Author: Bill

It’s a scene straight out of a winter fairytale: the solstice moon casting its silvery gaze on the wind-swept snow. Yet here I am, braving the frigid 9 degrees in nothing but cycling gear. Each step up University Mountain Ridge is a battle against the deep, crusty snow, slicing into my shins with every stride. The pain is numbed by the cold, yet the pressure against my bones is unmistakable. In the midst of this struggle, my mind wanders, and a peculiar story unfolds.

I imagine myself as a stray dog, the kind you show affection to out of guilt or kindness. Maybe you’d even let me follow you home for a cozy evening indoors – a luxury I’d cherish. But as days pass, your patience wears thin. Maybe you can’t have pets, or maybe I just become too much. Desperate attempts to shoo me away fail; I’m relentless in my loyalty.

Your frustration mounts, leading to harsher measures. Stones thrown in my direction, each rejection a deeper cut than the last. I’m confused, wondering why my devotion is met with disdain. Until one day, a rock strikes too close, too hard. Bleeding and heartbroken, I flee, vowing to never trust again. This vow becomes a bitter promise to myself as I limp away into the unknown.

Back in reality, I finally reach my car. The GPS reads 13.9 miles, 4,500 feet of climbing, all in just over four hours. It’s a staggering realization – all this effort for what seems like a mere half marathon. But like the stray in my story, I too understand the metaphorical ‘big rock’. Monday’s challenges are just another obstacle in my path.

In both tales, the essence is clear: resilience. Whether it’s pushing through the brutal mountain trek or recovering from a wounded heart, the spirit remains unbroken. My journey on University Mountain Ridge isn’t just about physical endurance; it’s a reflection of life’s greater trials.

Resources to Enhance Your Day:

1. Mountaineering for Beginners: A guide to get started with mountain climbing, perfect for those inspired by tales of resilience and nature.
2. The Healing Power of Pets: An exploration into how animals can positively impact our mental health.
3. Resilience Training: Learn how to build mental strength to overcome life’s challenges.
4. Trail Running Essentials: Everything you need to know to prepare for your next trail running adventure.
5. Heartbreak Recovery Guide: Resources and advice for healing after emotional trauma.

The sterile hum of the IV machine lulls me into a half-sleep, the stark white walls a canvas for memories to dance upon. Ten hours in this white cocoon, the world a frantic blur outside, have offered me a peculiar clarity. Is near-death’s grip a mirror to life, reflecting it with agonizing intensity before letting me peek through the other side? Perhaps not, but it has planted a seed of introspection in this fertile ground of convalescence.

A structured training plan has sprouted, its tendrils reaching out to grasp at order. Without it, life becomes a tangled mess of overgrown emotions, a wilderness I struggle to navigate. I’ve noticed a curious correlation – the lower my morning heart rate, the calmer the storm within. Today, it sits at a steady 38, a testament to the peace ironed in by miles yet to be run. Maybe this explains my recent respite from “situations,” those tumultuous whirlwinds that can be both exhilarating and destructive. Mastering the art of navigating these emotional storms is a quest I haven’t yet conquered, though I yearn for the day I can map their currents with grace.

Following the Butte 100, I ditched my training schedule, a rudderless ship tossed about by the winds of impromptu races. Aimless, that’s the word that stings the most. That aimlessness, that gaping void in my routine, almost led me back into the heart of a “situation.” Don’t get me wrong, these storms can be fertile ground for growth, but navigating them without a compass can leave you shipwrecked. Finding the perfect “situation,” the one that ignites passion without consuming you, is a delicate dance I haven’t quite mastered. Perhaps someone could design a training plan for the emotional battlefield, a map to guide me through the storm.

Heartless in Missoula? Not quite. While the rhythmic cadence of my training provides a steady anchor, there’s still a tender appreciation for life’s blooms. Friendships, those vibrant wildflowers, are a testament to the beauty that thrives alongside the thorns. In this way, training and life become a harmonious blend, a gardener carefully tending the soil, uprooting the weeds of chaos to nourish the garden of well-being.

Thoughts?

Last Thursday, my world literally started spinning as I stepped into my apartment after a long day at work. Little did I know, this was just the beginning of a wild series of events – a trifecta of vertigo, an exhilarating sled ride, and an unexpected indoor flood. Let me take you through this rollercoaster of a weekend.

First off, vertigo hit me like a train. Within minutes of arriving home, I was struggling to stand, let alone walk. My apartment, usually my haven of rest, felt like a spinning carnival ride. I managed to send a couple of SOS texts to my friends before collapsing into bed, the world spinning uncontrollably around me. This wasn’t my first vertigo rodeo, but it sure was the wildest.

