Adventure is the Correct Nomenclature

I'm a broken record. I again toed the line at Cache Creek and again got third and again my thoughts were on the weekend. As a sponsor of the Teton Ogre Adventure Race, Kate's Real Food got a free eight-hour entry so I signed up on a whim, without a plan or a partner. J9, also in need of a partner, called me up with two weeks to go and we were in.

Claiming my customary third place at Cache
Pic courtesy of JHCyclng

During the Cache race I distracted myself from choking on fast ladies' dust by listing all the bike racing genres I've participated in, with varying degrees of success (and consent): XC, DH, enduro, super-D, short track, 4X, dual slalom, road, criterium, ITT, TTT, alley cat, cyclocross, gravel, six hour, twelve hour, twenty-four hour...but never an adventure race.

Sam and Jordan from The Hub were in town and their talk of PMBAR was a good reminder of why I never did that. Too scared. Eighty miles of Pisgah, Eric Wever's special brand of sadism, and the occasional wooden nickel were a surefire recipe for an emotional breakdown. But I wasn't too worried about the Ogre. We learned on Thursday that the venue was Grand Targhee so the biking would be straightforward and the trekking would be improved by less than horrendous bushwhacking and plenty of big obvious points of reference.

J9 and I dispensed with the ride quickly after only a couple of small missteps on my part. It was really easy terrain and we both know the Rick's Basin network well enough to fly through intersections. At two hours in, I thought we were being so fast and clever that we might take the win. Typical me. Counting every possible chicken. At the transition area we saw the bikes of Evan and Becca, leggy goddesses, which meant they had crushed us on the ride, and Erin and Jen, adept navigators, finished right after us. My expectations immediately righted themselves. We swapped gear and started walking up, and up, and up. We climbed from the base to the top of the resort and it was the finest piece of earth I've ever traveled on, a narrow path through wildflowers then up onto shale ledges with a precipice on one side, climbing a knife edge with the Tetons looming. I was dying to run but J9 was feeling some back pain and isn't a runner anyway.

Stoke levels were sky high all day long
Pic courtesy of J9

We dropped to Mary's saddle, catching a couple of fortuitous checkpoints, and climbed back up steep chunk to the summit of Peaked. We grabbed another checkpoint on the slushy remains of Burton's halfpipe, then stopped for lunch and a powwow. We were making good time and feeling way better than expected but we still decided to skip three points that seemed out of the way, instead plotting a route to chase five points in the direction of the base. I wish we had pushed for a couple more but we played it conservatively.

The halfpipe checkpoint...eighty degrees and a thirty foot wall of snow
Pic courtesy of Jen

The rest of the checkpoints required much more off-trail travel and use of J9's altimeter as well as a little luck and a sharp eye. We followed innocuous-looking contour lines down into creek beds and up thickly treed slopes. It reminded me of tromping around Desolation Wilderness with Rebecca Duffy, peering quizzically at the map, debating the merits of drainages versus ridgelines, and forsaking the trail, but in Desolation our reward was usually a crystalline lake cupped high in stone buttresses instead of blaze orange squares flapping provocatively in the shadows of yet another fir or aspen. It felt zen at times, moving slowly through undergrowth and steep off-camber choss, staring ahead trying to catch sight of a flag based only on vague hints ("downed tree" "bush on side of spur") and map coordinates.

A sight that brought so much joy
Pic courtesy of Jen

I would have liked to move a lot faster and run whenever possible but it was nice having plenty of energy and mental acuity at the end, when I could have been a stumbling basketcase incapable of reading a map. We finished with a generous time margin and discovered that our friends had grabbed all the points. We still got third in the women's duo category, but we're already planning our 2017 attempt, where we want to combine what was already good teamwork with better fitness and navigation. The entire event was flawlessly organized. (I won't even go into the daunting logistics of the 24-hour sufferfest but suffice to say: heroic.) Abby and Jason are world class adventure racers who want to expose more people to their passion and they created an eight hour course that was both challenging and accessible.

