There are times in life, all too often in fact, when you find yourself looking up at a very long climb. The metaphor has been woven into the sermons of Miley Cyrus and Robert Frost alike, life’s a climb, a journey of many miles, miles to go until we sleep.

Endurance pursuits are, for me, a process of contextualization for the grander journey of life. If I can run 46 miles today, if I can battle through the long stumbling slogging lows and appreciate the wild rushing joy of the highs, maybe I can do the same in real life too. I think there is so much to learn from long distance hiking and running, because they are these amazing little handheld model-sized versions of the bigger rollercoasters we face in life. They help me understand the meaning of really hitting rock bottom, as well as the real possibility of digging yourself out again, bit by bit, mile by mile. It’s not the only reason I love going farther, longer, deeper, but it’s a big part of it.

Last summer, after finishing the Hayduke Route, I signed up for an ultramarathon. Maybe I felt the need to finish something really challenging after not completing the Hayduke Route as I’d initially planned, but it was a something I had been interested in doing for a while. My dad is a runner, and watching him train for and run big races like the Leadville 100 Mile Run made ultrarunning seem like a normal, or at least fully rational and attainable thing. I always figured I’d try one myself eventually. I have been a runner for my whole life, and last summer the timing was finally right to try something big. I chose an ambitious goal (not surprising): a 105k race in the Elk Mountains just north of Crested Butte, called the Crested Butte Ultra. It had about 15K feet of climbing along the route and topped out an an elevation of 12,300 feet above sea level, a relatively gnarly creature.

I didn’t finish it. DNF’d as they say in the running world. Dropped out, just like the Hayduke. But really, that was only the end of a much longer story, that was full of real accomplishments that I am still quite proud of. Maybe that’s the other thing I love about long distance running… it is so much more than the race. It is a thread that stretches across the season from end to end and weaves its way through every incredible mile (and every shitty one). I guess for me, it’s not just about those last insane 30, 50, 65, or 100 miles. It’s really about the other 1000 miles it takes to even step up to the start line.

Because of this, I wanted to go back and revisit some of my favorite moments from my training. I want to allow myself to hold them up to the light as self-contained accomplishments. At the very least, I want to show off some nice pictures from nice places that I took while feeling like roadkill put through the wash.

Early Stages: Re-Building a Long-Neglected Base

I’ve talked about this process in a previous post, but a quick recap. After discovering some lurking knee issues while hiking the the Colorado Trail in 2016, I took a lot of time off from running. The following summer, I wanted to try running an ultramarathon but, I soon realized it would take longer than a year to rebuild my fitness and endurance. After getting off the Hayduke Route, I had enough of a base to begin ramping up for some serious training.

I was living at my parents’ house at this point, which is about as well situated for spring running as a place could be. I had just about endless options for 4-15 mile runs within a few minutes of home, like Staunton State Park, with it’s big granite cliffs…

and Bergen Peak with it’s long, steady climbs…

and the toes of the Mount Evans Wilderness.

Even running around the neighborhood was pretty pleasant.

Dangerous skies near the end of my first marathon

After a couple months of ramping up, I began to run longer distances than I’d run in a single day before. This is where the process went from just running, to really learning and finding my way into new territory. I had my first bonking experience in the Flatirons near Boulder, CO. The day started nicely, but it went downhill on the last major climb. I felt the deep exhaustion creep in along with vague nausea and lightheadedness, but I kept pushing, not knowing how much worse the feeling could get. After summiting the last peak of the run, I collapsed on the descent. I was able to haul myself into a shady place where I could sit safely, but it was almost an hour before I could stand again and stumble the last 4 miles to my car. A harsh lesson, but it had to be learned eventually.

The metabolic crash known as the bonk would haunt many runs that season, though none would be quite so dramatic as that first experience. Some people don’t really deal with bonks much, usually people who have no trouble eating while running, or that handle the heat well. I don’t fit into either of those categories.

My next majorly challenging run was when I accidentally ran my first marathon. I went down to a nearby section of the Colorado Trail for what I expected to be a 21-22 mile run on a hot day. I thought I was pretty well loaded up with salty snacks and fluids, but I still ran out of water around mile 19, when I thought I had about 3 miles left. Not too bad, I figured, I could power through 3 miles. Little did I know, the trail had been re-routed so the distance I had measured from the map was inaccurate. I ended up running 7 dry miles, 26 miles total. When I finally got back to my car, I just laid on the ground for half an hour, sipping little bits of water, as much as I could keep down. Eventually, a couple mountain bikers rolled up and noticed me as they loaded their bikes into their decked-out Tacoma.

