The Fred Tour

Snuck out for a quick two-dayer with Fred. Great to get out in it, doubly great to be able to refine gear a bit more. Fred's fitness is coming around fast (no pun) as evidenced by the fact that he was out ahead the whole damn time, as well as by the fact that I had a hard time getting out of bed at 9 AM this morning.

Fred putting in a little extra oomph to keep it flowing.




Paintbrush glow while Fred earns the climb.


Great flowers and a brief break with impending doom on the horizon.


A 4 hour spring shower (with snowline just ~1000' above us) meant a severe revision of our route plans. Wet clay in this region is simply impassable, prompting a 30-mile stretch of abandoned hwy to get to a c-store. Much consumption ensued.


We didn't leave the c-store until close to midnight, and were tired/sleepy enough to stop and drop just about any time. Cold evening temps prompted us to ride a few miles before bivying, just to get our core temps back up.


Acute right turn comin' up. Hard to see the vague trail in the dark, so navigation by GPS was often necessary.


Rise and shine.


Damp trails early on caused some delay while we scraped mud or searched out detours.


The one thing that pics rarely convey is wind. Throughout the day I'd estimate we were bucking an average ~20mph headwind, with rare lulls and frequent ridgeline gusts of 30+. As we crested this ridge (and every one thereafter) we were met with a blast to the face.


To put the day in perspective, a 'normal' mid-May ride in this region would feature ~90 degree temps, lots of sand, past-prime wildflowers and cheat grass going to seed. We never took off the leg warmers, drank less than half of what we thought we would, and the flowers seemed like they were still on the upswing.

Nice flow through here.


The previous day's rain packed most of the washes down real good.


Some were moister than others, and this one was pretty heavy on alkali soup.


Some were simply impassable.


Moto-installed trails in this region have many things in common. Among them are ridicu-steep hills that no human could pedal up. The spines they ascend/descend are aesthetically pleasing for sure.


Not thirsty at the moment, thankyouverymuch.


Clouds boil as Fred crests another pusher.


'Ow' is the best word for the constant steep spines.


Claret cups brightened the landscape, as did paintbrush, flax, phlox, chamisa, globe mallow, and 62 others whose names I never remember.








Go that way.


Now come this way.


Yay.


Again I say yay.


Neither of us ever cried uncle, neither did we complain at the brief bits of flat ranch road that connected the steep singletrack.


You are here.


Fred's a spiny fella.


Hauling the mail as the day winds to a close.


Our route connected one of the most popular regional routes (first day) with one of the least popular (second day). We saw a few motos, a ~dozen or so bikers and a few vehicles on the first. And the second? A few sheep and a man atop a horse, cresting a ridge a long way off.

Some trails are so fun and well put together that I can't wait to get back out on them. Others? Not so much. I doubt I'll ride this one again (at least not in it's entirety) but I'll never forget it either.

Farewell lakes to Salmon River Swamps.

The day dawned clear and calm--exactly what I'd been hoping for. I'd laid in the bag for long enough that there was no dilly-dallying and no missteps when repacking in the sharp cold that had settled onto the lake. I made a mental note on how much clearer the process of repacking seemed after spending a few extra minutes cataloging everything I had to pack away, and what order worked best to pack it.

Side note: I realize that it seems extremely obsessive compulsive (anal, anyone?) to have to plot and plan an 'order' in which to repack ones gear. When I raced this route the amount of gear I carried was significantly less--both by design and by evolution. I learned the hard way that the more stuff you have to account for and stash away, the more time you spend not moving, which means you're getting colder by the minute. First thing in the AM when the temps are at their coldest is a difficult time to merely conjure up the mental wherewithal to get yourself out of a perfectly warm sleeping bag, not to mention the guaranteed pain involved in having your hands go numb (repeatedly) while stashing all of the stuff that needs to be stashed. In short, the less time you spend packing, the warmer your extremities remain. And within minutes of being packed and moving, the blood is flowing and everything starts to warm up nicely. So it pays to pack quick.

While stuffing my sleeping bag I couldn't help but notice the track of a lone lynx that had circled the tent sometime in the night.I get a kick out of how well adapted they are to this environment--those gargantuan feet belong to a ~30lb cat!

