Building Character: The Teton Traverse

Last weekend after a couple lackluster pre-season Shoshone laps, Dapper Dan made a surprising suggestion: a November Teton traverse. 

In the summer people often run the Teton Canyon to Death Canyon traverse, which is a pretty mellow way to get from one side of the range to the other. In mid-winter some people exit from the back of the Village, thus starting high and finding some interesting lines along the way, but the Teton to Death traverse doesn't have much appeal to skiers. 

It's still low tide in the Tetons, but Dan's proposal started to make sense; route-finding would be straightforward because the summer trails are still visible under the sparse snow, avy danger has yet to really rear its head, daylight savings is looming, and the Teton Canyon road is still open, cutting off four miles of travel. 

I did my last big ski tour on Cinco de Mayo with Cy and BriAndrew. It was a long walk to a big line, the aesthetic (and amusingly named) Fallopian Tube on Mt Woodring. Hot, footsore, recovering from some moments of intense fear, and feeling exceedingly accomplished, I packed up my winter gear, took the batteries out of my beacon, and filed away the Grand Teton National Park skiing mentality, to be retrieved no earlier than 2020 (or maybe December if the early season was really deep). 

Yep, skied that!

So imagine my surprise to find myself once again at a trailhead before dawn in single digit weather on November 2, turning on my headlamp and shouldering a pack that was stupid heavy. 

Our expectations were completely realistic. The purpose of this undertaking was conditioning, covering ground, trying out weird new set-ups (Cy had awesome AT snowblades and Dan was using XC skis and mountaineering boots, very appropriate for what was basically an XC mission), and coming home with that full body fatigue that only comes with really really big days--a fatigue that I find hard to achieve in mud season when everything is kind of meh. 

I really didn't expect to be doing long approaches before dawn in November

Skinning along the Teton Shelf at sunrise

We wore running shoes and were glad about it, because the first three miles and the last five miles of the traverse were on dry dirt or thin snow. We emerged from the Devil's Staircase and finally started skinning on the Teton Shelf just as the sun rose, illuminating beautiful couloirs above us all along the shelf. After a snack break at Mount Meek Pass we started along the Death Canyon Shelf, wondering if we'd have to follow the circuitous summer trail all the way to the head of Death Canyon. Although the south-facing cliff band below us was alarmingly scoured, we managed to find one still sketchy but not completely bare path down to the canyon. I had the dubious fortune of bringing the only normal ski set-up, although Cy skied the choke and rocky apron with flair and Dan down-climbed with the agility of a goat. 

The only "skiing" of the traverse

Looking down the chute, I knew I couldn't ski as if it were my second day of the season, melting into the backseat as I tried to remember where to point my torso. Nope, I had to draw on memories from last season when we skied several lines outside of my comfort zone and I finally became a proficient enough skier that being locked into skis felt way safer than being on foot. 

So I made tight turns and a few long side slips down the chute. It wasn't pretty but it was safe and I didn't even scratch a base beneath the chute while bopping through the boulder field blanketed in a few inches of snow. 

Those few turns were the only ones of the trip. We put skins on and learned something about Death Canyon: it's flat as fuck. Down skinning for miles and miles is fairly offensive, especially when interspersed with short techy descents that rattled Dan with his strange but sort of perfect skis. 

So...much...skinning

After another much needed snack and beer at the Patrol Cabin we set off again but soon realized that the well-traveled boulder-strewn trail did not merit skis. Back into running shoes. We each settled in to bang out those last miles, numbing our thoughts with music or Star Wars audiobooks, one foot in front of the other. Dan had left his truck at the winter trailhead, not realizing the summer trailhead was still open, so, further demoralized, we trudged down the road. Eventually some nice Jackson bros stopped and drove us the final mile to the truck, much to my relief. 

So...much...walking...with...skis

It was a hard day. Eighteen miles in ten hours. It was a little irksome that my skis only served as glorified snowshoes, greatly improving travel over flat, untouched snow but never eating up the downhill miles the way skis usually do. However, I wouldn't have chosen different conditions in which to do that traverse. In deep skiable snow the route still wouldn't be much fun, and if I tried to run it in the summer I would hate how flat it is. Why set an elaborate shuttle and go through the mountains when you can just climb to the top of them instead? 