The view from Peaked
Pic courtesy of Jen

My main take away from the Ogre, as I unlaced my beloved Inov-8s and rubbed the dirt off my calves, was an intense longing for the big days on foot that I used to enjoy: the Shut-In, the Art Loeb, Heptapeak. Fortunately I live in the perfect place to pick up a map and get deep into the wild. Next weekend's plans are already being hatched.

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.

Hell Yeah Helena

The forecast held rain. I was already bored of the few valley trails that were free from snow. Tyler, Alex, and I brainstormed over dinner and landed on Helena, Montana...whispers have been circulating that it's a good early season mountain bike town. The Internet confirmed the rumors.

On Friday afternoon we crammed Erica's Tacoma full of bikes and camping gear, while she gracefully stayed behind with the dogs (she's a saint with a master's thesis to finish).

We didn't plan a single aspect of the trip but over and over, we would express a desire and it would manifest itself. We wanted to camp at an undeveloped hot spring en route. We wanted to park the truck, get solid beta, and ride a ton. We wanted to consume adult beverages post-ride. We wanted to camp at a lake. All was achieved with minimal effort. Our timing was good too; with temps reaching eighty, we were there at the tail end of the comfortable riding season, and we hit the lake before the summer throngs.

Nary a picture of the trip exists. We were too caught up in our own enjoyment to stop and stage action shots of each other, and pics of us standing around our bikes drinking beer on ridges above a slightly hazy sun-bleached landscape wouldn't do the experience justice. There's no way to convey with a couple tepid images the deep pleasure of pedaling from town all weekend and doing big loops on hills that immediately loft you above the city into spaces that feel impossibly remote.

A picture wouldn't express the sinking sensation I felt on Friday night as we drove and drove and drove on chattery dirt roads through cowland in the dark, sure that the cursory Google hunt for a hot spring to camp at had led us astray, and then the complete restoration of faith when we stepped out of the truck, heard a rushing river, smelled sulfur. Through the lens of my lame camera or the boys' smartphones, the hot spring becomes a muddy little rock pit and the lake fades into dazzling hot brightness. A picture can't convey the haunting loon song heard from a tent before sunrise, or the tipsy speculation around the campfire that those subtle greenish curtains of light to the north may actually be the aurora.

Extending an arm for a sweaty sun-dress selfie would not encompass the party vibe of standing on the terrace at the brewery post-ride drinking cheap beers, watching over our bikes amidst many of their companions on the rack below. We ran into Mitch from Habitat, whose Instagram posts inspired the trip in the first place. ("Helena? There's riding there? It's dry now?") My boss and his friend were spending the weekend there too and we met up at the pub without any predetermination.

It was a seat-of-the-pants voyage and it was phenomenal. We came back into the valley in time to watch the wild colors of a lightning sunset.

OK So I Went to Yellowstone

The roads in the nearby national parks are clear of snow long before they open to cars, so it's kind of de rigueur to go ride bikes there in April, mostly in Grand Teton but also to a lesser degree in Yellowstone. Given my previously stated apathy towards Yellowstone, I wanted to get my first visit done by bike and as early in the year as possible. The park opened on Friday, earlier than GTNP, but I figured a Monday in April was still a safe bet. I corralled some friends and we hit the tarmac in West Yellowstone. It was cold and breezy but the road was smooth and the cars infrequent.

I was a little concerned, given my previous experience riding in the caldera of northeast Idaho, that the west entrance of Yellowstone would be miles of bland homogeneous pine forests, but I was pleasantly surprised. We wound along the Madison River, hollering at any buffalo we glimpsed, checking out a hidden waterfall, peering up at the hole-pocked, crumbly cliffs rising from the meadows. Mt Haynes stood sentinel like a rotting Half Dome; I doubt rock climbers attempt that particular objective.