“Hey,” one said, sounding more than a little concerned, “do you want a cold beer?”

I almost kissed him on the spot, but instead I just sat up and nodded and thanked him as best I could for what was likely the best beer I’ve ever had: a slightly-cooler-than-room-temperature Coors Light. I should note that usually I can’t stand Coors, due to living traumatically close to the massive brewery as a kid.

Another lesson learned, more water, more salt, heat is a game-changer. I would continue to learn these lessons bit by bit as I ran further, longer, harder.

Soon though, I would be leaving this little mountain running paradise for a much stranger place.

The Meat and Potatoes: Long Miles in Northern Arizona

After a very neat family trip to Italy, I packed up my truck and drove for 12 hours to my home for the rest of the summer: the Grand Canyon. In its own right, this was a wild and really wonderful experience, but training here was a lot more challenging that I expected it to be.

Running in the Grand Canyon has two modes: mostly flat to slightly rolling trails above the rim, and relentlessly steep grades below the rim. I tried to mix up my shorter runs, alternating between moderate cruiser runs and tough dusty steep runs. The trouble was the longer runs. I could put as many miles as I wanted onto the lovely singletrack of the Arizona Trail, but it didn’t have the vertical I needed, and going into the Canyon would require running in 90-100 degree heat, which was pretty much a showstopper.

I also needed to train at higher elevations, ideally 10,000-13,000 feet above sea level. The nearest option that would provide the vertical, elevation, and relief from the summer heat was the San Francisco Peaks area near Flagstaff. It was a solid 4 hour drive, but that didn’t seem so terrible when I had to drive 1.5 hours to get groceries every week anyway.

It felt amazing to get up high into the cooler wetter mountains. I really enjoyed my time in the San Francisco peaks, but I didn’t make it down to them often enough. About half of my long runs were flatter runs on the North Rim. The fact that I couldn’t consistently train for hard climbs at high elevation had me feeling vaguely concerned and antsy for much of the season. Would it be enough training for me race?

A Gem in the San Juans

As I neared the peak of my training, I decided I needed at least one long run with an average elevation above 11,000ft. I packed my running stuff, some food, and a six-pack of cheap beer into my truck and drove 7 hours to the core of the San Juan Range in Southwest Colorado.

I woke up in my truck, the condensation-covered windows blurring the views if the surrounding mountains in the early dawn light. I fumbled to pull on my running shorts, cold trail shoes, and running pack. I loaded up with water and gels and such, tucked my keys into my waistband, and started my watch as I stiffly half-jogged up the trail.

The day would turn out to be incredibly pleasant. My run was mostly on one of my favorite sections of the Colorado Trail. Clouds floated quietly across a deep blue sky, and the mountains glowed green and grey and orange in their mid-summer glory. It wasn’t my fastest run, but it was probably my favorite that season.

I’m proud of all I learned last season, and I’m excited to try another 100k this summer. I’ll post Part 2, which talks about my two biggest runs last summer (the Grand Canyon Rim2Rim2Rim, and the Crested Butte 100k race) soonish. Keep a lookout, and thanks for reading!

The first day of my family’s hut-to-hut trip in Italy, we got an early start and rode a bus from Bolzano up a twisty turny terrifyingly narrow road. Now I’m a mountain kid, and I can handle crazy roads, but this one had me begging Jesus to take the wheel because, unlike the steep, narrow, winding mountain roads I’ve been on, this one had TRAFFIC. Not like a few elk blocking the way traffic, but honest to goodness, people almost hitting each other, buses, bikes, trucks, and cars traffic. It was mayhem, and I was glad to get off the bus and continue on foot.

We made our way up wide paths, past peoples’ homes and gardens. Slowly we climbed into a park-like area, then into the base of the Sciliar-Catinaccio portion of the Dolomite UNESCO World Heritage area (it’s split up into 9 different portions, each encompassing a chunk of mountains). There were throngs of day trippers and families… and cows.

