Solid Ground

Solid Ground

Breaking the Trail Part 2

December 29th, 2014

“What’s up bub?” From what I was looking at I knew something wasn't right.  The truck was packed and snowmachines were loaded on the trailer.  Corey had on all his outergear and I had sent him out to the truck that was warming up.  By the time I had gathered the last of my things, and left the garage myself, he was lying on the ice in the middle of the driveway like a washed up beluga whale.

    “I don’t feel so good,”... shit.  I had seen a similar look from his mother during the last week.  Tamra had been fighting this same bug for quite some time and I was hoping that the rest of us wouldn’t follow suit.  All-said Corey soldiered on at least as far as the the gas station. In the end, after a few nibbles of the coveted gas station breakfast I had promised him, I took him back home.

   It would be just Mom, Dad and I this time.  We were excited to be headed back to the cabin again, the second time this winter.  The weather had been unseasonably warm but the trip in was solid.

 There was a foot of new snow and it was obvious to me that no one had been on the trail since our last trip two weeks prior.  

    Breaking trail always holds a special place in my heart.  Aside from the thought of doing-it-first (such as a first-ascent on a mountain to a much lesser degree), breaking trail is a spiritual thing.  What lies ahead?  What critters have been running here?  Are we equal to the obstacles in our path?

   The Kahiltna River was just as we had left it, but Upper Indian Creek had blown out a bit...especially after I skirted over it in Mom’s sled.  We had found a solid place to walk across. The plan was for Mom and Dad to walk over and I would shuttle the machines to the other side utilizing my take-no-prisoners approach.  

    On the first pass, with Mom’s 550, I knocked a big plate of ice free, dancing to the far bank otherwise unscathed.  We all exchanged forlorn looks after seeing the watery path I had opened up.  Nevertheless, with a careful planned launch I was able to ditch-dive the other two machines up and over the far bank.  Whoohoo!  

    Several miles later after driving over long runs of wolf tracks (they were after snowshoe hare) we popped out at McDougal and then onto the Yentna River.  It was just as we had left it with one notable exception.  As we came nearer to our turn-off spot I noticed something that stopped me in my tracks.  Two upturned snowmachine ski tips were frozen into the overflow right at our turnoff.  At first glance I thought it was a snowmachine sunk up to the skis, but upon further inspection I noticed that it was a trail groomer.  It was easy to see what happened.  Someone was grooming the trail and got caught in overflow.  The groomer was ditched altogether and bonded nicely with the river in a tight new friendship.

Wayward groomer

    Carefully and swiftly, I drove past the groomer on top of hardpan ice and found our turnoff trail.  After I confirmed its solidity I returned to collect Mom and Dad who were still trying to figure out what exactly the ghostly looking groomer was.  We pushed into the mouth of Indian Creek itself and headed up to the cabin. 

Several bends up we pulled over to inspect a recent moose kill on the creek.  Dad and I are staunch moose salvage critics and we wanted to check it out.  The hunter on this kill had done a decent job field dressing it and there wasn’t much left.  It was probably two days old and I looked around for any salvageable meat on the hide.  There were a few small hunks but the defecation of the birds prevented us from salvaging anything at all.   We saddled up and pushed onto the cabin. 

Unfortunately for our neighbor and Iditarod musher Jim Lanier the entrance to his trail was particularly soft and a portion of the creek-ice broke away as we drove over it.  Jim has been calling frequently to confirm the safety of his route so he can run his dogs to his cabin which is right next to ours.  Maybe next week Jim.

    To make matters worse, all that night through to the next morning, and all the next day it rained.  After prolonged coffee and breakfast banter we finally decked ourselves out and braved the wetness to harvest some firewood.  As we brushed out the ridge trail we were able to fill the toboggan halfway with firewood.  We are situated among old-growth forest and each year there are plenty of casualties that succumb to the will of the wind. “Let’s go over the hill,” I suggested.  I knew there was lots of dead-standing-spruce along the edges of the swamps.  Once below we would have to get the heavy sled up a formidable hill but I wanted to try out my new winch.  

