Reliving Snowy Range Pass

Driving long distances is a guilty pleasure of mine, right up there with cycling and running long distances — I just love covering ground. The best part about road trips is breaking up the drive with some sort of hurried adventure in a new-to-me place. The potential discoveries are seemingly endless. Driving from Salt Lake City to Boulder on Monday, I planned to take I-80 and check out singletrack trails in Laramie, which are popular with Colorado mountain bikers and must be for a reason. However, an afternoon ride through Corner Canyon on Sunday resulted in increased pain in my bruised elbow. I had to concede that I wasn't going to feel good on even remotely technical trail. So I shifted my focus to national forest lands just south of I-80 and west of Laramie, in the Snowy Range. 

I figured I could find some scenic jeep roads to ride. But after two miles of jack-hammering on rocky gravel, my elbow was giving me fits. I did not need this aggravation, so I turned around and gritted my teeth through a painful descent. Good decision to quit early. Since I'd already driven 30 miles off route and kitted up, I didn't want to waste the opportunity to ride. The smooth pavement of highway 130 seemed like a soothing alternative for my sore arm.

I was five or six miles into the road climb when the scenery began to look eerily familiar. This mountain village ... this roadside fishing platform ... those bald peaks in the distance. Where I have seen this before? It took about that long to realize, "Oh, this is the high pass we crossed in Wyoming during the cross-country bike tour!" This was 15 years ago, the last time I pedaled this road. Details have eroded to the point that I didn't recall the location or even the name of the mountain range, but the images of that day are still burned in memory, as clear as anything.

In the autumn of 2003, my then-boyfriend Geoff and I pedaled 3,200 miles from Salt Lake City to Syracuse, New York, on a self-created route (we tore state pages out of a Rand McNally road atlas before leaving Utah, and mostly made up the plan for each day as we went.) There are many stories I could tell from this trip, and may someday have to write a longer blog about it, but let's take a minute to look and laugh at my rig. The bike is an Ibex Corrida, an entry-level aluminum touring bicycle that I bought online for $300. The box arrived while Geoff was out of town, and although I knew nothing about bikes, I was so excited to try it out that I assembled the bike myself. My first ride was a predictable disaster — bent a derailleur hanger so the rear derailleur wrapped itself into the spokes, decimating the wheel and the drivetrain. Ibex, a now-defunct company run by good people, offered to take the bike back and send me a new one at no extra charge. They also sent me that cotton shirt, which I wore on the trip to display my Ibex pride. I considered them my "sponsor." (Ibex later sent me a slightly fancier $799 road bike after I wrote some Web content for them. I rode the red Corrida regularly until 2010.)

Anyway, this was to be a long tour, so I brought the kitchen sink. Among the contents of those panniers was a huge circa-2000 laptop computer and a full-sized frying pan (because camp pots don't work as well when cooking for two.) Also, non-foldable spare tire! I never weighed the loaded bike, but always guessed it to be in the range of 70-80 pounds. Starting the tour with limited training and experience, then pedaling that beast for an average of 50 miles a day for 65 days, left me with knee issues that persisted through my 20s. I also sustained at least 30 flat tires during that trip ... usually pinch flats. I could never figure that one out.

Mirror Lake, photo taken August 31, 2003

The trip began on my 24th birthday: August 20, 2003. We climbed out of Salt Lake City on Interstate 80 and followed Highway 40 through Eastern Utah and Colorado. North of Craig, we climbed into Wyoming via Baggs and camped in Savery — now part of the Tour Divide route. From there we climbed over the Continental Divide and another high pass whose exact location I'd mostly forgotten, until this week. I dug up the excerpt from my trip journal:

Tuesday, September 2, 2003: 
"We crossed the Continental Divide at 10,000 feet and the Snowy Range at nearly 11,000 feet. The morning we climbed the Snowy Range, southeastern Wyoming had dropped to record low temperatures. As we climbed into the clouds, the air hovered just above freezing and stinging rain pelted our skin. We rounded a small lake at 10,200 feet and proceeded to roll across the eight-mile summit beside 12,000 foot peaks of jagged granite, glacial black lakes and windswept pine. It was spectacular, but harder to see as the fog thickened and the temperature dropped.