We joked that we were prematurely preparing our bodies for ski tours that wouldn't be happening for another two months. But it felt really good to do something a little silly but very demanding, to remember my limits but to also know that I'm a stronger backcountry traveler than I ever have been. And to see the Tetons at first light from the heart of the range. 

But seriously, very beautiful

Escapism

I was going quite stir crazy in the valley to the point where I was unpleasant to be around. It was raining a lot and I was feeling a little overworked, wrung out by the groundhog-weekly nature of my job and resentful of the hordes of people who had escaped the valley for warmer climes. Worst of all, I was deeply frustrated that I had ordered a bike in October and it still hadn’t arrived.

I sent in an employee purchase form by mail to Santa Cruz for the in-hot-demand aluminum Bronson. I never received confirmation and was never charged for it, but heard from others that that was the norm for EP and the bike I wanted was out of stock anyway. I waited contendedly(ish) until midway through February, then started agitating with not one but three shop managers from two different shops to figure out WTF was happening. All of a sudden it was April and I didn’t want to pay retail for a bike but my window of freedom was nearing and I was desperate. And extremely pissed.

Finally two weeks ago I ordered a bike from Sam but I hadn’t acted quickly enough (y’know, besides the whole ordering in October thing) and was facing down a scheduled trip to the desert without the new bike I had been waiting for the entire winter.

Yeah, frustrating. I had to leave town though, so I said fuck it and loaded up the Half Chub in the minivan. I couldn’t even bear to wait until the end of the day Thursday, so with the blessing of my boss, who was clearly over my angst, we left town at noon. As we drove south the temperature gauge rose steadily until it came to rest at 70 degrees and I could feel all my churlishness slough off me.

We did a short ride at Red Fleet State Park right before the sun set and I tried to remember how to mountain bike. The Krampus is a champ though. After riding it almost exclusively last fall, I have a deep affection and respect for its maneuverability and indestructibility. I feel like I’ve spent a full season working on fundamentals because riding singletrack on the Krampus means taking absolutely nothing for granted, and I can’t wait to get back on a light bike with full suspension, a dropper, hubs with less than 25 degrees of engagement, good brakes, and a modern drivetrain.

Krampus riding: exaggerated form required

After a night spent on BLM watching the moon rise over the umber rock formations of Red Fleet, we rode a bit more in Vernal to wear the dog out, then headed south again, landing in Grand Junction. It was hot and the Lunch Loops trailheads were crowded with people and dogs. Jolene kind of hates other dogs, which adds a lot of stress and strain to a lot of situations. Feeling at a loss because there was no camping allowed anywhere on the BLM in Grand Junction, we decided to just start riding.

It was so hard, rock jumble clambering and walking uphill and downhill in the sun, my wrists aching from the jolts through my steel fork, frustration with the constant hike-a-bike weaseling into my brain. We finished and I was certain, again, that I didn’t like the desert. Fortunately I got in touch with Erica and she said a big crowd of Teton Valley’ers had scored a camping spot in a nearby area, because otherwise we would be SOL. Relieved, we headed their way.

Jolene was stoked on any riding she was allowed to do

Life got a lot better, although I was kind of annoyed by the hordes of extremely privileged people with $200,000 Sprinters or campers, the children on carbon bikes, the roving unleashed dogs that forced us to keep Jo locked in the van all day. But we drank beer and rode bikes with friends and it was great. The trails ranged from fine to awesome, weaving through the campsite and up onto needle ridges, with features and drops that were challenging but never caused me the consternation that I had experienced the prior day.

Mountain biking with friends is the best

The 18 Road trails were very fun

But I still don’t love the desert, and we were low on food and water and we’re both pretty restless people, and I wanted to let the dog off leash and run away from the crowds, so we bailed. I found an area on the map that seemed intriguing, and even though I knew the fact that it was at 10,000 feet was a clear warning, we decided to send it anyway. Of course on top of Grand Mesa the snow was piled higher than the van. We joked that we were terrible at going to the desert. We parked in an empty XC ski lot with restrooms and fell asleep to a light snowfall.

We suck at deserting

It rained as we dropped back into the canyons of northwestern Colorado the next morning. Scanning the gold mine that is Trailforks, we found a little trail network two hours north, in a town where it wasn’t raining at that exact minute. After a quick van unload and gear up, we went for another ride and were delighted to find a mellow, twisty ribbon of dirt swooping through trees, definitely more my scene than bare rock. We ended on a downhill trail with perfect berms and friendly wood features just as the rain started again. We putzed our way north again and hunted down a hot spring that was sort of on-route. Juniper Springs was down a long dirt road, slimy pools with eroded concrete walls painted in once-bright colors, the water not quite warm enough to warrant a substantial soak.

