2020 in photos

Well, so long 2020 ... it's been a year. I agree that we should drop the pretense that 2020 was a solely terrible year, or blindly celebrate that it's "finally over," because what has ended? That said, I think all of us can go back and laugh at our bright-eyed, hopeful predictions at the end of 2019. I certainly believed 2020 was going to be "my year." I had turned over that milestone of being 40 years old, I'd brushed away what seemed like the last strands of five years of ongoing health issues, and I was going to walk all the way to Nome on the Idiatrod Trail. My ultimate challenge! After that, the fun would only continue — the Silk Road Mountain Race in Kyrgystan, big plans for big mountains in Europe, perhaps my most ambitious adventure year yet! 

That none of it worked out hardly seems worth mentioning at this point. I realize I am one of the lucky ones ... so far, at least. 

But we did make it through 2020, a feat in and of itself. Back in the spring, I watched a great YouTube video where a woman laments to her drunken alter-ego that she hasn't accomplished even half of what she set out to do. The alter-ego fires back, "It's pandemic. Any day spent not sick is good day."

Indeed. And on this first day of a brand new year, I'm going back through all of my 2020 photos and compiling my favorites — one for each month, plus the photo that best represents the year for me. The above photo of an Anchorage friend riding a fat bike beside the expressive icebergs of Knik Glacier evokes all of the feelings, so that's the one. 

It was Friday the 13th — March 13th. That was probably the last day that felt somewhat "normal" for most of us in the United States. I was just two days removed from the Iditarod Trail. My adventure became a 300-mile march through deep snow, relentless wind, and intense cold that utterly broke me. I'd never before felt so physically depleted. Emotionally, I was a wreck as well. Between training and focus and desire, this was as hard as I'd tried for any of my endurance goals this decade, and still I fell drastically short of finishing the thousand-mile trek to Nome. But I'd depleted everything in trying. I couldn't even find the energy to leave the depressed solitude of my hotel room in downtown Anchorage and walk across the street to the natural foods grocery store, even though I was so outrageously hungry. 

Still, when my Alaskan friends Missy and Jen invited me to tag along on this ride to Knik Glacier, I knew I could not say no. The early uncertainties of the pandemic were exploding, Beat was still somewhere out there on the Iditarod Trail, and I was an anxious mess. Even a 20-something-mile ride on snow had nothing on my energy-draining ruminations. It was refreshing — healing — to push my tired legs into the pedals of a borrowed fat bike and propel myself through a wonderland of ice and friends. That night, we went out to dinner at a crowded bar — the type of place where you're shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers. We hugged when we said goodbye. It was the last I'd experience of restaurants or hugging friends for the remainder of the year. 

But it was a beautiful day to punctuate what had already been a life-changing journey. I look back on March with a warm nostalgia, to a time and place that will never quite be the same, regardless of what the future holds.  

January: Two Top

On January 10, Beat and I, along with our friend Daniel, participated as "beta runners" in the Fat Pursuit, a fat-biking ultra in Idaho that has always managed to be heinously difficult. Everything about the 2020 race was a slog — from barely making it home after delayed flights following a work trip to Anchorage, to a long drive diverted by avalanches and pummeled by snowstorms, to the fact that more than three feet of snow fell during our 55-odd hours on the course. At times we were wading through waist-deep drifts. If I dropped more than a hundred meters behind Beat and Daniel, all traces of their tracks would be erased by wind and snow. We actually found some of our best trail conditions on top of this famously stormy pass over the Continental Divide, although Two Top continued to be famously stormy. This photo captures the mood of the Fat Pursuit well.

February: Storms on the horizon

Shortly after the Fat Pursuit, Beat and I both became quite ill and remained under the weather for most of the rest of January. In February I played a lot of catch-up from that down time, engaging in my final strength-training sessions and preparing for the Iditarod. So I don't have many adventure photos, but this photo of sunset following a day of high winds also captures the moody aura of the month.

March: The last days of innocence

This photo captures the state of the Iditarod Trail in 2020 — buried. I was snowshoeing toward Finger Lake in the late afternoon, barely able to pick out trail markers amid the blowing snow, squinting into goggles, and feeling for threads of relatively packed snow through waves of spindrift. Temperatures dropped below zero. The wildchill was breathtaking. The onset of darkness brought out my worst phobias about angry moose, and I breathed shallowly, almost holding my breath so I'd hear the crunch of hooves over the wind. This was pretty much what I did for nine solid days until it broke me, and I quit the ITI in McGrath. Even though I wouldn't have made it to Nome either way — the pandemic effectively shut down the trail before anyone after the top three cyclists reached Nome — I remain deeply disappointed about quitting. Not that I believe I could have realistically completed the journey, which in its own way is even more disappointing. Still, the warm nostalgia of those final days before the pandemic filters into this experience as well. It was time to think, and space to move — so much expansive space. I miss Alaska deeply. 

