capture

Since I began hyperthyroid treatment in February, my year has been a continuance of peaks of valleys. Fluctuations are far preferable to an ever-deepening valley. Still, this truth provides little comfort when I dip into another low. Suppressed by opaque shadows, I spend far too much time trying to see over the next rise. I type vague inquiries into Google. "Why is my coordination even worse than normal? Why can't I concentrate? What is the deal with this moody weirdness?" Answers are just flecks of snow tumbled by the wind, unable to attach to anything.

My creativity suffers when I'm in one of these valleys. My thoughts are muddled; my emotions seem flat — that is, until some teenage-like bout of angst tears through the fragile veneer, and I anxiously ruminate on realities that I can't control. How much of this can I blame on hormones? How much of this is rooted in mental health? Aging? How much is just my personality ... and what even is the difference? Between me and my hormones? Between me and the pills I take to purportedly correct the imbalance? Although I like to believe I control "who I am," this precarious biological symmetry reveals the vulnerability of self.

I'm not trying to make excuses or create a crisis where none exists. These are the ebbs of life, the necessary counterbalances to joy and exhilaration. I count on this equity when I look toward the next as-yet-unseen peak, and promise myself that soon, very soon, I'll bust out of these shadows and bask in the sunlight. The weather on that day won't really matter. What I'm doing on that day won't really matter. The balance will shift, and I'll be a new person, yet again.

In the meantime, just keep living life. Beat and I wanted to spend some time in the mountains this weekend, and invited our friend Jorge for a Sunday hike on Niwot Ridge. We expected a warm, marginally windy outing, but shouldn't have been surprised when the Continental Divide wind funnel delivered storm-force gales. Not all that far away in Boulder, it was a placid afternoon with temperatures in the 50s. But the mountains have their own systems. Chunks of ice clogged my hydration hose; the temperature was below freezing before windchill. And the windchill was fierce. The moment we cleared tree line, we were scrambling to throw on layers before our fingers froze.

Miles before we cleared tree line, I was already pressed against a wall. Trailing far behind Beat and Jorge, I focused on the rhythm of breathing. Inhale, long exhale, inhale, etc. I was trying to keep my breathing from becoming too shallow, trying to will it to pull more oxygen into my bloodstream, toward my muscles, which felt terribly underworked, but they needed more fuel to move any faster. It just wasn't there. I felt mildly dizzy. My breathing became more desperate. I slowed my steps, consciously calming everything down.

Beat and Jorge frequently stopped to wait for me. As soon as I caught up, they pulled away as though I was standing still. I watched them march breezily up the trail and fought a surge of resentment. How can this be so easy for them? But, really, it was just as easy for me, not even two months ago. Weird how much fitness I can lose, just like that. Like creativity, my physical fitness operates well at the peaks, less well in the valleys. It still works, though. I can still write a page or post here and there (under much strong-arming from my ego.) And I can still go for long hikes (slow but steady.) If and when I crawl out of this valley, I know I'll be strong again. The thought brings little comfort, though, when I realize how much of a mockery this illness has made of my training. In this regard, my efforts don't matter. Did they ever?


Beat heard me gasping and urged me to relax. We were at high altitude, he reasoned, and he was breathing hard, too. It's difficult to describe why these struggles are different. Then again, maybe they're not. I tried to remember how it used to feel, hunched in a 30-mph wind at high altitude, back when I felt normal. When would that be? I think my strongest years were 2012 to 2013, and then there were a few injuries and mental setbacks. The seismic shift I believe happened in June 2015, but really, everything ebbed and flowed long before that. Perhaps this normalcy I've been striving for doesn't even exist.

It's not unlike battling this wind. The initial steps into the gale are shocking — the force slams into my face and draws air from my lungs as fingers flash-freeze. I'm forced to press my chin into my neck and squint into a blast of blowing snow. The roar of the wind is deafening. But as I climb, the volume decreases. Blood flows into my fingers and toes. I can lift my head again. The wind is still blowing just as hard. The steps are just as difficult. But this has become the new normal.

For nearly three miles I slogged at a pace that can truly be described as glacial. Inevitably we topped out at a high point on the ridge, took a few photos, and turned our backs to the wind. The tailwind swept us downhill as I stumbled over a tricky surface of tundra and sastrugi, and then we were back in the forest. With the thick shelter of trees and an east-facing slope, the world was suddenly calm. It was a jarring contrast — similar to stepping through the doors of a loud concert venue and entering an abandoned parking lot. Back in August, I was trying to describe to a friend the physical shift I experienced on "good weeks" —when my breathing became better, my head was clearer, and even though it was hot and thunderstormy and one the doggiest days of summer, the world seemed remarkably brighter. I couldn't find the words then, and can scarcely remember it now, but I think the feeling was like this. Stepping out of the normalcy of gale-force wind, into sudden calm.