I make a habit of walking the first ~1/2 mile every morning--basically just to get myself a teeny bit limber before hopping on the bike and clipping in to the pedals. It also serves as a good time to recheck all the cinch straps holding precious gear to the bike, as well as brush teeth, degoopify eyes and glasses, check/replace the batts in any of the appliances I'm carrying (GPS, SPOT, camera, headlamps), and just generally prepare for the day.

Crossing Steele Lake a few miles later it was entertaining to see the tracks of the bikers ahead. Fresh snow had obscured all markers and previous tracks before they arrived, so some of their tracks followed the margins of the lake (looking for where the trail exited) while those that came after (raises hand) could simply look ahead and see where to go.
Gone are the days, however, when you could look at a tire track and know who left it. The proliferation of Surly EndoMorph tires has forced would-be trackers to memorize the soles of their competitors boots! Ha!

My attention to these sorts of things (and the light mindframe that went along with them) was a great mask for what was really on my mind: gear repairs. The morning was far too cold yet to work with bare hands, so I focused on anything else and kept tabs on the rising temp.

Rolling along through the Farewell Hills I had time to reminisce about the dead wolf that some crafty bison hunters had propped up alongside the trail a few years back. They'd found it trailside after it had apparently been stomped to death by a moose. By accident or intent I'll never know for sure, but the hunters had carefully placed the carcass behind an alder thicket so that it was invisible to northbound travelers until they were literally arm's reach away. It was early in the morning (still dark) and I was a sleep deprived zombie when it entered my peripheral vision. My brain registered the shape but didn't believe it. When I swung my headlamp over to double check, the wolf's eye reflected the light and I'll swear til my dying day that that wolf took a step forward. I emitted (100% involuntarily) a 14-year-old-girl-at-a-horror-movie scream, simultaneously sprinting and bunnyhopping (?) as I passed the wolf. I was so certain it was real and so terrified it was chasing that I didn't stop sprinting for at least 2 minutes, and simply could not bring myself to turn and look back. I didn't want to know.

Folks that passed the carcass in daylight hours (or that were less sleep deprived) got a good chuckle out of it but I don't think anyone else was as fooled as I was. Chalk one up for the bison hunters...

Near the north end of the Farewell Hills the sun had risen enough that I could start to consider working with gloves off. The hills aren't big and the vegetation, while thick enough to make traveling off-trail miserable, doesn't really provide any shelter from wind.As I cruised ever northward I kept looking for a windless spot with southern exposure--basically I wanted the sun on my face and hands while fixing stuff. Such a spot never presented itself--the farther I rode the more the wind came up, until finally I had no choice but to stop, drop and deal with my gear issues regardless. The breeze wasn't much but it was pervasive, essentially rendering every effort I made at lighting the stove futile. Not willing to waste any more time while the wind continued to rise, I focused on repairing the tent poles.

Laying awake hours before I simply couldn't think of a reason why the poles would crack at -30 degrees but not at -20 or -10. Had it been cumulative fatigue combined with cold? Was the design of the tent such that the poles were overstressed and as such doomed to fail regardless? I had no answers, just many empty theories coursing through my noggin' as I re-reinforced each pole junction. I used up 75% of my alloted duct tape for the entire trip fixing the poles, and ~half of my zip ties, but when I finished I was confident in the repair.

Optimistic--that's me. I should have known better...

Once I started moving again I didn't have a whole lot on my mind--staying on the trail and upright against the ever-freshening crosswinds took all of my concentration. The wind wasn't malevolent or crazy or brutal--it was actually a lot of fun. No doubt my perspective was colored by the fact that it was midday (big wind at night almost always seems malevolent to me) but I enjoyed fighting the wind for control of the bike, and laughed each time it 'won', pushing me off the trail and into the deep snow. Over and over I'd extricate myself from the deep stuff, push a short distance to get the bike to the right margin of the trail, then remount and alternately finesse (in the lulls) and fight (in the gusts) 'til I got shellacked again.
The miles passed slowly but I enjoyed myself intensely--lost in the minute-to-minute struggle.

Eventually the fun came to an abrupt end as the trail took a northwesterly turn--it was instantly drifted in and that was simply that.

