Ice Lakes Peaks

I lay in my tent listening to the hail, my muscles melting into the ground, and the feeling hits me. It is big love I have for my dad. The feeling has come out of nowhere but as soon as it arrives, I know it is true. I see the path of care I will give to him. It opens for me the way these mountains have been opening. 

Fuller, Vermilion, Golden Horn, Pilot Knob

I am in the tent after climbing four peaks. I am exhilarated and satisfied, my summit fever quenched. My cousin and I have summited Pilot Knob, Golden Horn, Vermilion, and Fuller Peaks in some intense class 4 scrambling and route finding. The peaks are beautiful and ring the equally beautiful Ice Lake and Island Lake. But the rock is crumbly and loose. 

Earlier we had scrambled up that rock, ascending a steep gully on Pilot Knob's east side. I was monkey scrambling on all fours, my butt way up in the air like a monkey tail. I was moving quickly, attempting to win the race with the rock sliding down beneath me. I'd peek up and pick my line, then bend down again to scrabble up. 

My cousin was ahead of me. At intervals, I'd straighten to check his location and line. But every time I did, I paid a price. Vertigo swept through me, causing me to swoon. I learned to not crane my head up and instead stole quick glances. I neared the saddle and the opportunity of flat ground. I had one more move to do and I'd be there. I darted a glance at the wall ahead of me, grabbed the side of a microwave sized oblong rock and, sickeningly, felt it move toward me. I pushed my left hand back against it, meanwhile darting my body around to the right, out of its path. As soon as I cleared it, I pulled my left hand back. Off went the rock. It rolled and crashed, screaming down the gully, picking up speed and raising dust. "Rock! Rock!" I yelled. Though we had seen no one else on the mountain, I wanted to warn if there was someone below. 

Climbing a weakness

I watched as the rock finally came to a stop. I took a few more steps on the saddle, rounding a short tower and saw John. He saw that I was okay, and said "That was scary, huh?" 

"I should never have touched that rock," I said. I shared the vertigo I was fighting - and how my method for doing so had led me to grab the loose rock. I would have to take more care when selecting holds. We continued on, picking lines and glorying in how "way leads on to way" as the mountain opened up to us.

As a climber looks ahead, a mountain presents jagged towers, steep dirt and rock, and beautiful but unscalable faces. Yet, little by little, we found the weaknesses that allowed us to pass - a chimney here, a crack with hand and foot holds there. We'd round a tower and find a ledge system that would lead us along a cliff band, getting us 20 feet closer. This spirit of discovery and problem-solving, coupled with deliberate movement had occupied my mind for 7.5 hours it had taken us to climb the four peaks. It was all-consuming and rewarding.

I'd had no room in my brain for anything other than where I would place my hands and feet and what my next line up the mountain would be. But then, in my tent, I realized Dad had been with me all the while, his recent health issues in my brain. It came to me, as clear and sweeping as any swoon, that blast of big love. I saw how I'll care for him, how true I will be, how steadfast and generous. How there will be ups and downs, how he'll drive me crazy and put up roadblocks with his bad moods and ill temper when he's not feeling well, with his over reliance yet high expectations of meals and phone plan and quality of lifestyle. It won't be an easy or a straight path. There will be obstacles. But I have the perfect training and the way will open up. I will deliberately pace myself and place myself in the best position to be there for him. My big love will fuel me. 

How Wrong Can You Be?

 So... I set out yesterday to "pick off" a 13er in Rocky Mountain National Park. I thought it would be a lot of cruising on awesomely-maintained, tourist trails. How wrong I can be.

I wasn't wrong right away though. The first four miles were a cruise on the kind of trail I'd expected. I had a snack at Sandbeach Lake and then... well. There was supposed to be a trail off the east end of the lake. I couldn't seem to find it. All I found was a path that was peppered with deadfall. No superhighway in sight. It took me several minutes to convince myself that it was indeed the correct trail. I started thinking of it as "trail." That helped. 

I picked up my pace again, climbing over deadfall and making progress. I checked my GPS and saw that the route was actually a quarter of a mile to my east. I bushwhacked to it and made progress up a sparsely-cairned boulder field. I was rattled about routefinding but didn't want to continue checking my GPS. Why, you may ask. Well, because I'm a driven-ass person who didn't want to waste time. So I cruised along to the top of the boulder field and then allowed myself to check my GPS.

I had followed the wrong trail! The original, pre-boulder-field trail HAD been correct. The cairns up this boulder field led somewhere, but it wasn't to my mountain. I looked hard at the map, trying to determine if I could continue up this -  Hunter’s Creek drainage - to reunite with the correct route. I just didn't know if it would go. I decided to turn around and regain the correct route.

Now though, my body was aching. My legs were pissed at me for wasting all that energy on boulder hopping. Off-route boulder hopping. It dawned on me that my head wasn't much in the game either. I considered bagging it and heading home. But, it was still early in the day and there were no clouds in the sky.  

