The confidence-crushing cabin trip

It was Feb. 18, one week before the start of the Iditarod Trail Invitational, when I casually logged onto the recreation.gov Web site and thought, "You know what would be fun between my races? An overnight shakedown trip in the White Mountains." Cabins can be booked 30 days out, and the absolute latest I wanted to go was one week before the White Mountains 100. Nothing was available until March 18, but on that date was an opening for Eleazar's — just 12 miles one way, with a bit of climbing. No big deal.

I already knew about the winter storm warning when I set out Sunday afternoon. "Three to five inches? Pshaw. I dragged my sled through a lot more than that, most of the way to McGrath. And it's only 24 miles. And my legs are all recovered!"

Delusion persists. But it was a refreshingly beautiful afternoon. Although the trail base was as soft as I expected, sunlight broke through the clouds, and there were lots of happy people on the trails to offer distractions.

Dog teams area always the most fun to watch.

Especially this little girl with her single-pup kick-sled.

Most of the human-powered folks I encountered asked if I was racing next week. I told the truth to these cyclists as we commiserated about the slog on the Wickersham Wall. But to most others, I lied. I don't know why ... I was weirdly embarrassed about my intention to start the 100-miler. Maybe because I was dragging a beast of a sled along, and slowly realizing that 2.5 mph remains close to my maximum speed. Perhaps my ego knows it's going to be pulverized, and doesn't want to endure yet more indignity by acknowledging this folly.

"No, I'm just out for a cabin trip to Eleazars," I told a skier.

"That's a big hike!" he exclaimed, enthusiastically encouraging this obvious amateur. 

Eleazars — my port in the storm. Flurries were already flying by the time I arrived. There wasn't a lot of firewood stacked up, so I set out around the vicinity to gather what I could — I try not to be a consumer of these valuable resources when I actually have the time to contribute. But after a half hour of flailing with a saw and ax to collect what amounted to a pile of twigs, I decided temps were already warm enough for comfortable sitting, and it wasn't really worth the effort. I did build a short-lived fire to dry my gear and melt snow, and the radiant heat of ashes warmed the cabin nicely for the rest of the evening. It felt wonderful to curl up in my sleeping bag and re-read "Desert Solitaire." I was happy to be there.

Monday morning, I awoke to 4 inches of new snow on the porch. The wind was howling, and had been since 6 a.m. My legs were disconcertingly sore, with dull pain and throbbing in my lower quad muscles. I woke up to that pain nearly every morning on my way to McGrath, and many days afterward, but I'd let myself believe this had finally healed. After just 12 miles with the sled, leg pain came roaring back as fresh as ever.

The trail from the wind-exposed cabin had filled in with snow. As I began to pull my sled downhill, the jerk of resistance was at once shocking and oh-so-familiar. Why, oh why, oh why, do I keep returning to this place? The first mile through thick, protected forest involved a 600-foot descent, and clocked in at 28 minutes. And not a leisurely 28 minutes. I was straight-up winded.

Well. This was going to be a long day.

Through the anemic swamps surrounding Wickersham Creek, the trail had been erased. I tried different methods of walking and decided I preferred to not wear snowshoes — enabling my feet to anchor into the deep powder, which gave me more purchase to tug my anvil forward. My GPS watch became an actually welcome source of comedy, clocking my pace in minutes per mile. 33:14. 45:19. 58:34. Are you even moving at all?

"Hell awaits the Army of the Damned."

I put my head down to march up the Wickersham Wall, and surprised myself my arriving at the top without expending much more effort than I had to move forward on the flats. Apparently, in such trail conditions, gaining 800 feet in one mile doesn't add that much difficulty. It's a matter of increments; when the effort required is already ratcheted up to 85 percent, how much worse is 90 percent, really?

Of course, the rolling hills along Wickersham Dome were much more exposed to the still-howling wind, and I encountered knee- and sometimes thigh-high drifts, along with open areas where I wandered uphill and downhill, feeling out the fanned-out trail bases until found one that veered back into the trees, indicating the actual trail. Later, I'd take comfort from the story of a friend who'd been caught along this same section of trail in a similar storm a few weeks earlier. Eventually, she and her friend had to abandon their pulks and just ski out, returning later in the week to collect their belongings in more favorable conditions.