Ok, digression: I don’t like cows. I don’t trust cows. I have felt more threatened by cows than by bears or mountain lions. They’re big, dumb, stinky, they poop all over trails and trample pristine trail-less areas. But my experiences have been with free range western cattle that are 50% starving 90% of the time and that interact with humans maybe a couple times a year. Basically wild animals. The cows in Europe are so different. They’re mellow as can be, fat, happy, and not used to fighting for their lives. In short, they’re softies, and they may have shifted my perspective on the bovine community ever so slightly.

Anyway. Humans and cows. I would begin to notice a common thread in Italy, that people are just so much more used to being crammed in with and constantly dodging other people. The city layout, the narrow roads, there’s a decreased expectation of space. It really dawned on me how different the personal space calibration is when we hiked through a grassy meadow near a mountain cafe. The picnic blankets were way closer together than I was used to.

We continued to climb the mountains’ flanks, up into rich subalpine forests that were cleared in places to create open pastures. Finally, my sister and I, far ahead of our parents, reached the first of several huts in which we’d be staying this trip. I didn’t have the reservation papers, nor could I speak more than three words in Italian, so I spent an hour just lounging in the sun, watching the human kids play with the goat kids. Our parents arrived, and we checked in. I took the opportunity to go out for a long run up a trail branching off the one we would hike the next day. It was a satisfactory little outing with lovely views and even more lovely alone time.

The following days we would wind our way through the jagged peaks from one hut to the next. One day, my sister, dad, and I geared up for a more technical route that paralleled the trail my mom would follow. The via ferrata had all the fun of a scrambly ridge route, but with a great deal of fixed protection. Cables, iron rungs, and anchor points made the route a lot safer and more fun for someone like my sister, who is remarkably competent, but a little clumsy at times, and certainly not used to the exposure.

a mouthwatering route

Hut #3 from the top of Via Ferrata #1

Sophie, my sister, being a complete badass

The afternoon wound down at another fine hut. I was amazed at how thoroughly humanity had seeped into every corner of these mountains. These huts stood on passes that would be deep wilderness in the States, far from the influences of colonialist infrastructure. Here, people had worked themselves into every crevice. While I was enjoying the novelty of the hut system, I couldn’t imagine living here. I need wild nature, and here nature felt like museum exhibits.

The following day, I would again be taking the high route to our next hut, but this time I would go alone while my family stuck to the (still very dramatic and arduous) trail. The weather had taken a turn and I spent the day winding through the clouds, so high up I could barely see the valley floors.

Spot the humans?

Spot the hut!

Our last hut was a much more rustic affair than the previous ones. I was charmed by its bunk room and tiny kitchen, much more my speed. Our last full day in the mountains, my dad and I went out for one more climb. The views were exceptional.

Unfortunately, we would have to end the trip a day earlier than originally planned. My mom’s knee was causing her a lot of trouble, and we decided to skip the last section, taking a shorter trail to our endpoint.

The hike out

Towering walls

Somewhere to eat lunch

Over the next couple days we made our way out of the mountains by buses and trains and ended up back in Verona for one more evening of Italian culture. We attended an open air opera in the Verona Arena.

The crane really rounds out the cultural experience. 

It was time to head home. Another day of public transportation brought us back to Milan, back down to the strange humidity and lushness of sea level. However, I was surprised to get one more alpine treat on the flight home. We flew over Southern Greenland on our way West, and the view was breathtaking. The mountains of the Greenland coast jutted out of their glacial dressings, creating a rugged, rocky lace between the massive Greenland Ice Sheet and the Atlantic Ocean. I could barely think twice before I swore to myself I would make a trip to these mountains some day.

Visiting Europe was in interesting experience. In a lot of ways, I really struggled with the population density. So many people, so many layers of peoples’ influences on cities and landscapes. It was all a bit overwhelming. I hope to go back at some point and take my time a bit more, hike a bit more, and see if I can’t find it’s rhythm.

Before this summer, I’d never left North America. Growing up and going to college in communities that normalized extreme affluence, I always felt like my lack of travels abroad was something to be slightly ashamed of. In that sort of half-jokingly make self deprecating comments sort of way.

That perspective was, of course, ridiculous. There’s an enormous amount of privilege involved in being able to travel the world. Our family always wanted to take a trip overseas, but it didn’t happen because we couldn’t really afford it without making big cuts to much higher priorities.

