Ladies' Weekend, Part 2: Bolan Mountain Lookout

A locked gate greets us before the final, most treacherous leg of our journey. I jump out of the car to open the gate and scout out some of the larger rocks and potholes in the road. It's a challenge to maneuver through them, but Margo, Nikki's Honda Civic, passes the test with flying colors. It isn't until we reach the last hundred yards to our destination that the road becomes too much for the little car.

We schlep as much as we can possibly carry at one time as we head for the lookout tower atop Bolan Mountain. Two clusters of hikers greet us at the top, whom ask if we're staying the night, and quickly make themselves scarce once they realize that we've got dibs on it. They ask a few questions about how to make a reservation themselves and then head off back down into the forest.

After a couple more trips to the car to gather our things (I would have packed lighter but thought that we could drive all the way to the base of the tower), we're finally settled in just as nightfall encroaches. Dinner is enjoyed at sunset from high on a mountaintop. How perfect is that? This is the highlight of my weekend. I love visiting places like this. It is my goal to make it to all of the public lookout towers that straddle the Oregon-California border.

And with down booties. How perfect is that?

Mt. Shasta with some smoke.

We play a round of cards, read the visitor log, and then head for bed. We try to sleep in, but it's impossible when the tower is a big glass box. Sunshine awakens the both of us, even me, nestled on the floor away from the windows and we grumble while we prepare coffee. Both of us bombed the downhills on the race so hard that we feel like our legs have aged eighty years overnight. Luckily, the car gets to do all of the descent for us too.

Our log book entry.

Breakfast with the sunrise.

By the time we reach a paved road, still in the middle of nowhere, the car has developed a terrible grinding sound. We can't tell what it is, but we pull over at the nearby sno-park to investigate. The underside of the car looks good, everything looks great. It's just that sound. That grinding sound. We remove the tire. Still, nothing. Then we peer in between the brake and rotor and spot something so small we can't believe it made such a big, ugly noise.

After a few attempts to remove it with a stick, Nikki stuffs a straw from her iced coffee cup and voila! It finally comes free! After all of our worrying about boulders on the road, it's this tiny pebble that gave us trouble.

Our original plan was to go for a long hike or run, but after spending and hour under the car, our adventure prowess has waned and we decide to head for home with only a quick stop to stretch our legs. We settle on Stout Grove in Jedidiah Smith State Park.

I like big trees and I cannot lie.

The woman at the visitor center convinces us it was unique but being the tree snobs we are living next to the biggest of all the Redwoods, we expect more and walk away a bit underwhelmed. Nevertheless, big trees make us swoon so the detour was not wasted.

Thanks for another perfect weekend, Oregon!

Ladies' Weekend, Part 1: Enchanted Forest Wine Run

Nikki pours the coffee as Lanore digs into the breakfast cookies. I splash some milk on my Lucky Charms. Morning clouds add a damp, icy chill to the air outside our cozy little yurt. I've always treasured how diverse my group of running friends is, but it makes weekends like this extremely rare. We're all pulled around in our own social circles but running is where our lives overlap for a moment. Later we go on with the other interests and obligations that don't match.  We've gathered for our weekend's main event: the Enchanted Forest Wine Run 24K trail race. Although it is the reason for us choosing this weekend, it's hardly the highlight of mine.

Lanore B. photo.

We quickly pack up our bedding and say goodbye to the yurt. When we arrive at the race, it's still cloudy and chilly. We affix our tutus, navigate portable toilets littered with glitter, and then make our way to the start.

Lanore nudges me to the front of the pack, and I resist. My body is still sore from the half marathon last weekend. I'm supposed to be running this one for fun, I tell her, before pointing out that UltraSignup has her predicted her finish in the top three ladies. She's also intimidated by the fact that she's wearing bib number one. Nikki joins us in line and the we start off up the hill through Woolridge Creek Winery. We pass rows of grapes as we head the ridge. I'm not half a mile into the race and am already snapping photos, the way it should be if I'm really taking this one easy.