After the hike, I downloaded my photos and felt disappointed that they didn't better illustrate the intensity of Niwot's gale. Wind is a difficult thing to capture. But we keep trying. 

Moab

Over the weekend I had an opportunity to join a few friends on a camping trip in Moab. Car camping in the Utah desert always brings a flush of happy nostalgia for a segment of my life when I lived on almost nothing with nine other 20-somethings in Salt Lake City's Avenues, commuted to the hinterlands of Tooele to work 50-some hours a week, and when Friday night rolled around, we escaped to the redrocks. Every weekend. Even if it was January and the San Rafael Swell was coated in a half foot of snow, for backpacking trips that required crossing waist-deep rivers choked with chunks of ice, and my $40 Coleman sleeping bag didn't quite cut the chill, and expired Power Bars from Market Square turned out to be a bad idea, and all of my Nalgene bottles froze solid. 

Most of those trips ventured to quieter corners of the Colorado Plateau, so my experiences in and around Moab feel more limited. There was a time when I thought myself too desert-sophisticated for the tourists and mountain bike bros and sand-dyed T-shirts. Still, there's an air around this former uranium-mining town that feels like coming home. 

The occasion was an engagement of two members of my local running group, the Boulder Banditos. Since the gathering was a whole bunch of trail runners, I assumed the activities would involve running, and packed accordingly. As it turned out, nearly everybody had a bike and riding plans. However, even if I had known, I likely still wouldn't have brought my bike. In the same way I used to wrongly think of myself as a desert-wilderness-sophisticate, I also used identify as a mountain biker. Now I realize that I am a balance-challenged and adrenaline-averse bike tourist who prefers long, open tracks regardless of width, and actually doesn't enjoy jackhammering over miles of rocks. Of course, I still jackhammer over miles of rocks, as long as the ride is long and meandering and goes to interesting places. Which Moab trails do ... although really, it's nearly as efficient and much more relaxing to go on foot.

Had I known the group had no running plans, I would have put together my own, better routes. Instead, Wendy, Jorge and I found ourselves agreeing to run the shuttle for Porcupine Rim on Saturday — we'd park a truck at the river and plod 15 miles uphill while others in the group rode bikes downhill. I've never run or ridden Porcupine Rim before, and didn't quite conceptualize the barrage of oncoming bikes we'd be dealing with. I now believe this is not an appropriate route for a run, at least during an autumn weekend. However, moving against traffic is ideal in this setting, and I think we managed it well — we always veered out of the way so no one had to slow or stop for us. All of the bikers were polite.

The weather was warm and very windy — we shuffled and hiked into a 30mph sand blast for most of the climb. Wendy and I weren't in great shape — I'm currently in a down phase of the infuriating physical rollercoaster I'm riding these days, and Wendy was ill from what was later diagnosed as a kidney infection. So we plodded along with Scout the Border Collie on a leash while Jorge ran back and forth like a loose puppy. Despite gray skies, the scenery was beautiful and I was happy to be hiking, which is peaceful, undemanding and affords lots of time to look around. Despite giving them more than an hour head start and hiking uphill versus riding downhill, we were nearly halfway through the route when we crossed paths with our group. They're not regular mountain bikers, and seemed stressed by the technical nature of the trail. Later, Steve crashed over a 10-foot ledge, smashed his helmet, dented his bike frame, bruised his hip and broke several ribs. Mountain biking ... eh.

We camped close to the Slickrock Trail, so on Sunday I suggested a plod around the iconic loop. Sure, it's another popular spot, but the terrain is open enough to easily avoid cyclists. I also figured it would be less crowded on a Sunday afternoon, and that we'd see almost no one beyond the stem of the lollipop (both true.) Here are the non-bikers shuffling on Sand Flats Road. Look how happy we are!

The Slickrock Trail was my first-ever mountain bike ride, with my boyfriend in 1999. I was 19, so I followed him blindly around each terrifying curve and crashed my hard-tail rental bike many times. So many times. The crashes usually happened after I slammed into a patch of sand at the bottom of a steep descent —flying over the handlebars, ripping my jeans, mopping up a steady stream of blood from my shins and elbows. Look, I found a photo:

My First Mountain Bike Ride, Slickrock Trail, April 1999. I'm fairly certain this was taken as Mike yelled "Go for it!," seconds before one of my many sand-eating dives.