This June, we finally made it happen, or I should say my folks did. It was a sort of graduation gift to my sister (who finished high school) and me (who finished college). We knew we wanted to visit the mountains of Europe, but beyond that, we weren’t sure where we wanted to go.

After much discussion and budget spreadsheets we decided on Northern Italy and the Italian Dolomites. I was most looking forward to a hut-to-hut hike, but we were also going to spend some time in towns and cities.

When we got off the plane in Milan, I immediately felt stressed. Social interaction is a big source of anxiety for me, and it turns out that stepping into a place with different “rules” and norms and a whole different language (that I definitely don’t speak) exacerbates that anxiety. Thank goddess my dad was cool with doing all the communication and handling the logistics because I would not have survived on my own.

We took the train to Verona and spent a couple days exploring and shopping and eating. The food was, unsurprisingly, unwaveringly fantastic.

Verona was beautiful, but I was eager to see the Dolomites. We took another train from Verona to Bolzano/Bozen (The northern part of Italy used to be part of Austria, so many places in that region have both Italian and Austrian names). I was glued to the window the whole ride.

In Bolzano, we bought some food for snacks and lunches for our upcoming backpacking trip and wandered around the surrounding hills. We got our first glimpse of the mountains and met some really grumpy (and fuzzy) locals.

The ragged, dramatic teeth of the Dolomites drew me in like a magnet. They are ridiculous mountains! I could not have gotten into them soon enough. The following day would bring that introduction, and I was practically vibrating with excitement as I went to bed that night.

The last time I posted here was almost exactly 5 months ago. Whoops. A lot has happened since then, and I’m hoping to play catch-up these next couple weeks.

A quick overview of what all has happened: I washed dishes for a couple months, hiked through Northern Italy with my family, trained for and attempted an ultramarathon, lived and worked as a ranger* at Grand Canyon National Park for the summer season, spent 5 months trying to get a testosterone prescription filled, went to the beautiful wedding of my dear friend Kate, started washing dishes again, and took a very big, very scary step on a whole different kind of journey.

I also just want to express a general gratitude for the privilege, people, and powers that be that have allowed me to life a life that is so good and whole. More posts coming soon…

A holding pattern! It’s a strange thing for me, since I’m used to flux and forward motion. It’s also a good thing, as hard as it is to be living at home and working a shit job (albeit briefly) while everyone else seems to be going on cool trips and building vans. I’ve got work to do, and now is the perfect time to do it.

I’ve wanted to run an ultra since I finished the Colorado Trail in 2016. Unfortunately, I injured my knee on trail, and the recovery took so long that I lost my fitness base. Completely. When I started running again in May 2017, I was starting from zero, a place I hadn’t been since I was in elementary school. An ultra looks a lot less attainable when you’re staring up from rock bottom, damn near impossible really. But finally, FINALLY, after spending all last year getting my legs and feet and lungs back, and after hiking 500 miles of the Hayduke Trail this spring, I feel ready to get serious about an ultra. Most people start with 50k or 50 mile races, but I’ve already hiked a few 50k days, and I want to pick a bigger goal. A 50 mile race would be great, but most of those are either the wrong time of year, too far away, or on less than ideal courses. I’d really like to run a race that gets above treeline, is mostly on single track, and takes place after mid-August.

I ended finding a slightly longer race that sounds amazing. It’s a 105k (65 mile) race in Crested Butte, Colorado in mid-September. The later start date will give me time to train for the distance, with a little flexibility in my training schedule (in case of minor injury or whatnot), and it’s a beautiful time of year to be in the mountains. I registered last week, and I’m so excited about having a goal like this. Unlike a big trip, or something like the Hayduke, the preparation for this race will be a lot less sitting and planing and anticipating, and a lot more running. Right now, that running covers about 25-30 miles a week. That mileage will be up to around 70/week at the end of August, with my longest training runs clocking in at 40-50 miles. It feels really good to have something to work on, every week, 5 days a week. It’ll help get me through to the end of this phase, of this grunt job and living at my parents’ house. It’ll get me to my up-coming trip to the Dolomites without losing my mind, and it will be a pillar in my life as I up and move to the Grand Canyon in July. By the time I actually run this race, I will have run almost a thousand miles in training. Like Brittany told us, if want some good shit, “you better work, bitch.”