We reached Libby Flats, the pass, just before 11 a.m. at 10,857 feet. At this point we had put on every piece of warm clothing we had, and still the cold wind cut through. Despite the rewards of climbing to the top of the world, the swift ride down to Centennial proved to be even more excruciating than the climb. The continuous 7 percent grade was merciless on my bike's burning brakes, and my meager coat and gloves proved useless against the windchill. Every part of my body went numb; my face froze in an expression of terror, and I screamed down the mountain until my knees buckled and my fingers turned gray.

Centennial, at only 8,100 feet, was a welcome sight, and we ducked into a tavern for a warm lunch and hot chocolate. From there, the flat high plains rolled us into Laramie - though not without a fight. We fought a prevailing 20 mph crosswind out of the southeast with no relief. By the time we reached the small city, the storm we had been running from all day caught up to us - and it poured. To compound things we got lost looking for a place to stay - impossible on a holiday weekend - and I lost a rear pulley which took over an hour to find and replace. It was nearly dark before we rolled into a KOA campground and crashed in frustration and exhaustion as the rain pounded down."

Geoff took this photo at the pass, dated Aug. 31, 2003. I remember much about this climb, because it was so hard. We got a pre-sunrise start out of camp because we anticipated a long day spanning a 4,000-foot climb. The morning was damp and gray; I remember beads of dew and sweat on my skin. My odometer regularly dipped below 4mph, and my calves burned with such intensity that I stopped pedaling involuntarily at regular intervals. The above journal entry was all I ever wrote about it, but I found this excerpt written by Geoff:

Thursday, September 4, 2003: 
"The thought though that people would actually ride their bike over the immense mountains of the American West didn’t enter my mind until the first time I saw someone doing it. As I recall I was in New Mexico, crossing through the southern Rockies in the ease of my Volkswagen when I saw a lone rider chugging up a winding mountain road. At the time he was probably only 3 or 4 miles from the top, but in my mind he seemed so much further than that. Driving past this rider, I imagined it taking him not minutes or even hours, but rather days to climb this last few miles. At that time the task of biking, fully loaded with gear, up and over the Rocky Mountains seemed as challenging and as intense as most anything I could imagine.

... Several days later I still find myself thinking occasionally of that first rider I saw biking over the mountains in New Mexico several years ago.  I coasted down from the mountains and out across the prairie having accomplished for myself what seemed to me several years ago like a nearly impossible feat.  The wind here on the plains is mostly at our back and the terrain is always dropping more than rising, but even a larger factor in making these past 150 miles seem so comfortable has been the gratification and momentum we gained by biking up and over the Rocky Mountains, an experience which for me will likely be one of the most memorable things I’ve ever done."

Fifteen years later, the climb is not nearly so daunting, the feat more tame ... and yet the original experience is every bit as memorable. After about two and a half hours of mostly relaxed spinning on my mountain bike, I pulled up to the pass. The first thing I noticed was this sign, which I recognized so clearly that I was convinced I could take a selfie in the same position as the original photo (not quite, but ...) It's still exactly the same! 

Upon comparison with the original photo, I now see it's not exactly the same, and the differences are driving the typographer in me crazy. How did they squeeze in that "Nature's Final Production" line? None of the other text is squished. Removing the footprints from the bottom of the old sign doesn't add enough room for text that large. Everything else is the same. Arrrrgh!

The views from Libby Flats. This is something I love most about Wyoming — high alpine plains. This more than anything else reminds me of the Tour Divide. That nostalgia trip also had apt timing, as the 2018 race kicks off Friday.

 Medicine Bow peak. Similar to my first visit here, the weather deteriorated near the top. Temperatures dropped to the high 40s with gusts of wind and rain. The thunderstorms were short-lived, but I ended up descending all the way to the bottom of the pass wearing my puffy jacket. It was a quick trip and I was decidedly better equipped than I was in 2003, despite having about 50 pounds fewer supplies. 

Driving into Laramie with evening light. It was so beautiful. I was all kinds of stoked about planning another bike tour across the plains, until I stepped out of my car to take this photo, only to be attacked by dozens of mosquitos. Then I remembered the sand hills, and the stop-in-our-tracks Nebraska winds, the mean drivers of Missouri, the tornado warnings of Illinois, the vicious dogs of Kentucky, the endless rollers on 17 percent grades in Ohio, the cold October nights in Pennsylvania and New York ... little did we know coasting down this road into Laramie in 2003, our hardest days were still ahead of us. But it was blissful, at the time, to think it was all downhill from here.