Oh, to be 19, unbreakable and fearless again. That original experience was harrowing enough, though, that I came home from Moab and renounced mountain biking forever. It took me three more years to get back on any bike, and I remember ride number two as the Jem Trail near Hurricane, on a borrowed 1986 steel Cannondale. Shortly after that I rode the White Rim over three days on the same ancient bike. These experiences were enjoyable, however, they were not special enough to embed themselves in my soul. It took seeing a guy on a skinny-tire bike with panniers in Spanish Fork Canyon ("people ride bikes long distances? With camping gear?") to spur me to go out and purchase my own set of wheels — a flat-bar road touring bike. I've always been a bike tourist at heart.

And the Slickrock Trail, well, I haven't been back since 1999. It was surprising to realize how many specifics I could still recall after 18 years. As usual, more intense experiences embed themselves in memory, while comfortable moments fade away. If that's true, memories of this outing will probably soon fade. But it was everything I needed. I loped along at an easy pace, blissed out on vistas, entirely content.

I wish I was in better shape, because this is a really fun running trail —custom-designed to encourage playful skipping and bursts of sprinting. I became overly winded a couple of times and backed off to mostly walking.

Toward the end we veered off trail to blaze a more direct route back to our camp site. Traveling cross-country in the Utah desert is the most fun. That is, until you reach the dead-end of a wash or the ledge of a sheer canyon. This is nearly always the case, but didn't happen to us here.

Back at camp, we burned steak burrito fixings and marshmallows over the fire, and mused about the state of the world. Some things never change. The much-too-early sunset arrived, so I strolled up to a sandstone fin to watch the light fade.

Looking toward the La Sal Mountains.

Every time I return Utah desert, I wonder why I don't spend more time here. A hundred weekends from age 5 to 25, and the trickle since, still seems like not enough. Like Alaska and California and everywhere since, these places are inextricably embedded in who I am. 

Maui

Last weekend, Google hosted a retreat for Beat's work team on Ka'anapali Beach in Maui. It was a quick trip — less than 72 hours on the island. A mechanical in Denver caused us to miss our connection in Seattle, and we missed all of the festivities on Wednesday while we languished at SeaTac, an airport where I have wasted *many* hours thanks to long layovers to and from Alaska. This led to some grumpiness about traveling to a place as far away as Hawaii for just a weekend, but one can't complain about any opportunity to visit such a beautiful and unique spot in the world. 

 On Thursday we set out for a quick run on Waihe'e Ridge. The trail is only two miles long, and took us nearly two hours to reach when our scenic drive along the coast hit a dead end (it was a scenic spot to end up, though.)

 Most of this outing was driving, but it was fun to spend an hour in one of the more lush spots on Mauna Kahalawai, running through the kukui and fern forest, and listening to a cacophony of bird calls. Recently I've slipped back into a physical slump, marked by many of the same symptoms I complained about in June and July. In the past two weeks I've had similar trouble breathing at 12,000 feet in cold winds on the Indian Peaks, at 5,000 feet in dry 80-degree air in Boulder, and here at sea level in Maui. The humidity made me feel like I was breathing through a wet dishrag, and I sputtered my way through this short effort.

Even though I didn't feel great, I was sad when the trail ended so soon. The sign warns to stay off the "Unsafe Natural Terrain."

That night we joined Beat's friends for a round of delicious nigiri, the best I've had since I moved away from California. This photo is the view from our hotel room, looking toward the island of Molokai at sunset. Our time on the island was short, so we never actually ventured out to the beach — I didn't put on my swim suit once — but there was enough proximity to feel like a typical Hawaii vacation while doing what we enjoy most, which is playing in the mountains.


On Friday we made our way over to Haleakalā, the 10,000-foot volcano that fills the eastern side of the island. Haleakalā is legendary among road cyclists because a well-maintained paved road winds from sea to summit, one of the longest sustained road climbs in the world. On the other side of the mountain is a foot trail with the same vertical gain, which we hoped to hike one-way. However, our shuttle fell through, and we didn't have time or adequate planning for the round trip, which would have taken 16 hours or more with limited water resupply. It's just as well, as my stamina is low right now, and I undoubtedly would have sputtered badly, even on the one-way climb. Instead we planned a 20-mile out-and-back from the summit.

Descending into the crater. I had stomach distress in the morning and was not the happiest of runners for the first couple of hours.

The otherworldly landscape more than made up for my poor physical state. The kaleidoscope of mineral colors and rare plants was stunning.

Along the route were a couple of backcountry cabins where Beat befriended habituated nēnē (Hawaiian geese.) They have adorable voices that sound like nasally humans grumbling under their breath. The nēnē is exclusive to the Hawaiian islands, believed to have evolved from Canadian geese who drifted off their migration course hundreds of thousands of years ago. They can both fly and swim but don't do much of either, instead opting to scramble along the rocky surfaces of volcanoes.

