Rogue River Half Marathon 2017 Race Report

In a yurt, the sound of falling rain always sounds worse than it is. I hear a steady drumming on the canvas roof as I emerge from my cozy sleeping bag. It's still raining steadily as I head outside. At least it's not windy, I tell myself as I pull the raincoat hood over my head. It could be worse.

There are exactly two half marathons a year for which I specifically train. Both are in southern Oregon. I've given up targeting local races because my allergies are too unpredictable to spend all that time training for a bad allergen day. I've spent the last six weeks specifically targeting this race and I have big goals. My training has gone well and I know that on a good day, I'm capable of a PR, something under 1:38:28. A rainy day like today is actually a good thing when it comes to my breathing so I'm hopeful.

Matt and I have a leisurely breakfast inside the yurt as we prepare ourselves for the run. We discuss our goals, encouraging and coaching one another in equal measure. We're a good team like that. The race doesn't start until 10am, so we have plenty of time to mosey down the highway and get to the race start, just three miles away. By the time we've completed our warmup, it stops raining. Talk about perfect timing!

Terry Croft photo credit.

Then we're off. The pack of runners quickly splits apart. By the time I reach the first mile marker spray painted on the edge of Highway 99, I'm left with just one or two other people around me. While small races are nice logistically, sometimes the loneliness can make the pace seem much harder.

(On our course preview drive the day before, we didn't see markers on half the course so I decided to keep auto-lap turned on for this race. As a result, the mile splits didn't line up with the markers, especially later in the course.)

Mile 1: 7:22
Mile 2: 7:28
Mile 3: 7:25

Eventually, I pull up next to a guy toting a Go Pro camera. (If you're interested in seeing the video, you can find it here. It's beautifully edited and showcases the course and spirit of Southern Oregon Runners nicely. I enjoyed it, and not just because of my cameo.)

By the time I reach the third mile marker, I can tell that my day isn't going quite as planned. My legs just don't seem to have the powerful oomph I felt in training. I know it's a little early for positive self talk, so I try to zone out, focusing on the back of the person ahead of me. She's not exactly pulling away, so that's good.

Mile 4: 7:32 (water)
Mile 5: 7:28
Mile 6: 7:34 (water)

The course meanders alongside the south banks of the Rogue River. Last year's course was an out-and-back; this year, it's a loop. The area feels vaguely familiar, but at the same time, entirely new. I'm trying to enjoy the scenery as we pass through fields of cattle, goats, and the occasional vineyard.

I hit a short out-and-back and notice that I'm gaining on a few runners. I may not be hitting the pace I wanted to run today, 7:25/mi, but it seems that I've comfortably settled into something just a tiny bit slower. I climb a short bridge over Interstate 5 for one last push through this gradually climbing first half with a little extra oomph in my step. From here, it's mostly downhill. Thank goodness.

Mile 8, taken Friday evening.

Mile seven rejoins the old course and it's such a relief to know what's waiting up ahead. It's about this point that I finally catch up to two ladies I've spent the whole race trailing about fifty feet behind. One is Angie, a runner from my local area. Until today, I haven't met her, but we've been trying to organize a few runs for those of us going to Boston so we know one another through emails.

Mile 7: 7:28 (gu and water)
Mile 8: 7:32

Her qualifying time was similar to mine and honestly, girl has had a target on her back all day because of it. I know we're pretty evenly matched, but I really want to beat her. We spend much of miles seven, eight, and nine together pacing and drafting off one another through a particularly windy spot. It's not until mile 9 that I realize she's slowing down too much for us to stay together. I get my second wind and begin to put distance between us. I won't see her again until the finish line.

Mile 9: 7:39

Shortly after we part ways, the course returns to the bike path. For the first time today, the course is free of traffic. Even though we ran into traffic on the shoulder of the road, not all vehicles slowed down or moved over for runners. Here it's peaceful and quiet and I'm able to focus completely on my running.

Mile 10, taken Friday night.