As I lay there, trying to keep the room from swirling, a thought hit me. Lunch. I might have accidentally swapped the lids of my cooked and raw chicken containers. Fast forward two hours post-lunch, and there I was, incapacitated, fighting off nausea. For ten long hours, I was in a battle with my own body, unable to do anything but stare at the wall, a bucket faithfully by my side.

After a brief, uneasy sleep, I woke up with a sense of purpose. Despite the dizziness, I had plans to go tree hunting and sledding with my friends Julie and Ron. Surprisingly, the fresh air during my walk to their place worked wonders. I was back in the game, ready for some outdoor adventure.

While Julie and Ron hunted for the perfect Christmas tree, I ventured down snowmobile trails on snowshoes, scouting for snow biking trails for my friend Jill. When I got back, the atmosphere was lively, with my friends striking goofy poses and taking pictures with their newly acquired tree. What followed was a tailgate party for the books. I devoured food like there was no tomorrow – wasabi, crackers, truffles, pecan bars, and my special ginger snaps. I guess 18 hours of fasting does that to you.

Sledding post-feast wasn’t on my immediate to-do list, but boy, was it fun. We whooshed down the mountain, steering our sleds like pros, passing vehicles whose occupants looked on with a mix of envy and amusement. We were living it up, the thrill of the hill!

The adventure didn’t stop there. Returning home, I was greeted by the sound of gurgling water. My bathroom had turned into a mini lake, with water spouting from the floor drain. My landlord and I fought a losing battle against the flood, eventually controlling it with the help of a wet/dry vac. Exhausted and sick, I ended up spending the night in a motel, courtesy of my considerate landlord.

Today, as I write this, repair crews are swarming my apartment, trying to figure out what caused the flood. Apparently, it’s a city-wide issue, with many families displaced and taking refuge in motels.

So there you have it. My weekend was a mix of vertigo, sledding fun, and an unexpected indoor flood. Just when I thought I had experienced it all, life threw me a curveball, or should I say, a trifecta of challenges and thrills.

I don’t think my blogs are the same without including my friends’ names. On the other hand, there are times when someone wants their privacy, probably because they’re running from something like the Saskatchewan mafia. Like my ‘friend’ from a remote part of Nova Scotia who wishes to remain a ghost to avoid detection by the very aliens from Jupiter who abducted them in a Midwestern cornfield and forced them to eat cardamom-flavored fish sticks. I’m getting off-point, so I better end this paragraph and start a new one.

So, I do have friends that blog my name in online public areas. I like it and am flattered. I think people’s names in blogs give it a certain perspective. It exposes certain relationships so that when you drop their name in a future blog, your readership knows them and has the very same relationship that you, the blogger, has. Did I explain that right? Better go to another paragraph.

My new rule is to post names of people who post my name or have asked me to include them in my posts. So, I have a bunch of friends that fall into that category: Ed and Jill (UPDATE: others, see comment below). Yep, that’s about it. Jill and I have become close friends, and our blogs expose that. Ed specifically told me to include his name while on a hike once. Have I left anyone out? Probably, but then you will remind me, right? This is not my point for this blog, so I better get to it. Another paragraph, please.

“That was the first time I have seen…,” oh shoot, can’t use that name. Start over.

The plan last night was to execute Jill’s plan and then attend the Missoula Thursday Night Ride season-ending party. The plan was to proceed from our individual workplaces and loop around the University range. Jill went clockwise, and I went counterclockwise. She went down Kim Williams and up Deer Creek while I started out a half-hour later going on Pattee Canyon Road. I can’t say what Jill’s secret agenda was, probably to get over the pass before I could. My secret agenda was to get over that pass and catch her on the climb. This would ensure my dominance on the bike and secretly crown myself the official king mountain biker of Missoula. We met right on the top, exactly in the middle… so it was a tie. Last night, we were both winter bike champions of Missoula. Actually, just being out biking with my friend is all I need. Crown or no crown, it felt good. We proceeded down the slushy hill (obviously the wrong direction because Deer Creek was perfect), and this is where I need to finally get to the point of my blog. So, maybe another paragraph.

Oh, then there was the party. The usual gathering of friends. Ed was there. I can say Ed; he gave me permission.