We descended into the marine cloud layer along a series of lava fields. I'm grateful the National Park built a crushed-gravel trail down here, as running shoes and shin skin would not last long on these rocks.

We reached our turn-around in a valley at 6,000 feet, where we met a group of backpackers at a cabin. They offered us coffee and suggestions for a number of routes and hitchhikes to avoid climbing out of the crater. "You don't want to climb Sliding Sands, believe me," one lady said, and assured us she had lived on Maui for 35 years and knew what she was talking about. Fun crowd, mostly locals who were impressed we'd made it as far as we had.


The valley itself was a spectacular place, with steep, fern-coated cliffs and waterfalls disappearing into the fog. It had a primordial aura that beckoned us further, and Beat was intent on finding a route up the cliffs based on vague, possibly wrong information from one of his co-workers. I was intent on not bushwhacking through a tangle of ferns and thorny brush with the possibility of a terrifying scramble, and my insistence won out. Still, we were both sad to turn around, and already are scheming our return with hard-to-get reservations for these cabins.

The local backpackers did recommend an alternative trail that would return us to Sliding Sands, skirting around the calderas. This route proved to be even more spectacular than the valley.

Lava fields with a smattering of hardy plants.

As one might guess from my tundra fascination, I love a good moonscape. I was in heaven here.

Happy, but sputtering. Under normal circumstances I can usually keep up with Beat's casual pace, but here I was far behind all day, to the point where Beat occasionally hiked back to make sure I was okay. If I was alone I probably wouldn't believe I was doing so badly, but the shallow breathing does slow me down considerably.

More moonscape. I do the best I can, and am grateful for any ability that allows me to visit such places.

Starting the climb out of Sliding Sands. I didn't feel great, but it wasn't nearly so bad as the local made it out to be. Clouds socked in for the remainder of our climb out.

Even with my sputtering, we were still out of the crater an hour earlier than planned. We had timed our hike to return to the summit at sunset, but it was still an hour away. Beat was tired and hungry and seemed not too stoked on waiting around, but I talked him into it. The summit parking lot was full, so we parked at the visitor center and hiked to another nearby peak.

Sunset was at 5:54 p.m. At 5:30 it still looked far away, but I forget that the sun sinks straight into the horizon at these latitudes.

Looking out toward Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa on the Big Island, with the Sliding Sands trail in the foreground.

Beautiful light to the east.

The mountain's shadow on the horizon.

Hiking down a few minutes before sunset. Temperatures had plummeted and we were both still drenched in humidity/sweat and shivering. Also, we watched a steady stream of cars working their way up to the summit before sunset, and wanted to beat the traffic jam down the mountain. We're like those baseball fans who make all of this effort to attend a World Series game, and walk out of the stadium before the final pitch.

I took this photo from the passengers side window during the drive down. Something tells me we didn't actually miss anything.

We flew out on Saturday, and wanted to find a final hike on western side of the island, closer to the hotel. Outside the national park, public trail options were quite limited. Even on Strava — my go-to site for local insider knowledge — I didn't find much. But there was a route that seemed to lead to 4,000 feet — the highest shown up Mauna Kahalawai — so we set out. The temperature at the start was 89 degrees with 90 percent humidity. We were both drenched after five minutes. The trail was a pile of large lava rocks, with tricky footing and full exposure to the harsh sun. The black rock outcroppings and dry grass looked like a hillside in eastern Idaho ... with the exception of that big blue body of water in the background.


We skirted around a line of wind mills and ended up on an overgrown fireroad that continued to climb along a steep ridge. This area definitely had a "locals only" feel, and we saw no one for most of the outing.

Again we climbed into a thick bank of fog, but the clouds opened up oh-so-briefly near the top of the climb. The views were stunning. We're not in eastern Idaho anymore.

The overgrown road ended at a barely-there trail, which we followed for a short distance. Beat has a much higher tolerance for leg-shredding routes than I do, but luckily we found good views before too long.

The long, hot descent over lava rocks. We were stoked on this outing. It felt like a unique find, and a nice adventure to wrap up a short exploration of Maui.

Back at Ka'anapali Beach, we finally took the opportunity to sit on beach chairs and watch the sunset while waiting for our turn to take a complementary shower — which we badly needed after the day's sweat bath, coated in dust and drowned gnats, before boarding a red-eye flight. We chatted with some of Beat's co-workers about their weekend adventures, snorkeling and surfing. Although I'm terrified of moving water and was secretly glad I didn't have to subject myself to anything as difficult as that, I vowed to return someday and enjoy more of what Maui has to offer. Of course, the mountains themselves are more than enough.