Life may be linear, but it folds in on itself in the most interesting ways. There's really nothing like experiencing something for the first time, but the nostalgia trips can be satisfying, too — both for the lucid memories they evoke, and the perspective into how far we've traveled since we first climbed this mountain.

Running around Bryce

This past weekend, Beat raced his fourth Bryce 100. It's an event full of punchy climbs, claustrophobic canyons, clouds of fine dust, thin air, daytime heat, nighttime frost — and endless incredible scenery. I've been wanting to go back for redemption since I timed out of this race at mile 72 last year, but I have resolved to not sign up for any more endurance events until I regain a higher degree of confidence in my fitness. Since my springtime running also has been nonexistent, I made an easy decision to DNS the Dirty 30 in Golden, so I could travel to Utah and play in Bryce Canyon (cough, crew for Beat.)

Beat anxiously anticipating the 5 a.m. start. With a 36-hour cutoff and sunset after 8 p.m., there's really no reason this race couldn't start at 8 a.m. rather than frigid darkness that requires runners to wake up at 3 a.m. I just don't understand these early starts. But I was filled with FOMO all the same. I had to remind myself that my Alaska adventures were not that long ago, because it already feels like it's been years since I clawed my way around a daunting swath of land, limbs throbbing and blood pulsing in pursuit of the divine.

The runners were off, so I headed into the national park to do some exploring. One (and only) positive of waking up for a 5 a.m. race start is arriving early enough to catch sunrise over the canyons.

The morning light was nice. But I'm still an a.m. grump. Bah humbug.

I set out for a hike along the rim, appreciative of the lack of crowds. (Okay, one more early start plus.)

Before the first mile was up, I became bored with my pace on an easy trail and launched into a jog. I did not set out with the intent of running — I'm not in great shape for that right now — but enjoyed the endorphin burst and decided to keep at it.

Descending along the Fairyland Loop Trail.

Not even 8 a.m. and I'm already drenched in sweat. To be fair, it wasn't that hot — 75 degrees for a high on Friday.

I believe this is called Boat Mesa? I'm indulging in many photos for this blog post, even though they are somewhat redundant and don't begin to capture the surroundings. Every corner revealed new and consistently breathtaking vistas, sand castles and stone sculptures. Stoke kicked in, and I ran faster.

So there I was, eight miles into my morning hike-run, clocking 7 or 8 mph — a pace that actually forces me to pick up my feet — on a perfectly smooth and nearly level trail at the bottom of the canyon. The tangerine- and salmon-colored fairy castle towered overhead, and I gazed upward in serene bliss. Then, suddenly, splat. I certainly didn't trip over anything and am fairly confident that I wasn't slurring my feet, so I couldn't even tell you why I fell. It's as though (and I genuinely believe this happens to me sometimes) my brain lost the plot and misinterpreted which way was up. I was even using my runner training wheels (trekking poles) to help keep my balance, to no avail. My body hit the hard dirt and skidded several inches. Most of the major joints on my right side — knee, hip, elbow, shoulder — felt like they had been smacked broadside by a 2x4. Every time. Every time! Well, it's good I didn't show up for the Dirty 30, because my running technique — already bad on my best days — has rusted to an alarming degree.

This was one of those hard hits where I had the wind knocked out of me, and had to drag myself off the trail and writhe around in the dirt for several minutes until I could breathe again. Assessment: Bloody knee, bloody wrist, throbbing hip and shoulder. My elbow seemed to have taken the brunt of the impact. In addition to road rash, it had already swollen to the size of a baseball. Ugh.

Happily, nothing was broken. I hobbled along for a mile (walk it off, walk it off), which turned into a more normal stride, which progressed into a determined hike as I climbed out of Fairyland.

Back at the rim, I had an opportunity to quit and grab the park shuttle, but opted to keep going. Descending into Queen's Garden, I was happy to run again, albeit at a much more timid, less thrilling pace.