Meeker is magical

So we left, and decided to just go home because the rain wasn’t quitting. We weathered I-80 in a storm, crept through a herd of skittish elk in Hoback Canyon, and made it home as night fell.

It was rejuvenating to feel the sun on my bare arms and to put rubber to dirt again, although I’m still not convinced I want to go back to the desert any time soon. Fortunately my bike is arriving this week (supposedly) and riding areas closer to home are drying out (slowly).

Earned it

Cyclocross, Why Can't I Quit You?

I ask myself this every year.

My kids had their last race in Boise with several podiums and a couple overall state champions. Through the season we had a perfect finish rate and we saw massive progression from every team member. It was enough to warm even my misanthropic little heart.

The whole team: 400% bigger than last year

And then there was a cyclocross race five minutes down the road, and I can never say no. I've always been pretty mediocre but I keep coming back. Here is a picture of chubby Julia at her first cx race ten years ago, dismounted on the spiky side of the bike:

Throwback

In a strange burst of hubris, I registered for the Cat 1/2 race instead of Cat 3 where I belong. We all started together so it didn't matter, except that I was hyper-aware of everyone's number plate, which differentiated categories. The course was awesome, as fine as cx can be in dry hot weather: off-camber, slippery grass, awkward turns and chicanes, sharp gut-punch climbs, and tons of nasty sand. I clung to the back of the pro train for a couple minutes until I hit the deck hard around a corner. I couldn't calm down and just ride my bike for the first lap. I kept eating shit and making dumb mistakes. The leaders were long gone and half the field passed me. I got my flow back eventually and clawed back up to the front of the 3s, feeling much better and enjoying myself despite the heat and the sand and the goose egg forming on my knee. Forty-five minutes of intensity is my happy place.

Flattering ass shot: the rarest of cx photos
PC @ Matt Green

The Warbird, whose name has not yet revealed itself to me, is a wonderful cx steed, maneuverable and shock-absorbing and smooth. Such an improvement over the Deutschbike. 

I finished fourth, which was a last place in the pro field and a first in the 3s. I was a little annoyed with myself but pleased that I'm still in fighting shape.

It was fun luxuriating in the cx scene with all its dumb quirks. There were waffles and beer and hecklers and mustaches and singlespeeds, and there were also doughy men poured into skinsuits and smooth-legged men still in chamois two hours after their Cat 4/5 race, spouting their litany of excuses because it didn't go the way they wanted. The pomposity and humorlessness of cross racers is a special thing to behold.

This weekend is Moosecross, the local race and obviously the most important race of my annual cyclocross dabbling.

Endurbro: So Fun It Should Be Illegal

I felt really good on Day Two. Relaxed, calm...not exactly resigned to failure, but accepting of it. There were only two stages: Rock Garden to Otter Slide, then a quickie down Chutes and Ladders.

Tram Bar Gun Show

Rock Garden is steep, rutted, chunky, chossy, dusty. It's not very technical but it's ferociously rough, gobbling up brake pads and tires and turning your hands into stiffened claws. The other two trails are straightforward flow trails with tiny tabletops and fun berms.

I had my best run ever down Rock Garden. Digging deep and pushing hard distracted me from the harshness and the leg burn. Somewhere up there I fell completely under the sway of the Fuel, front derailleur and all. Sure, it climbs like a sullen camel and chatters like a sorority girl on Adderol, but it devours bumps and sings on switchbacks. Those chubby tires made me feel fast and confident.

Exhibiting good-ish form for the first time in my life

I finished the first stage, rode the quick transition, and sent it down the final track. I had wings. I had a perfect race. Everything went right.

I was smiling this hard the whole time

And I placed fourth. But I couldn't even muster up a bit of resentment. I rode as fast as I could. Those ladies were just way faster.

I checked on friends' results. Two of my kids from the team placed high in the junior categories, Gene got fifth in a stacked field, and Derrick smashed his way down the mountain and won the pro race off the couch.