While I train for this race, I also need to work on some personal goals. It’s easy to slip into that toxic habit of comparing yourself with other people, but I’m trying to do less of that. Additionally, instead of moping about how I’m spending my time, I need to get honest with myself about what my priorities and goals are for these next several weeks, decide how I want to work towards those objectives, and stand by the decisions I make.

Basically I need to honor the process and my choices. Basically.

So as it turned out, I wasn’t able to post updates on here from the trail because I really struggled with typing and proof-reading on a teeny little screen while very tired. Now that I’m home though, I can back up and go through my journal and photos day-by-day.

I wasn’t planning on being home until mid-May, after hiking all 800-something-odd miles of our planned route, but here I am, despite all the plans and intentions and spreadsheets.

After a few weeks on trail I began to realize that the Hayduke Trail was not what I hoped for or needed it to be. It started with the hardest days, when I’d get to camp and just feel so empty and tired and sad. I wasn’t surprised by the objective difficulty of the terrain, but I did not expect to be affected in the way that I was. Over the course of a few more days, I’d notice the same kind of feeling creeping in, again and again. Regardless of how tiring or beautiful or surprising the route was that day, I’d get to camp with a hollow heartache that left me sitting quietly on my sleeping pad, staring out at the vast space between me and the relative nowhere of hills and canyons, forgotten or unknown by most of the world.

I used a variety of words in my journal to try and explain to myself this thing I was feeling: exhaustion, boredom, sadness. It took me a while to wrap my head around what it was and where it came from. After a particularly nice day of hiking down a slot canyon and a wide, sandy wash, I admitted to myself that I didn’t want to do this anymore. Not in that ephemeral way that all thru hikers feel at some point (or many points) but in a way that felt more concrete. Nonetheless wary of trusting such a feeling at face value, I began a sort of self-interrogation by making two lists: Why I Want To Stop and Why I Want To Keep Going. The first list was all about the trail itself, about how I’d feel in the next few weeks, and the experience itself. Summed up, it came to the conclusion that the hike just wasn’t enjoyable anymore. While I loved the place I was in, thru hiking felt like the wrong way to see it. Rain (my hiking partner) and I were pushing mileage each day to keep our food and water loads more manageable, and because it’s just very very hard not to get obsessed with the forward motion, the next camp, next town, the end of the trail. My eyes trained forward, I saw a line on a map and chased down each waypoint, each new canyon or landmark, like it was my dinner. In doing so, I neglected that which makes canyon country so marvelous to me. The dendritic nature of canyons beg to be explored slowly, bit by bit. There’s no way to move all the way through many of the most magical spots. I wasn’t wandering up side canyons, or probing cliff lines for a route to the canyon rims. I wasn’t running through the sea-like domes of sandstone to stumble upon tiny oases of rainwater and ferns. I felt this error in method alongside the usual difficulties of the trail. I was hungry and tired and crusted in sand, but usually these sorts of minor discomforts are worth it, for the sake of the journey as a whole. This no longer felt like the case. I was marching along an arbitrary westward route, eyes trained on the distant imagined white cliffs of Zion, the endpoint of the hike.

Most of my reasons to keep going were things like, I’ll feel so proud of my accomplishment if I finish, I will be able to say I hiked the Hayduke, I don’t want to say I quit partway through. Together these reasons revealed that my biggest motivation to finish was just to finish. Was the accomplishment of doing so really worth feeling so unhappy for the next twenty-four days? The fact that Rain was likely to call it quits, leaving me to finish alone, was sure to put the nail in the coffin of my mood for the rest of the hike. I don’t enjoy hiking alone for so long, not just without a hiking partner, but without any human contact for days on end. The Hayduke doesn’t have a trail community the same way other trails do. Sure, there are instagrams and facebook pages, but when you are out in the middle of internet-less desert, all you have are footprints in the sand. I didn’t think a nice little gold star on my hiking resume was worth days of unhappiness.

So I quit.

I made the decision a few days in advance of the town of Kanab, the new chosen end-point. I told my family and friends. Kate offered to come pick up Rain and me because she is the one of the most wonderful people ever to walk this good earth.

With a new plan and an enormous amount of uncertainty about what lies ahead, we hiked the last few days of our hike. I found myself feeling relief, and enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells with a fresh heart. I felt I had made the right decision.