The Bryce front country is rather compact, and I wanted to cover most of the major trails during this morning excursion. My elbow was hurting, so I put one of my trekking poles away and mostly walked. I wasn't worried about injury beyond the pronounced goose egg/bruise, but I was bummed that I had torn and blood-stained my favorite long-sleeve shirt. Every time!

Pretty hoodoos along the Peekaboo Loop. Does theis scenery ever get old? I doubt it.

By the time I returned to Bryce Point, I'd hiked/run/splat/hiked about 18 miles and stoke had fully returned. So I continued two more miles along the Under-the-Rim trail, until I heard that discouraging "slurp" from my Camelbak bladder, indicating I was out of water. Time to turn around. The final dry mile was quite steep — 1,000 feet of elevation gain in one mile. The one group of hikers I encountered on that climb looked concerned and asked me if I was okay. Well, I was bloody and dusty and likely weaving a bit from thirst and fatigue, but I thought I was doing okay. Since the trailhead was less than a half mile away, I didn't ask them for water.

Even though I was done with my 22-mile excursion by 1 p.m., the timing was too tight to make it out to the 32-mile aid station, my first point to meet Beat. He'd already told me he didn't expect to see me there, and our next point of contact was at mile 65. So I had oodles of time to take and shower and return to the park to picnic my way around the observation points.

I caught sunset from Rainbow Point, which sits above 9,000 feet.

I love sunset. It holds more intrigue than sunrise — the mystery of night, fading light and quiet, cool air and solitude.

At the Bryce Canyon village store, I waited in line for more than 20 minutes — behind a European woman buying what appeared to be dozens of glass trinkets that needed to be individually wrapped — to grab a sandwich and Frappuccino for Beat. He seemed grateful when I showed up at the dusty aid station with fresh food, as he'd been nauseated for most of the afternoon, and was just getting his stomach back enough to eat.

I was back up at 4 a.m. to catch Beat at mile 85. Well before dawn, temps had plummeted to 33 degrees with humidity. There was a definitive chill to the air, but Beat was in relatively good spirits despite an increasingly sore hip and nausea. I guess this goes with the territory in a hundred-miler, especially when one is nearing 50 (Beat has celebrated several of his recent birthdays in Bryce Canyon. He turned 49 on Thursday.)

As for me, well, I woke up after three hours of sleep feeling like I'd run my own hundred-miler, and also been beaten with a 2x4, and maybe crashed my car for good measure. Let's see — 22-mile run-ish after a month-plus mostly off my feet, big splat on the hard ground, continued running after big splat, sleep deprivation and picnicking with leftover race snacks. I'm really getting too old for this.

Besides general soreness and the goose egg on my elbow, I was physically okay ... as in uninjured. Although stiff and grumpy, it seemed a shame to waste this short, scenic opportunity when we had to return to Salt Lake that evening so Beat could catch a flight. After he took off toward the finish, I set out for a short morning hobble through Red Canyon.


Limping along the race course with my one trekking pole, holding my sore arm against my torso, and feeling a little disappointed that Beat probably ran through most of this beautiful place during the night. Night has its own beauties and mysteries, though. We recreational hikers miss so much.

There was an intriguing spur called Buckhorn Trail that I decided to follow. Following this narrow indentation over seriously loose scree in my compromised state with worn-out shoes was probably my most unwise decision in a weekend full of unwise decisions. My shoe slid out and I ended up on my butt, actually quite relieved that I didn't slide all the way to the bottom of the canyon. The scree under my foot kept giving out as I attempted to regain purchase, clawing at the trail with both hands despite radiating pain from my bad elbow. Arrgh! No more running/hiking for me for a while. For now, I stick to wheels.

Still, all of the mishaps were forgotten as I crawled onto a narrow plateau, plopped my now-bruised butt on a rock and breathed sweet, cool air as dozens of small birds darted over my head, in and out of their nest in a nearby hoodoo.

Beat finished the 2018 Bryce 100 in 29.5 hours. He was a little disappointed with his race, but I thought he did great for limited training following recovery from the 1,000-mile journey across Alaska. Plus, Bryce is a deceptively hard race. Someday, I would like to attempt something like this once more. But, really, I should first figure out how to simply run, yet again.