April: Quarantine

Like most people, Beat and I were very much at home during the month of April. Beat's office closed before he ever had a chance to go back and collect his things — there are probably empty soda cans on his desk that will still be there in July 2021. I canceled appointments and set up virtual visits with doctors. We'd leave for runs from our front door and stayed within a small radius of our rural neighborhood. It was the month that the city streets and storefronts felt empty, but local trailheads were mobbed. We made efforts to stay away from the crowds, which caused me to feel even more cloistered. I brought my tired legs back to some semblance of life by running on gravel roads, which was physically refreshing but mentally tedious. Still, we were at least gifted a few April snowstorms to clear out crowds and blanket the world in a quiet tranquility that I cherished. 

May: Beat's birthday run

The first time I took my road bike along on a weekly shopping trip and ventured up a canyon more than a few miles away from my house, it felt like a vacation. Most of our adventures still started from home, and exploring new and unique local routes — ideally away from the increasing crowds — became Beat's overarching goal. For his May 31 birthday, he wanted to run a loop around the traditional Boulder Skyline Route — five peaks, 26 miles, nearly 8,000 feet of climbing — but overnight, when all of the other trail users would be home in bed. We started out about an hour before sunset under menacing skies. We were pummeled by rain and tormented by flashes of lightning for a couple of hours, and then the clouds opened to reveal beautiful night. Still, the mood remained unsettled. The end of May marked the beginning of the Black Lives Matter protests. Again, it felt like there was much uncertainty in the world. As we traversed the skyline 3,000 feet above the city, I heard sirens and looked down at flashing lights. I wondered what might be happening in the volatile streets below, and what changes might finally begin because of the unrest. 

June: Venturing into the world

By June, some of Colorado's stay-at-home mandates had been lifted. I decided to join two friends on a bikepacking overnight outside of Breckenridge. It felt so strange to get in the car and drive for two hours away from home. But it was refreshing to ride a bike across the Continental Divide and sleep on a mountainside. It was a welcome respite. 

July: The proposal

All of my favorite days of summer were the big days Beat and I spent in the mountains — even with the 3 a.m. alarms, the wary weather watching, and my heightened anxiety amid long hours of managing movements that are most challenging for my blundering body. I'm more than a little ashamed that "hiking" is so difficult for me, and that almost five years as Coloradoan with technical trails in my backyard has only increased the frequency of my missteps and struggles — and yet, I love it. As with most aspects of life, the most emotionally charged moments are the most memorable. This July 12 traverse was one of our more ambitious trips. We climbed 4,500 feet to the top of James Peak and then picked our way along a jagged ridge with a few exposed maneuvers. Beat was kind about my misgivings, waiting at intervals and pointing out handholds and footholds along the way. The sky had become moody by the time we topped Mount Bancroft. I was feeling jittery but walked around the perimeter of the broad peak to take photos of the view. This was the final vista I captured before walking back toward Beat. There, as I pulled a sandwich from my pack and took a huge bite, he cleared his throat and asked me to marry him. It was the most beautiful and perfect moment I could ever imagine for myself and my partner in life. 

August: Mount Alice

The beautiful alpine adventures continued into August. I took advantage of Rocky Mountain National Park's new permit system — an effort to address COVID by reducing crowds — to enjoy relative solitude on incredible routes throughout the park. Mount Alice, in all of her dramatic cragginess, was one of my favorite mountains. 

September: A crush of 13ers

Beat and I were married on September 19 in a beautiful sunset ceremony on the summit of our backyard mountain, Bear Peak, with my family and several friends in socially distanced attendance. We have some great photos from the evening, but my general policy with these year-end photo posts is to choose images that I took. So I picked one more dramatic alpine photo of Beat standing on the saddle below Chief's Head, overlooking the spectacular upper cirque of Glacier Gorge. This was another tough day for me, and I remember thinking that I looked forward to the downtime of winter, when I wouldn't have to feel so anxious about my outdoor excursions. It was always rewarding, and always hard. Now that it's winter, I again find myself dreaming of these places, and of traveling on foot along craggy ridges and interminable boulder fields. There are so many mountains that that I consider out of reach given my insecurities about exposure, but still ... as long as I am living and loving mountains, there will always be a desire to go "higher." 

October: Fire summer

I am still angry about October. Colorado's fire season, which had scorched hundreds of thousands of acres and choked the skies with smoke since July, is usually winding down by the time the katabatic winds of late autumn arrive. But not in 2020. It was hot, it was dry, and a half dozen local fires exploded with a fury and level of destruction never before seen in this region. We experienced California-like megafires, roaring through more than 100,000 acres in a single day, destroying hundreds of homes and killing at least two people. In total, more than 625,000 acres burned in 2020 — more Colorado acreage than burned in 40 years between 1960 and 2000. Yes, forest needs to burn to clear out sickly beetle-kill trees and make room for healthy seedlings. But a lot of the fires torched forests that some researchers believe won't recover in our lifetimes, if ever. As the climate warms, Colorado is likely to become more like New Mexico — grass and shrublands at altitudes where we currently have pine and hemlock forests. Wildfire is going to expedite this transition, and witnessing the conflagerations was more upsetting that I even imagined it might me. For much of the month, I watched the sky turn black. I choked on my own breath. I lost interest in going outside, for a time. It's not a global pandemic, but in many ways, watching the environment change before my eyes is similarly disheartening, less likely to turn around, and more permanent. Yes, I am still angry about October. 