I readjusted my thinking. I named my impatience, and realized that there would be rogue cairns to contend with. I picked where I wanted to go and went there, feeling good when I saw cairns but not wasting time looking for them. Soon I was skirting left around Mt. Orton and climbing the long, multi-tiered class 2 slope up Chiefs Head. My energy was low and I was tempted to stop and eat, sit, rest, but I kept telling myself to keep going at "Everest Pace," which is one foot in front of the other just fast enough that you can tell I'm moving. I finally gained the rocky ridge leading up to the summit. I knew I wouldn't need my trekking poles, so propped them against a blocky boulder that I was sure would be obvious on the descent.

I enjoyed the summit. I drank in the views of Longs Peak, Pagoda Mountain, and Mt. Meeker. I took out the map and looked at the 13ers I still need in the area: McHenry's and Alice. I took off my boots and laid down for 10 minutes. I was proud of myself, proud of Everest pace, proud of myself for getting it together. It was a self-love fest.

I started my descent 20 minutes later, still feeling good vibes. Then I heard the first thunder. I scurried down the rocky slope as fast as I could. Faster than I could. I stepped on a rock I KNEW would slide. It slid and I landed hard on my left elbow and rump. I felt my teeth click and my brain land in my cranium. I assessed how hurt I was. Not very. Bruises, a little blood, and a very loud voice in my head yelling, "No more dumb mistakes! Pay attention to your footing. You are soloing; any slip could have big consequences." That, along with intermittent thunder, accompanied me down the ridge. My head was a noisy place. 

I finished descending the ridge and I realized that I should have spotted my trekking poles in the spot that was “sure to be obvious on the descent.” Turns out it was not obvious. I debated just leaving them and skedaddling. I still had to reascend to 11k to go around Mt. Orton. Above treeline with thunder is not a great place to be. I gave myself 20 minutes to search and retraced my steps back up the ridgeline. I had my lovely Lekis in hand in five minutes.

Now I skedaddled. Down to the Orton/Chiefs Head saddle and then back up to the base of Orton. Skedaddled but with the addition of “No more dumb mistakes.” I watched my footing. I kept eyeing the skies. There were dark clouds and thunder, but nothing near me. I followed the "trail" all the way back to Sandbeach Lake, turning on my GPS tracking just to see how close to the plotted trail it was. 

I did not stop at Sandbeach Lake, I did not pass go and collect $200. I did smile and chat with the tourists on the Trail, but otherwise, I was a hiking machine. I enjoyed the thick air and let my brain oxygenate in it. I thought about everything I'd thought the climb would be today... and then what it really was. A humbling experience. An arduous, trying, thought-provoking, rewarding, beautiful experience.

Chiefs Head Peak 10:49 for 18 mi/5476 ft. Approx 6:17 to summit, 20 mins. on the peak, 4:12 down

Searching for Center

I rode around it, feeling instead my lips - so dry and heat-sucked that they would chafe off in a breeze - the trickle of sweat down my back into my shorts, the ache in my lungs and my quads. Up I kept going. Climbing High Grade and digging deep. For I still can and it is a beautiful thing to have that desire. The drive to keep pedaling, to use the cleats to pull up, to maximize my pedal stroke. Drive feels good. And the confidence that I could - keep pedaling,  and my steady cadence would take me the 50 miles and 5000 feet slated for the ride. My legs and lungs answered.

Inside, my mind imitated my pedaling feet, circling the issue, swirling around it. My mom. I have had low grade depression since visiting her. Her health is finally stable and she is home. But home like she used to be. Home and driven. While her health is stable, she is no longer strong and mobile enough to accomplish all of her aims by her own hand. When I pull in from Colorado, she sees two hands that can. It was a flurry of commands and pushes to weed the garden, put cages on tomatoes, drive to 6 stores, redirect vines, wash windows, fetch this or that from the basement or garden, cut asparagus. 

We kids used to joke that she was a slave driver - we were her slaves and she had us for the purpose of getting work done. It is a poor joke in terms of US history, but I felt where it came from on this visit. She was driven and drove me. She wants the life she used to have - dominion in her garden and kitchen. She was a dynamo in her day, raising and feeding eight kids, milking 72 cows twice daily, haying in the summers, chipping silos in the winter. She still has the drive but doesn't have the answering strength nor mobility. So she drove me. And it felt bad. There was no time to stop and gawk at the baby killdeers on the lawn; "No, I need you to get the fork for weeding for me before Dad comes." 

That is a piece of it too. Being caught in the middle of their war. When she pulled me away from working with him, he came to where we were weeding and said, "No, do not pull that weed. It's too dry. Let it go, TT. We are not going to do things the hard way. Wait for rain and then come out and pull these."