Trace us back, trace us back

Every couple of years, a group of friends from college plan a reunion in the Utah desert. For various reasons I missed the last two, so it had been six years since I've seen many of them. I suppose it's an anomaly that we bother to get together at all, but we all agree that life would be more dull without the "Terra Firma" crew on the periphery. Terra Firma was the name of an conservationist club at the University of Utah. On a whim I walked into a meeting one afternoon in 1998. That weekend, I joined an eccentric but entertaining crew on a camping trip in the San Rafael Swell — to document illegal ORV use, of course. And also adventure in the desert. My life has not been the same since. 

Here some of us are in October 2002, about to drop into Quandary Canyon. At this point I was co-living with nine other folks in one four-bedroom house (we called it the "Terra Firma Commune." But we weren't cultish, just cheap.) Every weekend we were traveling, to the desert or the mountains, to camp and hike. At that point in my 20s I had become world-weary, with a demanding job, a long commute, a few more career ambitions and a mountain of fears. This photo of Quandary Canyon always makes me smile, because I remember exactly how I felt in that moment. I was not happy we were about to descend into a scary slot canyon. I was anxious and terrified and probably would not have subjected myself to such misery had I not been so influenced by my friends. Sometimes I imagine what my life might be like had I never met them. I probably would have followed the neurotic inclinations of my young adulthood into a stressful work life and damaging addictions (I mean more damaging than cycling and running.) I'm endlessly grateful for the folks who dragged me — often kicking and screaming — into the world of outdoor adventure.

Now we're all near or over 40, with a lot of children in the mix. For that reason we reserved a family-friendly group site along the Colorado River north of Moab. I arrived Saturday evening — having purposely shown up a day late to skip the group river trip — to a temperature of 95 degrees with high winds. The camp site looked like an abandoned war zone — overturned and collapsed tents, tarps tangled in the tamarisk, everything covered in sand. The group of nearly 40 adults and children returned after battling the wind for more than nine hours. Everyone was fried, but we still sat down in sun-faded camp chairs and picked up where we left off ... has it really been six years? Or 20 for that matter? It feels like we were doing this last weekend.

On Sunday, against all of my current neurotic inclinations, I was coerced into joining a smaller crew who hadn't tired of river rafting after nine grueling hours the previous day. They were day-tripping a segment of the Colorado River known as the Moab Daily, with incredible scenery and a few small rapids. Although my early adventures with the Terra Firma crew stoked many of my passions, I also picked up a few abiding phobias. To this day I am terrified of moving water, to the point that I start having mild panic attacks and my mind goes blank and I make bad decisions. It's difficult to explain this phobia to people who know me as "the crazy one who rides bikes across Alaska." They assume I must be fearless. They couldn't be more wrong. So I have to retell my harrowing stories, even to friends who were there for the mishaps. They agree my fears are justified. Still, I *know* that the Moab Daily is a non-issue, and also that several 2-year-olds had managed the trip the previous day. I relented. My friend Craig joked that I had been "baby-shamed" into going on a rafting trip.

The Moab Daily was fun — really, this is the best way to spend a day in the desert when temperatures are in the 90s. I also can't deny that my heart was racing and my peripheral vision began to darken every time the enormous raft rolled over tiny riffles. It was a struggle to hold it together. I had to focus on my breathing. What is wrong with me? During the last rapid, Chris was rowing and asked everyone if we wanted to hit the big hole. I said nothing, but admitted to the crew that I was going to duck into the bow for this one. The raft dove in and the nose hit bottom, plunging me briefly into a caldron of water and causing the rear of the raft to fold over. Micah was thrown into the dry box and badly bruised her shin. An attachment to the oar lock broke, and Chris urged me to unhook the spare oar quickly. So I had to hang over the side of the boat, watching whitewater rush by my face as I fiddled with buckles and straps in a situation that felt urgent. Although this confession will invite more justified baby-shaming, I'm actually really proud of myself that I held it together and didn't black out, the way I did on an ill-advised "I'm going to be brave before the Tour Divide" Westwater rafting trip in 2009. But this trip did show that my phobia has not improved much since then. There won't be any packrafting in my near future, at least not before therapy. When we told the story of our Moab Daily incident around camp, Craig said, "It's always you." 