November: A soul-warming — if bone-chilling — escape

Late-arriving November storms finally brought some relief to the fire season, and we could finally breathe easier — literally. My mood and outlook improved substantially as winter weather arrived. Some of this I credited to CBD supplements. Some I credit to the personality quirk that causes me to love winter most. Not a small amount is relief about the U.S. election, which was not wholly confidence-inspiring, but better than some of the alternatives. I also believe a lot of my well-being is based in the air that I breathe. When breathing is difficult, both body and mind slip into malaise. When breathing is clear, it feels like there's nothing I can't do. Thus was my experience in November — lots of biking, lots of local adventures, none of the struggles of summer. Toward the end of the month, I made my first "escape" since March, crossing the Utah border for a week of biking in Canyonlands, Capitol Reef, and the San Rafael Swell. This was a wonderful trip, a chance to see friends and absorb stunning vistas in the gorgeous, empty desert. I was a little unprepared for the realities of camping every night when temperatures dropped to single digits and I had no indoor respites. So I froze. But I was in heaven. 

December: Keeping the long view

My gratitude for breathing easy and moving freely in the big world continued into December. After a few early snowstorms, the month was mostly warm and dry — admittedly, terrible for both the stability of mountain snowpack and our longterm prospects for avoiding another catastrophic fire summer in 2021. Right now I am not letting myself think about that, because I'm already saddened by the huge surge in COVID numbers, the lethargic nature of the vaccine rollout, and all of the travel plans I've already canceled in anticipation of a similarly cloistered 2021. Beat and I nixed a March trip to Alaska. And after maintaining hope that my friend Danni and I would pursue our Kyrgyzstan bike trip in August, we've already deferred our plans to 2022 — if ever. Sigh. I certainly am grateful for the opportunities I still have. But like everybody else, I too leave 2020 behind with a sense of loss. 

I took this photo of two mountain goats near the summit of Mount Evans, that hulking 14er with a controversial name and a road to the top that I pedaled a half dozen times in the second half of the year. Each ride brought new perspectives — the snowy optimism of June, the summery warmth of July, the smoky oppression of August and October. Finally, in December, the solitude and clarity of winter. It's been a difficult year, but I'm thrilled to have reached the proverbial starting point of another trip around the globe. Here's to more beauty, gratitude, and hopefully the more positive sorts of challenges in 2021. 

Photo posts from years past: 
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010 part one, part two
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018

2019

Wild Winter Way

It started, as most endeavors have in 2020, with widespread cancellations. One by one, all of our winter races dropped from our calendars — the Tuscobia Winter Ultra, Fat Pursuit, Arrowhead. My favorite social media group, the "Wild Winter Women," proposed putting together a virtual race for the final weeks of the year. If there's anything that makes my heart happy during this isolated holiday season, it's watching other women embrace the joys of the winter slog. I took on the role of de facto race director, in that I set up a Web site and promised to publish results afterward. The premise of Wild Winter Way was effectively "do what you want." But as a nod to Tuscobia, we established the long distance at 160 miles. 

160 miles was an intriguing distance for a winter bicycle ride — something that could be done in a single day, although once you factor a hilly course with mixed snow and ice, grinding the high resistance of studded tires, and carrying the requisite supplies necessary for a full day out in cold temperatures, maybe just barely. I wanted to start from home and make a big loop east of the Continental Divide while mostly avoiding the urban corridor. I had fun drawing up a route that was exactly 160 miles — with 21,000 feet of climbing — following snow-packed gravel roads, unmaintained back roads, and long paved climbs. The best bike for the job, I decided, was my good ol' Moots 29er: mostly because it's my most comfortable bike. Also, with aggressive studded tires, it's arguably my most capable bike for winter road riding. Fat bikes can do almost anything, but because they're designed to float rather than dig in, they tend to wash out in the sand-snow chunder so common on rural roads. 

I packed three liters of water, about 4,000 calories of food — mostly cheese sticks, banana bread and ham sandwiches — three batteries for a handlebar light, one helmet light, one spare headlamp, a water filter, wind pants and jacket, two puffy jackets, primaloft mittens, mitten shells, spare hat, socks, neck warmer, extra buffs, a mask, assorted electronics, full repair kit and pump, spare tube, and assorted personal items. The forecast called for a high of 48 degrees in Golden, where I expected to be at noon, and an overnight low of 15 in Ward, where I hoped to be at midnight. What was daunting about the weather was the wind. We were pummeled with 60 mph gusts in the days leading up to the ride. Although the forecast called for slightly lower wind speeds on Monday, the ongoing whistles and howls through my restless night convinced me that I'd probably have to face the teeth of the gale. 

