2013 Willow Winter Solstice Race

2013 Willow Winter Solstice Race    

    When I woke up there was five inches of new snow with an icy crust.  The fine snowflakes falling from the sky were pretty wet. They were riding the fence between snow and rain.  30 degrees.

    I had told myself that I would do it if the weather was reasonable.  I wasn’t interested in running thirteen miles in forty below temperatures nor through a foot of fresh snow.  It’s worth a look I told myself as the alarm went off at 6:00 A.M.  I packed up my gym bag with all my running gear, warmed up the truck and left.  

    I was surprised to discover that Willow did not get as much accumulation as Talkeetna overnight and I was optimistic that this might be a good run.

   “Ooh this is soft” I heard from one of my fellow runners within fifty feet of leaving the start line.  I chuckled to myself.  This could be awful.  We were running on loosely packed snow machine trails and each step would sink three to six inches deep.  It was like running through sand.  We all had headlamps that illuminated the snow pack in front of us like our own personal spotlights  

     Eighty beams of bouncing light in a big wave moved across Willow Lake straight into the darkest and shortest of days.  From there we would access the only road-running of the whole race which was plowed and hard packed.  It lasted about a quarter of a mile and it was sweet.  Everyone’s pace picked up along with our spirits.  I moved to the left to pass a couple of kids who were running the 5K portion of the race. “ Hey guys, nice job!” I told them as I ran by.  The kid closest to me who was probably ten years old and 120 pounds sped up to catch me and then decided it would be a good idea to try to shoulder me off the trail.  “Hey there buddy , you shouldn’t do that.”  He kept up his antics.  “ It’s bad form and bad sportsmanship.”  I reasoned.  Eventually after several additional pushes, his buddy called him off.  
"Josh, knock it off." 
I was proud of the way I handled it because my first instinct was to grab his arm and fling him over the snowbank ass-over-tea kettle. Rest assured, I was able to restrain myself and harness my inner teacher. Who knew that I would have to overcome a race bully?

     With the trail harassment behind me I crossed over to Long lake where the trail softened back up again like warm butter.  I tried to find a key to success.  Maybe I should make my own tracks.  Maybe I should try to run in the line created by the snowmachine’s skis.  Maybe I should try to run in other’s footprints.  It turned out to be a combination of all three techniques changing as the miles slowly ticked off.  Twelve minute miles never felt so tough.  

    Finally I found a rhythm and settled into a good pace that I could live with.  The trail, maintained by the Willow Trails Committee ( WTC) was excellent.  They have designed and maintained the trails in Willow for years and seemed to have found the perfect balance between user groups.  Snowmachiners, mushers, and skiers all know what to expect thanks to the comprehensive signage.  Well organized and with plenty of volunteers The WTC is a model for other recreational trail systems around the state.  

    Slowly I made my way up the bank of Long lake, to an airstrip and across some ponds and onto Boot lake.  From there Vera lake took us to its Western outlet to an informational kiosk where I tagged-out at the halfway- checkpoint and briefly chatted with race organizer Dave Johnston.  “ You’re doing great." He said. " You’re in fourth place.”  

    I looked up and saw a group coming up the trail.  “See ya Dave.”  Fourth place, really?  The last race I ran was the Kasugi Ridge Traverse and I didn't finish fourth. I earned the equivalent of the red-lantern.  Last place.  Fourth sounded pretty good to me.   

    I boogied back down the trail and caught up with some familiar faces.  My folks had trailered their snow machines from their house and unloaded at the Crystal Lake parking lot.  They wanted to watch this event unfold but mostly wanted to support me.

    They had some treats for me none of which I could stomach except for a red bull.  Hopefully I wouldn't be DQ'ed for using performance enhancing drugs. I chugged as much as I could and bid them farewell.  “Thanks.” I told them as I took off back down the trail I’d come.

  When I made it back out to Vera lake I noticed that there was someone about a quarter mile behind me.  Was he closing in on me? I couldn’t tell.  On the straight stretches I would look back and see a black figure with sparkly headlamp.  I buckled down and tried to quicken my pace.  I still had five miles to the finish but I wanted that fourth place bad.  In the Olympics that’s almost a bronze medal!  Finally I made my way across Willow Lake with no one in sight.  I ran up the hill to the finish line where Mom and Dad were waiting for me.  In a few minutes I would meet the runner in black.  She thanked me for my steps apparently she had been running in them.  We went inside the community center I ate some soup, changed clothes, and went home.

My support team.

The Fish Camp Chronicles: Part 4

The Last Beautiful flight of an American Icon

  It all began innocently enough.  The wife had picked up some cheap kites to bring to fish camp.  Little did she know what would become of it.  Little did she realize that lives would be at stake.  Innocent fun for the kids, she thought.  

    There were three of them.  Paying with a crisp ten dollar bill at Walmart she left with the kites and a handful of change.

     The first was a fancy red dragon kite.  The thing had multiple wings, a long tail and looked fierce like Smaug of the Tolkien tales in a cheap-plasticy kind of way.  Unlike Smaug though, this kite was a big puss.  Touted as a “trick-kite” capable of flips and the like, it turned out to be more of a duck than a dragon. Lame-duck that is.   No doubt flips are cool but as we found out soon enough they are hard to perform from the ground.  It wouldn’t fly. It seemed that Smaug was more of a land lubber. Strike one.