I walked through the afternoon and evening, often stopping briefly to turn away from the blasting of the relentless gale. I enjoyed the sunset while walking and then ingested my only 'meal' of the day in the form of a 500-calorie chocolate bar a few minutes before setting up the tent. My hunger had been manageable throughout the day and I'd deliberately saved the calories until just before climbing into the bag: I'd much rather deal with hunger while awake than while trying to sleep. Although movement had been consistent throughout the day and I wore plenty of clothing (with plenty in reserve) for the temps and windchills, the caloric deficit was catching up to me and I felt it in a rare inability to stay warm once the sun went down.

I pitched the tent in a tangle of downed trees at the edge of a swamp. The wind was still strong here but the tangled trees had removed a bit of it's conviction--swirling and buffeting were the norm as opposed to the relentless driving gales out in the open. I was thrilled to feel warm inside the bag but sleep was restless and tortured--both by the wind, the gnawing in my stomach, more pole failures, and by unexpected company...

The Fifth Night.

As with every other night on The Trail thus far, when the first yawn stretched across my face I immediately started looking for a camp spot. No need to be picky when you have a -60 bag and bombproof tent in the quiver, right? I descended a short hill and rolled out onto the first little pothole lake in the Farewell chain, took not more than a cursory glance around (not much to see in the dark), then started stomping out a trench for the tent. The night was easily the coldest so far at ~minus 30, and as I fiddled with unstrapping stuff from the bike a small chill set in.

Things only went downhill from there.

Once the trench was stomped out just so I unfurled the tent and slid the first pole inside. Arced it up and around and just as I was about to set it in it's spot I heard/felt a *crick* that was anything but good. I removed the pole and visually confirmed what my heart already knew--the pole had cracked.

Damn.

The crack was at a junction--the female end had split open. Not having used tents very often in my career as a racer geek, I hadn't considered that a broken pole was a realistic problem. Suddenly it seemed real enough and I didn't have a contingency plan for it.

Damn.

Although the raw temp was only -30 it had been hours since I'd eaten anything. That fact combined with a lack of movement to produce heat and I was suddenly, acutely aware of how critical that ten cents worth of tubular aluminum was.

Mentally rummaging through all of the 'spares' I had along with (while walking in circles to maintain a teeny bit of heat), I came upon the idea of using a spare spoke to splint the cracked pole. I quickly grabbed my Leatherman and used it to snip a spoke in half, then cinched the two halves tightly to the pole junction using zip ties. Cautiously optimistic yet impatient and *needing* this fix to work, I delicately reinserted the pole and breathed a huge sigh of relief when it held.

However, I hadn't thought far enough ahead when 'installing' the zip ties, and now that the pole was in place I could see that they were poking up into the tent fabric. Drat. I removed the pole again, shuffled over to the bike and unwrapped a few feet of duct tape from the seatpost, then wrapped the tape around the zip ties. Good enough. I delicately reinserted the pole and was again relieved when it held.

Phew.

Disaster momentarily averted, I reached for the second pole. As I arced it up and around and was just about ready to set it in it's little crook, IT cracked.

Damndamndamndamn. Damn!

Half stressed and half smiling (hey--sussing out gear failures is precisely the reason I came here) I implemented the same 'emergency fix' using a spoke/zip ties/duct tape. Full-on shivering now (partially from the cold, partially from the anxiety), I slid it back into it's spot and delicately set it.

And it held.

I tried to be delicate as I went about the rest of the evening chores, but sometimes I had to contort myself (like while disinfecting my feet just inches away from the inferno that is my snow melter) in such a way that I'd bump the tent wall. I'd instantly halt any further motion and hold my breath (literally--I wanted to be able to hear even the slightest *crick*) but no further noises happened.

Satisfied that the poles would make it through the night, I exhaled out the last of the anxiety, smiled weakly, then turned my attention to making dinner.

And then, apropos of nothing, my stove sputtered twice and flamed out.

God. Damn. It.

