So there I was in Spokane, beginning our journey as the lone pig-tailed white girl amongst a horde of nocturnal train station loiterers. Ah, the florescent glow of 3:30 a.m. The shadow people wearily stirred, lighters flicked aflame and a draft sent crumpled up Cheeto bag cartwheeling past my feet like a tumbleweed. Blending in and curling up on a filmy bench for the next few hours was officially not an option. “Let’s pedal out of town,” I said to Zach. “Let’s get out of here and into the woods!”

Navigating by smartphone we wound our way to the edge of Spokane where we caught a bike path, then a lonesome highway for 15 miles. We arrived at the trailhead of the Columbia Plateau Trail just before sun up. The CPT is part of the nation-wide Rails-to-Trails conservancy that transforms abandoned railroad tracks into bike paths. It’s a very cool idea that, unfortunately in this case, is very far from being fully developed. More on this later…but for now, a preview:

After stocking up on food in a nearby town, we began what would come to be the most pleasant 20 miles of the trail. The beginning of the trail is developed pavement and dirt road riding and made for very easy and enjoyable riding through Turnbull Wildlife Refuge:

As a skier, mountain biker and self-proclaimed ‘mountain-girl’, I have not given myself much time to spend amidst the vast grasslands of the American West. Through the window of a car, the plains go by too quickly (or perhaps too slowly, if you’re trying to make it all the way across Kansas) to heed the intricacies and simple wonders they hold. But on a bicycle, rangelands blossom into surprisingly beautiful and diverse landscapes—the large number of bird species we encountered during our trip was a veracious testament to the value of preserving our grasslands (and wetlands) as habitat. And this is the unique magic of traveling on a bicycle: bicycling can transform an austere place into a fascinating and challenging one.

Oh, the delicious challenge we encountered over those few days on the Columbia Plateau Trail! After a pleasant beginning to the ride, on day two the trail abruptly turned to undeveloped railroad ballast…and stayed that way for the next 92 miles. That’s right: the next 92 miles of “trail” were to be a challenging mix of loose rocks and—oh yes—completely overgrown weedy portions.

I actually grew to be thankful for the bicycle-bushwhacking because it provided a more cohesive and consistent riding surface than the ballast, which felt more like riding through sand with grains the size of fists. No amount of chamois butter or padding can protect you from the unrelenting butt-pummeling that is riding on an abandoned railroad track. The fat bikes were definitely a good choice for this surface, however, I am not convinced that any bike has the power make railroad ballast fun for 92 miles.

So it was with smiling butts that we welcomed the opportunity to take a road detour when we stumbled upon the scant farm town of Benge, Washington. From Benge, we linked seldom-traveled county roads to the tiny towns of Washtucna and Kalotus and eventually re-joined the CPT on the Snake River where the trail was developed again. Sidenote: the highways out there were very well maintained with great visibility and wide shoulders—eastern Washington offers many beautiful options for road-touring and welcoming small towns if you ever get the chance!

Our road detour also allowed us to skirt a couple of suspicious gaps in the map we downloaded…which turned out to be unmaintained and impassable bridges that were blocked off with barbed wire. This lack of development is a shame, because this ride would surely be a hidden gem of the PNW if this trail were, well, a trail. So, roadies, keep an ear out for the day the CPT gets paved. Then ride it from Pasco to Spokane (lest you battle the relentless westerly headwind we encountered, whom I named “Goliath”).

Our four days on the Columbia Plateau Trail were as unforgettable as they were, surprisingly, enjoyable. Truly, the trip was a beautiful reminder that things are not always as they seem: The vast rain shadow of eastern Washington is far from empty—it is full of diverse plant life, interesting geological history and the vivid music of many birds. Similarly, a flatland trail with a total elevation change of less than 4,000 ft over 150 miles is, apparently, far from our idea of a facile vacation—it is a savory trial of perseverance and, now, a fond memory.

Zach’s story and pictures from our trip can be found here.

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I got my first glimpse of Mount Adams from our camp spot before we began. Much of the lower mountain had sustained a forest fire in 2012, so the forest did not hide the mountain—she stood proud. My head cocked back, me eyes widened and my jaw fell open. There she blows!

The first day, we skinned about two-thirds of the way up Mount Adams. At the start our climb, we skinned out of the burn-zone into a green sub-alpine forest where the sweet taste of spruce and fresh cedar flooded every breath. The scent hung in the air like Christmas morning, conspicuously sneaking into your nostrils. Sadly, the smell was slowly replaced by sulfur as we zig-zagged up past tree line and entered ‘Volcano Planet’—filled with rocks and snow. Breezy, barren and home for the night.

