A bridge in time?

Watching my children grow up and witnessing my parents break down has forced me to consider the arc of my own life. I’ve connected with a couple old friends and felt regret over all that I missed. I’ve looked back at my choices and wondered if, in my rush to get ahead, I missed the opportunity to enjoy where I was.

I’ve had old songs sneak out from my digital library that I first heard when I was young and looking forward to life. Now I hear them from the other side of the hill. I feel like I raced through my twenties and thirties without coming up for air. My children have told me about memories of meaningful events we shared and sadly, some of them I either barely remember, or simply don’t recall. I feel like I was in a car going seventy miles an hour though a scene I could only have appreciated at twenty miles an hour. I was there, but so busy the memories didn’t sink in.

My understanding of physics and my optimism means that I am wise to focus on what is ahead and not dwell on the past. Yet, there are some things I just want to see again so my mind can separate reality from some blurry dream.

For many reasons, not all of which I understand, I want to return to the high Sierra and stand on a particular, non-descript footbridge on the John Muir Trail. While there are some impressive steel bridges, this one is just a wooden footbridge. Going up canyon the bridge is to the right of the stream. I think it is on the climb up to Palisade Lakes, but it might be somewhere in Evolution Basin. Yep, I’m not even sure where it is. Maybe it only exists in my dreams. My recollection of the bridge was that at a point in time, over thirty years ago, I saw it and thought, “That looks cool.” No epiphany, no superlatives, nothing noteworthy, it wasn’t much different than the footbridges ahead of it or behind it. It was just at a point where the switchbacks of the trail afforded me a unique view. It was just a pleasant memory. It is reasonable to assume that I could walk over it this summer and not recognize it.

Perhaps I want to find it to connect the past and present. Maybe I want to validate my memory. My life will go on if I find it or not. It has become my white whale of 2020. I am not sure what reaching it will do for me. I don’t have any ceremonies planned. I just would like to see it once again.

I am thrilled that my son is joining me on this pilgrimage. I will share more about that next time.

Welcome Back Brother

I'm riding!

As we began to emerge from COVID hibernation, I was delighted to find Feral Dave joining the Sunday ride. He was astride a new bike. Not the lightest, but he was able to keep up.  I could not be happier to see him riding again and to see our peloton welcoming him and his bike with open arms.  

Testing: one, two, three

A room with a view....

I needed to do a shakedown overnight backpack and I was looking at an app called “Hiking Project” not long ago and I noticed there was a trailhead less than ten miles from our cabin.  The trail was a sustained yet rolling climb of eleven miles to an alpine meadow.  I wanted a something that would be enough of a test to prove out a few pieces of gear as well as testing my ever aging body. Both my son and I are trying not to be the weak link for our August hike and this was a chance to do some conditioning as well.

Timing is everything and a slot presented itself and it was a go!  Since this was kind of a last minute idea I didn’t have all of my usual stuff at hand which made it all the more interesting.  When it is time to go, you go with what you got. On a warm Wednesday afternoon I tossed my pack in the back of the war wagon and made the quick drive to the trailhead.

I’m a crack of early kind of guy, so leaving the trailhead at three in the afternoon was new to me.  I’ll spare you the boring parts of the trail description and jump to my perceptions and reactions to the hike.  I had to deal with fallen trees across the trail.  The first two were unique. I started counting them and I hit thirty before the day was done.  Some were easy, others required climbing or ducking and crawling.  My collection of leg scrapes was impressive.

As I neared my destination I was reminded how choosing a campsite when you are solo is always interesting.  With a companion or two you can spread out and find the best spot to spend the night.  Nearly always I am thankful for that because the spots I find are quickly discarded for better ones.  With nobody else to look, my tired legs and the fading sunlight made a flattish area look good enough.

Dropping my pack I pulled out my water bottles and water filter.  I put on a long sleeved shirt in case the bugs found me.  I guzzled what water I had left and went to the river to reload the bottles. 

One of the coolest things about multiday trips is getting your routines dialed in so you are more efficient in your many activities.  I was very pleased that right off the bat I didn’t seem to waste any time.  The stove was out and dinner was cooking while I set up my tent.  By the time camp was set, I had a couple of minutes to read before my tortellini was perfecto.  The air was cooling and I was in my jacket and long pants by now.

Dinner tasted unusually good in the fading light. After brushing my teeth, my sleeping bag called me and I promptly answered.

From inside my tent I could see the snow on the peaks playing with the vanishing light.  A waxing crescent moon was slowly arching toward those same peaks.  I could have watched that scene for hours except I was exhausted and I fell asleep in seconds, not minutes.

An hour later I was soon awakened by a roar that I could not place.  Coming from my deep sleep it took a while before I realized it was two fighter jets ripping over the canyon I was in.  Their tail lights rocked back and forth to the right of the crescent of the moon just above the snowy crags.  The view of the timeless night sky in this alpine setting being interrupted by modern jet planes was both cool and sacrilege.