I set aside the pot full of slushy snow and picked up the stove and fuel bottle. I could only assume that somehow the jet had gotten plugged, so I shook it every which way to dislodge any debris, then gave it a few pumps and relit it. Slowly and haltingly it caught, flickered, burned a bit then flared down. Uncertain as to any 'proper' course of action I pumped it a few more times and that seemed to help--it flared up and burned strong for a minute or so, then would start to sputter and flare down. A few more pumps made it marginally better, but I was getting paranoid about how much pressure was already inside that teeny little fuel canister. Any second now that flimsy rubber seal could give way and allow ~7oz of highly volatile liquid white gas to directly contact the flames. Poof--instant inferno. Staring at the sputtering stove inches away from the foot of my bag (and all inside of a two-man tent), this seemed somehow sub-optimal.

After several more minutes of fiddling the stove extinguished itself for good, and no amount of futzing could bring it back.

Harumph.

Resigned to no dinner tonight, no breakfast in the morning, no lunch in the afternoon, and no water tomorrow (or at least until I could figure out the stove), I snuggled deep into the warmth of my bag and slept fitfully while dreaming of slabs of ribs, a rare t-bone, and, for some odd reason, 4 (not three, neither five) pieces of dry white toast.

I went to sleep hoping that no wind would come up, and knowing that I'd have mucho fiddling and fixing to do during the 'heat of the day' tomorrow.

The zip tie fixes lasted all night.

But but but...

At 4AM not more than the slightest puff of a breeze came over the trees and down onto the lake. I heard it coming, braced myself inside of the bag, then bolted into motion when I heard the now-too familiar *crick*. I scrambled to unzip my bag then immediately felt the tent fabric pushing down on my face while fumbling to switch on my headlamp. Once I had light it was easy to find the newest crack--the pole formed a right angle at precisely that spot. I grabbed my socks (the first soft thing that I was able to lay my hands on) and wiggled them between the pole and the fabric--just a temp fix to keep the fabric from ripping. Then I set about gathering the spoke, zip ties, and duct tape to fix it.

~30 minutes later the tent was more-or-less standing, my heart rate was back to ~normal, the headlamp had been switched off and I was again getting cozy inside the bag. Sleep, however, never returned, as my mind raced trying to sort out why the poles were cracking, how to stop them from continuing, and how to get the stove working again. The only certainty was that I needed just one more day of warm temps and no wind to effect all of these repairs trail-side.

A-Z

The planets aligned in such a way last weekend that I was waiting on parts for every build in the queue, and until those parts arrived I had zero wheels to build. So I snuck out for a roadtrip with a few friends, destination Southern AZ.

I've known about and drooled over Scott Morris' AZT 300 race route since its' inception, but could never figure out a way to make the drive plus car shuttle (it's a point to point route) happen. It's a long way to Tucson and that doesn't include getting to the start, leaving a car at the finish, then getting everyone involved back home without a huge amount of finagling. Like I said above--the planets aligned this time around and I doubt it could have been arranged or executed much smoother even with months to plan it.

The roadtrip was fun, smooth, and soothing (traveling at ~60mph for a few days in an '84 Vanagon will cure any 'hurry up' issues you may be having...), but it was the riding that we were there for, and the riding did not disappoint. Scott spends most of his waking/working hours with maps and GPS software as well as being heavily involved in trail design and building. And in his 'off hours' he does more of the same plus he rides a ton. So it shouldn't have been a surprise at all that he devised and mapped such a brilliant route. But still--it was. 'Twas supremely easy to follow (via GPS) with as much singletrack as he could find between A and B, often going out of the way to link more trails and avoid roads, and even more often paralleling roads on first-class trail. Anyone interested in putting together a ride/race/route needs to ride this one first--as far as I'm concerned it sets the standard for this type of event.

Although the event is billed as a race I had zero interest in anything other than hedonistic pleasure. Pete and I agreed on a plan to ride fast, sleep well and long, take lots of pics, and beyond that we'd just take it as it came. We stuck to that plan and had a glorious time out there, made even better by the addition of Fred and Scott as company for the bulk of the ride.

Anyhoo--enough mundane verbiage. Enjoy the show.



Thanks to Fred, Pete, Chad, Carl, and Marshal--glad it worked out so well and really looking forward to the next one. Double extra secret special thanks to Scott for laboriously piecing together such a brilliant route.