I ended the day riding a party wave downhill with a bunch of boys, sprinting to keep up with them, cornering recklessly, blinded by dust, whooping and beaming. We finished in a train in view of the awards ceremony, just as Derrick was accepting his medal. We made a huge ruckus, to the amusement of the spectators.

Hanging with Team Junkshow and Sick Nick

I rediscovered my mojo this weekend. Sometimes all it takes is a profoundly mediocre finish.

Twelve Hours of Disco, Give or Take Ten

I've been craving novelty all year so I got a wild hair to do a new event, Twelve Hours of Disco in Salmon. I was lucky to find three guys who agreed to join my team with minimal arm-twisting: my always-intrepid housemate Alex, friend and pub regular Eric, and random kid I met skiing, Cy.

The forecast was dismal so we crammed the Subi with as much precipitation prophylaxis as possible and rolled out Friday afternoon. The venue is a pit surrounded by sagebrush hills and moto tracks. I slept warm and dry under a rainfly and canopy but the outlook was grim in the morning. Bike tires packed up with gritty mud on the trip to and from the johns and big mean storm clouds threatened. The start was postponed and postponed again. It finally got underway at 9:30 and Cy with his jammy pack and seven inch bike fought his way off the start line. I warmed up and waited. A lot of guys went off course and showed up twenty minutes early. Bummer. Cy came in late because he'd backtracked instead of cutting the course. 

At least my fender game was on point
All pics courtesy of Vivian, awesome team cheerleader and photographer

I took off and mashed as hard as possible. Fastest lap time was on the line and I really wanted it. The course was nondescript, a ribbon of dirt meandering up and down. I was wary of letting loose on the smooth descents because the trail was hemmed in by tiny cacti with vicious quills. 

The wind roared and rain fell as I finished. When Alex wasn't astride his bike in the transition zone I knew the race was on hold. While I was changing out of my wet muddy gear the skies opened and the officials made the call--no more Disco this year. 

Thanks to GTBC for keeping us dry AND well-lubricated

We had a decision to make--pack up our sodden belongings in the rain or start drinking and hope for the best. Fortunately the Teton Tailgaters opted for the latter. Alex and Eric were good sports about not getting to ride. It was a long pleasant day of draining kegs, playing dress-up, standing around the fire, hiding from cloud bursts, and eating food cooked by the Pocatello crew (the hardiest partiers of all). 

Teton Valley's finest 

When the sun came out, the costumes did too

 The next morning showed much more promise. The local shop owner gave us a guide book and directed us to a fast-drying ride north of town. We climbed out of the drainage on a mellow mining road and contoured the velveteen hills on a half track covered in elk droppings and balsamroot. The descent was a dream, alternating between alpine choss and forested loam.

Riding bikes in Salmon does not suck
Pic cred: Cy, who takes beautiful pictures for a living

The radiator on the Subi was leaking and gave off an artificial maple syrup smell so we loaded her up with goop and coolant and headed south to find a much-ballyhooed hot spring. We hiked up a canyon to reach the cascading warm pools overlooking the rocky landscape. An hour of soaking made me sluggish and happy but time waits for no man; we had to get back to "real life" at some point. The drive home was fueled by sour candy and punctuated by radiator checks.

Goldbug Hot Springs: not your usual riverbank cow puddle

I love exploring the playgrounds of Idaho and driving through its vast empty country beneath unfathomable skies. We chased huge curtains of rain into the valley and the Tetons glowed pink and azure. What did I do to be so lucky, going out to play with people who are down for adventure and then coming home to this arresting place.

Ride All the Rides

May was moldering, melting, melancholic. The daily dirge of bike shop and bar small talk was always, the rain, the rain, the rain. Never torrential but perfectly timed to usurp motivation and slicken singletrack.

Tyler and I escaped to Sun Valley where it was a touch drier, a hair warmer. Busy trailheads greeted us but the usual maxim held true: half a mile in, you're all alone. The inner networks are well-signed and designed to be sustainable crowd-pleasers, but up a little higher, in a little deeper, you reach intersections where the wrong turn* has a whiff of backcountry, the essence of isolation, and you know you could pursue adventure indefinitely over ridges and into coves, on beaten-up ATV trails and through groves of blackened tree carcasses. Such is this magnificent state. The realization came that a map would be a worthy purchase, and I spread it out on the counter and drooled over it for hours.

*Wrong only in that you have a dog, a limited water supply, and a boyfriend who is anti-death march. Wisdom dictates you stick with the predetermined route.