After a pleasant night spent under a full moon, the three of us awoke at four to get started for the day. The sky was purple already—another clear, warm, sunscreen-every-hour type of day opening its eyes.

Donned with crampons and ice axes, we climbed and climbed that morning—the wild blue hills and the bustling world beneath growing farther and farther. As I neared the top of the first headwall, I began to feel weary. More weary than I would expect to be. I continued to pump water and granola bars into my body, knowing that with each step I was closer to the top and closer to the down. My feet hung heavy off of my legs, swinging almost carelessly into established tracks. As I crested the first headwall, the final thousand-foot climb stood before me.

I took a seat on my pack for a moment, gazing out to our beginning. “You’ve made it this far,” I thought, “The snow is still firm, the sun hasn’t touched it yet. You have time to make it to the top safely. You can do it. Slowly, you can do it.”

Zach and Cam sensed my fatigue and stayed behind me, allowing me to set the pace. I was burned, and beginning to feel light-headed. We trudged, we paused, I panted, we marched on…until I began to lose my balance. The first time I fell I snagged my crampon on my pant leg and tripped to my knees. “No biggie, it happens,” I thought, staggering to my feet. We marched on. Then I started stumbling more frequently, and my dizziness was not subsiding with water or food. At this point we had reached almost 12,000 ft in elevation and were within about 500 vertical feet of the summit. We were so close. “I’m from Colorado! I have spent my whole life at 8,000 feet! I don’t get AMS!” I joked. But apparently, I do. Zach was kind enough to escort me down a few hundred feet to a position where we could still keep eyes on Cam as he pushed for the summit.

Lucky for me, the top of our line, the SW Chutes, was a few hundred feet lower. After some rest, we geared over to skiing, which (of course) was instantly rejuvenating. Over 8,000 vertical feet of turns (okay, and some trudging too) back to the car!

Right off the bat, we dropped into 3,000 feet of perfectly warmed, wide-open corn. The snow was perfectly even, edgable, soft and stable. Bliss. It was the carefree, wind-in-your-hair, springing from turn-to-turn type of skiing that dreams are made of.

As we worked our way down and back into the trees, the skiing became a bit more sloppy…as one could expect from temperatures in the fifties. We wound our way through the burnt forest, grins as big as the crescent moon on our faces. Body aches and sunburns were no worry at all. The turns were spectacular, the climb was beautiful and dang it, I want to see that summit! I’ll be back for you Mount Adams!

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Rookie Year in the Elk Mountains Grand Traverse 2013

At 11:00 pm on March 30th, 2012, I watched hundreds of headlamps attached to racers bobble up from the base area of Crested Butte en route to Aspen in the Elk Mountains Grand Traverse. Dressed in jeans and feeling groggy, I knew that in 2013 I wanted to be immersed in the jitters of the starting lineup of that race. The traverse itself begins at midnight, covers 40 miles and almost 8000 vertical feet, though the preparation for months beforehand is a journey in itself.

It began when I reached out to my friend, Brennan Metzler that fall. Brennan has dedicated several days in the Backcountry to philanthropy through his charity “Peaks for Peace”—which encourages brave outdoor trekkers to raise money and awareness for Children’s Hospital camps for Burn Victims. Outdoorsmen usually commit to projects or goals and ask for pledges to support their pursuits. Campaigns range from Brennan summiting and snowboarding as many peaks as humanly possible in the springtime to through hiking the Appalachian Trail in 29 days to my proposal—skiing from Crested Butte to Aspen. Not surprisingly, Brennan was thrilled with my initiative and I was off and running—5 months from the GT with a goal of raising $1500 for the kiddos.

In December, my teammate, Zach Miller, and I began the effort to spread awareness and fundraise for the Burn Camps. For the first year ever, I was thankful for my mom’s embarrassing Christmas letters because I stuffed them with a pleading blurb about our cause. Through Facebook posts, emails, word of mouth, phone calls and of course the embarrassing letters we had raised over $1800 by race day!

Overwhelmed with preparatory details, there was little room for introspective thought in the few hours leading to the race…which was probably a good thing. After a final beacon check, we knelt in a frenzy to stash choice snacks in our pockets, tape our feet for blisters and boot up. Looking up from tying my laces, I realized the large room had been evacuated. It was time to go. Shouldering my pack and wriggling into my gloves as we walked, Zach and I shared a crisp high-five and plodded to the mass of starting racers. We clicked into our Dynafits and clicked our headlamps on. In an instant we were sharing in hollers of stoke volleying between racers as we panted up CBMR ski area.

Arriving at the top of the Painter Boy chair lift, the East River Valley (our highway for the next five miles) loomed before us. We could see headlamps in disarray in the valley below as the leaders were just reaching the valley floor and transitioning to skinning for the long, gradual ascent to Friends’ Hut—the first major check point. After a quick scan, we ripped our skins only to apply them again a few minutes later after a quick descent.