Mile 10: 7:30 (water)
Mile 11: 7:33

By now, I'm all alone. I look over my shoulder and spot nobody. Up ahead, there's one runner, a teenage boy. I busy my mind by trying to read the back of his t-shirt. It has a lot of writing on it in a small font. I push to catch him and once I do, I deduce that he's fallen off the back of a pack of high school cross country runners.

Mile 12: 7:32

Once I pass him, there's a faint blue speck up ahead. I can't quite make out whether the figure is racing or simply enjoying a stroll next to the campground. Other than that, there's nobody anywhere. I sometimes get caught in these little holes in the pack and it's exhausting to keep pushing. Am I slowing down? Am I speeding up? With nobody to gauge or focus on, I'm struggling with motivation.

Thankfully, I know this part of the course well enough to focus on that instead. My eyes are trained on the river. I keep looking for the bridge. That's where the finish line is. Where's the bridge? Why is it not coming sooner?! I glance down at my watch as I pass the twelfth marker. I've got ten more minutes to make it under one hundred minutes. That's an eight minute mile. I know that if I don't blow up, I'll run an event PR. Even though I'm not able to run a lifetime best today, this is a pretty solid consolation prize.

Mile 13: 7:32

There's one final hill as the trail rises and circles around to meet the bridge. I always dread this part, but whenever I get there, it's never as bad as I think it will be. Just as I reach the crest of the bridge, I glance down at my watch. It has just ticked over to the ninety-eighth minute. Can I make it in under 1:39?

I give it a try, turning myself inside out and running probably one of the ugliest finishes I've ever had (you see it if you watch the video: gray long sleeves, red hat). All I can think of is last year's finish. I had the same final battle then, running my course PR of 1:39:52. I had to go for it!

Mile 13-finish (Garmin: .20mi): 7:25/mi pace

On the verge of losing control, I take the final downhill turn at top speed. The clock is still set to the 5K time, so for a moment, I'm unsure if I made it.
 

Terry Croft photo credit.

1:39:05
7:33/mi.
Female 30-34: 1st place
8th woman

Oh well, close enough. Situated halfway between my half marathon PR and my Rogue River PR, I'm happy with my time. I know that if I had someone with me the last two miles (blue speck girl finished in 1:37:00), I could have pushed under 1:39, but being all alone for so long was one of the toughest mental tests I've ever had so I can't complain. :)

Terry Croft photo credit.

Matthew, the consistent racer he is, finished just fifteen seconds slower than last year in 1:22:30. Last year, his time netted him third place. This year, he won! His time was two minutes slower than he wanted, but the small wad of $20s was a nice consolation.

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A few days later, a friend tagged me in a series of photos taken by Southern Oregon Runners. More often than not, these photographs are finish shots and nothing particularly exciting. I clicked through to the following photo and much to my horror, it's about the most unflattering shot of myself to ever grace the internet.

Terry Croft, SOR photo credit.

As I looked at it more I realized something:

In a world of glamour shots and perfectly staged moments that make running look effortless, I find ones like this to capture the true spirit of running as a competitive sport. Even if I’m only competing against myself and the clock, it can get ugly. It *should* be ugly. Right? All that aside, there’s a bit of beauty, of love, and support. I couldn’t ask for a better training and life partner than the guy on the other end of that high five. I told you I gave it all I had. LOL. :)

The Minutiae of Running: Mystery of the Disappearing Hot Dog

Us runners are creatures of habit. While running the same trails and streets everyday; we cross at the very same place; we run pretty much at the same time; we notice the same things over and over.

When we see something that has changed, it tends to stand out.  We notice if someone has painted their front door or if they've finally trimmed that stupid flowering hedge that has grown just a tiny bit too far over the sidewalk because we've spent weeks avoiding it and vowing to carry trimmers and fix it ourselves. We notice if they planted new flowers or if they haven't picked up their newspapers for a few days. Sometimes I wonder if I know these neighborhoods better than the people who live there, even when they're miles away from my own home and clear across town.