SWT

   This year I bought a new snowmachine.  The Ski Doo Skandic Super Wide Track otherwise known as the SWT or simply Superwide, has quite a cult following, at least among the people of Northern Europe and interior Alaska.   Sporting the widest track on the market (24 inches) the SWT has terrific flotation and is touted as a work/utility sled.  I knew I wanted a winch on the back, which is offered as an add-on, but I wasn’t excited about paying the additional $1800 price tag for it.  I was able to order a  3000 lb Warn winch on Amazon and fabricate my own setup for a mere $350 bucks.  Not bad for a P.E teacher!  The winch pulled the 800 pound sled up the hill without hesitation.

    We were gone no more than two hours and we were completely soaked.  I think it was noon.  Needless to say, we spent a lot of down-time in the cabin that day reading, playing cards, cooking and otherwise conserving energy.  I made some fresh rolls infused with kalamata olives, sunflower seeds and freshly minced Jalapenos to go with the wonderful moose stew that had been stewing away on top of the wood stove all day long.

     Well before we crawled upstairs into our beds it was pitch black again outside and pouring rain like there was no tomorrow.  Ahhh December rain.  Tomorrow as it turned out was on our minds foremost because we had to reverse our trip on the river to get back home.  I texted Tamra earlier in the day and told her that we may have to stay an extra day or two to get back.  

   But as-is often the case, the situations we build up in our minds fall short of reality.  After coffee and a delicious specialty McMuffin sandwich laden with bacon, egg, and other accoutrements we fired up, and made our way down the trail to face our fate head-on.  “If I should die now,” I thought, “at least I have bacon in my belly.”

    As it turned out the quality of the river ice hadn’t changed as much as it had in our minds in the last couple of days.  There were long runs of pooled rainwater to blast through as we pushed up river to McDougal but nothing gave way and the trail was solid.  

    Finally we were off the river, pointed towards the truck and once again glad to be on solid ground.

Breaking the Trail

    

The crossing at Kahiltna

The two bulls stood next to a cow and they were all staring at me. I shut off my snow machine hoping they would stay for a while. Dad pulled up alongside and shut off his sled too. Both were two year old bulls. They resembled the goofy moose in the old Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon.  High thirties, maybe low forty inch antler spreads at best, these fellas were far from their potential as giants of the forest.  Eventually they spooked and took-off into the thicker woods away from us and our noisy engines.

     “Ready?”

    Dad gave me the thumbs-up and we were off.  Breaking the trail forty miles to our cabin had been a breeze so far.  In my mind’s-eye we had already surpassed one potentially daunting obstacle;  The Kahiltna River. It had been on my mind for several weeks:

    The Kahiltna River is a bit of an anomaly. It is a glacial river that shoots out of the Alaska Range from underneath the mighty glacier that bares the same name. At 44 miles long, the Kahiltna glacier is the longest glacier in the Alaska Range and with all the snow and ice that melts each summer, it produces a melt-off worthy of note.

 The glacier’s upper reaches see thousands of climbers each year all of them harboring dreams of high places but not many people know or care too much about the Kahiltna River itself that spills out from under it all; It has quite a nasty reputation.

There is a tale told in the age-old manuscript Conquest of Mckinley where five gold miners attempted to raft down the Kahiltna in a wooden skiff. As the story goes the boat got hung up and broke apart on a partially submerged boulder in the Kahiltna Canyon. Apparently four of the miners held-fast on the boulder for four whole days shivering and fretting,whilst the fifth figured: "Death by drowning was preferable to a living hell." Almost naked, he took to the water and by the aid of a portion of the boat which had struck the rock, he succeeded in reaching shore. In the end the daring swimmer survived, bushwacked downstream eventually discovering a trapper's cache that was his salvation. Imagine the others' incredible surprise when another miner, rowing a different skiff came barrelling down the canyon in their most dire hour. He couldn't believe his eyes upon discovering the four shivering miners clamoring to the rock. The lone miner managed to make it to shore somewhere downstream. He was able to make it back up to them and ultimately saved them by way of rope. They all survived. This was 1911.

    Flash forward 92 years. Yours truly was also involved in a failed rafting trip on said Kahiltna. We tried to negotiate these same turbulent boiling waters to no avail.  Although this is another story altogether I will say this:  After negotiating our way around house sized boulders in class five rapids with the wrong raft and virtually no experience, we flipped.  Go figure. After dragging our drowned-rat asses out of the raging torrent, we decided to hike out ten miles through the bushwhack instead.  Smart choice. Kahiltna River....one, Steve....zero.  