After taking one year off between race directors, the two guys who direct the Siskiyou Out Back agreed to take this run over too. They pared back the amenities and made changes to the course, practically doubling the climbing involved. Instead of a mere 2,500 ft. gain over thirteen miles, it was now 4,000 ft. in fifteen. Then those sneaky bastards forgot to change the course maps on the website, making the added difficulty a complete surprise.

It's not until four miles into the race that I realize that an easy, fun day isn't going to happen with that amount of climbing involved. Regardless, I walk when I need to, and it's not as bad as it could be.

With Lanore up ahead and Nikki somewhere behind me, I eventually make friends with a couple of runners nearby. They always catch up to me on the downhills and I power-hike back to them on the uphills. "I'm the world's worst downhill runner, let me know when you want to go by," became the most common phrase of my race day. The truth is, it's not easy for anyone to run down. Most of the downhills in the middle of the course are so steep that I slide out on my butt a couple of times just walking them.

Benign runnable section.

As the clouds break apart, the day begins to heat up. I'm already soaking wet from the mist clinging to one of the ridges, so I welcomed the warmth with open arms. It took eight miles, but I'm finally feeling good!

Climbing up a hill between miles nine and twelve, I remember this steep and unrelenting hill as a descent from on the way out. Nobody is ahead or behind me and just as what happened last time I ran this race, I'm unsure if I'm still on course.

Just as I'm about to turn around, certain I'm going the wrong way, I spot a runner up ahead. And it's Lanore. She took off so quickly at the beginning, I never thought I'd catch up to her. She's looking pretty rough, similar to how she was at my trail race in June when she had a bit of a medical emergency. I pull out a salt tab and offer it to her. "You look like you might need this, I've got an extra. Do you want it?" I ask. Without hesitation, she takes it and we work together to get up the hill to the aid station. I take my time downing multiple glasses water. A volunteer is refilling my bottle when I notice that I've spotted my very first real-life unicorn!  Only in the enchanted forest!

As Lanore and I pull away, the volunteers tell us it's all downhill to the end. Lanore dashes off ahead as I pick up the pace too. With each step, I'm muttering to myself, just stay up-right. just stay up-right. I'm catching up and passing a few other runners, including a guy who ran the whole race with a DSLR camera in his hand, as I try to stay in control.

According to my watch, I've got less than a mile to go when the trail finally changes to a dirt road. Then I hear footsteps behind me. Now back on a much more gentle downhill, I make it my mission to keep them behind me. Despite my accelerations, they're still gaining on me. I ratchet the pace up another couple of notches and when I reach a clearing, I glance down at my pace, 7:20. Nice. I make two more quick turns and finish ahead of them.

Puzzled by the lack of organization at the finish, I wander around looking for someone to take my bib number tag. It appears that nobody is actually timing the race, but I figure that maybe I'm missing something in my post-race haze. One week later, no results are posted online, so I've got only my Garmin stats. How am I supposed to find out if that string-bean kid ahead of Hal Koerner at one mile stayed ahead of him?!

2:54:32
11:42/mi.
3,967 ft. gain

Lanore packs up and heads out to her grandkids' soccer tournament in Sacramento (a ten million hour drive south), while Nikki and I indulge in a charcuterie plate. After a quick stop to caffeinate, we head for the forest roads south of Cave Junction. As it turns out, our home for the night is so far in the middle of nowhere that we have to travel into and out of California before arriving at our destination.

Rogue Run Half Marathon

There's still a chill in the air when I get off the bus in Talent. I'm snuggled up in Matt's jacket and warmup pants, which are many sizes too big for me. Even though he's not here racing with me, sitting here in his clothes, it almost feels like he is.

Stylish, I know.

After too much waiting, numerous bathroom stops, I make my way to the line. This year, the Rogue Run celebrates its fifth year. It's not until I hear that announcement that I realize this is my fourth. If only I had known about it the inaugural year I could have done them all!

I know my starting pace is too quick and even though it feels easy, I resist the urge to let my legs fly. Every time I look down at my watch during the first three miles, it's too fast.