About a week ago, we noticed an unfamiliar truck parked on one of our neighborhood routes. It was unusual because there are no houses on this side of the road and rarely a vehicle is snuggled up next to the curb. Additionally it was memorable to Matt because there was a hot dog in a bun sitting on the dashboard. Matt was particularly hungry that afternoon and I spent the rest of the mile hearing about how he was considering breaking in to steal the hot dog. What were the fines for stealing someone's food? He likes to chase the Domino's truck and/or talk about mugging the delivery man so he can get a snack too, but I digress.....

 

The next day, the hot dog was still sitting there. I also noticed that one of the tires on the truck was flat. That explains why it was parked there. We still couldn't figure out why someone would even set their hot dog down at all. They're best fresh. I eat mine as soon as I order it. It never gets the chance to be set down on a plate, let alone somewhere as precarious as the dashboard of my vehicle. It could fall onto the floor and ......ew. I sometimes eat things that have fallen on the floor in my kitchen, but never things from the floor of the car.

The day after that, the hot dog remained. More scrap metal was added to the back of the truck, but it was still parked in the same place with the same flat tire.

Fast forward a few more days. Saturday afternoon, we passed by the truck again. And the hotdog was gone! The bun and wrapper were still there but the sausage was missing! Did someone break in to steal just the meat? Did the owner suddenly get hungry? There are still so many unanswered questions!

Almost ten days later, the truck is still there with its flat tire and empty hot dog bun.

What do you think happened to the hot dog? Do you notice the minutiae on your running routes? What's the weirdest thing that you've spotted out on a run?

Trinidad to Clam Beach 8.75 Mile Race

The sun shines brightly through the window as I puzzle over the pile of clothes spread out on my bed. It's one of those rare days that I consider racing in a singlet. Is this for real? January is often one of the sunniest and warmest months on the coast and it never ceases to amaze me that I live in a place where there's no discernible season. The only thing that varies is the cloud cover and rainfall. I'm always hesitant to wear a singlet because in January, it still feels wrong. The weather is perfect for racing!

Trinidad, on another sunny day in June 2015.

The only problem is I already know my body is not on board. I've gone to the bathroom a dozen times since waking and I can tell my heart is already beating harder than it should. I try to ignore it while I once again rejoin the toilet line. My legs feel stale and flat and even a gentle pace sends my heart rate soaring and I can't quite warm up my lungs.

I peel off my sweats and head for the line, greeting a few friends as we make our way to the start. Monica falls in line next to me and asks about my goal. She hasn't run much lately, so she's got a conservative goal. Mine is not so conservative: I want to run about a 7:30 pace. With almost five hundred feet of climbing in the first six miles, I know it won't be as easy as it sounds.

Somewhere near the start, a few hours later. Lanore B. photo.

The pack begins to shift and off we go. Right away, we begin with a steep downhill. It's uncomfortable and I take short tentative steps to appease my cranky hip. Thankfully, today it's quiet and that's the least of my worries. I hit the first mile marker at my goal pace but it requires an alarming amount of effort and I question my ability to keep it up.

Mile 1: 7:28

There are even larger hills in miles two and three. I notice that I'm being passed on the downhill sections and I return the favor on the uphills. I'm running as strong as I can, but I know my pace is slowing a lot. My back cries out in agony. My head turns fuzzy. It isn't until I reach the town of Trinidad at the end of the third mile that I realize my breathing is the thing slowing me down most. I can't completely catch my breath no matter how much I slow and my arms and legs are working extra to pick up the slack.

Mile 2: 7:59
Mile 3: 7:53

I briefly consider dropping out at the three mile race finish line but my ego wins out. I'd rather risk a train wreck finishing what I started than give up early. Nope, I'm going to gut this thing out.

About mile 4, November 2010. My first visit to Scenic Dr.