And it was there that I actually got to talk a little with Jill. We are mostly on bikes, in the dark hiking, or almost never in a sit-down talking type of situation. She mentioned how she needed to exercise or would feel badly. I concurred, and she offered up the word ‘addiction.’ You know, there is this thing that releases chemicals that make you feel great. If you don’t do that thing, you start to miss and actually yearn for it. We all know the what-about on that overly used term ‘addiction.’ Yes, I have heard what I do called an addiction, but personally, I think it runs deeper than that. I think there is another realm to it, but now my blog is running long, and I must end it. Maybe another paragraph to summarize.

So, the weekend is at hand. I have plenty to do. Actually, I must get caught up because I am behind on just about everything. Then I have to prepare for a visit from a friend next week (which is the only way my apartment ever gets cleaned). I have discovered that I don’t have the same excitement I used to for weekends. I suffer withdrawals. Maybe I’ll train and work out hard. The end.

Today started pretty rough. I was late for work, had to drive, and once I arrived, it just plain sucked. Now it’s lunchtime, and I’m begging for a better second half of the day. Let’s see…

Last night was my first real training day of the 2011 season, and honestly, I don’t know how I’ve been pulling off this heavy-duty training while holding down a full-time job. I’m bushed this morning.

My first core session left me sore in the upper body region, where I mostly resemble some kind of computer geek. In fact, I think I look “odd.” I’m not too happy with my self-image, but that’s an entirely different issue.

Of course, staying true to recent training plans, I had two workouts to do. So, after a brief “transition,” I headed out into the cold wintery night for some hill efforts. These were a massive 4 x 90 seconds.

After my thrill on the hill, I continued as far as I could on the snowy singletrack. The snow is deep, and falling off the track proved very frustrating. I gave up after 3 miles and turned around for home. I do admit the MoZ was a blast coming down. I only fell over about three times.

Here’s my message to my mistress whose name is fitness:

“I wish I had the guts to walk away and forget about what we had. But, I can’t, because I know you won’t come after me, and I guess that’s what hurts the most.”

Unknown

My feet were so cold that when I jumped off my bike, I couldn’t feel the subtleties of the ice on the ground. Miraculously, I only wobbled a little and then regained my balance. I looked around to see the snow-covered mountain sides of Sentinel and Jumbo. The Hellgate winds were not blowing, but I could hear the remaining air in my tire escape like a serpent’s hiss. I stood there for a moment as if I was just scolded by someone, trying to answer with something intellectual. Instead, I could only mutter a “fuck,” and this emotion ran over me, making me want to toss my bike into the Clark Fork. It wouldn’t have worked, though, because the Clark Fork is completely frozen over. I slowly started to jog my bike towards home and out of Hellgate Canyon.

Earlier in the day, I reveled in how I had overcome Missoula’s ice monster with this new screw tire idea. My friend had warned me that I shouldn’t tempt fate and should just buy some over-the-counter studded tires. Deep down, I knew she was right, but the price had kept me at bay. Over the last year or so, I have developed a screw tire where the screws come from the inside out. The problem is that there has to be a liner to protect the tube and hold the screws in place. This year, I discovered something new: a lightweight and more effective screw tire. On paper, it is a dream winter tire. It uses Stans fluid and sheet metal screws from the outside in. No need for tubes and protectors. I mean if Google was to make a winter tire, this is how they would do it. Right? It is exotic and would be the envy of the bike community. It was just damn sexy, to be honest.

With my new tires, I wanted to be riding all the time. I couldn’t get enough of it. On the weekends, we spent a lot of time out experiencing the icy life and had a great time. A little spin after work just might be the ticket to end off a Monday. I wrote to a friend that I wanted to go out for a “little” spin after work. My friend answered with a bit of common sense, and it appeared I would be on my own.

I left work, and the more I rode, the more I realized I didn’t want to end the ride. At one point, I even passed the very same friend I had asked to go riding with earlier. Without recognizing her right away, I just whizzed by and said “hey.” I was in that zone, that special zone where something was bothering me, and the more I rode, the more I felt what needed to be felt. After the “normal” loop, I was heading into Hellgate Canyon and would have probably ridden to Turah. I was in that kind of mood.

Now I was running my bike home, on foot, not exactly the way I imagined it. I was bummed and alone, and my “idea” was obviously just a pipe dream.

Sometimes in life, you find yourself in the pursuit of this “idea” or thing that seems good on paper. It seems like the best thing in your life. For some reason, you wrap your head around that idea, and even when you run into bumps in the road, you fight to make it all go down, just like the way it is “supposed” to be. The way you dreamed it should be. The way you want it to be. But life, as fickle as it is, has another agenda.