As we began a long side-hill climb out of the valley and toward Brush Creek, the touchy snow conditions proved to be a hold up for everybody. Virtually the entire course ended up having similar conditions—breakable crust with facets underneath. With many racers (of many paces) pushing through as a unit this early in the race, one skin track became six side-by-side as people tried to shuffle past one another. However, the snow was not supportive, so various contrived skin tracks were constantly failing, causing the victims to merge into other lanes…..it was a booby-trap mess. It reminded me of I-70 on a snowy Saturday morning; everyone is trying to ski, but no one is getting anywhere fast and there is lots of carnage to slow things down even more.

By the time we rounded the corner to head up Brush Creek towards the Friends’ Hut, things were thinning out a bit. Racers had settled into one skin track, and there was now a continuous string of headlamp orbs. Though the pace picked up a bit, there was still no practical option of passing others on the go, and Zach and I were getting antsy. In hindsight, I can say the pace turned out to be an energy-saving blessing in disguise, so we chit-chatted as we unhurriedly trudged the next 9 or so miles to Friends’ Hut, passing people when we could, and arriving a little after 5 am. Abiding by our adopted leisurely attitude, we enjoyed a ‘leisurely’ break at the Friends’ Hut check point—dining on PB and J’s, sipping chilled water, warming numbed fingers, contemplating if we were actually going to make it and eyeing the towering climb to come, Star Pass.

After hours spent unaware of our location or progress in the tunnel of the forest, it was refreshing to climb up a ridge and get above tree line. The climb was steep—enough to require heel risers for the first time in the course :)—and littered with kick turns. I welcomed the switchbacks as an opportunity to survey the basin below as we zig-zagged up the slope. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but it was on its way. The world turned blue, then purple, as the nearby mountains began to reveal their majesty from the darkness. Just as Zach and I surmounted the ridgeline, the sun was beginning to crack the far horizon to the east. Perfect timing!

After skinning since about 12:30 am at the bottom of the East River Valley, we had now ascended the majority of the vertical, and got to rip our skins for a fun descent from the top of Star Pass. The race volunteers advised us of a specific route for the descent because of concerns of persistent weak layers on other aspects. By the time we were skiing, this route was very obvious and actually had some moguls in it. This is probably the only time I have been glad to roll up on something so skied out in the backcountry—I’ll take moguls over breakable crust any day! Though it was not technical, I was very glad to be on AT gear (instead of Nordic skis) at this point…we actually got to have some fun making turns!

At the bottom we stopped at “The Bonfire” the volunteers had set up. We reapplied our skins, put down another PB and J, and, in the tradition of 7:00 am, Zach sipped some coffee before jumping back on the skin track for almost eight more hours of FUN.

And I’m actually not being sarcastic! I thought the traverse was surprisingly FUN during the fact. Did we win? No. Was I tired? Yes. Did it hurt? At the end. Did I contemplate death? Only sometimes. But overall it was just a really long excuse to spend time in the backcountry with a good friend for a good cause. Remembering the kids who would benefit from the money we raised was certainly a motivating comfort when the going got slow, long or steep. We joked, chatted with other racers, got to watch the sunrise at over 12,000 feet, Zach defecated four times for some reason, and in general it was a great day.

So on and on we trudged. The sky grew into a gorgeous sapphire blue and the air was still and crisp. The day was as perfect as the views that surrounded us. Several valleys, and only a few quick descents later we finally arrived at the final check point and mandatory rest stop: Barnard Hut. “We’re making it,” I thought, sipping the complementary Ramen Noodles, “only seven miles to go!”

‘Only seven miles’ turned into almost three hours and Zach and I perfected our twenty-minute mile. As it turns out, the rolling topography of Richmond Ridge (the last leg of the course before reaching the top of Aspen Mountain) is also undulating with snowmobile whoop-de-do’s. It was hard to get into any sort of rhythm, hard to find energy and motivation to continue (especially when snowmobiles were whizzing by) and hard to forget the pain of the blisters forming on my feet. Slowly and with tiny strides, we skinned on. Finally, a Zach spotted a beacon of hope: a man snowshoeing in a long patterned coat and bulky fur headband. “We can’t be far from Aspen now!” We rejoiced.

Later, Zach and I found out that we were the youngest team to compete. That was cool, and we were awarded a couple of neat backpacks. Though useful, the backpacks were no match to the feeling of accomplishment, youngest or not, that came from completing a goal I had in mind for a year. Never have I seen an idea of mine grow from “I can’t do that” to “let’s try this” to “we did it”. And the problem is, now I’m thinking “let’s do that again”!

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