It was all slow and exhausting, but then my muscles started to give out on me. It felt more dramatic than it probably was, but the soreness in my legs began to feel like numbness, and then I felt some tingling, which led to a perception of lost strength and a need to kneel down on the trail, because my quads had died and I was about to topple over. Of course my quads had not died, and I was able to stand up again just fine. But the sensation was disconcerting, to put it mildly. This was a depth of muscle fatigue that I've never before experienced.

By the time I wobbled back to the parking lot, it had taken me 6.5 hours to travel 12 miles. In my mind, I'd already withdrawn from the White Mountains 100, bought a plane ticket to Nome, watched Beat finish his race, and was giddy about the thought of all of this in my future.

Then ... somehow ... inexplicably ... I talked myself out of this.

 I don't know.

I don't know.

There's a deeper, exceedingly selfish part of my heart that so badly wants ... perhaps needs ... to return to this place one more time, before retreating to spring and responsibilities and real life. Before all that, I just want a bit more time in the place where all I need to do is walk, and breathe, as a vast and incomprehensible world opens wide around me.

I've learned this lesson so many times — about limits, about failure, about the realities of recovery ... and yet. And yet my heart doesn't seem to care.

So I sat on my butt for the next five days. I hung out in Fairbanks, went to bonfires, enjoyed birthday dinners with friends, greeted other racers as they trickled into town. I visited Joel, the race director, who let me use his Normatec leg recovery system, and asked about the one issue that really might have prevented me from starting ... "how much of a burden is it to you, if I time out or otherwise need to stop at one of the remote checkpoints?" He shrugged ... not a problem. Shoot.

It's not my ego's fault. Really. I can assure you, ego wants nothing to do with this asininity. The Iditarod Trail took a lot out of me, and I'm not in denial about that anymore. My endurance prowess is not what it once was, and for the most part, I'm not in denial about that, either. My legs are still sore, after five days off ... but I worry more about the sadness that followed me home from McGrath. So why? What is this to me anymore? Why am I even here?

I suppose I just can't let it go. I need to know.

So yes, I'm going to start the White Mountains 100. I'm certainly not going to take it to any dangerous extreme, but sore legs and fatigue aren't really dangerous. Trail conditions will assuredly be better than they were last weekend, because they can't be a whole lot worse. A number of friends will be there, and it might well turn into a fun hike/jog without any of the issues or dramas that I'm anticipating. Or it might be a disaster accompanied by well-deserved "I told you so's."

But regardless, it will be living intensely at its best. Beautiful discomfort. A grand adventure. Really, why would I just sit on the sidelines, stewing over perceived limitations that might not even matter, in the end?

Overnight in Denali

Typically I love roadtripping, but I retain a stubborn amnesia about driving in Alaska during the winter — the frost-heaved pavement, rutted ice, endless winding two-lane highways, aggressive trucks barreling up from behind, slush spray and grit coating the windows, snow, blowing snow, more snow. Planning my post-race time in Alaska as a road trip felt like a mistake, especially as I headed north from Talkeetna. Drizzling rain turned into another heavy spring blizzard, with thick flakes accumulating on the road at a noticeable rate. Driving involved many tedious hours of squinting into a whiteout at 30mph and skidding to a precarious stop to let trucks go by. By the time I reached Cantwell, I was frazzled to my limit. I know this holds true for most people, but stress seems to heavily exacerbate my physical issues. My heart was pounding and my legs were burning, even after a couple of days of no hiking. I wished I could just quit. 

But the guy at the Cantwell gas station reminded me of something I'd also forgotten — the Denali National Park entrance was only about 20 miles farther down the road. I crept back onto the Parks Highway, and within three miles the snowstorm began to abate. Ten miles later, the pavement was dry and sunlight was burning through thinning clouds. Alaska is a huge state where one need not travel far to see rapid change.