I ended last night with a good person, an awesome friend. I love biking, and most of the time, I am planning to ride. So even though my idea of a great evening was on the bike, I discovered something even better: a relaxing night at the movies with a close friend. Life is so amazing that way. Sometimes you just have to stop and take a look at the things around you and realize you have it all. Sometimes it isn’t at the top of a winding climb or a long ride.

This morning I rode my bike to work on the old heavy screw tires, and they did not disappoint. They gripped just as well, and they really didn’t feel all that much heavier than the sexy tires. In fact, they seemed better. The best thing for the Missoula ice monster was right in front of me all this time. Even when I was trying to make those exotic tires work. Sure, my friends wouldn’t be as impressed with these, but to me, it is all that I need.

There’s a theory suggesting all life forms, including us, instinctively choose the easiest path. Lightning zigzags effortlessly through the sky. Rivers wind their way through landscapes. We often opt for the shortest route to the store, even if it’s a bit hectic. Yet, simplicity doesn’t always equate to significance.

Contrarily, I seldom follow the path of least resistance. Let’s examine my work commute. My office is a mere mile and a half away, yet I frequently embark on a 20-mile journey. Some might label this stubbornness; I see it as embracing a more enriching experience through a challenging route.

However, this path can be solitary. Is it even possible for others to join me on this less-traveled road? Perhaps not. We’re like twigs branching out to limbs, all connected to a sturdy trunk grounded in the earth – a system naturally flowing along the path of least resistance. But in my case, I’m like a twig that’s snapped from the branch, unreachable, lying on the ground. Yet, this unique perspective has its perks. I’ve seen the ground up close. How many can say the same?

There are many big races during the Thanksgiving holiday season, from the Seattle Marathon to the numerous Turkey Trots nationwide. However, the most obscure and perilous event in America is the Bear Trap 10K. Touted as the shortest adventure race, it’s far from the easiest. Entry is by secret invitation only and limited to 5 racers due to strict wilderness regulations. I can’t believe tree huggers are trying to save Sasquatch after what it did to the small community of Norris, but that’s a different story. This post is about the greatest little adventure race around.

It was snowing in Missoula when I began my trip to Bozeman. Normally, I would’ve never gone due to bad weather, but something inside urged me to take a chance. So, I did. Fifty miles outside of town, the roads cleared, and it was smooth sailing. It felt good to be out on the open road again, reminiscent of my trip to Utah.

Arriving in Bozeman with time to spare before the annual pre-race meal, I took a nap while watching the Dallas Cowboys get trounced. Soon it was mealtime, a standout feature of this event. A homemade turkey dinner with a fantastic dessert awaited. I indulged heartily, even taking a break on the couch before returning for a second heaping plate. Afterward, wine and beer flowed as we, friends and fellow endurance enthusiasts, gathered, exchanging ideas and camaraderie.

The event’s secrecy stems from the necessity of trust among participants. In ’78, the race took a grim turn when a runner vanished in Bear Trap. The wilderness demands respect, and only with true friends can one dare its canyons and fierce winds.

The next day, after prepping gear and plotting the course, we boarded a shuttle driven by Mr. Hertsens, whose extensive experience promised safety. In ’87, an inexperienced driver had caused a tragic accident, but this year, we were in capable hands.

We battled 60 mph winds and massive snowdrifts, discussing strategies until nearing the trailhead, where silence took over. The reality of our challenge settled in; this was Bear Trap.

The race began an hour before sunset, with no headlamps allowed, heightening the sense of peril. Initially, the group was silent, unnerved by bloodstains on the trail. Soon, I lagged due to mishandling my glasses—goggles weren’t permitted. After retrieving them from a slope, I was alone, my companions unwilling to risk their safety for me.

Visibility was crucial in the brutal conditions. Catching up to the group at a precarious water crossing, I pondered the risks. Leading the race meant potentially encountering the wind’s haunting whispers, capable of breaking one’s spirit. In ’02, a racer succumbed to these taunts.

Despite the odds, I pushed forward, leading the race. The wind’s seductive whispers tried to lure me onward, but the appearance of a friend brought me back to reality. We agreed to turn around at a specific point for safety. One by one, my companions made their decisions, with some turning back early.

As I approached the turnaround point, the wind’s voice grew more persuasive. However, a moment of clarity led me to reconsider. There, at the farthest point anyone had ever reached in the Bear Trap, my friends and I regrouped. Together, we headed back, the wind now jeering at our retreat.

Post-race, we celebrated our bond and survival at Norris Hot Springs. The journey home was a blur of exhaustion, but the experience stayed with me, urging me to confront nature’s challenges again.