Secret waterfall!
Pics courtesy of Emily

Nan had time constraints but when we reached a sign that read "Old Faithful: 16 Miles" we decided we should split because, duh, Old Faithful. Nan went back while Emily and Nate and I carried on. We saw a geothermal site announce itself miles before we reached it across the flats. We dismounted and wandered the boardwalks, admiring the deep saturated blues and billowing steam and burbling mud pots and frenetic pools where it looked like alligators were wrestling beneath the clouded sulfurous water. Oh, Yellowstone, I get it. Bizarre geothermal features that remind us of our violent earth. It was very cool.

So geothermal

We pedaled onward to the ridiculous overbuilt village that is Old Faithful. On the amphitheater seating in front of the geyser we had a picnic of sandwiches and fudge and sparkling wine (thoughtfully provided by Nate) while doing battle with the crows that wanted to open Emily's frame bags and hunt down snacks.

Mmmm Secco Frizzante

We waited thirty minutes and the crowd thickened. My skin crawled at the thought of being there in the high season. This is supposed to be a record-crushing year for the national parks because of the centennial anniversary combined with low fuel prices. Vomit.

After ten minutes of teasing us, Old Faithful went off, and I shed my cynicism just long enough to be dazzled by the spectacle. What a strange and wonderful world we live in.

I was amused to be one of the few in the crowd not taking a picture of the phenomenon with a GoPro, selfie-stick, DSLR, or tablet. Y'all...there are endless beautiful pictures of Old Faithful on the Internet. But I guess that's what one does in a national park now.

Look: two seconds with Google yielded a more beautiful picture than I could ever take.

We rode the slightly uphill thirty-three miles back with a headwind, even though I was convinced it'd be slightly downhill with a tailwind. Physics? We did less lolly-gagging and touristing because our butts were sore and our thoughts were focused on French fries.

I rode the Deutschbike and felt great admiration and affection for it. I bought that bike for $600 after road nationals when I was a senior and have spent less than $50 on maintenance in the six intervening years, despite riding it roughshod on road, gravel, and trails with little regard for its well-being. It's not comfortable or modern or appropriate for the valley, and it's not sexy like the Stag or fun-utilitarian like the Half Chub but somehow it's still a great bike for tucking in and mashing the pedals for mile after mile.

Tram Bar Deutschbike Love

We made it back to West and got our French fry fix at a sports bar that catered to fishermen. It felt more like home than the tour bus carnival of interior Yellowstone.

Nate pedaling disdainfully past bison

So I did it. And it was more awesome than but as dumb as I expected. I hear the Yellowstone backcountry is incredible but...I live in Idaho. The backcountry is incredible everywhere and in this state you don't have to pay $25 at a kiosk to get somewhere cool. And for that I feel blessed.

Contentment

We saw our new landlords tailgating in the parking lot of Targhee on closing day. They shared some botanical Italian liqueur and introduced us to their friends who are now our neighbors. Later, on the way back to Jackson, they stopped by to pick up some mail. The dogs were playing ball in the front yard as we all watched with beers in hand. "I'm so glad the yard is getting used and you guys are hanging out outside," the husband said. We raised our beers appreciatively. 

The new house is great. 

I burrow down like a rodent in whatever house I inhabit because I'm such an incurable homebody. Our last place sucked but I wanted contentment so badly that I ignored it. Now that the nail-biting and money-hemorrhaging of moving has subsided, I can look around and take stock of my new nest and I am so, so happy. As are Alex and Erica and the dogs, and most of all Tyler. I guess I didn't realize the extent of his unhappiness with our old place.

The most important room 

Ample sunny outdoor hang-out spots, protective trees shielding us from the flat expanse of the valley, space for the dogs to run laps and chase balls, the tip of the Grand peeking over the foothills to our east, friendly neighbors, hardwood floors, a wood-fired stove, a colorful and well-equipped kitchen, big windows, a generous living space, a big master suite (which I authoritatively co-opted as the person who found and secured the house), a massive garage with tons of shelving and hooks and work space, a gear/guest room...this place has it all. Including the capacity to absorb all of our stuff and still not feel cluttered. Coming from a series of studio apartments, Tyler and I have very little crap, but Erica and Alex have amassed a completely absurd amount of hindrances, i.e. possessions. This is often to our benefit, since they brought with them big comfortable couches, specialized kitchen utensils, gardening accessories...stuff we've never dreamed of owning. 