In the burn

Back in the Tetons yet another week of rain struck us dumb and unpleasant. Then Friday brought sun. I went to work beaming, knocked out production fast, hurried home, dragged out the Stag and the boy and the dog. Backyard trails! Pass laps! The next day: hard old school trails with my boss leading and a new shop friend happily tagging along, muggy greenery and unending climbs, log obstacles and rip-roaring descents. More Pass laps in the p.m., narrowly avoiding a violent cloud burst that pressure-washed the mud off our bikes in the parking lot. Sunday: gathering a posse to ride the most beloved trail in the Valley. We all moved slowly up the climb, but after reaching the relatively low-snow resort we turned around and blasted down, scaring ourselves with daring and speed, then relaxed into the creek barefoot with beers, watching the dogs play.

Under the radar, on top of it all

The Pass

Tuesday: a group adventure ride, the organizers trying hard to shake off any recreational riders with the online ride description: "If you don't like hike-a-bike, this ride is not for you. Bring your sense of humor, rain wear, and bug dope." We loaded vans and trucks and drove way up north and east, not far as a crow flies from the northern terminus of the Teton range. Mosquitos swarmed and branches slapped our faces and only the GPS saved us (eventually) from several forays off track, but we satisfactorily navigated the undulating ribbon of old overgrown singletrack from car to car.

Successful navigation through the wilds

Today I had planned to attend a trail work day but felt some umbrage that it was on a trail within wilderness that saw no bikes and plenty of careless, destructive horse traffic. A friend invited me to go ride elsewhere and do some more meaningful maintenance by helping to clear downed trees. He strapped a Husqvarna to his back and still kept up. At two intriguing intersections we did casual reconnaissance up drainages, riding sidehill and shouting at phantom bears in the bushy creek bottoms. On the drive home I queried him about the backyard trails and in a "why the f*ck not" moment, we rode them too, to clear some more trees and so I could get a better handle on the game paths that snake through the hills behind my apartment.

The backyard

I crave novelty and variety and I feel a little envious and petulant when I encounter a blog like the wonderful revelation that is Zen on Dirt, but then I get a good reminder that this valley and this state and this region have a lifetime's worth of adventures and I feel ok about it again.

A Dry Spell

Grand Targhee delayed opening its fourth and finest chairlift for two weeks, forcing everyone to ride foggy, windy, mediocre Dreamcatcher. The rest of the mountain had been chewed up by holiday tourists and repeatedly battered by weird warm weather, but Sacajawea was untouched. I watched the resort website for news, fingers crossed for a Friday opening. My dream came true, so Tyler and I headed up early enough to snag a good chair. The lifties and locals alike were in high spirits; Sacajawea is the best. It has nicely spaced trees, bush jumps, rock hucks, cliffs, deep and resilient powder stashes, and plenty of opportunities to hot dog under the lift and get hoots and hollers from above or eat shit trying. What a day. We ripped hot laps, hopped and bounced and popped off every bush, rock, compression, and depression, rejoiced when patrol opened the cliff band. I skied fast and happy, reckless and loose, grinning the whole time.

Tyler scoring some just-opened action

The next day we went back to the Ghee, but I'd forgotten how to ski. I'd lost that ephemeral je ne sais quoi and the snow, so smooth and rewarding on Friday, was haggard by Saturday. But we hiked to some of the resort's traffic-free sweet spots and rode with a rotating cast of friends through the day and ate Wydaho nachos at the Trap and it was fine. Not every day can be the best day of the season.

That night was the GTBC holiday party. The brewery employees and their partners are all awesome people that like spending time together outside of work, on the trails, in the snow, or at the bar, so the party was devoid of those stilted conversations between ensnared work acquaintances. I sat with a bunch of friends, enjoying the familiarity of the staff trivia quiz and the belly laughs of the white elephant gift-giving, as well as the exquisite lamb and on-point beer pairings (thanks as usual to Max the cicerone). The raucous after-party gravitated to the closest employee's house and so of course Sunday morning was a slow-moving endeavor. 

Knowing all ski options were dubious, we opted to tour Oliver Peak, five minutes from the house and better known as the Valley's own personal hill (no J-holes allowed). The snow quality was sub-par as anticipated and the springlike temps warranted bare skin, but higher up the outlook was rosier; the snowpack was deep and stable and the surrounding bowls and glades and gullies were enticing and untouched. 