Since the weather was suddenly nice, I continued out the park road to the day-use area where winter maintenance ends, about 10 miles past the visitors center. The day's driving had taken so much out of me. I was really left with no choice but to unwind by going for a hike.

The Savage Alpine Trail was only broken for 0.75 miles, so I strapped on the snowshoes and continued on the crusted, thin snowpack up a gentle slope. Meadow slogging, with some incredible mountain views.

Denali is a vast place. Photos can't depict the expansiveness of the landscape — the sprawling glacial valleys dotted with scrub spruce and alder, the bald slopes and jagged peaks rippling toward a 20,000-foot giant that 300 days a year is hidden behind fearsome weather, the depth of silence on a windless March afternoon. It was truly windless — something I'd long imagined was impossible in this region. The temperature was in the low 20s. As evening light saturated the valley, I felt comfortable enough to lie down on the snow crust and elevate my legs as I watched golden clouds stream across the sky. Where the clouds flew, it was windy. Down here, it was heaven. 

Driving back down the park road at sunset. It was after 8 p.m. Just a few days before the equinox, daylight was rapidly expanding at a rate of six minutes per day. Broad sun angles also add a good two hours of civil twilight, meaning days are already 14 hours long. Temperatures might hit 25 below or lower in the White Mountains 100 next week, but it's not winter anymore.

I decided to spend the night car-camping at the Riley Creek campground. It was awesome. Skies were mostly cloudy, but there were occasional glimmers of green from the aurora through wispy breaks. The night was so warm that I used my sleeping bag as a blanket, and emitted enough body heat into the car to keep my water jugs and vegetables unfrozen. It was amusing to see how quickly ice formed in one jug when I hauled it outside to have breakfast on the picnic table at 10 degrees. It was still warm enough that I only needed my small puffy.

In the morning, I set out for a favorite hike to the Mount Healy overlook. My post-race emotional funk had largely faded, but there remained a state of feeling much more calm and content when I was on the move — under my own power, at least — rather than sitting still. I thought my leg muscles were finally starting to heal. As it turned out, this was delusion, but this overnight trip to Denali was a single point where everything clicked — joyful, energetic, pain-free, no longer needlessly fretting about Beat, optimistic about my own upcoming adventures, and enjoying beautiful views in a relaxed state thanks to astonishingly perfect weather with hat-free warmth and no wind.

It was incredible while it lasted. It never lasts, but I suppose this is the reality that adds priceless value to the best moments. 

Reminiscing the Kenai

Coming off the Iditarod Trail, I was quickly swept into an emotional tempest, and not a good one. Why such a negative response? I couldn't fathom it myself, but it's always a little difficult to predict how we will respond to experiences. Conquer a big challenge, vanquish some demons, and be happy, right? If only minds were so simple. 

McGrath was wonderful, as it always is. Carole and I rolled into the warm house of Peter and Tracy — longtime residents who have been hosting the finish of this race for two decades — just before 2 a.m. Carole's feet were a mess of blisters and soft-boiled skin. I had been riding an endorphin high for hours, but the minute I stopped moving, a multitude of leg and feet muscles buckled and cramped, and then I was wracked with limb pain. The race directer Kathi greeted us outside and took photos. Inside, Peter made a big plate of chicken and pasta. I managed a couple hours of sleep, but for most of the night I writhed with a rapidly beating heart and leg pain. 

The following morning we hobbled downstairs for fresh coffee and mancakes — massive, dense pancakes that have become the sought-after "prize" for McGrath finishers. I enjoyed sitting around the table with Carole and a couple other walkers — Lars and Alex, along with biking sisters Melissa and Jennifer — and swapping trail stories. It's the kind of decompression we need and crave. But it was short-lived, as we quickly had to catch our flight to Anchorage. Continued heavy snow delayed the flight for several hours, and during this time I made mostly futile efforts to stitch my brain back together to attempt some Tuesday on-deadline work that I agreed to attempt. Amazing how much effort this took, forming cohesive thoughts. I decided would have been easier to keep walking. I imagined Beat, somewhere west of the Takotna hills, still walking. I didn't see him at the finish. I didn't expect to, being a day late as I'd been. But I admit there was that glimmer of hope.