     Today was different, today all we wanted from the Kahiltna was a winter crossing.  Due to an unseasonably warm winter thus far it wasn’t entirely frozen yet.  A long band of swiftly running water gushed by us in a series of dancing waves; hardly the stuff of ideal snow machining. The open stretch continued downstream as far as the eye could see.  Initial thought....shit.

The Kahiltna 12/17/14

   Nonetheless, some other adventuresome soul, even antsier than myself to reach the other side,was gracious enough to do my dirty work for me.  I looked below the bank and beheld a lone snow machine track leading under the cut bank upstream to a carefully planned crossing some two hundred meters upstream.  I walked the bank to check it out.  Sure enough a few transplanted spruce branches flagged with survey tape marked the way straight across the river!

     Having overcome the crossing at Kahiltna, we were onto the the next potential problem, some ten miles down-trail;  Upper Indian.

     Upper Indian Creek (the U.I. to some) can be troublesome as well.  This slow moving frog water is cut deep into the marshes and is notorious for its unpredictable freezing patterns.  In years past it has taken a dicey jump-move to blast down and then up the other side. Luckily after some investigation, I found a suitable crossing.  After I scooted over top, Dad followed.  A few insignificant chunks of ice broke free but nothing that would undermine the integrity of the crossing for our safe return.

The U.I. gave itself to us this year
without much trouble.

An overwhelming thought overcame me; What a pleasure it is to travel in this wild country!

    Things were looking up for us but sometimes life is funny.  As it turned out the last five miles to the cabin were by-far the most difficult of the whole trip.

    We turned off the main section-line to commence trail breaking onto our very own short-cut to the cabin. This trail, cut-in three years ago allows us to avoid traveling the Yentna River altogether.  The Yentna, another major glacial river draining out of the south side of the Alaska range is loaded with potential for mishap, especially during early freeze-up. Unfortunately for us, when we brushed-out the trail originally three years ago, the snow was much deeper, so on this trip all of our prior cuts were exposed stubs of doom, jabbing at us, throwing us sideways, cursing us! Like a sea of frozen hammer handles, we surged over, around, and through them.

      After finally passing the trail of jabby sticks we made it to quite possibly the worst beaver marsh traverse ever.  Without enough snow to lay down the willows, we had to plow over and through them being careful to avoid open beaver ponds and overflow.  The terrain here was particularly demanding and rough and it was with great relief when, at last we reached Indian Creek itself. All that was left was a mile ride down the creek.

      Although each bend in the creek had open water and overflow, we decided to be nimble and swift in our movements effectively avoiding calamity or any other undue mishap.  It was nice to be moving so quickly after enduring all the dis-pleasantries of our dubious shortcut.

   We arrived at the cabin and as always we were in good cheer despite the struggle of the last few miles. We peeled off helmets and headgear revealing our sweaty heads which were throwing off considerable steam.  “Wow, that last part was rough.”  He was right, it was rough and in hindsight we should have pushed-on to the Yentna where a better trail had already been established.

    “If it were easy, then everyone would do it.”

Cabin fare:  Large, hot jalapenos stuffed with moose chorizo
and cream cheese, wrapped with moose bacon.  Pin together with
toothpics and bake until done.  Serve with a generous roll of toilet paper.

The dangers of the Yentna trail
 are mostly self-evident.

11:00 A.M. Dec 15th. Life is good.

    

    

Hitting Stride

"The trouble with retirement is that you never get a day off" -Abe Lemons

Steve and Rachel Harrison

     Steve and Rachel Harrison, my beloved folks of 68 and 70 respectively, are hard-at-it as usual.  Never okay with just sitting-around twiddling thumbs, they have turned into, as Dad likes to quip, “farts on a skillet.”

    Since retiring from the U.S Fish and Wildlife in 2001 with 30 years of government service, dad joined my mom who also was retiring from her own career with the Anchorage School District having taught elementary school in Eagle River for 25 years.  

    Upon retirement they relocated North from their Eagle River roots and settled into a nice spot on the bluffs of the Susitna River in Willow, Alaska.  Having fished commercially at the mouth of the Susitna and sport fished in its tributaries for years, it was a natural fit.

    Hitting-the-ground running never seemed so natural for these two retirees who during their working careers kept busy raising three children who were involved in multiple sports and dance all-the-while running a family oriented commercial fishing business in the summer-on their leave time.  