My planned "race date" was the Winter Solstice — the shortest day of the longest #$&! year of our lives. With sunrise at 7:20 a.m. and sunset at 4:38 p.m., I had 9 hours and 18 minutes of daylight to work with, which is a lot, really, when you think about it. I remember reading somewhere that everywhere on Earth receives more or less the same amount of daylight over the span of a year — Alaska greedily consumes all of theirs during the summer and endures deprivation through the winter.  The equator dutifully doles out daylight in equal rations all year long. These mid-latitudes swing between 15 and 9 in either direction, which ... eh. Is there really that much difference in the modern era, when most of us spend day and night in front of screens? Yet, it is fun to celebrate Solstice — that time of year when the sun is most angled over these gentle latitudes, and color and light are infused with a richness that you never see in June. 

I headed out at 6:15 a.m. The temperature was 34 degrees and winds were still gusting well over 30 mph. An ominous if beautiful sunrise portended a difficult battle — "sailors take warning" and all that.  Buffeted by gusts, I had to engage a hard effort just to reach Flagstaff Road — two miles with a steep descent and a 500-foot climb. "I can't afford to burn all these matches right out of the gate," I thought. I also started shivering. 34 degrees isn't terribly cold, but after enduring twenty minutes of stiff headwind, the spare layers were already coming on. "Maybe I should turn around and grab my puffy shorts and once more coat," I thought. "Nah, I'll be all right." 

One problem with starting an endurance challenge from my front door is the tyranny of familiarity. There are too many sections that I know by heart; I know how far I need to travel, and I know how long these miles should take. Through a barrage of crosswind gusts, I raced to keep a good pace on Gross Dam Road, then turned into the teeth of the wind to ascend another 2,000 feet up Gap Road. Gap Road is named for a veritable wind funnel of a notch between two 10,000-foot mountains. Riding this road on a windy day feels like wrestling with an angry ghost. You can't see the ghost and you never know which way he's going to shove you; you just know it's going to hurt. 

On this day it was more of a mud wrestling match. Several inches of old snow had drifted across the road, churned into sugar, and then stirred up by traffic. The resulting chunder is difficult to describe. It's not sand, it's not mud, it's not snow — it's really all of the above, just gross and loose and seemingly bottomless. The angry ghost landed a solid jab just as my rear wheel washed over a chunder pile, and I crashed ear-first into the muck. I spit out a string of obscenities and looked at my watch. Three and a half hours! It usually only takes me two and a half hours to ride to the end of the road, which was still more than three miles away. I swore some more and ground into the pedals, swerving and churning, pegging my heart rate for four miles an hour. 

I reached Panorama Point, which was deserted, and sat on a bench overlooking angry clouds to the west. I ate two thick slices of banana bread even though I only brought four and they were supposed to be treats for later in the ride. Then I had a little cry. I like to have little cries during my endurance efforts. Tears reset the system and release extra endorphins. But when I'm not yet to the end of Gap Road ... not even at mile 20 of a 160-mile ride ... maybe that's not such a good sign. 

Finally, I started a long descent into the urban corridor on minimally maintained roads through Golden Gate Canyon — Mountain Base Road, which was awash in drifts, and Drew Hill Road, which was a fun mix of chunder over black ice. I was grateful for those studded tires! But I had to take care not to wash out, wherein studs won't save you. As I crept downhill through the shaded canyon, my core temperature plummeted. Even a puffy jacket and the mitten shells didn't ward off the chill. This was supposed to be the warmest part of the day. Maybe that's not such a good sign. 

I arrived in Golden feeling defeated. The wind still howled at the lowest altitude of my route. I also was as far east as I was going to go — no more tailwinds. It took a healthy dose of energy just to pedal west along flat city streets. I thought about turning north and heading home. Who would care? It's not like this Wild Winter Way really meant anything. It was a virtual race that I made up. Still, if I gave up now, just because it was hard, I would have to give up all of the rewards I was seeking — traveling through the beautiful day into the long night, relishing a simple, almost childlike state that forgets fear and expectation, and opening my mind to wonders beyond my usual rigid perceptions. 

It's difficult to describe the inner state of these journeys. I recently finished the book "How to Change Your Mind" by Michael Pollan, and many times found myself nodding, "That's It!" This book summarizes Pollan's personal and academic research into psychedelic drugs, exploring their history, biology, and potential for therapeutic applications. Now, I have never tried psychedelics and don't intend to still. But I can relate to the mystical journey, the pursuit of awe that Pollan frequently describes. 

 “When the ego dissolves, so does a bounded conception not only of our self but of our self-interest," Pollan writes. "What emerges in its place is invariably a broader, more openhearted and altruistic—that is, more spiritual—idea of what matters in life. One in which a new sense of connection, or love, however defined, seems to figure prominently.” 

So instead of heading north toward Boulder, I started up Lookout Mountain, where the gusty, angry ghost regathered his strength and pounced. Crosswinds became an insurmountable obstacle. I just had to throw a foot down and wait for a lull. Eventually, the ghost caught me off guard, shoving body and bike into a guardrail. My knee and shin throbbed as I teetered over an alarming precipice. After that, every time I had to round a switchback and change my defensive stance, I stepped off the bike and walked. It was shameful, but at this point, I was committed to the ride. It didn't matter how long it took or how slow I went. I was going to finish this thing. Because of this almost imperceptible shift in expectation, I felt more content — happy, even. 