I get a little boost of energy from the crowd in town and the downhill section leading out of town. Now that I know that a fast race is unlikely, I try to focus on pushing hard but enjoying the scenery. I'm not much for running destination races. If I leave town to race, I want to run a flat and fast course because we don't have anything like that here. It's not until my day is unraveling here that I realize why: I live in a place where all we have are what people would call a destination race.

Lanore B. photo.

Mile 4: 7:49

Half of the club races are along the ocean or in the redwoods. As I crest another of those punishingly steep uphill sections, I glance out beyond the road. Our route has been tracing the jagged coastline. Rocky outcroppings lift from a vast carpet of blue water. If there's one place to have an absolutely suffering race, it's one like this: where the stunning beauty is a distraction from the pain. The first six miles of this race is like running on the Big Sur coastline.

Mile 5, from January 2011, my first running of the Trinidad To Clam Beach.

Mile 5: 7:22
Mile 6: 8:26

Shortly after mile six, the course makes a sharp right hand turn and we drop down to the beach. This section of road loses almost two hundred feet in a quarter of a mile and it always makes me want to die a little bit. Sorry quads.

The river crossing is always a highlight of the race. I've run TCB several times and the Little River has varied in depth. Race organizers try to plan for the lowest tide weekend possible, but recent rains often dictate its depth more than the tide. It has rained a lot lately.

There's a rope strung across the channel, anchored by a pickup truck on each bank. Coast Guard rescue swimmers in wet suits are gathered on either side of the rope. A trail of runners inch along through the water. At first, I plunge in, hoping that I'll keep up a bit of a running stride. About halfway across, water reaches my knees, then my waist. By mid-channel, the water is flowing so swiftly that the only thing holding me back from being swept to the ocean is the rope. Water pushing against one side, I'm soaked from the armpits down. At the precise moment I think that the water is a refreshing change, I'm swept off my feet. The woman next to me is able to grab my shoulder before I go under completely. Coasties rush in. Now I'm completely panicked. I'm shaking as they try to coax me along. (The following video is worth the time if you want to watch. It gives a beautiful overview of the second half of the course and the river crossing.)

By the time I emerge from the water, I can't feel anything. I'm numb. While the icy cold has temporarily taken away my discomfort, with it has gone my ambition. I'm done. I'd spent the last six miles trying to push myself to a good race, now I don't care at all.

Mile 7: 8:37

My breathing is still raspy and uncontrollable. I trot along, staring into the waves. Even though this race isn't turning out as I wanted, I'm still able to appreciate that today's tailwind is providing a comfortable beach experience. It's sunny, it's warm, and dammit, it really isn't as bad as it could be. I think back to my first DNF, also related to my asthma. The place that I dropped out is less than a mile from here along the very same beach. Funny how that happens.

Mile 8: 8:14

Matt finds me somewhere about a mile from the finish. A mile sounds painfully far away so it's not cheering me up. Then he tells me that the finish line this year is on packed sand. Typically, the last quarter mile is spent fumbling through ankle deep sand while trying to kick. This makes me happy. Thank you universe!

Mile 8-Finish: 4:37

I can finally see the finish line ahead. I sprint as hard as I can, smile for Yoon and his pretty camera, and cross the finish line before doubling over wheezing.

Y. Kim photo credit.

1:08:27
8.59 miles on Garmin (short course): Pace: 7:59/mi.

Both Monica and Christine greet me, asking how my race went. When I realize I can't catch my breath enough to talk to them, I excuse myself while I head for bag check. I need my inhaler. Badly. I'm always amazed by how quickly my breath returns after a hit or two off the inhaler.

Matt had a solid race, too. He finished in 54:50, which earned him eighth place. As it would turn out, I was eight lady across the line.

Y. Kim photo credit.

It's not until I return home that I realize I've run a PR......... by a mere eight seconds. Since the river took up significantly more time this year (78 seconds stopped according to Strava) than the last time I ran, fitness-wise, it's probably closer to a 90 second PR. On such a bad lung day, that's pretty awesome.