It wore me out, pulled me off-center. I felt like a failure of a daughter because I could never do enough. There was always more on the list. I was always wanting. And there was no meeting of minds, no questions about my life and interests, no joy. She has never been a confidante kind of mom, but we've had connection in the garden work or her health and my care of her. It wasn't there this time. There was just the demand to do more work. It makes me sad. I remember the kid I was and how I struggled with it. That kid came right back on this visit and was reeling. She's still here though I've been back in Colorado for a week.

I get the drive. I get the joy of the drive. I also get aging and loss. I am happy she is "raging against the dying of the light" (thank you, Dylan Thomas). As I want to PR every time I ride my bike, she wants the big beautiful garden she has always had, to cook three meals a day for her family, to make quilts that fetch $6,000 at the church auction. And she wants to do it all in a day.

I am still circling. I get pieces of it. I understand her desires. I understand my desire to please her. 

I also know that I can't. It's an impossible mission. And that's the rub. There is no steady cadence that will allow me to accomplish her aims. It's full throttle PRs every second. I can't do that. It is not possible. (Much less right. Even in a 9-day visit, I need some sense of self.)

Now it's accepting that and figuring out how to not feel like I've failed her. I need boundaries when I go there. I would ask her for a list, but she's never been a list person. She's more of a torrent of energy - what needs doing multiplies as we get into a job. I could do a dedicated number of hours per day, clock in and clock out. 

And meals... I have to set boundaries around those too. I developed an eating disorder as a teenager - out of that drivenness of the house and with the weirdness about food. She feeds us like crazy. The last three days of the trip I never felt hunger. The last morning I woke up to a breakfast of poached eggs on toast with hollandaise sauce and breakfast sausages. Plated. There were two kinds of baked desserts available at all times plus ice cream. And it gives offense to not eat the goods. That's the other piece. I don't do well with sugars. I've known that for years. She doesn't ever ask me though. Just gets sniffy if I don't eat the brownie. It's a power struggle.

Maybe underneath, that's the other piece. Power within our family. Her and dad competing, and whatever you can do to win...

Ugh! I just want my soul! To stick the knife into the brownies at 35 minutes and have it come out clean. Better, no brownies at all! Just my bike and a steep-ass hill, a steady cadence, sweat on my back and butt, heat-chapped lips... yes, that. Give me that!

I am still pedaling up this one.

When You're in Last Place

When you're in last place, so many thoughts go through your head...

Why did I ever sign up to train with Strong and Stronger? They're so much better than me!

They're talking. How can they be freaking talking??

They suggest that the must-haves for training rides are Kleenex and chapstick. When would I have time to apply lip balm? Use Kleenex? I would have to redirect energy from breathing in order to extract the Kleenex. Use breath to blow my nose? Never! 

Take in solid nutrition on the ride? See above.

Mantra: I will get stronger. 

Whimper: I will get stronger. Lookout Mountain is so long. Were there this many switchbacks last time? 

What's with my lower back and butt muscles? My strong, flexible hip flexors are tight and in full-refusal mode.

Breathe. Keep a steady cadence. Back and butt in unison: No! Stuff your steady cadence. 

Maybe if I stretch. I arch my back, then stand up on the pedals to release tension. Breathe into that area. 

Ha. Steady cadence for thirty strokes. Maybe I fixed it!

Are those people passing me on mountain bikes?? Yes, they are. Oh my god. Brené was right. Comparison is the death of happiness.

I want survival. If I survive this, I will require nothing of myself when I get home. My bed.

My bed!

Don't let yourself burp too deep. Oh nausea. My foe. 

And then I am - hallelujah, forever later - at the top. And I can stop. I unfurl my back. I see Strong and Stronger. They have ridden well. We compare notes. They are so nice to me, brainstorming to solve my pain, saying they've been nauseous on this ride, maybe I am not a sucky weakling, but rather am feeling crummy because of my second vaccination shot. What lifts my spirits most is the reassurance that there's not much more uphill left on this ride. 

Eat? No. My stomach flips at the thought of it.

I struggled through and made it back to the parking lot and my beautiful, beautiful car. An hour later, I was in my even more beautiful, luxurious bed.

The ride totaled 42.95 miles with 2987 feet of gain. I affectionately titled it "Lookout 43 Barf" on my GPS. I will get stronger. I believe that. It's just gonna be some painful miles between here and there. Gulp.

Vax Day

It's here. Vax day. It feels historical and monumental and shivery all at once. What a life-changer this last year has been. Remember the first days of mask-wearing and the other-worldness of stores and streets full of people wearing masks? Now I startle when someone is not wearing one. Ugh, anti-maskers and all the  political undertones. Past TV scenes of large groups together not wearing masks stirs an ache in me. Wow, it used to be like that... we could do that without ramifications.