Mile 1: 7:22
Mile 2: 7:30
Mile 3: 7:24

When setting my goal pace last night, Matt and I talked about how each five second increment feels. Seven and a half minute pace feels comfortable and I can even talk a little; 7:25 means less words; and 7:20 suddenly requires a lot more effort and no talking. That means that somewhere in there is my lactate threshold pace, the pace one can hold for sixty minutes, and probably somewhere around 7:23. It's imperative that I do not spend much time in that zone or I'm sure to burn out before the finish line.

Near mile four, I settle into my comfortable cruising pace and everything is great.  The only problem is the man behind me. He's using me to set the pace, hanging out just off my right shoulder. I don't mind people drafting off of me, but this man is far too close and his breathing is obnoxiously loud.

I. must. get. away. NOW.

I pull up ahead just to try and drop him, and thankfully it works. I now find myself next to an older man in an orange shirt. He has the weathered look of a long-time distance runner. This guy knows what he's doing, I tell myself, we need to stay with him today, talking as if my body and brain are now two separate entities.

Mile 4: 7:25
Mile 5: 7:25

We reach the biggest hill on the course, the one over Barnett Street. As I begin the long and slow climb, I hear a motorcycle pull up behind me. Lead marathoner, Craig Leon, zooms past me so lightning quick and smooth that I feel like a loping oaf beside him. A stitch in my right hip flexor begins to whine. I tell it to shut up. Thankfully, it stays at a dull roar for the remainder of the race.

Mile 6: 7:27

About midway, the combination of fatigue and a rapidly warming day begins to wear on me. When I arrive at the next aid station, I grab a cup of water as I keep moving. Once I realize how small the cups are, I reach out to grab another just before the table ends. The man in the orange shirt, now behind me, slams into me, spilling his cup of Gatorade down my back. He's quick to apologize, but honestly, it felt good, so I tell him he can dump water on me at the next one too. No big deal. He laughs a little and then pulls off ahead of me.

Mile 7: 7:38

Mile 8, taken July 2015.

Now back on familiar running ground, I begin to recognize the landmarks. I've run many training miles on this stretch of bike path. I know where I'm going, where the smallest of inclines are, and where the next patch of shade is. I've got this. The only problem is, I know I'm fading. I keep orange shirt man in my sights, but when I look down at my mile splits, I know he's not the person I need him to be today. He's slowing down too much. I need to get ahead of him.
 

July 2015

Mile 8: 7:38
Mile 9: 7:35

Every year I've run this, I dread a turn near the mile 10 aid station. The course twists in a full circle as the path rises. Given the water stop is right there too, it always kills any momentum I've got. It wasn't until my shakeout run on Friday that I realized that my dreaded mile 10 hill is laughably small.

Mile 10: 7:37

I'm downing my second water when I notice Matt waiting with the camera. He's been sick in bed with a 103 fever all week, so he's in no condition to race, but his presence at this spot is just the revival I need. I charge up the hill, around the loop, and by the time I get settled and look at my watch again, my pace is a 7:05. Having a spectator just for me is kinda cool!

I try to calculate a finish time in my head, but am alarmed to realize I have to run a 23 minute 5K to tie my PR. This is no good! I might not make it!

Mile 11: 7:37

Running along, now in full sunshine, goosebumps are popping up on my skin and I know I'm riding the line between being warm and too warm. It's funny that when I'm racing hard and not overheating, my head is filled with mental tricks to keep going. When it's a little too hot (70+) all that goes on in my head is durrrrrrrrrrr. I know I'm headed for the latter.

Luckily, just as I'm about to lose any semblance of race pace, another runner passes me. I recognize him as the man who was running with the very loud breather many miles ago. He looks strong, so I try to keep up with him. He leads me through a cluster of three runners, including one girl. As I pass her, she looks over me and asks, "Marathon?". HA! I tell her that I'm running the half and then try my best to pull away as effortlessly as possible.

Mile 12: 7:38

At the final aid station, I grab two cups of water: one to drink, and one to pour down my back. The icy water gives me a chill but I feel like a new person! Up ahead, I can see the man in the gray shirt. I catch up to him and he asks if I'm running a 7:30 pace. I reply, "Sort of." Since the mile markers were so horribly off last year, I left the auto-pause going on my Garmin and they're not quite in the right place again today, so my pace is anyone's guess. I realize here that I probably have ten minutes left to finish, an 8:00/mi pace, to tie my PR.