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I spent the rest of the day feeling off. Sunday wasn't much better. Monday I happened to have regular asthma/allergy checkup. The peak flow test they did yielded a normal result, but one small blip on the chart indicated that my lungs aren't emptying quite as they should. Given that I'm an athlete, the doctor explained, my lungs should exceed the normal range, not sit near the bottom, meaning that as a runner, they actually perform quite poorly. Until that visit, nothing had ever shown up and I found myself frequently questioning whether or not I actually have asthma. Since these episodes don't appear suddenly, she suggested I double up on one of my medications when I feel off. A day or two should be all I need to nip it before it becomes something bigger and I'm left wheezing on the beach.

He could have talked me over a cliff if there were a Dutch Brothers at the bottom

"Coffee," I mumbled sleepily.

That's the only word I could find in my groggy state. Matt pulled back the curtains revealing not only daylight, but a sky that had obviously been that way for several hours. Once upon a time, when I was on a typical Monday thru Friday person, I was a morning person. I relished in the stillness of the morning, watching the world go from dark and peaceful to a rush of excitement. These days? Forget about it.

Mt. McLoughlin didn't want to leave her (cloud) blanket behind this morning either.

Out of desperation, I choked down a cup of the bitter sludge passed off as hotel coffee. I don't drink coffee regularly, and when I do, it's almost always decaf. I wondered how it was possible to become such a coffee snob when I seldom drink the stuff. Nevertheless, this morning required the real thing, not the broken decaf. Adventure traveling with Matt almost always requires the regular because we're forever doomed to be fitness mismatches. He completely wrecks me when I let him. This trip, I definitely had.  Matt was sneaky enough to lure me out of the hotel room in full adventure gear by promising good coffee. That morning, he could have talked me over a cliff if there were a Dutch Brothers at the bottom.

Once I was fully caffeinated, an americano in one hand and a snickerdoodle the size of my face in the other, I was much more of a joy to be around. It just so happened to be the part of our drive where the mountains turned white and snow clung to every surface, so I can't be sure which improved my mood.

Compared to our previous snowshoe day, this one was easy. Following a single set of fluffy snowmobile tracks, each footstep held firm and we leisurely walked up the mountainside with ease. We always find something to talk about, but when I come to write about it later, I've completely forgotten. I'm sure the coffee made me extra chatty, too.

Our destination for the day is the Table Mountain Lookout. As we climbed higher, the wind picked up. Clouds moved in while a biting icy cold nipped our cheeks. We picked up the pace hoping that we wouldn't miss the views for the day.

Moments later, we arrived at a snowy gate. Above the gate was a collection of towers. Did we have the wrong mountaintop? We weren't sure, but continued up anyway knowing the view from here would be great, lookout or no lookout.

We ended up being right on both accounts. The lookout tower was where one would expect and the views were appropriately stunning. A partly cloudy day added to the beauty, casting varying shades of blue light on every rise and fall in the landscape down below.

We tried to linger on the top as we snacked and took photos, but the wind was quick to drive us away. If there's one element of the weather I truly despise, it's the wind. One can never wear enough layers to hide from the wind.

With snacks in hand, we decided it was time to retreat. I made my way back to the forest first, while Matt lagged behind, paying more attention to his snacks than keeping up.

He also took this photo of me, I guess. ;)

I had made it to the forest before I realized Matt wasn't behind me. It didn't take long to find him, but when I did, I laughed and made sure to take his photo. Photos or it didn't happen, right?

In the flat light and distracted by his almonds, he miscalculated one of the snow drifts and toppled over. When asked if he needed a hand, he told me, "Nah, I've got my snacks, I'm good."

The return trip was quick and uneventful. Hungry for more adventure, we decided to return back to town by a different route. What we found were not only plowed roads, but a winter cabin resort and two other Oregon snow parks. It appears we will need to explore the area more, doesn't it?

5.5 miles, 2:25, 995 ft gain.

Don't worry Southern Oregon, we'll be back!