   Since their "retirement" they have become the busiest people I know.  Retirement for them hasn't been a time to slow down; it has been a catalyst for switching gears.

   What is amazing to me is that they seemed to have been able to find the perfect balance between family, recreation, and chores.  I look to them as models of the ideal retirement; if not an exact formula, here are their patterns:

   First and foremost, priority is always given to every possible grandchild's sporting event, recital, or babysitting opportunity.  They have seven grandkids, and this alone keeps them on their toes. Since two-thirds of the the immediate family still reside in Eagle River, they are constantly driving the 80 miles to watch hockey, basketball, and volleyball games and don't forget about birthdays.  They are not bothered by the drive and will make the trip at the drop of a hat.  Along with the grandkids, they have also taken to supporting their aging son’s running endeavors.

    Next, they have cleverly set themselves up with plenty of things to do, mainly in the form of cabins to maintain and improve upon. Besides their home base in Willow, they also have three other cabins strategically built in scenic wilderness locations scattered around Southcentral Alaska.  They are all incredible places in their own right, but the surrounding wilderness is the overwhelming appeal to each of them. Dad played a major role in the construction of all of these places including their house in Willow and has taken it upon himself to become the superintendent-of-projects at them all.  Every homeowner is familiar with the inherent burden of ownership.  Dad has four burdens but he doesn't see it that way.  He enjoys it.  He always has projects to do but he is good at balancing project time with fishing time. Amen.

    Mom is the chief decorator, resident artist, and artifact collector at all of their places.  She has brought her artsy style to life in them all.  She has a keen eye for regional touches and likes to collect local artifacts and nick knacks to display on shelves and window sills.  Her mosaic tile work can also be found in each of their places.  In addition, she is not afraid to voice her opinion about additions, improvements, or any other worth-while suggestions.

Mom's touch

   Their cabins are not accessible by any road; only boats or snow machines can get you there which, in-turn has provided ample maintenance opportunities for their three fully operational boats and two snow machines....you know, so they don’t get bored.  It is not uncommon for Steve and Rach to return from one cabin only to start packing for a trip to another.

    Each fall, hunting takes priority and it’s no wonder that their freezer is always full.  Dad has been a committed subsistence hunter and fisherman ever since they moved to Alaska in 1969. He has shared his passion with his two sons who pursue big game and fish each and every year.  Generally we all work together as a hunting team, processing and sharing meat.  As it turns out my folks have learned a thing or two over the years and are masters of fish and game processing. They are generous with their windfall and look forward to sharing with friends and family alike.

My mother is a case all her own and if social health were measurable, she would be pinning the needle, topping-out on  "full."  Somehow meshed with all the cabin trips, family stuff, and everything else, she manages to keep a social calendar rivaling that of Michele Obama.  Mosaic Wednesdays are a must, as-is yoga Mondays.  Don’t forget about Bunco and book club.  Did I mention the garden club? Also, it seems that her years of teaching haven't escaped her; she volunteers each year at the elementary school during art- week and she eagerly helps set up bulletin boards in my wife's classroom.

Fishing with Grandma and Grandpa

    Both Steve and Rach have been actively supporting the efforts to protect the Susitna River.  They have an extensive history of recreation, subsistence , and commercial activity on the river and have been interviewed, quoted, and consulted about their opinions on the proposed development of the Susitna-Watana Dam.  The dam, which could be quite possibly the worst idea to ever come out of Juneau, would dramatically change the river that takes them to two of their cabins and would destroy the salmon that thrive there.  Not ones to sit quiet while their wilderness livelihood is being threatened, they are doing what they can.  It is their hope that their volunteer and advocacy efforts will pay-off allowing their grandkids' grandkids to experience the same Alaska that they have become enamored with.

     Their love of Alaska is undeniable but they do manage to get out of state once or twice a year to visit friends and to otherwise scratch their travel itch.  In recent years they have enjoyed traveling with several of their former Alaskan neighbors that they have kept close contact with, and they have also reconnected with some old friends from their youth in Washington State.

 They have been known to travel with family too.  Imagine our excitement when in the summer of 2012 they surprised the whole family with Mexican Riviera cruise tickets to help them celebrate their 45th wedding anniversary.