My resolve was further tested along an unmaintained bike path paralleling I-70, which was just ... interminable. Here the fat bike would have been better, but one can only ride so well through loose yet crusty sugar. The infernal west wind roared directly in my face, so there was no more need for defensive wrestling moves — just a dull grind into an invisible wall. For nearly ten miles I churned along miserably, spending the rest of my energy matches just to ride the bike rather than walk it, and gaining almost no real altitude when I still had a 4,000-foot climb up Echo Mountain to contend with. There, my ride would top out at 11,135 feet, but it would be a faint victory. After that, nearly 100 miles and more than 10,000 feet of climbing still remained. I probably stopped 20 times to sulk and text Beat variations of "This Wind Is Kicking My Ass." There was no cell signal, and none of the messages went through. Probably for the best. 

I was grateful to leave that infuriating bike path and veer onto the long paved climb toward Echo Mountain — more than 15 miles of steady uphill grind. A fair amount of snow had drifted across the road and no one had yet been through to plow it, so the wrestling match commenced. The wind would not give an inch. I had listened to its roar for eight solid hours. There would be no relief. 

As I neared the top, sunset cast gorgeous pink and gold light across the mountainous horizon. The wind had swirled up a particularly impressive lenticular cloud, and I enjoyed open access to these views at the perfect time of day. The space felt immense, and yet the chill became increasingly confining. I stopped to put on most of my spare layers. I felt a tinge of fear for the many hours of darkness in front of me. I turned on the front headlight only to find it barely worked — it would only flicker in its dimmest setting. I tried a second battery and then the third with similar results. I probably should have anticipated that these batteries might not work so well when cold. My anxiety spiked substantially because the long night was coming and I was nearly blind — I had only one helmet light battery and thus needed to keep it on its lowest setting. I wanted to save my headlamp in case everything else failed. 

Under a crush of cold and darkness, I was overcome with irrational urgency, an inner voice screaming that I needed to descend into Idaho Springs as quickly as possible. I launched into the descent with my sad headlight blinking white flashes into otherwise jet-black darkness. These were surreal miles, coasting in panic mode with a kind of disco light effect guiding the way, shivering so profusely that I could barely steer the bike, my hands too numb to do much with the brakes, and wondering with slight detachment what would happen if a deer suddenly darted out in front of me. 

"This is so trippy," I thought, and laughed with a thirdhand observer's amusement about the poor choices I was making. 

Luckily, the spell broke before anything bad happened. I finally stopped to windmill some blood back into my hands and fiddle with the lights, coaxing one to work on a more solid setting and stuffing the other two batteries down my bra for rewarming. I started to daydream about the one gas station I'd pass in Idaho Springs, and the hot coffee with cream I was definitely buying alongside the few liters of water I needed. I originally planned to complete my ride unsupported but justified making this stop. It was coffee and water. Who would care? 

I pulled into the parking lot, propped my bike against a window, and was again fiddling with my lights when a large Greyhound bus pulled up to the store. The marquee read "New York" and the interior was completely packed with passengers. Dozens of people poured out of the bus and into the store, lining up at the bathrooms, filling the aisles, and swarming around the nearby garbage cans outside. I haven't been around this many people since the pandemic started. It's just my luck that my first crowd experience in nine months happened in the midst of a long and deeply fatiguing solo ride where my anxiety was already spiked. I panicked. Even though my backpack was slung over one shoulder with half of my stuff hanging out, I mounted the saddle and began pedaling away, forgetting I'd clipped my helmet to the rear wheel. A clunk halted my pedal stroke — "Why did my bike stop working?" — before I remembered I put it there to trip up potential thieves for a few seconds while I purchased coffee. As I struggled with the helmet straps, smokers continued encircling me, masks off and cigarettes lit. I fully lifted the bike and carried it across the street until I was safely out of the store's spotlight, where I could lean against a chain-link fence and put myself back together.

Whew! Who even knew that cross-country bus travel was still a thing right now? I was greatly relieved to pedal away from the lights of I-70 and into the yawning darkness of Virginia Canyon. Sure, I didn't get my coffee. And sure, I was now going to have to scout out frozen creeks to collect water that I needed sooner than later. But any difficulties ahead were much less daunting than that crush of humanity. I was slightly agoraphobic even before the pandemic. I wondered if I'll be able to function normally in a crowd, ever again.

After that adrenaline spike, the world returned to surreality. My next section took me through a maze of barely traveled jeep roads to bypass a crush of humanity in the casino towns of Black Hawk and Central City. Snow was deep and grades were steep, and I stumbled along, gazing bleary-eyed at the snowy forest where a few random trees held strings of Christmas lights. From there I descended into Apex Valley, where a bridge crossed the ice of North Clear Creek. Just below the bridge was an open lead with enough rocks around it to spur some confidence about straddling the ice. Balancing on top of rocks proved tricky, but I was grateful to take a sip of icy clear water and know that I had earned it. Since the water temperature was already close to freezing, it rapidly turned to slush in my water bottle. I took a few more sips while standing in place — my first moments of real stillness since the start of my ride. What was that strange sound? For the first time in more than twelve hours, the air was simply quiet. 