Crater Lake Ski and Snowshoe: What a Lot of Snow Looks Like

Growing up in northern Michigan, I'm no stranger to snow. Snow often began to fall mid-October. If we were lucky, it didn't start to accumulate for good until a few weeks later, but that was not always the case. All my childhood Halloween costumes fit over snow pants and winter jackets. For this reason, I often took the easy way out and dressed as a hunter even though I have never personally fired a gun.

Snow hung around until well after the official start of spring on March 20th. If I was really lucky, my Easter dress was paired with equally cute matching shoes rather than winter boots, but more often than not it wasn't. On May 15th, 1990, my mom had to carry me to the end of the driveway because the snow was too deep for me to walk through and make it on the bus to kindergarten. The night of my senior prom, the last weekend of April in 2002, we received over a foot of heavy snow. My friends and I walked out to the car barefoot because heels were more dangerous. Then it took an hour to drive the two miles back to my friend's house because we were pushing snow with the car's bumper and kept getting stuck.

Hwy 62 outside of Crater Lake NP.

I'm no stranger to snow and often the first to roll my eyes when all my California friends talk about the rare snowy days we get on the coast. Guys, that stuff isn't even sticking to the ground. It totally doesn't count. More often than not, tales of nearby snow amounts are unimpressive. I know what a lot of snow looks like. Or at least I thought I did.

Then I visited Crater Lake this year. 

Unimpressive these last few years due to the drought, I'd heard tales of the walls of snow carved through the mountains, but never saw them myself. This year, snow levels have not only returned to normal but finally exceeding them with Crater Lake's snow pack at 116% of normal for this time of year. The park road to the rim hasn't been open for weeks because crews wait until it stops snowing to actually plow. The snowbank at the closed gate was about ten feet high during our visit, but I'm getting ahead of myself here.

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In the morning rain, it felt odd to be loading the car with skis. Nobody skis in the rain. It took over an hour of driving to find any sign of snow, but once we did, it was incredible. Crews were taking great care to keep the open but it seemed to be accumulating faster than the plows could push it away. When we arrived at the Thousand Springs Sno Park, I was relieved. For as much as I enjoy playing in the snow, I do not like driving in it.

We climbed out of the parking lot and atop a large wall of snow. Unlike the previous ski day, we were the first to arrive. Today it was our turn to break trail into the fresh powder. We took a few minutes to check out the warming hut before setting out.

My favorite part of the day was the trees. Weighted down by heavy snow, it appeared each one was folded up, sighing under the enormous weight. One of my favorite things about skiing in Fairbanks was shaking the toppled black spruce trees free. They always sprung back so enthusiastically, as if they were saying thank you for digging them out. The trees here were far too tall for this, but what an incredible sight. My winters in the U.P. were far too windy for this type of accumulation.

We took to following some snowmobile tracks through the web of forest roads. After a couple of miles, we tried to go out on our own, but breaking a new trail through two feet of snow wasn't much fun so after a short while, we turned around.  My left wrist began to get cranky so we turned around and had traveled 4.5 miles, which was about the same as the previous day but with much greater effort.

Matt and I tucked back in the car while we ate our lunches and decided what to do next. My wrist wasn't up for more skiing, but maybe a snowshoe? Since we were already close to Crater Lake and had plenty of daylight left, we decided to pay it a visit. 

Summertime fee station. Obviously there's not entrance fee in the winter. hehe.

There's a visitor center in there somewhere....

The park road was closed so we decided to make the climb up to the rim via trail. Hikes are never more satisfying when there's something potentially beautiful at the top. It was still snowing hard and heard that the trail was only broken about a mile up the mountainside so we held dim hopes of reaching it, but since we were there, we gave it a try. The first mile was easy, following along through a maze of snowshoe tracks whose side walls were nearly three feet tall.

We soon reached the point where the ranger must have turned around. Now it was up to us. The increasingly steep slope made for very slow going and I stopped a lot to catch my breath take videos.