  Several times a year the stars align and all of their children and grandchildren converge upon one location at a cabin or holiday gathering.   These are Steve and Rach's favorite times and it’s during these gatherings that it is easy to see that they are playing their cards perfectly.

The whole fam damly.

Dad carving up a beauty.

Mom taking full advantage of Pete's muscles and hip-waders.

Dad, Pete, and I doing our thing at fish camp.

Top of the world baby, top of the world.

     Epic Moves

               “The Yule Ball has been a tradition of the Tri-Wizard tournament since its inception.  On Christmas Eve night we and our guests gather in the great hall for well mannered frivolity. As representatives of the host school I expect each and every one of you to put your best foot  forward, and I mean this literally because the Yule Ball is first and foremost... a dance.” -Professor McGonagall

    You haven’t lived until you have chaperoned a junior high dance.  Period.  Well mannered frivolity, no matter how well intentioned, still needs oversight when teenagers are involved and so I accepted the position along with two of my colleagues Lisa and Katie.

    “Wow, you’re stepping outside your comfort box,” said Bryan, another teacher at the school.  I knew it to be true.  I figured that with my son in the 7th grade I should step up to the plate.  It was time.

    As we entered the school the electric pulse of synthesized drums pounded through the dividers that were trying their best to contain the energy of the teens' enthusiasm.  

You know it’s all about that bass

about that bass no treble...

all about that bass about that bass no treble.

it's all about that bass about that bass no treble
It's all about that bass, bass, bass, bass.

    I arrived with my son Corey and three of his buddies who had been pre-funking at the house with juice and bananas.  I helped them with their ties.  We arrived fashionably late by five minutes.  The boys had to wait for a few minutes to pay because the 8th grade girl taking money was busy counting the proceeds and couldn't be bothered to take anymore cash until she had properly accounted for what she had so far.  As a teacher at the school I walked right in to commence my chaperoning duties.   Together with Lisa and Katie we would prove to be a solid team of supervising adults, but where were they?  It was super dark.  I found them holding their ground against the stage. 

 “Where should I put the food?” I shouted.  Katie pointed to the round table in the corner.  I had brought some snacks to add to the assortment of others on the table.  I got there in time to see one of the boys put a handful of mixed pretzels back into the container. “Eu yuck!” he said with a face of disgust.  The thought crossed my mind that I could have used that as a teachable moment on manners. Maybe I should explain that once you grab a handful of food in your grubby little paws,  you probably shouldn't put it back in the mix. He quickly disappeared into the darkness before I had time to formulate my words, besides, it was so loud he probably wouldn’t have heard me.  Mellow out Harrison.

     Out on the dance floor was an irregularly moving blob of human activity that could loosely be classified as dancing.  On one side was a small herd of boys jumping straight up and down as high as they could with their arms pinned to their sides.  A group of four girls were hoola-hooping in the dark oblivious to the fact that the reason why they couldn’t keep it going was that the hoop was hitting stuff; the stage, other girls etc.  One girl was twirling the thing around her neck.

     Periodically groups of girls and boys (not mixed) would join hands ring-around-the-rosy style and start circling.  A couple of energetic girls decided to take it to the next level grasping hands, whirling around as fast as they could.  They would lean back with a full arch until the inevitable epic fail.  Natural consequence?  I think so.

   Just then one of the boys busted out a decent rendition of the worm, making his way through the middle of the crowd a distance of thirty some feet.  Nice.  I couldn’t help thinking that it must have hurt his bones worming like that on the concrete floor;  He only did it once.  Another boy hoping to follow his lead decided to crabwalk instead.  Quickly realizing that the crab-walk didn’t have the same effect on the crowd as the worm he stood back up and re-joined one of the ring-around-the-rosy circles.

I’m so fancy,

you already know

I’m in the fast lane,

from L.A. to Tokyo.....

       By and large the girls danced non-stop.  Sometimes with the boys but mostly in big groups of other girls where the group selfies could be maximized.  The main selfy face for the night was the always-glamorous pursed pouty lip face.  The flash of the phone’s camera had a strobe effect and I could see all the faces packed tightly together, lips pursed.