I know the finish line is close so I push the effort into the red zone and hope I can hang onto it for the final half mile. I'm passing clusters of 10K walkers and enjoy how motivating it is to pass them, even though they're not difficult targets to reach.

Mile 13: 7:26

There's one last hill just before the thirteenth mile marker and then two turns. I launch into the best kick I can possibly muster.

Mile 13-finish: 0:47 (7:10/mi.)

The finish line comes into view and I see the clock tick into the 1 hour 38 minute range. As I make the final turn into the parking area, a woman pulls up alongside me. Nooo! You may not pass me! I'm completely gassed but I push as hard as I can without passing out and keep up with her.

Stride for stride, we sprint to the finish line arch and cross the line together. I'm exhausted and double over to catch my breath. Did I get her? (Later learned we tied.)

1:38:26
7:31/mi.
Female: 9/252
Female 30-34: 3/33

I drink an entire bottle of water in two huge gulps and then head over to find Matt. Even though he watched me finish, I proudly hold up my watch to show him my time. A PR!!!  Before heading out of the finish area, I grab a printout of my time and ranking. After three years of finishing just out of the age group prizes, I placed third in mine! As it turns out, the girl I passed with one mile to go was my age. Whew! :)

We watched my club friend, Tami, cruise along to second place in the marathon. She hasn't run a marathon in a decade so she was pleasantly surprised to come home with $500 in cash! We ran the same pace but she went twice as far as I did!

After a quick trip back to the hotel to grab a shower and Zoey, it was time to celebrate... with a Blizzard! What else? :)

August, September, and My First Fall Race

The first few months of summer are about building endurance and strength, dusting off my climbing legs. June and July feel a bit rusty and forced. Just as I hit a summertime groove where my endurance can keep up with my dreams, mountain season begins to close. August and September are met with a rush of adventures as I ride what might be the final wave of mountain time before the snow begins to fall.

Atop 8,091 foot tall Granite Peak. You didn't think I'd go all of 2016 without at least one trip to the summit, did you?

For this reason, my blog often falls dormant. While blog silence often means a fall off the exercise wagon, over here it usually means I'm too busy loading, unloading, and navigating my wagon to keep up with sifting through photographs and writing about them. I hope to soon recap each of the mountain hikes/runs I did during this time, but first let's catch up.

Atop southern Oregon's 9,494 ft. Mt. McLoughlin.

If you've ever driven south in Interstate-5 between Grants Pass and Medford, I'm sure you've seen it.

My fall running season officially begins with the running of the Humboldt Bay Half Marathon. Like I did last year, I ran as part of the pace team, cruising to a comfortable finish just twenty-two seconds below 1:50. This year, I ended up helping two runners pull off strong races. Chris, a local guy who describes himself as a cyclist and not a runner, ran with me through eleven miles and then took off up ahead and finishing his first half marathon a few minutes ahead of me. Mark struggled more, but he kept me in sight and finished just a handful of seconds over 1:50 in what was also his first half marathon. This race is struggling financially, but I really hope it can find a way to stick around. Running across the three bridges without highway speed traffic whizzing by is one of the highlights of my year!

Friend Dave in the corner of the shot asked where my pace team was. They're gone! Y. Kim photo.

After that, it was back to speed workouts. I began with a 5K race the day after Granite Peak. I went out at my half marathon pace and then picked it up. It hurt far more than I wanted, but I attributed it to the fact that I was still walking funny from yesterday's climb. I ran each mile faster than the previous one, finishing in 22:53. As it turns out, 5Ks hurt a lot less that way. Who knew?

First genuine smile at the end of a 5K. Thanks Yoon.

I struck a comfortable balance between structured road training and mountain summits which kept my mind occupied and my body from feeling too taxed.

I think this is now my all-time favorite running shot.

Even the nineteen mile trail run/hike in the Trinity Alps didn't break me. I know, I'm surprised too.