The trees here were much shorter and closer to the trail. Of all my adventures this winter, I think this snowshoe hike was my favorite.

After the sky began to darken, we decided to turn around. Certain we were not far from the rim, we convinced ourselves the lake wouldn't be visible anyway.  As I'd later notice on my GPS map, we were very close to the rim village and the lodge. Oh well.

Almost there!

On our return trip, we encountered another snowshoe hiker from Seattle who was surprised to hear that we were the ones breaking the trail. He seemed to think that was the job of the winter ranger. Or something. Oh, city people. ;)

The sun managed to come out for approximately five seconds and cast a really cool light over the landscape.

Our return trip brought the distance up to 2.5 miles which was just enough to leave us thoroughly exhausted for the day.

Back to Medford for some pizza and Dairy Queen!

Buck Prairie Ski

Each rest area situated on the southbound side of Interstate 5 was packed with big rigs. Given how hard it was raining in the valley, we knew the sudden increase in roadside trucks could mean only one thing: snow on the pass, and lots of it. Even though it was barely seven o’clock, it seemed that many decided to wait a bit for the road conditions to improve over Siskiyou Summit, the mountain pass that separates Oregon from California. It was unfortunate for them, but very good news for us.

His and hers. Buying the same brand was an accident.

It had many been years since my skis have sliced through fresh powder. Since the nearest snowy mountain to my home on the coast is up a poorly maintained county road, I don’t often visit while the snow is still fluffy and fresh. It’s crusty and windblown, which makes breaking trail more trouble than it’s worth. For that reason, I usually opt to snowshoe instead.

Neglected dusty boots

Matt and I appreciated the irony of our failed desert trip leading us here as we climbed out of the Rogue Valley, headed east into the hills. It looked a bit like desert, still dry and brown. The valley narrowed into a canyon and suddenly the world was white. The snow was so fresh that the snowbanks on the shoulder of the road were still a pristine white, not a sandy brown.

Helllloooooo Winter!

Expecting to be alone on this Thursday afternoon, we were surprised to see several other vehicles at the snow park at Buck Prairie. We’d gotten a bit of a late start, ran a speed workout, and bought a snow pass before arriving here. As it turned out, arriving in the afternoon was perfect: some wonderfully patient soul had already carved a path through six new inches of fluffy snow. All we had to do was glide along behind.

In the summer, this is a road.

For ninety glorious minutes, I remembered what it was like to ski on good snow; to ski in 25 degree temps with the sun warming my face; and to ski with those postcard perfect trees. I’d forgotten how much faster I can go when conditions are good. It was incredible. Around every turn was a new vista so incredible that it made my heart swell. WINTER, I sighed happily, I MISSED YOU!

Giddy snow grins all around!

Matt and I made loops throughout the snow-covered forest service roads. Some were wide, while other trails took us weaving through the trees. One spot in particular challenged me enough that I was sure I’d crash and my arm would be done.

Our fun off-road adventure. This was the best part of my day.

I convinced myself that it’s probably time to trade in my skinny skis for something with a little more control. My lightweight combination skate/classic skis are made for groomed trails, which were nothing like this. We called it a day when my left wrist began to beg for mercy. I wear a wrist brace to bring some stability, but with very little muscle through that area, the brace makes my hand sore after a while. I had to be careful and not overdo it since I didn’t want this to be my only ski day of the trip!

Me with the view looking toward Mt. McLoughlin, the volcano we climbed last year in August.

The sun was beginning to lower behind the Siskiyou Crest when we arrived back at the car. We had a light snack and then we pointed our car back to Ashland. A dinner of spicy curry helped warm me from the inside, providing the final exclamation point on a perfect day. As we settled in next to the fire that night, I couldn’t wait to do it all again.  I hoped my arm would cooperate and we could do this every day! 

This day's adventures:

Run 6 miles,  47:21, 4@7:25/mi.

Ski 4.75 miles, 1:25, 518 ft. gain.