Over the course of my hiking life the routine that has changed the most is the sequence from waking up to the first hour of hiking.  In the seventies I’d make (hot and typically messy) breakfast, eat it, clean it up, pack up my gear and get going.  The goal was an hour, the reality was often twice that. 

Now I put some water in a pot and go to the stream and fill my bottles with water.  Then I light my stove and pack my gear and tent trying to be done before the water boils.  When the water is ready I make my coffee and let it cool a bit while I pack the stove and pot.   Then I start hiking with hot coffee in hand (insulated mug) and this takes about thirty minutes from opening my eyes to walking away.  Thirty minutes to an hour down the trail the coffee is gone I put a mix of muesli and powdered milk into my mug and add some cold water. I’ve got my spoon in my fanny pack and I can eat as I hike.  Did I say fanny pack? Oh yeah, I F’ing ROCK the fanny pack when hiking.

I was wearing different clothing head to toe on the way out. You know the drill, compare and contrast.  I learned what I wanted to learn.  I liked some pieces of gear and wasn’t thrilled about others.  My body seemed okay on the hikes in and out.  The day after my muscles let me know that backpacking is not cycling.  That makes a good data point for future reference.

I was stunned that my hiking times were almost identical going in and coming out despite the fact that going in was a rolling three thousand foot climb and heading out was a rolling descent with only a few hundred feet of up.  I can only assume the rough trail and tree crossings dictated the pace more than the climbing.  We used to say the trails in the Sierra were built by displaced Egyptians.  The stonework and switchbacks are engineering marvels. An eleven mile rocky trail with a single switchback means you are either in Washington or Colorado.  I guess there were not Egyptians to go around. 

The hike was long enough to adequately test my gear under real loads and real distances.  I need to improve the venting of my hat and add a loop to keep the tongues of my shoes from wandering.  There were other winners and losers and a few lessons about gear and some planning changes on the horizon.

Mission accomplished.   

A red sleeping bag, a blue jacket

An ill-fitting down jacket sparked it.  I had a blue down jacket and after denying it for a year or two I admitted the arms were too short.  In the 1970’s I had made a down jacket from a kit and knew it wouldn’t be hard to add a section and make the arms longer.  I am sure I had some ripstop in my inventory and I could get the down from a pair of down booties I had stuffed somewhere that I hadn’t touched in a decade.

As I extracted the booties from the boxes of stuff I hadn’t touched for years I pulled out my red sleeping bag and laid it on the carpet.  A flood of memories filled the room. Everything from camping with my dad in Sequoia to backpacking with my children in Washington and California to praying for warmth on Denali.  

Evo with Duncan at Charlotte Lake, 1979

I successfully modified the down jacket and put the sleeping bag back. The seed, however, was no longer dormant.

When my rhythm issue caused me to wonder if my cycling days might be over, my bigger fear was that I would not be able to backpack again. At this point it had been ten years since I had been on a backpacking trip. I took note and realized I needed to course correct.

Tim and Evo on Forester Pass 2002

That summer Tim and I returned to the John Muir Trail to finish what we started in 2002.  We did not complete the trail in 2017, but we did do another section and there is still a final chunk waiting for us.

Tim wading across the inlet to Lake Virginia, 2017

Our plan is to complete the trail this August. So much has changed from the seventies when I started backpacking in the Sierras.  The gear is much, much better and I am an old man that is, let’s be honest, much, much slower.

Note the required old man hat......

Farewell Tux

The Ambassador (snaggletooth)

We had to say farewell to Tux.  After being with us for ten years and two days, he finished his assignment. We were not ready to say goodbye, and only in hindsight did we realize that it was time, and he was ready to be done. 

Moonshine with Tux

At the cabin when I would take him out at night I never complained because I got to see the moon and stars.  In the morning, he was often ready to go before I was, yet every single time I thanked him for getting me out to see the sunrise and hear the owls hoot.

He was the first dog for Kyson and Cali and Russell and Sasha and Drew and a dozen other children. He was gentle and made fast fans of them all. He literally was a Greyhound Ambassador and spent time at pet stores letting children pet him. 

He was as black as night and in the dark the leash just disappeared and he was invisible. He would come up onto our deck at night and stand outside of the french doors waiting for us to see him.  In the dark, we often didn't see him. 

When we brought him home from the Greyhound halfway house he was young, fit and fast.  He was also scared of cars and stairs and bicycles.  Hottie spent countless hours teaching him and helping him become the best Tux. 

Bat ears in the snow

Tux had a crooked jaw and his teeth didn't match up which meant he had more problems with his teeth than most.  I brushed his teeth (with chicken flavored doggy toothpaste) and I am sure he knew it was a good thing. A good thing that he hated, but he let me do.  After his breakfast I would call him over and while he would come, he would not raise his head.  I would brush his teeth and more often than not he would offer me a warm belch before I was done.  Over the course of his life he had more than twenty of his forty four teeth pulled.  The vet who helped us say goodbye to him said he had the best looking teeth of any greyhound his age she had ever seen.  