Atop 8,162 ft. Siligo Peak, Trinity Alps, with Lanore.

While keeping my total mileage around fifty-five each week (hiking miles included, miles on my feet are miles on my feet), I did some 880 yard repeat workouts and fartleks accompanied by weekly runs at my goal half marathon pace. I remember training at these paces for the Rogue River Half I ran in February. These don't feel like the same paces at all! They're almost comfortable. I'd like to think I'm still getting faster and stronger and climbing the fitness arc. We will soon find out because my first race of the fall, my goal half marathon, is on Sunday.

As has become tradition before any important race, I spend some time talking it out. I'm honest about how I'll handle a bad day and how I'll handle a good one as it unfolds on the course. Since I pretty much coach myself, I talk about my training. I know how it has gone, where I could have done better, and where I truly excelled. Then it's time for the pep talk and goals.

"Two years ago, I set my PR on this course. Three of my five fastest times were at The Rogue Run. My five fastest half marathons have been in this corner of Oregon. For some reason, I seem to race well here consistently. I'm fitter than I was two years ago and much faster." These are some of the things I tell myself and keep talking about them until I believe what I'm saying.

My ears and brain find the sound of my voice soothing and my fears melt away. My goal is set: I want to break 1:39, possibly 1:38. That puts me right at a 7:30/mi. pace, which has felt reasonably comfortable on my training runs so I'm cautiously optimistic. Wish me luck!

Fairbanks Farewell

I've been sitting on this post for the last two weeks, not quite sure how to wrap it up. For all its quirks and challenges, my heart still calls Fairbanks home. It feels comfortable and familiar and it's all too easy to settle back into the fabric of daily life, like slipping on a pair of worn out shoes. Had I planned to take this trip solo, I would have been more than content to spend the whole week in and around Fairbanks.

Chena River on one of our runs.

Instead of backpacking through the rain across a ridge line that would offer no rewards for our climbing efforts, we dragged our soggy selves back to Fairbanks. After a few texts to Sommer, my cousin's wife, we had a place to stay including a shower and comfy bed.

Fireweed is my favorite flower.

When Matt and I first moved here, we spent three months renting the mother-in-law unit attached to their house. It was hard not to feel the nostalgia wash over me as I spent nights sleeping in what used to be my bedroom. I painted the walls. I built the ladder to the loft. This is where I spent my first night in Alaska.

We spent the last two days of our trip with Sommer and my two little cousins, Daisy and Finn. They were so much fun. Over the years, I've returned to visit and seen them as babies, toddlers, and now miniature adults with their own thoughts and stories. Brenna and Daisy bonded over Harry Potter,  I think Finn fell in love with Rachel, and I got some catching up time in with Sommer.

Best climbing tree at Creamer's Field.

Daisy told us all about the birds that visit here.

Rachel and I ran a few more of my favorite routes while Brenna checked out the trails on her own or read her book. 

Final sunset.

The flight out on our final day didn't leave until the evening so we decided to go for a hike. It was a classic Fairbanks summer day: some perfect cumulus clouds and seventy degrees. I've done the Angel Rocks hike at least a dozen times, one or more times during each of the seasons. I've battled mosquitoes, trudged through hip-deep snow and glissaded down through the trees, squished through mud, and marveled at the fall colors.

I miss birch trees.

...and penis mushrooms. Thanks Brenna for taking this photo.

Halfway up the ridge, the three of us pulled a cherry-flavored hard seltzer water from our packs, toasting the end of our trip as we took in the view. The perfect end to a wonderful trip! I'm so happy that I got to share my favorite places with these two wonderful ladies.

Cheers! Rachel C. photo.

I'm still not sure what my future will hold regarding this special place, but I intend to keep up my yearly pilgrimages until I figure it out. :)

Denali Park: Chance Encounters, Huskies, The Bates Motel, and Sunshine

None of us were happy to be awake on a cloudy Monday morning. Eventually, the promise of coffee and oatmeal coaxed me from bed. We broke down camp and headed for the bear can. Brenna brewed up some water, Rachel prepped the coffee, and I hunted down some fresh blueberries for our oatmeal. I could get used to fresh fruit on a backpacking trip!