The plane took off into a tunnel of wind and snow. There'd be no views of the terrain we'd traveled this year. The noisy flight ate up all of that mileage in less than an hour. Eight days of unraveling myself, finding the end of the rope, and reaching into shadowy corners of my soul for more ... done, just like that. I stepped off the plane into a warm and sunlit Anchorage evening and realized that what I felt was more like despair than joy. Of course I didn't understand. 

I spent a few more nights decompressing in Anchorage, which mostly involved sitting quietly by myself and feeling baffled by sadness. On Wednesday, I loaded up my toxic laundry into a backpack and walked a mile and a half to a laundromat, where I sat in an empty corner and indulged in a quiet little cry. Walking back, I felt better. My legs were still a pulsing mess of muscle soreness, but I think it was better to walk than to not walk. 

That night I had drinks with several ITI racers — Donald, Carole, Jennifer, and volunteer O.E. That was a welcome respite. I finally had chances to talk with Beat on his sat phone — he was doing well, enjoying himself on the early miles of the Southern Route. My brain slowly came back online, and I was finally able to respond to e-mails ... at the very least ... again. The following day I met up with friends from college, Chris and Becky. But it was becoming more apparent that I needed to get out of Anchorage. 

Being in that weird introvert state where I improved emotionally when I was with friends, and yet intensely craved more alone time, I booked an AirBnB in Hope, a tiny town on the Turnagain Arm where I don't know anyone. Having not yet regained enough brain power to glance at the news, I had no knowledge of a snowstorm that had buried the Seward Highway in two feet of snow. The rental Chevy Tahoe and I set out as Anchorage rain turned to Girdwood sleet, with a major accident blocking oncoming traffic. Turnagain Pass was a frightening whiteout. I hadn't been behind a wheel for a couple of weeks, and Colorado's winter has been so mild that driving in these conditions felt strange in an out-of-body way. I didn't know what to do. There were no cleared spots to pull off the road, so I kept driving. 

Finally I reached the Hope Highway junction, which hadn't been plowed all day. Instead, there was bumper-high heavy powder with a double-track trench down the center, just wide enough for one vehicle. There were still 16 or so more miles to Hope. Normally I wouldn't attempt to drive a road like this, but I didn't want to go back over Turnagain Pass. There was nowhere else to go. So I veered into the trench, hoping those lousy rental summer tires held onto the straight and narrow path, and hoping even more that I didn't meet an oncoming vehicle.

Somehow I made it to Hope. As I walked into the BnB, the owner, Cheryl, gave me a hug. "You made it!" she exclaimed. "I did not think you were still coming today." I beamed. I may have felt more proud, in that moment, than I did about arriving in McGrath.

Hope was everything I needed. Cheryl was very sweet and cooked amazing waffles with fresh strawberries and wild blueberry syrup for breakfast. Her husband, Bruce, gave me all the beta on local trail conditions. Avalanche danger was very high during my visit there. Left to my own devices, I wouldn't have set out at all. But local knowledge holds that the unmaintained Palmer Creek Road is safe — away from avalanche runouts — for the first four miles. "I'm not going to hike eight miles," I assured Bruce. I was looking for an hour on my hurty legs, tops.

A few snowmachines had been up the route, and although the soft base still required snowshoes, it was generally easy walking. It felt so good to just walk again. My foggy head cleared some more. I actually thought about phrases I might like to write down (I'd hoped this post-race solo time would work out well for a writing retreat, but it didn't, at all. Oh well.)

I felt happy again. I may have walked the full four miles, until the road turned to switchback up a mountainside and my inexperienced avalanche radar started to buzz. Admittedly, I didn't even want to turn around there.

On Sunday, my BnB reservation was up. I thought about staying another day, but then fixated on the idea of visiting Seward. Although roads were much better, the weather was still bad, with sideways blowing snow that discouraged my plan to camp. So I rented a room at a cheap hotel. Another guest there kept bumping into me and striking up long conversations, until I felt creeped out by him and hid in my room without dinner to avoid running into him again. Instead I refreshed the ITI tracker and stewed over concern about Beat, at whom I'd directed an undue level of anxiety. Seward was gray and sad and I didn't want to be there, but that's the way things work out, sometimes.