Tux on a cloud in heaven, looking down on us....

Near the end he walked slower and his gait was stiff.  He would breath hard without much exertion.  He took the stairs one at a time and food became less exciting.  His kibble was supplemented with fish oil his whole life.  Then we added teeth cleaning "big chunks" and then bacon bits because otherwise he would not eat until I left for work and thus get out of getting his teeth brushed.  Then we added some prescription pills and added fiber.  All he needed was one of those pill boxes with the days of the week on them.  Still he seemed to be happy and since last fall he had good and bad days and we almost didn't see that the good days were getting fewer and fewer.

Tux and Bunny looking for treats

After he passed Hottie and I cried and cried. We felt guilty for not being able to do more, yet ultimately we knew he had enjoyed a great life.  The quiet hurt.  The empty spot where the dog beg had been looked barren. I felt I owed him a debt of gratitude.  He had been so exceptional to our grandchildren, so kind to so many and had exceeded everything we could have expected or asked of him.  I thought about building a monument, buying a statue, getting a tattoo, or trying to figure some way to honor his memory.  As the days passed the tears became fewer, yet the hole in our hearts still ached. On a ride up the Chewuch as I let my memories of him run free I asked what I could do to honor him. Just as Shoeless Joe Jackson uttered in the greatest movie of all time, "Field of Dreams" his words, "There are others you know?" came to me.   

Does the world still have dogs that need homes?  A quick check of the Woodinville Greyhound Pets Inc. website confirmed there were forty nine of his brothers and sisters looking for homes. We debated.  There would be poop, there would be messes on the carpet and who knows how a new dog would be with grandkids. The training and inconvenience would be a burden.  We talked and talked. 

As Alexander Rostov, the protagonist in "A Gentleman in Moscow" says in reflecting back on his life of privilege versus sacrifice, "It was the inconveniences that mattered most."

We spent time with Drake and Kona (then known as Buddy) and finally brought Kona home.  I almost cried that we had to leave Drake because he seemed to be such a good guy.  I was relieved to hear he went to a forever home a couple days later.   I cry a lot more these days.  That is good.

Kona's grandfather was Trent Lee and Trent Lee was Tux's father.  So Tux and Kona share some blood.  They also seem to share a sweet disposition. 

This is Kona.  

We were so grateful to have been able to share time with Tux.  The arc of his life from young fit specimen to old man was touching.  His first bicycle race was the Volunteer Park Criterium. He was so scared we took him back to the car.  A year later he could watch a cyclocross race with cowbells and screaming fans without blinking an eye. He was my running companion, Hottie's walking and photographing buddy and a hero to Sasha and Drew. He was always a little insecure yet he managed to be aloof at the same time.  He liked to peel back the covers on our bed when we were out of it and lay his furry body on the sheets. He would let Hottie know when it was dinner time and we will miss him every day.  We will honor him by taking care of his nephew Kona. 

Respect the mountains

No; snow gophers didn't make it all lumpy

A few recent experiences have reminded me that failing to respect the mountains can be a dangerous mistake.   In recent weeks, with spring in full attack mode, I have ventured into the mountains many times on bike and on foot. The sunny tranquil world of the mountain valley can easily betray the potential harshness lurking in the higher mountains. 

Three times in April I left the sunny valley and climbed up only to find dark skies, cold wind and spitting, unforecasted light snow.  Snow being far less of a risk than rain. 

Miles and miles from a paved road, sweating and feeling the climb in my legs I look around. Seeing the dark skies, hearing the frozen hail bouncing off my helmet, and feeling to cold wind cut into me, I thought, "This could get ugly."  

My life was never at risk, but the prospect of the day turning into a very uncomfortable death march was a real possibility.  

On one of the rides near the start I passed two men sitting in the sun wearing T-shirts and drinking beer.  After nearly three hours of riding punctuated by frequent glances at the grey sky and spitting hail I returned glad to be back where it was warm.  Those same two guys were still in the sun, still in T-shirts, blissfully unaware of the journey I had undertaken while they took their repose.  The mountains don't play fair and they often override the weather forecasts. 

Hottie, bundled up for a chilly descent.

Even a drive up a canyon for a short hike with our new companion Kona revealed threatening skies and temperatures that chilled our excitement. 

Lack of focus reveals focus

Simple pleasures 

With COVID-19 putting everyone’s season on hold, April was not the typical training month I usually enjoy. Instead of gearing up for Goldendale and subsequent events, I just went riding.  I am normally a periodized training plan kind of guy and lacking any firm objectives I am just riding.  I am also hiking and running and taking walks purely for the pleasure of it.  

Without having to force each run or ride into a spot in my grand training plan I find I am much more in the moment during my rides, runs, hikes and strolls.  I am not a fan of the shut down and I am even less of a fan of the slower than I think it needs to be return to a new normal, yet I am finding some happiness in not being so damn focused.  It has allowed me to focus on what is fun.