They put our "blueberries and cream" oatmeal to shame.

Civilization must be near, there's cell service! Rachel is sad her coffee cup is so small. Brenna loves Instagram.

After our miserable night hiking in the rain, hunting for a campsite at midnight, and not enough sleep, things could only get better from here, right? Thankfully they did or I’m sure one of us would have had a meltdown (probably me first).

Instead of retracing our steps the nine miles back from which we came last night, we decided to hike the two miles to the Parks Highway and either hitchhike or catch a park shuttle back to our car. Matt and I had done this trail on our first trip to Denali eight years ago and I remembered that a nearby lodge had some sort of shuttle. We decided to risk the longer walk and headed for the swanky little oasis of civilization named the Denali ParkVillage.

The three of us smelly, muddy hikers weaved our way through groups of squeaky clean tourists as we headed to the front desk. The shuttle was free and would arrive in just twenty minutes! Perfect! Our luck was already turning around!

Since we felt out of place, we headed back outside. Rachel’s shoulder was still hurting so Brenna hooked her up with some pain meds, calling them drugs a little too loudly. While I was saying something about how maybe we shouldn’t talk too loudly about that, the woman waiting on the bench next to us said, “Oh honey, I grew up in the 60’s, it’s fine”. Our drug selection wasn’t that kind of drug, but it got Brenna to make small talk with the woman, starting with the “Where are you from?” question almost all travelers ask one another.

“Michigan,” the woman replied in a very Yooper accent that piqued my interest. I asked her what town she was from and was surprised that it was the same one where I grew up. We talked some more as she asked what school I went to and if I knew Mrs. Moore, who I of course knew as Madame Moore, my French teacher. 

I thought she was asking me to find a common person between us, so I was surprised when the lady said one of my favorite high school teachers was traveling with her and she was right inside! What a small (and very cool) world! I still get goosebumps thinking about it. What are the odds? We probably wouldn't have crossed paths at all if we had gotten a place in the campground the night before.

I ended up getting my degree in French so I guess that means I loved her class a little. :)

Once we were reunited with our car and were free of our packs, we headed into the park. The first fifteen miles of the Denali Park Road are open to private vehicles (the other 75 miles are by bus) so we decided to go there and hike along the Savage River. The sun had finally come out enough to revive our spirits. On our way there, we stopped to pay a visit to the canine park rangers.

In the winter, park rangers patrol via dogsled. Every time I visit, I take time to stop and pet the huskies. Brenna spent most of her time snuggled up next to Solace, who seemed to melt into her lap. We considered what would happen if we decided to “take Solace” (see what I did there? Hehe.) but assumed we couldn’t get very far without someone noticing.

We managed to snag one of the few remaining parking spots at Savage River and had some lunch before dozing off in the car.

 

Revived after our snooze, we set off on the trail. Free from the weight of our packs, the miles passed quickly. A spring returned to our step. Sunshine! Happy! YAY! 

A dry and sunny day puts a smile on our faces!

Thank you Brenna for this shot. It's one of my favorites!

The formal trail turned into a route and after nearly jumping off the trail when we spooked a golden eagle perched on a rock nearby, we turned around.

Brenna S. photo.

Brenna S. photo.

Tired of sleeping in the tent and anxious for a shower, we decided to see how much a hotel was. Just out of curiosity, we said. The Milepost had an ad for a cabin stay and included breakfast of sourdough pancakes. SOLD! We booked a cabin and continued south to Cantwell. 

We were happy until we pulled up to the place. The main lodge building had boarded up windows and a “No Trespassing” sign out front. The cabin, true to the host’s word, was behind it and left unlocked just for us. We checked out the cabin, which looked fine, but something felt off. We decided that it had too much of a real-life horror movie vibe that we jumped back in the car and drove off before the host could find and murder us.

Now back in the rain cloud that permanently hangs over the Alaska Range, we set up our tent in the rain. We ate dinner in the rain. Then we went to bed thoroughly exhausted well before ten p.m.

Perfectly flat (free) campsite. Yeah!