Now back in Missoula, I sit in a coffee shop on a snowy day, contemplating my next adventure. Perhaps I’ll return to the wilderness, face the wind again, or choose a more tranquil activity. Regardless, the call of nature remains strong.

I just woke up. It’s dark and -10 degrees outside. Last night, after a day full of adventure, I must have fallen asleep almost immediately after work. While I rested, the world seems to have moved on. I do remember having an awesome dream, though.

In my dream, I was geared up for an extreme bike ride up to Miller Peak. Suddenly, I started hearing voices. “Bill… come… come hike with us, Bill…”

“What the?”

“Come to Cherry Street and hike with us, Bill.”

I recognized the voice but couldn’t place it. Curiosity got the better of me, and I headed over to Cherry Street. My studded tires crunched over the icy streets as I made my way to the trailhead at Jumbo Mountain. There, I saw a familiar figure stepping out of her car. I waved and went to lock up my bike. Wait, lock up my bike? For what?

“I didn’t know we could bring boys,” one of the girls said, a hint of irritation in her voice. I began to wonder what I was doing here. But the voices…

“What, I was just… and a voice told me to come hike…” I couldn’t find the words to explain, so I stopped and breathed in the frigid five-degree night air. Why was I here? Four angelic figures approached me – the Dirt Girls, a group of Missoula women mountain bikers. Never before had a “dude” infiltrated the Dirt Girls. And now, here I was, surrounded by this Missoula legend.

The leader of the group explained that she had called me to join them. It dawned on me that I was about to hike with them. Frolicking with the Dirt Girls, I thought I must have died on a big bike ride and now stood at the gates of Heaven. Hey, I didn’t even believe in heaven, but here I was, with angels of the night, passing through a gate. Yep, I must have died.

We climbed into the heavens on the backbone of Jumbo Mountain. I tried to turn back a couple of times, but they gestured for me to continue. I felt like I was being escorted to another place, beyond the world I knew before “the event” that ended my life. I wondered what had killed me. The Dean Stone climb on Sunday? The blizzard on Miller Peak on Monday?

When we reached the top, I pushed away these thoughts as one of the angels swooped up behind me. Surely, they were angels because no one could hike so quietly and swiftly.

“You failed your mission on earth. You tried to find love in a place where love does not exist,” one of them said. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“She hates me.”

“And SHE… killed you. You have a choice now. You can go back; this doesn’t have to be the end. There are others who care about you, and you’ve let them down. You’ve taken chances, giving nature the opportunity to devour you. Do you want to continue?” the Dirt Girl explained.

“Do you know if I will ever find…” I started.

“No, it is not our place to know such things. We are just a bunch of women who love mountain biking. It was your inner wish to be taken to heaven by us… when you left Earth.”

“No, no. I don’t want it to end here. I do want to go back. I’ll allow the people who really care in. I think I’ve learned something here.”

We hiked back down Jumbo, and upon reaching my bike, I suddenly felt cold again. I was feeling. Throughout the entire trip up the mountain, I had been unaware of the cold, sharp wind and extreme conditions. I stood at the trailhead parking lot, shivering, all alone, and cold. I jumped on my bike and rode to a friend’s house. I wanted to be around the very people who loved me, those who had to endure years of worrying whether I would return from the woods.

A dream? Maybe, more like a message. In any case, it’s time for work, and I must check my emails. One catches my eye – a friend. I quickly read it because I’m almost late for work. They were worried about me last night…

My left ear hurts, and my head is pounding. My left calf muscle has been aching since it thawed out. I feel like I got hit by a truck. Sure, I crashed four times, but that didn’t hurt me as much as a full-body freeze. I can’t focus my left eye, and both itch like crazy. My left arm feels tingly, and my right, I can’t lift. I am thawed out now, and the damage is done. It all started yesterday as I was putting together a movie for our annual Missoula Thursday Night Ride end-of-season party.

I watched a small video of an adventure race I attended. I totally forgot who was in it and what a great weekend that was. I was so impressed by the overall full course winners. I competed in the smaller race and barely made it in. Four different times in the video, my heart made a call to the motor skills department to stop processing and close down all visual understanding. Soon after the call to the brain, all muscles were put on standby for an “outing”. I tweeted my intentions and started climbing Mount Dean Stone.

Dean Stone is a 6,204-foot high mountain with all of Missoula’s vital communication equipment on top. All the equipment is up there because it’s the closest and most prominent high spot adjoining our beautiful city. Too bad there are towers on top. Since Missoula sits at 3,190 feet, this little gem gains over 3,000 feet in around 11 miles of stunning jeep trail and a gazillion switchbacks. It’s one of my favorite go-to climbs when I just need to get out and not burden myself with where to go. In the winter… absolutely dangerous.