    Number two was a penguin kite.  “Now this kite has potential”, I thought to myself as I assembled the thing.  Anything had to be better after the let-down of Smaug jr.  With a steady 15 mile per hour wind from the Southeast Corey let it go; this had to be the one, and in truth, it was great for about five minutes until it took a direct nose-dive into the hardpack of the mudflats.   The broken stanchions and torn plastic were beyond repair. It was a sad moment; Strike two,but there was another.   

   I cringed a little as I saw the last of the kites.  I reached into the tattered duffle bag and pulled her out.   It was a Barbie kite.  Hazelee was beaming as I began assembling it.  Let’s see, traditional shape, clean lines, giant barbie doll face....check.

   “Let er go!” I shouted and Hazelee did so.  I pulled back hard like I had on the other two but I quickly found out that it was not necesary,  Barb took to the sky like an Arctic tern.  Within a minute she had taken all of our line and was as steady in the North Eastern skyline as Mt. Susitna. Hmm.

    “Haze, come hold this.” I had an idea.  I returned with an old spinning rod and a full roll of one pound-test monofilament fishing line.  Before long, I had ol’ Barb hooked up to a fishing rod and after flipping the bail, we had let out several hundred yards of line.  No more than a small dot in the sky far away I suddenly  realized; Barb was legit!  Corey, Hazelee, and I stood there on the mudflats cheering up at the most plastic of American icons high in the sky. Fly Barbie fly.  Smiling down at us with her pouty lips and high cheek bones, she seemed pleased to please.

    “Here hold this, I’ll be right back.”I left Corey and Hazelee again standing there with the fishing pole, tethered by over a quarter mile of string to the far off kite.   I ran to the shed for more line.

    “ What are you doing?” Tamra appeared on the corner of the cabin porch with her hands on her hips.  

   “We are flying a kite honey.”  

   “ I see that.  How high are you planning to fly that thing?” she asked.  I could tell by her tone that she was going somewhere with this I just wasn’t sure where.  

   “As high as we can of course!”

“That’s too high!  You’re going to hit a plane”.   I snickered outloud at the thought and quickly regretted it.  A part of me was a little proud that we had flown a kite so high in the sky as to be a perceived threat to safe aviation.  Maybe with enough line we could fly Barb into the Ozone layer and beyond.   Maybe Barb would be detected by the high-powered radar systems of NASA, or the U.S military.  (“Uh, sir, I think you’d better take a look at this.”  There zoomed into some fancy screen would be Barbie’s face, long flowing blond locks, big blue eyes. )

    At fish camp we are situated in a major flyway from Anchorage to Beluga that is frequented mainly by small planes.    They buzz by us all day long following the coastline as a safer alternative to flying over Cook Inlet itself.   A lot of these pilots choose to fly right off-the-deck Barbie level or lower.

     “Are you kidding?  You can see Barb from miles around.  She is a beacon of all that is good and true in this world!”  She wasn’t buying it.

    Maybe she was right.  After all, overcoming the humiliation from the boys at work from being taken-down by a Barbie kite would be too much for any bush pilot to overcome.  

 “ Okay hun.”  We reeled her in, tucked her into the shed and sought after other, safer activities like napping.

Immaculate Solstice

   Immaculate Solstice

 

  The rising mist off of the creek could easily have been interpreted as eerie.  I was awestruck.  I wouldn't even have noticed it though if the full moon wasn't out.  It was 18 below zero. I turned off my headlamp.  It was still another four days until the winter solstice so it's not as if I was traipsing around on the shortest and darkest day of the year. I had a different plans for that day.

      I stood there along the creek side taking my time, watching the moon cast its hypnotic charms upon the small valley.   The portrait of the moon this night resembled no cheese I’m aware of.   The impression I got rather, was one of rounded fluorescence.  The light was as fluorescent-white as I’ve ever seen.   Breaks in the clouds of steam from the creek lit the valley with the power of the moon intermittently  until another plume of steam dulled it down again.

 There was nothing in my traps today and yet I was happy.  My modest recreational trap line is accessed on foot.   I have found that I don’t really care too much whether or not I have caught anything nearly as much as the fact that I have a good reason to get out.  A means not only to an end but also a purpose to go for a hike and reason to pay attention to my surroundings, to the snow pack, the fresh tracks;  this country is alive and when I'm out in it I am a part of it and it has become a part of me too.

    The creek was spilling out of a small lake that had been dammed by beavers.  The basin of the lake itself was illuminated around the corner by the moon and I considered changing course to check it out.  Maybe there was something ethereal going on up there.  Maybe the last of the lake-ice was sealing up for the winter bidding goodnight to all.   Maybe a moose or fox could be spotted in the floodlight of the moon.  

    I didn't give it a chance though, I strapped my hiking poles onto my hands, turned on my headlamp and crossed the creek.  I turned my back on this immaculate event choosing instead to hike up and into the darkness of the forest and eventually back home.