   I only had to curb behavior three times.  Someone brought a few of those green glow sticks and these ones came with a two foot lanyard which turned out to be perfect for swinging around. One young lad quickly progressed from a mellow twirl to full-on nunchucking right in the middle of the crowd.  The kids on the dance floor were moving further and further away from him as the neon martial arts demo was reaching crescendo.  The trick was getting in there to stop it.  I felt like I was stuck in a bad Bruce Lee flick trying to disarm the kid.  I would only have to put the kibosh on his nunchucking efforts once more before the end.  Not bad.

     On another occasion, the crab walker decided that it would be a good idea to start running really fast circles around the perimeter of the dancing masses like an Australian shepherd herding sheep.  Unfortunately his agility was much more like that of a St.Bernard.  After knocking over his third victim I decided to step in.

    I wasn’t the only chaperon earning keep on this night.  Lisa and Katie both were on-the-spot putting out small fires here and there as well.  Lisa was like a shot out of a cannon to the dance floor when an exuberant high school girl decided to poach the junior high dance running into the crowd with some sweet moves of her own hoping to show some kids how it’s done.

   All said and done,the dance proved to be an overwhelming success.  “It was really fun.” said Corey in the truck as we left the parking lot.  They all agreed as they compared notes on the way to the after party at our house. 
 Although I knew the answer I had to ask. “Did you guys dance with any girls?”  I got three yeses and a no. My son was the lone hold out. 
 “You guys just don’t know how to say no,” he told them.

Los cuatro amigos

Pursuing the Sub-Nine Kasugi

Pursuing the Sub-Nine Kasugi

"Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." -Albert Einstein

    The Einstein quote has always resonated with me. I saw it first in the folds of a coaching clipboard belonging to one Bruce Gunderson.  I coach High School Track and Field with Bruce.  He is a sage beyond his years and is never too far away from his coveted yellow clipboard.  It is filled with an eclectic mix of notes, sketches, and other fabled coaching lore. I think there's even some hieroglyphics and moon runes in there. I digress.
 Way in the back, on the last page is where the quote can be found and for me, it’s a reminder that if you aren't satisfied with your current results then something has to change. There are no shortcuts or quick-fixes in this life;  Buck-up cowboy.  

    Finishing last year’s Kasugi Ridge Traverse for me was a gratifying personal accomplishment.  It represented the longest run of my life.  It was thirty miles and with an elevation gain of over five thousand vertical feet it is nothing to snub noses at.   Essentially traversing the spine of Denali State Park, the trek was a chance for me to link together three shorter hikes that I had done previously, multiple times each.  

     That year I wanted to quit at the halfway point at the top of Ermine Hill.  My entire lower body felt like it was about to cramp with one misstep or ill-word. But for reasons rooted in stubbornness and maybe even stupidity I pushed onward, over the hill beginning the second half of the course.  Why not? I only had fifteen miles to go. Trudging-on with the baggage of accumulating lower body pains, I managed to finish the damn thing in nine hours and thirty minutes; Dead last. I have to admit that my mommy actually helped me remove my running shoes and gaiters at the truck because I was so stiff I could not bend over. Thanks mom. My dad drove me home and provided special recuperative goodies such as cinnamon rolls and even a few fat tire amber beers! Despite my enjoyable recovery post-race, I missed the nine hour cut-off so I didn't get an official time for the race.

Near the Ermine hill cutoff

 

    Although I was thrilled to have finished such a long and arduous trek, it didn’t take me long to decide that I would have to do it again.  I decided that I wanted that coveted official time but Einstein was right, I had to do something different.  Cue-in the Rocky music.

    The summer prior to my first Kasugi race I had been focused on climbing Denali and it was on a whim when I decided to enter the race three weeks beforehand. Although it would certainly qualify as an off the couch entry, I didn't care; I was excited. I wanted to check out Kasugi’s ridge in its entirety.  I filled in the blanks in the on-line registry and after a long pause and with at least some reluctance I pushed the send button sealing my fate.  

    I have enjoyed distance running my whole adult life but my patterns have been sporadic at best.  I’d pick up the mileage for a few months at-a-time and then something would come up and then I'd think to myself: should I go running?.....meh.  Summer always presents a cornucopia of recreational options and along with my set net obsession, hunting addiction, and family camping it seems that running would always take second-fiddle.  This year will be different-I told myself.  Make time-I thought.

     I reasoned that staying in good running shape must be easier than having to gain it back time and time again.  