At 53 minutes, I was making my way up Higgins Avenue. I noticed that I was colder than I normally am comfortable with. I knew it was supposed to be cold out, and I dressed accordingly, but I just felt underdressed. The brain had specific instructions not to let anything stop this journey, so I kept going. I was helpless to my systems. My mind had a plan, and I was on a need-to-know-only basis. My only comfort was that this was an 11-mile and 2-hour climb; surely I would warm up.

At 1:21, I swung off of Higgins and stood to climb up Pattee Canyon Drive. I knew my mind was up to something, so I suggested we stop and stretch. No can do, we are a team, and you are following me is the message I got back. This was not a good idea to be heading up a mountain climb without proper tires. No studs and brakes that were iffy at best. Still, I had no choice, so I rode on.

At 3:40, I was totally warmed up to the idea of the adventure that was before me. The setting sun would give me beautiful views. I thought back to that adventure race and the video, sat back into my saddle, and ran through some scenes. The brain suddenly shut down the images and sent in a message to go to level 3. We had a mountain to climb. Focus.

At 4:21, the last real thought crossed my mind to be processed. I was remembering the last time I rode up this way last Thursday night. We encountered ice, and what if the entire Dean Stone climb was ice? My mind started to drift to the last visual memory of this climb. When I climbed it in the glow of a beautiful autumn… that was it. No more cognitive thoughts were allowed to pass through my brain. I was on auto adventure now and had to just sit back and try to enjoy the ride. I knew the function of this ride and it was best to let it run its course and purge the soul.

The rest is a blur, but I do remember specific waypoints. This would come in handy later. Later, when my brain would take over the heart and try to save its host.

I took a shortcut off Pattee Canyon Road which is a single track up to Larch Camp Road. This piece of protected coulee was pivotal in saving me from certain complications from hypothermia. After an hour-long descent in 10-degree temps, it wouldn’t be good to continue past it to approach Pattee Canyon Drive for another mile or so. After which would be another 20 minutes of descending into town. If it weren’t for this shortcut through the woods, I would have ignored all red flags until I just crashed off the road from a loss of coherence. I needed this oasis from the wind to walk, do windmills, give a couple of pep talks, and regain composure before continuing down into town.

I remember the moon, which seemed to be in communication with my heart, conspiring to punish its host. At times it felt so ominous that I had to glance back to see what was following me. Like a semi-tr

uck following a car on a winding road before ramming it; causing it to leave the road and crash. One time, I did find myself launching over the bars into the road.

I remember the road was icy with deep snow. It was so hard to keep a straight line I went down three times in crashes that resembled yard sales. My extremely worn gloves would get ripped off, along with lights and gear. At times, I wanted to crash to stop the freezing wind chill from my descent.

Mysteriously, my brakes failed, and I tried tri-poding down the road. I couldn’t grab the brakes anyway, so I just dismounted and walked. I walked until my legs were numb. Why didn’t I go out with extra layers? Bike shorts and windbreaker pants were not doing the trick. Once, I glanced down and saw that the wind had pushed my pant legs up near the knees, and my legs were totally exposed. Jesus… I was falling apart.

Overall, the descent was just a plain all-out desire to save myself. What put me in that position was my heart. It had overriding control until the brain woke up from its drug-induced slumber. The heart had sabotaged it and tried to take over control of the ship. I was sitting atop Dean Stone with my legs crossed, looking out over the Missoula valley. The moon had the entire landscape illuminated. It was so beautiful it seemed like I had frozen tears stuck to my eyelashes.

“Holy shit, man! What the hell are you doing sitting here? Your sweat has frozen you into a Buddha-like statue. It’s freaking 8 degrees, you shithead,” screamed my brain to my slightly tuned-out consciousness.

“I just didn’t want the world to see me because I don’t think they would understand…” the words being sung across my earphones by the Goo Goo Dolls. Just then, my iPod went out for good. The battery was frozen and dead. I couldn’t text for help if I needed to now. Things were becoming relevant now, and it was imperative for me to snap out of it and descend.

Safe now and back to reality. My training starts soon for the 2011 season, and just in time. I need to keep the mind busy, so the heart doesn’t pull any stunts again. Still, though; tonight, I have this desire to go for Miller Peak, a full thousand feet higher and 10 miles further. Round two, maybe?