Tons of inviting communal space

We get along really well and have managed so far to divide chores and finances fairly. Having roommates when I'm on the cusp of thirty isn't ideal but if it means living with our best friends in an incredible house, it's the best possible situation.
 

Views of the Grand from the backyard...when it's not getting weathered on

At last count we had eleven bikes in the garage but that doesn't seem like enough

Not shown: the huge prayer flag in the yard that "keeps the Mormons away" according to the landlord

The Sophalope and her live-in best friend, KaHa, aka Spotty Dog

PSA

This scenario occurs often. I'm sitting somewhere reading a book. There's another human nearby. We're on an airplane or at the breakfast table or in an employee lounge. The other human is not reading; he or she is not a human who has embraced this most luxurious pastime, this comfortable and instantaneous envelopment in a different time, place, and perspective. This human has finished fiddling with his smartphone, flicked the lint from her sweater, shifted from one position to another too many times. I still read. This human envies my quiet engagement.

"So...whatcha reading?"

I used to humor this question more good-naturedly because I think of myself as a "nice girl", but after offering too many (I think) succinct blurbs as the questioner's eyes glaze over ("It's your typical empire-building fantasy but with this, like, steampunk Asian slant." "It's a period piece with lesbian lovers and murder, but so subtly done!" "Well, imagine Watership Down, with deer instead of rabbits, and a healthy dose of mysticism."), I've finally settled on a response that feels cold and bitchy but successfully quells this untoward attempt at small talk: "Oh, just some book."

I only direct this shutdown at people who don't care. If you don't care what I'm reading, DON'T ASK. Sometimes I make snap judgments that aren't fair, but if you look and talk like some bro who has only read Kerouac/Hunter S. Thompson/Edward Abbey and wants to draw every literary conversation back to the fact that The Monkey Wrench Gang changed his life and convinced him to move from New Jersey to the west and drive his midsize pick-up the two blocks to work every day and drink fair trade coffee out of disposable cups while posting videos on social media about the scourge of hydroelectric power...

Well, I don't want to tell you what book I'm reading.

My mom will never receive the response, "Just some book". Ever since I started reading more than just boatloads of fantasy, she and I have enjoyed a really great repartee of book comparison, suggestion, and denigration. I have friends like that too. And if you're a person on a plane or in a restaurant who, instead of using "Whatcha reading" as a way to fill the emptiness of your own experience, sincerely wants to know what I'm reading, maybe to compare notes or flash the title in your own hands as a satisfying corollary, or to reach out to another human in this world that thinks the written word is the most wonderful thing ever invented, feel free to ask "Whatcha reading?"...if I don't beat you to it.

This post needs a meme

Fishhook Yurt 2016

I woke up with a vicious headache. I was tangled in my sleeping bag on a bunk in a yurt, listening to the even breathing of the other people. The wood stove held only ashes. My headache and cottonmouth weren't surprising, given that I had done my best to help empty the keg that we had dragged four miles in on a sled. The fifteen of us had taken turns with the three sleds, but the keg sled was the worst, equal to my weight.

 Our huge posse of weighed-down skiers on the ingress
Most pics courtesy of Other Tyler
It's so nice having actual pictures!

I drank some snowmelt from my bottle and tried to wriggle back into sleep, but my guts started protesting. Disconcerted, I gathered together slippers, glasses, headlamp, and jacket, and lurched out to the designated pee tree and threw up into the urine-melted hole in the snow. This happened six or seven more times that night and the next morning, until I was just throwing up bitter yellow stomach matter. I couldn't keep water down. My yurt mates looked at me in sympathy as they drank coffee and came back and forth from the kitchen hut and gathered up their gear for a long tour. 