The angry ghost had been subdued. Late evening had arrived, and almost all traffic had disappeared from these mountain roads. The air was quiet, the land was quiet, and the sky was filled with an expanse of stars and a lopsided half-moon.  A giddy sort of "endurance buzz" took over, and I pedaled onward in a state of bliss. I tackled the climbs with renewed zeal, half believing in this strange out-of-body sensation — that time had ended and yet consciousness remained. Now I was free to roam the universe without the nagging demands of a body. This would last until I felt woozy because my glucose tanked, and then I'd have to stop to cram down a few more bites of sandwich, after which a higher level of lucidity — and thus mental fatigue — would return. But I loved my night ride along Peak to Peak Highway. Loved it. How often does one just continue moving through an expansive and starry night, the only sentient being in the universe, breathing frosty air and sipping slushy water so cold that it sparks a thrilling electric jolt? (I believe these are called ice cream headaches.) This was exactly the experience I was seeking, reason enough to travel all of those grueling miles while wrestling an angry ghost.

I reached my furthest north point at the quirky mountain town of Ward, sometime before 2 a.m. Here I again bundled up after shedding most of my layers — even though temperatures had dropped well below freezing, with the wind gone, I'd heated up rapidly — and launched into a 4,000-foot descent into Boulder. As I was zooming down Lefthand Canyon, I passed a dark driveway with something softly lit on the ground. It looked like my name. At first I thought I was half-hallucinating, as one does at 2 a.m. after 20 hours on a bike. But it was real! An acquaintance left out this encouraging sign and a cup of warm tea. The tea was caffeinated and the perfect temperature to gulp quickly — unlike my headachy slush water — and I relished the infusion of energy and hydration, along with warm gratitude. Simple acts of kindness can mean so much.

The wind had returned before the end of the descent, so the steep climb up Lee Hill renewed a punishing battle. My overnight bliss had faded, and all that remained was seemingly insurmountable fatigue. I'd burned up all of my energy matches. I burned them while the sun was still up, while battling chunder and angry ghosts. There were only fumes and fantasy to carry me through the darkness. Now even fumes were gone. I'd ridden my bike nearly 150 miles. It wouldn't be so bad if I could call that distance good and just stop here, but I still had one final 3,000-foot climb to surmount before I was physically at home. Ten miles of pure pain. Was it even possible? I had lots of snacks still — I hadn't eaten nearly enough calories — and resolved to stop every mile, catch my breath, and cram down a few grams of sugar before continuing. 

Again, I was back in familiar territory. Again, I knew where my capabilities should fall. "SuperFlag" climbs 2,000 feet in 4.5 miles. My best time on this segment is 45 minutes. It's mediocre, but it absolutely crushes the 105 minutes it took me during the wee hours of Tuesday morning. It had become so late that it was now early, and the first commuters were rolling down the icy pavement on their way to work. I made sure I was never walking my bike when I saw headlights — dignity and all — but once the road crossed that ten-percent-grade threshold, I wasn't even capable of pedaling. I had nothing left. Just nothing. A deep nausea set in, and I could no longer consume the snacks I promised during more frequent breaks. While pedaling, it was all I could do not to vomit. There were a few moments when I genuinely wondered if I could even walk my bike home. But finally, just before 6 a.m., the lights of my front door came into view — just as I'd left them, 24 hours earlier. 

One short day. One long, strange trip. This is the Wild Winter Way. It has its up-front costs, and this one felt particularly high given the slowness of my recovery since. But bodies are fickle. Nausea and soreness fades. The awe, the wonder, the expansive perspectives — those remain. It's worth it. 

Fourth summer happened somewhere in there

It took me several days to thaw out after my week in the desert. There's just something about spending several too-cold nights living outside that will chill a body to the bone. Even wrapped under a down blanket with underfloor heating radiating through the carpet, I still felt uncomfortably cool. Still, my home state made the transition back to normal as easy as possible. As I was driving home from Utah on November 30, the temperature in Golden was 63 degrees.

"Ah, it's always summer in Denver," I thought. "Except when it's not."

The temperature climbed into the 50s and 60s for much of the first week of December. I enjoyed several afternoon runs wearing a T-shirt and actually needing to carry a water bottle. I suppose in this selfie I am technically not wearing a T-shirt. But I was still in the midst of my post-Utah thaw. It was 59 degrees. 

Thanks to the low light of December, a surprising amount of snow that fell a week earlier stuck around. It had mostly melted out in the open, but forested roads and trails held onto a thick layer of sugary powder. I took my fat bike out one evening and spent more than three hours plodding through a route that normally takes two in the summer. My reward was this lovely view, and also seeing absolutely nobody else out. Even a short section of paved road was devoid of traffic. It's always surprising to me, the way crowds just fade away in the winter. Even when the weather is nice. Where do they go? 