     As a Physical Education teacher, Track and Field coach, and cross country runner I have always believed that the hardest part of running is taking those first few steps out the front door.  Even if it is raining, snowing, or 20 below, once outside,  the run itself is always rejuvenating, invigorating, and even refreshing. Sometimes running doesn't come easy.  Sometimes the struggle to keep going is overwhelming but it always feels great to complete a run and not once after a run have I ever regretted doing so.

      I decided to keep track of my running efforts over the course of the year in the form of a running-log.  I set up a spreadsheet to keep a running-total of my mileage.  Along with the miles, I also noted pace (when possible), time of the run, and other information such as location of the run and even how I felt.  I included a column for other exercise (weight training etc.) and nutrition.  I thought that it might provide insight and possibly inspiration to review my training efforts as the year progressed.  It was fun to watch the numbers add up over the weeks and months that followed.  I found myself looking forward to logging-in to add my latest numbers.

    By late October I had reached 200 miles of running and to get me through my usually lazy Christmas break, I signed up for the Willow Winter half-marathon.  This race was on Dec. 12th and it gave me a goal to train for.   Although it was only a half marathon, the snow was super soft and as-it-turned-out, it was a pretty tough slog.  I finished in 3:23 locking down fourth place out of 23 which turned out to be my highest race-finish to date.  Boo-yah!

At the finish of the Willow Winter half

      In February I was able to compete in a race in San Diego.  The Mission Gorge 15 K was a beautiful mountain run and I finished in the top half of my age group.  By the 1st of March I was at 400 miles of training and I decided to commit to the Mayor’s Marathon in Anchorage on the Solstice in June.  I kept up my miles through our commercial fishing season the best I could and by the start of this year’s Kasugi Ridge Race I had accumulated 722 miles of running. Hah! Off the couch my ass.

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    “Hi Katie!”  I was surprised to see her there.  She had hiked up the Ermine Creek trail and was tucked into the bouldered scree on the mountain-side.  Katie and her husband Tom are good friends of mine and fellow teachers at Susitna Valley School. She was cheerfully greeting each of the racers as they passed.  She took some photos of me as I stopped and gave me a good slug of water.  She was taking full advantage of the glorious weather to pick blueberries between glances of the jagged and glorious vistas of the Alaska Range.

Thanks for the water and photography Katie.

    Two miles later I arrived at the Ermine hill cut-off and I was 25 minutes ahead of last year time.  I was ecstatic.  Carrie Sayer handed me a cookie.  I didn't stop until further up the next rise.  A group of super-cool hippy runner-types had set up an impromptu aid station.  They offered-up power bars, goos, gels, and even a couple of almond joy candy bars.   Cheering commenced when I grabbed an Almond Joy off the pile.  Apparently there had been bets on whether anyone would take it.  I ran over the hill slightly refreshed clutching a fistful of gummy-chews, Carrie’s homemade cookie,  and a full sized Almond-Joy.

Near the fabled rock pillars

    I ran between the rock pillars of the Ermine hill pass en-route to the skids of the steep back side. Over the course of the next ten minutes I would lose 900 vertical feet of elevation.  Not soon after in the marshy lowlands, I slowed considerably.  I had hit the wall.  I bonked.

      The uphills I had to hike but even on level ground I was struggling to maintain the slowest of jogs; I’m a long way from the finish I thought. Shit.

    I knew I was ahead of several other runners at this point but I realized that at my current pace they would soon catch me.  Fearing another nine-plus hour finish, I tried to focus my efforts on the only thing I felt I had control over;  my eating.

    I began to slurp down goo after god-awful goo hoping to regain some energy.  Along with these super sweet, syrupy goos you can also buy little gummy chews that come in a pack of fifteen or so.  I kept one going in my mouth for the remainder of the race.  Slowly but surely I crawled my way back out of Bonk-ville and by the time I reached the rounded summit of Golog ( 2970 ft.) I was able to begin running again.  In fact I ran the rest of the way, another ten miles or so stuffing my cheeks with ultra sweet goos and chews for energy.

   About four miles out I noticed that I was not only going to beat last year’s time I was going to crush it!  So with as much of a kick as I could muster I picked up the pace at the end and finished in 8 hours and 21 minutes.  I beat my time from last year by an hour and nine minutes securing my spot in the official results of the 2014 Kasugi Ridge Traverse.

Doing my best to fake a strong finish