The sleeping yurt
Pic courtesy of Jocelyn

They left me with one of the long-distance radios and some electrolyte tablets. I tossed around on the bunk, sleeping, trying to drink, and throwing up. I listened to their radio chatter. The group of fourteen split into several groups and climbed a ridge of Williams Peak until it dwindled to a rocky knife edge. We were in the Sawtooths, a range even more striking and wild than the Tetons. Uncertain of the terrain and snowpack and uneasy with such a large group, they skied a couple of conservative laps off the ridge. 

Erica on the final climb. Wish I had been there.

In the afternoon I drank half a glass of electrolyte mix and kept it down. Good enough. I started shuffling around camp, performing ablutions, adhering skins to skis, wincing as I put on my cold boots. I found the group's track out of the meadow and started heading up, so very slowly, taking timid sips of water. Using the amazing radio I confirmed that they would return the same way, and after some climbing I saw them come around the corner. I transitioned to downhill mode and we all returned to camp together, down a south-facing slope that had been, to put it indelicately, sun-fucked. 

I ate a cracker with cheese as the sun set and felt all life return to me. The next day as we packed, cleaned, and returned to the trailhead, I felt buoyant. 

Hang out time in the hut

Aside from Tyler and me, the group was all from Logan, UT, recruited by Alex and Erica from the small populace that adventures and drinks (Logan being the whitebread capital of Utah). Cooking and cleaning responsibilities were divvied up peacefully and the large group (usually a liability) traveled through terrain smoothly and safely with good communication. 

The kitchen hut, always cozy and sometimes good-smelling

With a different mindset I might have been crushed with disappointment, missing my chance to ski the Sawtooths because of a freak twelve-hour bug, but it felt more like a fact-finding mission. We learned a lot about the yurts: what to pack (just warm clothes, beer, and food), how long to stay (longer), which yurt to book next time to improve access to the huge aesthetic lines on the stark peaks (any of the yurts besides Fishhook). 

The meadow near the yurt offered up spectacular vistas

Some of us took a quick lap on Galena Pass on the way home. The pass was the opposite of our Sawtooth experience: well-preserved fresh snow, zero approach, and a high gratification to effort ratio. 

A fast easy Galena lap to finish off the weekend

Alex has now moved to Teton Valley, with Erica to follow after finishing her master's degree. Through some divine grace we found a beautiful rental that will house the four of us and two dogs very comfortably. 

All is well in Idaho. 

The whole gang

Teton Reality Check

This morning Sophie encountered a moose up close for the first time. 

This moose is in retreat from the deep snow in the hills and has been hanging out in Mountainside Village for a couple days nibbling buds off decorative trees. It's a big'un, either a mature lady or a male denuded of his rack for the time being. He is a big awkward animal, with his sloping walk and pronounced hump and long bulbous head. We all have been watching him from windows and porches, posting pictures online, driving slowly. 

In no hurry
Pics courtesy of Bruce 

I let Sophie out to pee and her hackles rose. Oh shit. He came stomping through the neighbors' yard, slowly at first but as she cowered and barked, moving faster, a very half-assed charge. I ran back up the stairs and yelled at Sophie, wondering distantly if he would ram my car. But a moose in winter is not a moose in autumn; conserving calories takes the highest precedent and the unpredictable hormonal rages are forgotten in the quest for survival. 

He changed his mind and lumbered away. Sophie decided he was a wimp, backing down from a fight. She barked and prepared to give chase, but I collared her and told her very firmly what I thought about that, and sent her in the other direction to perform her morning duties. The moose, nonchalant and knee deep in snow, arced his neck to find more edible bits on the maples lining the boulevard. 

He's still hanging out, not really bothering anyone. Welcome to Idaho.

Just the friendly(ish) neighborhood moose