Seward is still beautiful, though. Earlier in the afternoon I did get out for a nice walk through town and out the road to Lowell Point. It wasn't very cold but the wind was harsh, and I was walking so slowly that I had to bundle up more than I ever did on the Iditarod Trail. Still, I enjoyed this immensely after I veered off the road to walk along the beach, with the salty sweet smell of the ocean and the screech of bald eagles to help me feel calm and nostalgic. Wading through the sand made my legs hurt all over again. Just when I felt increasingly grumpy about the prospect of walking four miles back to town, a nice German couple drove by and offered me a ride. Sometimes, things do work out.

By Monday I was on my way to Homer to visit friends. Avalanche danger had lessened some, and popular trails along Moose Pass had seen a ton of use over the weekend. I was reaching acceptance that if I didn't stop hiking, my legs weren't going to stop hurting. But what's another four (steep) miles to Carter Lake and back?

Although still cloudy, it was a lovely morning. I was happy again.

Monday afternoon brought me to the incredible guest cabin of friends Bennett and Dawn, a couple from Louisiana and Mississippi who now live in Fritz Creek, a community east of Homer. Their house sits on the edge of a state park, high above Kachemak Bay. The views were jaw-dropping.

In the morning I donned my puffy coat to sit on the porch with coffee and enjoy the sunrise after a light snowfall. I wanted to move in forever. In fact, my next project will be to convince Beat we need to plan a summertime visit to Homer. Unfathomably, Beat has never experienced summer in Alaska.

Working on Tuesday afternoon, trying not to be constantly distracted by the views.

Dawn and Bennett's house was close to the Caribou Hills, a vast area of snowmobile trails. I used to come here for long winter training rides on my 26er mountain bike, back when I was living in Homer in 2006. So many lifetimes ago. These trails also are part of the Homer Epic 100K course, so I had a good GPS track from 2013. By Wednesday I was starting to think about the White Mountains 100, another race that I in great folly still plan to start on March 25. Optimism was improving at this point, and I decided to do a bit of a "training run" in snowshoes, because temperatures were searingly hot (low 40s) and the trails were soft. This outing turned into 13 miles with not nearly enough food, and I was tired. I think I look tired in this selfie. While battling my legs for 2.5mph, my optimism about the White Mountains 100 again withered to nothing. But I was still happy.

Happy, yes, but of course there still were plenty of moments on the return, slogging yet again across endless soft swamps, when I became aware of my muddled emotions quietly wailing, "Why?" Why, oh why, oh why.

I enjoyed a few too-short days with Bennett and Dawn, helping them feed their chickens, eating locally caught halibut for dinner, talking about their burgeoning homestead lifestyle, drinking coffee on the porch of the tiny cabin, and people-watching at the Fritz Creek Store (no, I did not spot a Kilcher.) In the end I spent very little time in Homer proper. I didn't even stop into the Cosmic Kitchen, which I regret. Still it's always cathartic to return to places from my past, especially places such as Homer that had such a huge impact on the person I've become.

I couldn't leave town without visiting the beach, so on Thursday I made a quick jaunt down Diamond Creek on my way out of town.

It was a warm day at the beach. Dinner plans with friends in Palmer meant I couldn't spend much time here, but it was wonderful to take off my shoes and bury my sore feet in the sand, dip the leathery skin of my soles in frigid water, and take big breaths of salty, oxygen-rich air. There is a spot in California's Marin Headlands called Pirates Cove, a hidden cove surrounded by sheer bluffs, that always brought back happy memories of Diamond Beach in Alaska. Standing on Diamond Beach in 2018, I reminisced about running in the Marin Headlands, feeling the exhilaration of still-free legs pounding down the steep trail as waves crashed against the shore at Pirates Cove. Life is just a cycle, spinning through time.

Yet it remains forever difficult to discern which life experiences will ultimately anchor in my heart. I walked 300 miles to McGrath to find joy, and it was here, all along.