I am super-curious of what we'll learn in the years to come. Why do some people who get COVID-19 end up on ventilators while others suffer only mild symptoms? Shoot, why do some people have a stronger adverse reaction to the vaccine than others? I hope some investigative journalist will canvas this virus's path and write a book like Randy Shilts's, And the Band Played On, chasing down every thread and weaving together the psychology of how Americans reacted to the threat of this virus. There are definitely parallels between this pandemic and the AIDS epidemic: people who want to deny the bad news, people who don't want to change their lifestyle if it doesn't directly threaten them - or even if it does. Then there are the ones who understand early, and try to get out ahead of the virus, the champions for reason and health and science. In both epidemics, Anthony Fauci is/was a key player. In both, the reaction to the virus became highly-politicized. Which saddens me. I wish humans could be more objective about health issues.

And I think where I have been with this... super-scared at first. I remember going back to WI in March the week that "Shelter-in-place" entered our vocabularies. I was shopping at Home Depot with my elderly father (who is already vaccinated, yes!) and was making sure I was the one touching items and not him and trying to hurry through the store to get him back to the safety of his van, receiving texts from family members warning us that the virus could live on surfaces for days and that we should wipe down everything... To fights with my Quarantine Partner over how safe we needed to be... To now where I barely worry about surface spread, but wear a mask whenever I am indoors with other people. To now where I am comfortable being at school with half of our students reporting each day, and look forward to feeling safe when 100% of them are in person. The dream of 100% in-person was unthinkable until vaccinations. 

That is the other piece. The students through this. Some have played a yearlong game of hooky; others have reached out to their teachers and are thriving academically. Most have found a way to get their social fix - whether it be in the Zoom calls with me (!) or connecting with cousins or friends. Tiktok needs a medal. It gave students a place to be goofy - or glamorous, as they presume. In either case, it has connected kids. And we will need to reconnect many of them to academics. What will this look like? I'm ready to figure it out. 

Rolling up my sleeve and ready.

FireBelly

 It's starting. The fire in the belly. I signed up for the Elephant Rock century ride and two weeks into training has taken me places... 

Ouch places when I first got on my bike, my old reliable Burley Pine Grove. No longer made, it's vintage and catches the eye of every bike dealer who I let work on it: "Oh, they only make bike trailers now." Sexy. 

Anyhow, the ouch was between my shoulder blades. Excruciating after 20 miles in the saddle and the pain staying for 2 days. So, I started looking for a bike fit and a new bike. My local guy took one look at me on my bike (outside of the shop for COVID safety) and suggested two tweaks. Some hundreds of dollars later as there were other issues, I had a new-looking bike on my hands - and much reduced shoulder pain! Miracle worker.

Ouch places... riding with my sister and our other friend who are in much better biking shape than I am. I have to qualify this. I am not coming from the couch, but I am coming from the mountains in 2020. I climbed a record 25 last year. Woot! 

Buuuut, that is a different kind of conditioning than saddle time. So, ouch. On the hills they killed me especially hard. I am not clipped in because of my chronic knee issues, but after years of religious PT (and HATING to suck wind behind those two other old bags), I might be ready to try my clips again. Which means back to the bike shop for me. My other ones are so old, I have to believe there are looser-riding, easier-unclipping ones in the world.

And finally, ahhhh places... places where I'm on my bike and I feel fast. Not one with the bike, not that yet, but I remember that I used to have that feeling. I get glimpses of it and know I'll get stronger and feel faster.

Places like last night, rolling up and down the hills around the countryside, reveling in new roads to ride. 

This morning... waking up and wanting to ride. Ready to ride. Ready to do this thing. I have a good case of fire in my belly.

Mask On, Eyes Open Wide

Trying to get out before all the others, I took an early walk this morning. Very few people were out, but the only other two women I saw reached a narrow bridge at the same time I did. I veered off on a dirt path that followed the creek more closely. I hadn't gone that way before and opened my eyes wide, turned my head this way and that, soaking in the new view of my backyard.

There was still frost on the ground on this quiet side of the creek.

This is how it's going to be for the foreseeable future. This social distancing. All people aren't complying and so this will go on longer. I will not be able to return to Wisconsin to help my parents with their health needs; it's too risky that I'm an asymptomatic carrier. School will continue to be online for the rest of the year. No high fives and reading my students' faces. (No weighing whether or not they're crossing the naughty line enough that I need to intervene either. That I do not miss.) I won't go to stores or restaurants or enjoy in-person happy hours with friends.

But I will go to the quiet side of the creek. I will live a deeper inner life. I will reflect and write and read. I will pick up my guitar. I will try to create beautiful things. I will try to grow and understand.

I heard an invitation this morning. It's an invitation to the quiet side of life. To step out of the hustle-bustle, hurly-burly rat race. To step back from the noise of politics and other people's decisions and to live deeply in my sphere of control. I heard the invitation.

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