Ah, there they are! One of my favorite aspects of this time of year is when the elk return to the neighborhood. They're more elusive than I'd expect, given there seem to be many dozens in the herd, but every so often I catch them milling around familiar places. It's always fun to stop what I'm doing and gawk. This particular burn where the elk are grazing is an interesting case study of the impacts of modern wildfire damage. This area burned in 2000 — 20 years ago — and it has yet to recover any new trees. I've done a bit of reading on this, and found that researchers believe many of Colorado's lower altitude forests will convert to grasslands as fires become larger and more widespread. Honestly, every time I ride by this section of Walker Ranch, it breaks my heart just a little to realize what the future might hold for this place where I live now, this place that I love. But on this day, I could instead dreamily watch elk grazing on an abundance of grass. At least, that is, until my core temperature plummeted because I left the house dressed for 48 degrees and returned to evening temperatures dipping into the 20s. 

December 5 was "Global Fat Bike Day." I'm somewhat of a scrooge when it comes to hashtag holidays, but the social media buzz did get me thinking about places to ride my fat bike on Saturday. Around the Front Range, as far as I've found, there are almost no snowmobile trails or forest roads that see regular winter use. Most of what winter cyclists ride around here are hiking trails packed by people on foot and skis. These trails can be fun, but I do miss the long-distance trails of Alaska and other regions where snowmobilers or dog mushers travel deep into the wilderness. I decided to check out Rollins Pass Road, knowing that people sometimes drive their jeeps up the road. I wasn't expecting much — every other time I've tried this road in past years, I've had to turn around after three or four miles. But Saturday held surprisingly rideable conditions. It wasn't perfect — temperatures had been warm, so the track was often loose and sugary. I only encountered three vehicles, and all were in some state of spinning out, even though I always pulled off the track to let them pass. I suppose that's why this road isn't traveled all winter long; the deepening drifts will probably deter most traffic soon. 

I was stoked to climb all the way to Yankee Doodle Lake, although the day had by now become so warm that even the more solid sections of track were deteriorating to mashed potatoes. Grind, grind, grind. The vehicle tracks ended at the lake, but one track continued through the drifted snow. It was a hiker's track — one set of boot prints and the runners of a sled the person was dragging. The track had the distinct pattern of a Paris expedition sled. I know it so well — following faint sled tracks for miles and days until one becomes fixated on every detail is a hallmark of walking the Iditarod Trail. I was surprised to find the sled had consolidated enough snow to leave the track marginally rideable. It was punchy, for sure, but a fun practice in "think light, be light." 

After a couple of miles, the Paris sled hiker was punching knee-deep into drifts, and so was I. I hoped to make it as far as Needle Eye Tunnel, which I view as the terminus of any winter trek here — the trail beyond crosses a dangerous avalanche path, and would never be packed enough to ride even in safe conditions. But the drifts started to become ridiculous, and I was four hours into this climb and still 1.5 miles away from the tunnel. I called it good. I still logged a 36-mile fat bike ride on Global Fat Bike Day, which I consider a dedicated celebration. 

The following day, Sunday, Beat and I hiked to one of our favorite winter haunts, Niwot Ridge. It was already 33 degrees when we left the trailhead and felt downright hot in the high-altitude sunshine. But once you hit that air funnel of a ridge, even a gentle breeze will become a 20- to 25-mph wind, and then you regret every layer you've sweated out. 

The climb to the ridge had loosely consolidated sugar snow, similar to the conditions I encountered on Rollins Pass. The ridge itself was wind-scoured to the bony tundra — with just enough pockets of snow to make navigating a route tricky. Beat is good at this sort of stuff — he just floats over the tussocks and snow pillows. I seem to find every patch of collapsible crust hiding a tangle of brush thick enough to pull my boots nearly off my feet before I manage to free myself. It seems every hike I do with Beat these days brings similar musings — "Walking is hard. I should just stick with bikes from now on." 

There are lovely views from the farther ends of the ridge. Here we climbed to 12,300 feet and I thought, "You don't often see these altitudes in December." But the next day, my friend Betsy embarked on an adventure that left me feeling even more ambitious. 

Wednesday proved to be my best window for such an adventure. The forecast for Denver again called for temperatures in the 60s, but the approaching Thursday storm and subsequent days of cold might well close this window for a while, if not for good. I loaded my mountain bike in my car and set out at a not-so-early hour — although late December sunrises make it seem early — and enjoyed another short visit with the elk on my way out. 

My destination — Mount Evans, elevation 14,265. I've already been up this road five or six times this year, but honestly, it does not get old. There's a particular novelty to a winter ascent, which I always suspected might be possible given the wind-scouring that happens at these altitudes, but have never been bold enough to try. Betsy and a few of her friends made a pioneering attempt at Evans on Monday, and she made it all the way to the top. After she described the conditions, it seemed like I might be able to get away with a lighter bike than my fat bike, which would be such a grind to pedal up 7,000 feet of a continuous climb. See, I was determined to start in Idaho Springs, 13 miles and 3,500 feet below the winter gate — mostly because I'm a weirdo, but I am set in my ways and have to do Mount Evans my way. Still, I realized that even a best-case scenario probably meant a 7- or 8-hour ride as opposed to 5 or 6 in the summer. 