Unfortunately, a choice being the right does not necessarily make it pleasant. I am writing from my parents’ house and I feel frustrated and disappointed. I am searching for work for the next few weeks and new goals to occupy my time and thoughts. I need to move forward. I am so very ready to step into a more coherent stage of life after months of trying the spontaneous bum lifestyle.

In the end, we hiked 510 miles across some of the most remote areas of the country, from Arches National Park to Kanab, UT. It took 34 days. We averaged 15 miles per day including stops. It’s hard to appreciate this experience as a complete journey, rather than something half-finished. It’s hard to see it as an accomplishment, rather than a failure. It’s hard to admit to myself that something I looked forward to so much, and spent so much time and energy preparing for, was not what what I’d anticipated.

So I’ll distract myself by searching for work and finding ultramarathons to train for and researching other life changes I’ve been considering for a while. I’ll try to focus on that which I am grateful for: the things I learned while hiking, the opportunity to do so in the first place, and the people in my life that have loved and supported me.

I find comfort in the knowledge that all these smaller things are just a part of the much larger journey that is life, and in the fact that making plans is a futile and essential artform.

I picked Rain up at the airport Friday afternoon. He’s grown a beard while hiking in New Zealand. It makes him look a little like Bob Ross.

We drove to Boulder and hung out with friends Friday night and all day Saturday. My energy was a bit low, but I was also just having trouble with so many people to talk to. It’s overwhelming after a couple months of mostly solitude and quiet. Even when I was home, I wasn’t seeing a ton of my family because they were gone during the day at school and work. And when I was spending time with people, it was mostly relatively quiet people (well, mostly one relatively quiet person in particular). It’s good though. I’ll settle into the pattern of Rain’s energy before too long.

We are spending the day packing and repacking backpacks and testing gear and buying more food for Rain because he eats a lot. I want to go. Every hour feels sluggish and each fussy packing reassessment feels like the definition of diminishing returns. I can smell the juniper and ephedra from here.

At the same time, I know it won’t take long until I begin to miss pieces of home. The cool mountain air and indoor plumbing. Ah, those corruptive comforts.

We leave to cache our resupply buckets tomorrow morning. I’m hoping that we’ll find them to be dramatically overstocked. They’ll hide in piles of rocks under arches and by particularly distinct bends in roads until we pull them out, full of food and fuel and maps, in a month or two. It’s like giving our future selves gifts.

The drive from Golden, BC to Revelstoke is one of the most frustrating drives I’ve ever encountered. Not because of the heavy truck traffic, or the endless avalanche tunnels or the generally tricky mountain driving. The problem is that all these things keep you from being able to gawk at the massive peaks the rise above Rodgers Pass, or the amazing ski lines that festoon their slopes.

As highway 1 falls below the clouds, the peaks slide out of view, but other sights draw one’s attention. Trees grow dark and titanic in the cool rainforests of lower elevations. Clear-cuts zigzag above and below logging roads. The town of Revelstoke sits nestled up against the Columbia River, which, despite its youthful proximity to its headwaters, winds smooth and deep like a more mature river.

The town itself was lovely too. I found what might be my favorite coffee shop in all my travels this winter, maybe second favorite. It’s well stocked with outdoor supply stores and bars. As in Golden, I found convenient 24hr parking and settled in for a good night’s sleep, my truck tucked into a small village of other van dwellers.

The morning light was a very specific kind of soft and grey, and I knew before I really looked out the window that it had snowed. It didn’t take long to brush my teeth and thaw the frost inside the windows and I was pulling into the parking lot at the base of the hill more than an hour before the lifts opened. At the very bottom, Revelstoke Mountain Resort doesn’t look like much. Most of the mountain is hidden in snow and clouds, and many of the amenities are further up, serving the upper 4000 vertical feet. None the less, I sniffed out the nearest coffee and got a fat, delicious croissant as well, which I enjoyed while I waited for the ticket office to open.

Half and hour later, with my ski pass displayed on my jacket, I shuffled into the still very short, but growing, line for the gondola. The lower gondola ride is small compared to the rest of the mountain. It brings you up about a thousand feet, where you get onto the upper gondola, which rises seeming forever. I kept thinking “the top MUST be close by now,” but when you finally get off the upper gondola, there remains yet another lift before you can reach the highest point of lift accessed terrain.