Post Notes:
Don’t feel bad if you don’t get the significance of the times; it means something to me, and that’s good enough. :53, 1:21, 3:40, 4:21

http://connect.garmin.com/activity/57548578

I was moments from embarking on my solo hike when my friends pulled up alongside me in the Rattlesnake Wilderness parking lot. None of us were thrilled about the frigid temperatures, and as we set off towards the Stuart Peak trail, I expressed my disapproval with a few expletives. However, the chill soon subsided, replaced by a growing warmth generated by our brisk pace.

My ambitious plan for the day involved summiting not only Stuart Peak but also Mosquito Peak, an additional four miles away. We anticipated an eight-mile hike to Stuart, doubting the reported 30 inches of snow. I suspected I would need my snowshoes at the wilderness boundary, six miles in.

My GPS indicated six miles, but we were nowhere near the wilderness boundary. I grumbled about the USFS signage and cut a switchback to save time on my friends’ behalf to set up a changing station. I kicked in a seat, laid out my sleeping pad, and sat down to put on my snowshoes. Yes, there was indeed that much snow. But I had no idea that this was just the beginning.

My friends arrived, and while one appeared to be dismantling entirely in front of me, the other seemed eager to continue. I was raring to go, and after some gear changes and packing delays, we were back on the trail, trudging up the mountain. This time, I was breaking trail.

Soon, I found myself alone as my friends turned back around 2 pm. Just as I started to pick up my pace, the trail disappeared completely, and my snowshoes were no match for the deep snow. I took to the ridge and decided to beeline it to Stuart.

The climb seemed endless, taking about 45 minutes despite feeling like three hours. Reaching an elevation of around 7,000 feet, I was excited to be almost at Stuart Peak, with only 1,000 feet remaining. I knew that Stuart transitioned into steeper terrain for 800 feet over a third of a mile, so when I started to go straight up, I knew the end was close. Then, the slope started descending.

I lost about 200 feet of elevation gain, attributing it to a high point along the ridge. I crossed what appeared to be a trail. It was indeed a trail. I searched my mind, trying to recall the map I had studied earlier in the day, and decided that this was a trail down to the Farmer Lakes part of the wilderness. Fortunately, I chose to go left to avoid descending into the Rattlesnake. I decided to follow the trail, which should be close to the base of the mountain I wanted to climb.

Just as I was admitting to myself that there was no trail to the Farmer Lakes, I spotted a wilderness boundary. I was disheartened to discover not only that I was not where I thought I was but also that I was not as far along as I had believed. I strolled through and onto a familiar trail towards Stuart, accepting the fact that I was only a couple of miles away. It wasn’t as far as I had hoped, but at least I knew for sure. The problem was that I wasn’t making great time. It took me an hour to cover the last mile, and at this pace, I wouldn’t make Mosquito Peak. I decided to skip Stuart and head directly for Mosquito, picking up the pace down the trail, which seemed to be leveling out.

Then again, the trail disappeared, and it felt like I was descending too much to the south. As soon as the trail was no longer apparent, I started straight up the hill to the north. My GPS was not making sense, and I figured I must be pretty close to Stuart Peak. The thoughts of conquering Mosquito were fading, as was daylight. I started to consider whether I wanted to summit in the darkness or not. I was perplexed why I hadn’t found Stuart yet and started to get concerned as a storm rolled in and obscured all my visual landmarks. The winds started howling, and I staggered higher and higher. I could see a giant mountain way off to my left and thought to myself that that couldn’t be Stuart; it was too far off.

I kept heading north using my GPS. The visibility was poor, and it was nearing 3:30 pm. Conquering Mosquito was a distant memory, and reaching Stuart in the daylight was in question. I only had an hour or two of daylight left. I noticed that my fingers and feet were getting cold. Even while working hard, I was losing body heat and couldn’t stay warm. I struggled against the waist-deep snow. Suddenly, there was a distinct cut-off of trees. There were these black objects in the swirling snow and wind, and then further on, nothing but a white glow.

This had to be Stuart,

“Space Station Bill Martin to Earth. Are you there? Is anyone there? Has anyone seen the sun? I’m breaking out to try and find the sun. Repeat: I’m breaking away to find the sun. This is Space Station Bill Martin, signing out.”

It’s a balmy 23 degrees, and the sun hasn’t reached our part of the world yet. I’m packing one of my many backpacks for a trip into the Rattlesnake today. Last night, a friend threw down the gauntlet, betting I could never reach Mosquito Peak on foot this weekend. On a good summer day, maybe, but not today. We’ll see about that.

That’s all just playful bantering to see if I’ll follow through, but even that description might be a little off. In any case, the point isn’t whether I will, it’s whether I’ll try. To break away from my snowshoeing friends. To take a risk in the cold, wintry weather. To make a change and go into the uncomfortable. To break away from town and society, and fly above it all, high in the mountains.