Given the summer-like weather we'd enjoyed and the forecast for the day, I was surprised that the morning temperature in Idaho Springs was 21 degrees. I'd showed up only marginally prepared for consistent temperatures this low, especially deep in a canyon in December without direct sunlight for most of the first 13 miles. The plowed section of the road was coated in black ice, and I quietly hoped that it would melt by afternoon, or I might just have to walk more of the descent than I'd planned. Even climbing was quite slippy, and my fingers were half-frozen in my single set of mittens. 

Once I passed the winter gate, conditions actually improved. The next three miles are below treeline and protected by forest. About a foot of snow covered the road. But it had been nearly two weeks since the area received snowfall, and in that time hikers had trammeled a solid bootpack. It was as boney as a rocky summer trail, but it was perfectly rideable for my 29er. Beyond that were 11 miles of drifts and wind-scoured pavement. The drifts were often possible to ride around, although not always simple — some required threading along a rocky shoulder beside precarious dropoffs. A couple of times I tried riding up onto the drifts, but they always collapsed underneath my wheel. I believe the same would happen with a fat bike. Colorado snow is just too dry and airy to form that white slickrock so prevalent in windy and wetter parts of Alaska. I think even a few good freeze-thaws wouldn't make enough of a difference. 

I don't believe temperatures ever rose above freezing, based on the ice that was continuously forming in my hydration hose. A Camelbak wasn't the best choice for this ride, but I admit I packed somewhat mindlessly with the ingrained habits of summer rides. I had to ward off a frozen hose by blowing the water back into the bladder every time I took a drink. This proved more difficult as I gained altitude, leaving me sucking wind for several minutes every time. By 13,000 feet, I felt like I might just pass out. Dehydration or hypoxia? It's a difficult choice to make. 

I suppose my summer altitude acclimation is long gone. As I neared 14,000 feet, even where the pavement was dry, I felt like I was plowing through a foot of snow. I did enjoy seeing all of the animals along the road — the bighorn rams that have rejoined the ewes, and the mountain goats now sporting their shaggy winter coats. 

Another fun aspect of riding Mount Evans in December was the clarity of the views. Most of my summer trips happened amid the haze of smoke season. On this day I could see all the way to Denver — some 9,000 feet lower — and beyond. 

Mootsy the mountain bike on top of Mount Evans. Between Beat and me, we've taken many of the bikes we own up here — one road bike, two gravel bikes, a fat bike, and two mountain bikes. 

Even though five hours had passed and I was feeling tapped out, I still hiked to the proper summit, because it would not be the same — or a proper 14er summit — without this ritual. The one other person I'd seen on the mountain was Betsy's husband, Josh, who also got the idea from her to get it while the getting was good. Based on the erratic tracks along the snowy trail, I could see that he tried to ride and then hiked his fat bike all the way to the top, which I found amusing and a little bit enviable. A brisk wind left me shivering as I choked down my peanut butter sandwich, knowing the hard part of this ride was still ahead. I wondered how much the cold wind and icy road was going to hurt.

"It's always summer in Denver — except at 14,000 feet."

Luckily, the unrideable snow drifts came at convenient intervals where I could run with my bike and pump blood back into my extremities. The black ice scenario at lower altitudes had improved as well. I even finished up before dark, although it was my slowest Evans at 7.5 hours. I guess I've made six ascents this year. The first, which I also titled "Snowy Mount Evans" was on June 20. That ride involved hiking most of the final three miles through several inches of fresh snow. The mountain was ironically snowier on the cusp of summer than the cusp of winter. 

It was an incredible treat, to make it to the top of Mount Evans in December. But I suppose it was also somewhat of a waste of the final day of fourth summer, as I spent most of the day battling a creeping chill. Then the following day, the storm arrived. On Friday I convinced Beat we should go for an evening ride up the Homestead Trail. 

There were only a few inches of new snow, but this ride was amazingly hard work. Beat buried himself trying to clean the entire climb and sweated out his layers when temperatures were in the teens. I threw them in the laundry later that night, and he might as well have tossed them in a lake for how wet they were. Luckily he anticipated this and brought an entire change of clothing for the descent. 

It was such a lovely evening, though. After the fog began to clear, frost clung to every needle and twig. This climb is a go-to workout, so I visit this place frequently. But it feels like a different world in the winter. So quiet, so soft, so menacing and inviting all at once. And, as an added bonus, nobody else is around. Where do they go? 

We saw a few more folks during our Sunday run around Walker Ranch, which had also converted to a winter wonderland. I didn't get outside on Saturday because I was trying out our new toy — Zwift! I've long resisted indoor trainers, but a conversation with a friend convinced me that the competitive and virtual reality aspects of Zwift make it more of a game than a chore. Our recent smoky summer also pushed me over the edge in this regard — there were a lot of summer days when I would have liked to have the option of exercising indoors rather than risk my health and ravage my lungs when the AQI is 200. But I had so much fun that I can see myself sacrificing a few quality winter days to the trainer as well. 

I'll probably write more about Zwift next week, as I'm just getting started and discovering what it's all about. But it's exciting, and seems like it will be a fun social diversion from all of the solo slogs I like to do. Let's just say that my recent Strava post about grinding out 3.5 arduous hours on my fat bike elicited seven comments about Zwift, and none about the actual outdoor ride. I look forward to riding with some of you out there in the virtual world!