It was a weekday, but there were still a good number of people out, mostly temporary and life-long ski bums, and even a few vacationing families. The rush to transfer lifts is a good thing for me. I typically move faster than the average skier and much faster than snowboarders with my telemark gear and brief history with competitive nordic skiing. By the time I loaded onto the upper lift, I was on one of the first few chairs. While I had no idea where to go once I got off the lift, one can generally find good terrain by following people that look like they know what they’re doing. Indeed.

powder-covered bumps

However, the best part of the day was yet to come. More terrain opened over the course of the day, and I chose to focus on the hikable stuff. It paid off, with only a few misadventures along the way.

looking back up into the North Bowl

The top of the North Bowl, only accessible via a long, conga-line boot pack, but sooo very worth it

The chutes off of Gracias Ridge

Cinco Chute was fun, but Tres was my favorite

The boot pack

I spent two days at Revelstoke, but it didn’t feel like enough, and I left hoping I would have the chance to come back, maybe show some friends around the place.

I wasn’t looking forward to my next two stops as much as I looked forward to Kicking Horse and Revelstoke, but I was excited about the drive. I would be winding through the famously awe-inspiring Banff National Park on my way to Lake Louise and Sunshine.

I don’t really have the energy or focus to write much about either place right now, but I’d like to get this post out there, so I’ll let the photos speak for themselves.

The view at Lake Louise

Bare larches

The view from the Goat’s Eye lift at Sunshine

Some fun chutes at Sunshine, with a little soft, wind-deposited snow

This trip to Canada was a great grand finale to the last couple months. It was a good reminder of how good skiing can be, and a reason to look forward to next season. But now my season has ended. I’m hanging up my skis and my vows to the snow gods for the summer, which feels odd as the season is hardly over for everyone else, but my attention has turned towards the activities of spring. I’m leaving to start the Hayduke in a few days, and when I emerge from the desert, the season will be mostly over, save for some backcountry spring skiing. I feel just a little bit sad about ending my ski season, but winter, as it tends to do every year, will return.

On Friday, near the end of the seemingly eternal drive back home from Canada and Montana, I took a hard right turn onto a two-lane road that cuts between empty organic, non-gmo, corn fields. It took a while to get to Boulder, but I decided, as much as I wanted to be done driving, it was worth the time to pick up my maps from the printer and fuel from REI. I wanted to get started on sorting the maps and bottling the fuel as soon as possible, because, like anything you have to repeat 10 or 100 times, it would be a tedious and slow job.

Once I got my hands on the maps, something magical happened. The trail, the fact that I’d soon be living in the desert, all of it felt so much more real. Instead of a theoretical trip represented by oh-so-very-many ziplocks full of dried veggies and a rather large spreadsheet, it took a step towards a physical chunk of time and space and deserty-ness. There are many steps like this in the long road of trip planning, but each one is exciting.

I love maps. Most of my favorite posters are some kind of map or geologic cross section or annotated panorama. I love the intimacy of the geography when it’s all laid out on paper, and I love the anticipation that grows from knowing that each contour line is only a representation of something much more complex and intricate, begging to be explored.

I ended up in town again on Sunday, and I couldn’t help but swing by the locally owned mountaineering shop while I was there. I swear, every time I go into that store, I end up wanting to spend a few hundred bucks on new gear. I very nearly bought Osprey’s new, actually ultralight (instead of just slightly lighter than standard) backpack, the Lumina. I need a larger pack for trips like the Hayduke that have big temperature ranges and infrequent resupplies and long water carries. I currently use my Exos 58 (Osprey’s heavier, earlier foray into lighter packs) for that purpose, but I’ve never loved that pack. The Lumina, in addition to shaving off over half a pound, also seems to have made every change I’ve hoped for in the exos. The frame shape makes more sense, they nixed some of the extra straps, and streamlined the design in general. The only bummer is the lack of hip pockets in the new Lumina, but those are easy enough the DIY.

After a hour of mulling around and trying things on and sipping my coffee, I left behind the pack and a super light new puffy and a million interesting little things I didn’t really need. The fact is, canyon country kills gear. It eats it up with its sandpapery canyons and very sharp plants (cactus and yucca and juniper and tamarisk and…). I might as well let it chew up my current pack and my greasy, ducktaped puffy and slightly-too-big pants. There’s no reason to send brand new gear into the shredder. And if that stuff survives, it can go into my canyoneering kit to meet its inevitable end. And if I can afford it after the trail, I’ll get new gear then. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.