Winter has never been my favorite time of the year. It’s not so much the snow as the cold and the dark. I don’t like swimming for various reasons, but the encapsulating cold is what I dislike the most. And winter seems to do that to a person. I tend to make my winter outings short, intense, and then head for the barn. I am barn-spoiled.

Today, I head out with some friends, hoping I can embrace winter and all its beauty. Will this plan fly or fail? I don’t know. Things will pan out in 3 hours when I meet up with them at 10 AM in the Rattlesnake parking lot to do Stuart Peak. Just the three of us.

Are we falling or flying? Are we living or dying? I guess we’ll never know. Striking rock or finding gold. ~Grace Potter

I’ll spread my wings and strap on my snowshoes. It won’t be easy to say goodbye to the warm confines of safety. Out of the darkness of dawn and into the possible winter sun. I won’t forget the place I came from. Taking a risk, making a change, breaking away. But Mosquito Peak, possibly not.

Better go put some extra music on my iPod…o/o

This post has been edited to protect the privacy of friends, so I hope no one thinks I’m trying to freak them out by changing the story.

While reading a blog, a line catches my eye: “Mountain bikes are just wilderness wheelchairs.” Just days later, I find myself hiking with the author. I mention liking that line, and she giggles, explaining her view that running is fun but not necessarily kind for her and her self-described clumsiness (aren’t we all?). She needs some form of recreation to overcome her injuries.

My interpretation might be slightly off, as my mind soon drifts to cardamom ice cream. It’s good but not necessarily good for me. Running is fun but dangerous. Ice cream is tasty, yet nutritionally a disaster. Much like some of my past relationships.

The hike continues up to the Waterworks Hill ridgeline, and my thoughts shift to a book I recently read, “Emotional Alchemy,” by Tara Goleman. She narrates a story about Julian, a man who becomes infatuated with a woman who stops returning his calls. Initially, he was only mildly interested, but now he’s almost obsessed. This pattern, Goleman explains, is fueled by a ‘reparative fantasy’—a longing to be rescued by these emotionally unavailable women.

“In my crib, maybe two, crying out to my mother. She doesn’t ever answer. It’s as though this has gone on for forty years. It’s not just my past; that two-year-old is crying out now, crying so hard he’s afraid he won’t be able to breathe…”

That thought lodged itself in my mind as I sat reading the other night. It felt relevant, and now, hiking at night with a snowstorm rolling in, it surfaces again. My family subscribed to the old west nurturing technique: if a baby cries, just let it cry, thinking it needs to toughen up for life. Life is hard, they said. But isn’t this just bad parenting? How can you turn your back on someone that needs nurturing?

I stumble on a rock and almost twist my ankle. Hearing the shuffle, my friend glances back, “You ok?”

“Yeah.”

She’s emotionally available, caring, a good friend. I have good friends and continue to surround myself with good people—people who are good for me. The problem is my friends always want to stop by the Big Dipper for cardamom ice cream.

The week has been a tapestry of life and loss. While still basking in the glow of a 25-hour race and all that entails, I have also been grappling with tragedy. It’s Monday, and I’m sitting here sifting through my email. One message stands out, bearing a heavy and suffocating weight. The subject line is “Life, Death, and Living.” It’s from my friend Paul, who recently stopped by my old workplace, Viking Ski and Cycle. He has news. My former boss, friend, and sponsor has lost his son. It happened a while ago, and I’m just now learning of this heartbreaking news.

On a crisp fall day in October, the 5th to be exact, in 2002, I donned my neck gaiter—an eccentric hat/ear warmer—and headed up Ampersand Mountain. I have many friends with children, and for some reason, there is this special connection. I am well-liked and can relate to each child, appreciating their uniqueness. I think Josh identified with me due to my unconventional choice of headgear. I identified with Josh because his soul was warm, unique, and full of strength.

Josh loved history, particularly war and weapons, if my memory serves me correctly. It was fascinating to hear his insights and anecdotes as we ascended this relatively small mountain. The details are hazy, but this hike left a lasting impression on me. Josh was unique in that he didn’t subscribe to the common tendency to see something on TV and strive to identify or be identified by it. He forged his own path and was a unique and valuable asset to all who knew him. He made this hike memorable, and now he is no longer walking this planet and making it a better place.

His father must be devastated. Jim always supported me throughout my career and was the first person to introduce me to clipless pedals and suspension forks. I empathize with Jim. I feel a loss.