On Memorial Day the group made breakfast and said goodbyes. I headed out for a solo ride on a segment of the Kokopelli Trail that I remember as my favorite from that one time I rode it in 2009 — Onion Creek. The creek was running high, which made for lots of splashy fun early in the ride. (The fun kind of splashy fun, not whitewater rafting splashy fun.)

I was feeling a bit rough — maybe too much time in the sun? — but enjoyed the steep struggle spin up to Polar Mesa. The views from the rim are always worth it.

I'd been away from Internet and cell phone reception for two days — pure bliss — so hadn't checked recent weather reports. I assumed it would be mid-90s and breezy like the previous two days, so I packed four liters of water, some snacks, and not much else. Temps were coolish for my 10 a.m. start, and then dark clouds moved in. Sprinkling rain brought drenching rain and then, near 8,000 feet, a fierce hail storm. I bundled up in my 2-ounce wind shell, pulled my buff over my head, and huddled under a pine tree. As my core temperature trickled downward, I decided it was better to keep moving by climbing upward rather than retreat on a 12-mile rolling descent. So I kept pedaling into the storm, shivering, and a little bit frightened. This I had not expected.

The storm moved on and the temperature shot upward — back to being almost hot and humid. Early summer in the desert. I should know better. I should also prepare better. I know this. The Castle Valley connection provided a nice opportunity to unravel five hours of straining, shivering effort by coasting nearly the same distance in one hour, back to sunshine and the highway. Pure bliss.

Beat was going to fly into Salt Lake on Thursday to run the Bryce 100 this weekend, so I opted to come up a few days early rather than drive all the way to Boulder and back. I'd hoped to squeeze in a hike with my dad, but he took a bad tumble on Mount Olympus last week. It was a freak incident that happened just 10 minutes from the trailhead upon return. He doesn't remember what caused the fall, but his friend turned around to see him tumbling down the rocky slope. Dad was unconscious for three minutes before he came to. With help from his friend, he was able to walk out with numerous head wounds, a concussion, a broken wrist, bruised ribs, and bruised legs. The photo he texted me was gruesome. Happily he will make a full recovery, although he's bummed about four to six weeks of a broken wrist during the height of hiking season.

If friends ever wonder about the origin of my clumsy streak, well ...

Since I had a bike with me, I took a more rare opportunity to ride in the Wasatch Mountains. On Wednesday I decided to ride the trails over South Mountain and climb American Fork Canyon as far as I could muster ... I'd never been up that way, not even to Tibble Fork Reservoir, in all my years as a Utahn.

This is a beautiful climb. It was another hot day — 86 degrees — so I packed all the water and all of my rain gear. There were thunderstorms everywhere, but they all managed to miss me. Figures.

Grind, grind, grind, from 4,500 feet all the way to 9,000. I enjoyed the verdant green baby aspen leaves and fast-flowing creeks. Traffic was light, but at one point I was passed by two men on four-wheelers who wanted to chat and had lots of questions. Nice guys, really, but I was working a 15-percent grade on loose gravel, and not up for wasting my wind on words. I tried to be polite as I gasped out answers, and they continued on their way. When I reached the top about a half hour later, they were beside themselves. "We just got here, too!" one exclaimed. "Did you really pedal that whole hill? All the way from Tibble Fork? That must be ten miles! Better turn around here. Over this knoll, the road goes way, way down. I don't think you want to climb two mountains today."

I still rode over that knoll, just to see the other side — Heber Valley. Next time, I will ride that descent and find another awesome climb to return home. I also took some time to briefly explore the ridge trail, but it was a rough moto trail — deep moon dust and fall-line grading. (I don't know if motorcycles are allowed on these trails. They definitely use them, based on tracks in the dust.) It was one of those trails where I'd be much happier without a bike. Still, I vowed to explore the singletrack next time, too.

The nostalgia trip was complete that evening when I visited my best friend from high school and met her wiggly pack of 4-week-old whippet puppies ... so adorable. Of course when we get to talking, it's about skipping school and playing in sand dunes that have been buried under reservoir water for nearly 20 years already. Somehow, regardless of the timeline, you just pick up from the start without missing a beat. It's a uniquely cathartic experience, spending time with the people you knew when you were young. Life's relentless forward motion slows down for a moment, allowing space for a wealth of memories to encompass us. It's a welcome reminder that yes — we've lived.