A lifetime's worth of backcountry opportunities

We took a northwest slide path down from the summit into Stateline Canyon, making big picturesque turns in what was probably six sugary inches on top of a firm but yielding layer. The goods. Lower down the snow became laughably bad, a thick crunchy turn-averse crust that made the sapling-dense creek banks scary. Our old roommate Bill had just taken a digger in similar terrain a couple days before and did something alarming to his knee. I took the unusual precaution of putting my skins back on for the safety of extra friction and was very pleased with the decision, arriving back at the car without any of the wallowing and sweaty frustration that low-elevation gully skiing usually causes me. 

Rare is the day that there isn't a front moving into or out of the Valley

And thus, I survived another high-pressure weekend despite being spoiled rotten by constant snowfall in the Tetons. 

Pierre's Hole 50K

I had originally planned on doing the 100k but summer got away from me and even 15+ mile rides were few and far between. The Kate hooked me up with a free entry because she is a sponsor/awesome, so I went out to the Ghee one weekend, rode most of the course, and did some race visualization. And by that I mean I visualized riding those fun twenty-five miles of singletrack, coming through the base area sore, dehydrated, and probably cranky, and having to continue out for a second lap of the same. 

I sat myself down for a talk. 

"You are not doing the 100k." 

"But people will think I'm not tough!"

"You know what's not tough? Falling apart with twenty miles to go. Remember the last 100k you did? And you were in shape that time. You're a starter, not a finisher. Your MO in all races is to get enough of a head start that when you implode, not too many people pass you. You're doing the 50k."

I went to sulk in a corner, smarting from my brutal honesty, but secretly relieved to be off the hook.

Race day was blessed by sunny skies after a week of rainstorms. The cool morning reminded me of collegiate, those first couple of weekends at ETSU and LMC when it started to smell like fall but before the rains came. I reverted back to usual race form, swaggering around registration feigning confidence, whining when it was time to kit up and warm up, sipping week-old water from a five-year-old bottle while everyone else carefully spooned electrolyte drink mix into clean, labelled bottles. Team Fitzy was out in force and the camaraderie on the start line made me feel almost like a local. 

The first half of the lap was a long climb and a long descent. I watched Fast Jackson Woman Amy take off and was content; I knew I could only catch her if she had a catastrophic mechanical. I simply enjoyed myself and actually listened, for the first time in my life, to the voices of Squirrel and St Marie in my head. Maintain. Race your own race. Use the descents. Stay loose on the greasy rocks. Drink. Eat. Better five years late than never, I guess. The course was in incredible condition: hero dirt, tacky switchbacks, no dust, phenomenal views. I was in heaven. I saw a moose and said, "Hey moose." I got to the first aide station and told the Fitzys I was having so much fun. 

Local pro Amanda Carey crushing it in picturesque high meadows
Pic courtesy of TMTB

The second half of the lap consisted of mellow ups and downs through meadows and aspen groves. That's where I saw that I was being chased. In races I prefer that the chips fall early and firmly. I don't like chasing and I hate being chased. One might argue this is the point of racing. Yeah, well...

I tried not to panic and worked to build a gap on the descents, but they weren't long or technical enough and she gained on me. Finally, on the bumpy and seemingly interminable trails of Rick's Basin, she caught me. 

"Nice catch. You're (expletive removed) tenacious," I said. 

"Good riding, girl. Robin's coming up right behind us too," she said. 

With that info I had my inevitable inner temper tantrum, but tried to keep going, alternating between pushing myself and wanting to sit down among the wildflowers and NOT race bikes anymore. A detached part of me was amused by how bad my attitude was, how bad it always is. 

I emptied the tank on the last couple of miles and collapsed after the finish line. Robin crossed the line only thirty seconds after me in fourth place. Tyler seemed at a loss; he has never seen me race and doesn't know how to deal with Broken Julia. After getting out of chamois and drinking a beer, I recovered and got my stoke back. The race organizer and trail builders absolutely killed it and the day couldn't have been nicer. I raced a little smarter and a little harder than I used to, so maybe experience and maturity is worth something? Blah blah blah, lessons learned (maybe) and if you ever want to do a really awesome endurance race on great trails with incredible views: Pierre's Hole. Do it.   

The only bummer was that there didn't appear to be a dedicated photographer on course, which is a shame because a: it was crazy beautiful and b: everyone knows that all bike racers are narcissists (me included). 

Special Places

This spring I bemoaned my own jadedness and assumed camp would never hold the same magic for me as it did last fall. 

I have been eating my words with gusto all month. 

This fall has been even better than last. I feel really close to so many people at camp and now, not only do I say yes with regularity, I also instigate once in a while. In September I've found myself in so many special places with special people. 

Doing a relay triathlon with two girls who got to experience the undeniable rush of the podium for the first time.

Riding up and down snow-dappled mountains with my favorite fellow masochist.

Partying with people who will get dressed up at the drop of a hat.

Celebrating a stunning eastern Sierras vista.

Enjoying an omelet on top of Tallac at sunrise.

Cruising to the hot springs in the most majestic of seasons.

Dispatches from the Western Front

Monday was Tyler's birthday and he pulled some strings at work and got us a party boat. Ten of us piled on and doused ourselves in sunscreen and blasted "Blurred Lines" on repeat and set to work on the mimosas and Torpedoes in the cooler. When it got really hot we jumped in and climbed up to the Tea House, the quaintly named rock edifice in the middle of Emerald Bay. Paul drove donuts at the mouth of the marina before we headed back in with the setting sun. It was the most fun I've had in a long, long time. Clearly the best place to enjoy Tahoe is from the middle of it.

The Tea House

Too. Damn. Good.
(Pic from Katie)

After a surprisingly successful return to "competitive" running (a firecracker 5k barely merits the title), the bug has bitten. Again. Sigh. In September I will have the great pleasure of running up the mountain I skied down all winter, and with my padre nonetheless! Riding in the Graeagle area last week got me thinking about the Lost Sierra Endurance Run and I've actually managed to get my ducks in a row for that as well. I even did a long run yesterday, a long, hot, flattish run that ended as usual with a plunge in Fallen Leaf, and that made me feel pretty good about a 30k* in two months.

*Not 50k because I'm not insane

Office run
(Pic from Merril)

And I got a new pair of fatty fat skis for my powder-centric future plans.

So sexy

Every Friday night at camp the musically endowed counselors set up on the deck and perform for an hour, and every Friday night I stand at the huge window overlooking the lake, in my palatial office, and watch the show, and every Friday night the musicians finish with a rousing rendition of "American Pie", and every Friday night everyone dances and sings along, staff and toddlers and grandfathers and surly teenagers and tipsy soccer moms, and every Friday night, despite the disturbing sense of deja vu, the communal happiness and wistfulness at the week's end is palpable, even from the second floor. And then the sun sets and every Friday night, it's the most beautiful thing ever.

The view from work
(Pic from Nichole)

Visits

It seems odd that I had nothing to say after a trip that I'd so eagerly awaited for five months. But then, after all, it was Brevard. Lush and green and unbearably full of memories and so special and so mundane, where I was overjoyed to see everyone I knew and grew up with, and with whom I proceeded to have the exact same conversations and went on the same bike rides as always.

I was so, so happy to visit, and quite content to leave. I want to continue becoming the person I will end up as, although lord only knows who that may be.

Most cliche Pisgah pic ever

One of the best parts of the trip was dragging Tyler around and forcing him to experience my home as I always have. Riding bikes, riding more bikes, hiking John's Rock, posting up in the bakery drinking free coffee, wandering around town, having brews in the backyard and watching the fireflies, eating mediocre Mexican with the best possible group of people, popping into the Red House without invitation, sweating in the forgotten humidity, shooting the shit with the family at the dinner table. Perhaps it was a result of the constant arm-twisting, but he admitted to really enjoying Brevard.

And then the dragging continued, as my little sis joined us on the return trip. We were all cranky from prolonged travel and gross overpriced food and whatnot, but as we drove up into the basin I loved watching her eyes pop. Snowcapped peaks in June, the deep blue of the lake, the jagged span of horizon; it was fun to appreciate the drastically different western scenery all over again. Despite my schedule we found time to do all that important stuff: sunny kayaking, scramble-hiking, bagel shop gossiping, beach sitting, shopping, camping.

The Chute can't really be called hiking.

I foresee a lifetime of friendship with this one.

Now she's going to be a college girl and I'm going to be...a camp girl. The first summer camp guests arrive tomorrow and if all reports are correct, I'll come up for air at the beginning of September. Here we go.