Cheers,

MC

Sorry, but I'm just tickled.

To all of you that have sent encouraging emails, perhaps hoping or even willing me to get cracking and post another 'day' from the AK trip, thanks. For the encouragement.But please, stop! Reading these emails is taking even more time that I don't have to spend right now!
Spring is a glorious time to be alive in the desert (I know--I am) and even though I have an overflowing plate between spending time with L and D, building wheels, riding bikes, and evaluating all sorts of pre-production bikey stuff, I'm still just tickled to be here, now. The sky is blue just about every day, the trails are in amazing shape, I'm more or less healthy (post-AK weight gain notwithstanding...), and the hordes of tourists are only here on the weekends.As time permits I *will* continue posting pics and anecdotes from my trip up north. I'm actually really looking forward to it. But sitting here to type for more than 3 minutes means that I've let a 'fire' go from smoldering to raging somewhere else (figuratively speaking, of course...) and now is simply not the time to do that.Concisely put: Please--be patient. All good things to those who wait!

A few pics sprinkled hither and thither throughout this post--all from the last few weeks.

Enjoy the spring.

MC

Rainy Pass to Farewell Lake.

You know it's gonna be a good day when you wake up to this:
Obviously bluebird even in the pre-dawn gloom, and it only got better and better all day. In retrospect this day featured some of the highest highs of the trip.
After extricating myself from the disgustingly comfy confines of the tent, I did something that in 10+ years of Idita-travel I'd never even considered: I hiked away from the bike. There's a little bump of a ridge that sits just east of the pass, and I indulged a little to get the bonus view from above the trail. The cerulean sky so perfectly framed by layer after layer of peaks and ridgelines made me briefly but seriously consider leaving the tent where it was for the day.I consider it a pipe-dream to spend a motionless day in a spot such as this. Although the idea gained some serious momentum in my brain I ultimately decided to keep moving, knowing I'd need every calorie and then some to make it the full distance to Nome.

Walking back to the tent I picked up two sets of wolf tracks, obviously an adult and a pup. They meandered in the same general direction that I was headed and my heart beat a little faster as I followed them right back to the tent. Roughly 40 feet away they'd done a slow semi-circle around me sometime in the night, and then, no doubt bowing to their intense curiosity, the adult had tiptoed up (really tiptoed--you could see the difference in the imprints in the snow) and leaned way forward to sniff one of the tent guylines. Then (s)he'd taken a bold step forward and urinated on the base of the guyline.

As many times as I've seen wolf tracks, scat, and wondered at the shadows moving through my peripheral vision (juuuuust outside the range of my lights) while riding through a night, it'd be hard to come to any conclusion other than that they are intensely curious about us as well as just a bit baffled by us. If they remotely understood us they'd simply stay far away and that'd be the end of it. Staring at the small yellow hole in the snow it occurs to me that maybe this one was being not only protective of it's turf, but perhaps just a bit cocky in showing off to the adolescent that trailed it. Pondering that, with a grin I turned and 'marked' over the top of his/her scent. Touche.

The trail down from the top of the pass featured severely wind-affected snow that was tempting to try to ride. It was just soft enough underfoot that I was skeptical that I could pedal the bike (even downhill) and glancing at the craters all along the sides of the trail reaffirmed this suspicion. So I walked and gawked, happy just to be in the mountains and through the pass.

My happiness was soon replaced by frustration, caused mostly by the nerd-herd of Euro racers I found myself caught in the midst of. I wasn't surprised that none of them spoke a word of English, and since my Italiano is limited to poor pronunciation of a few choice entrees along with "Scusi" and "Grazie" it wasn't really possible to converse. But the language barrier shouldn't stop someone from returning a wave or a smile, nor should it encourage a lack of consideration of basic trail rules.
These photos should serve to remind me of the stunning alpine scenery that I was privy to on this morning, but instead as I look I find myself thinking, "Oh yeah--that's the jackass that dumped his trash trailside" or "Here's the jerk that impatiently and wordlessly shoved his way past me only to immediately stop in the trail and change layers, leaving me the option of waiting til he was done or postholing around him".

I'm embarrassed to admit that I let these petty little things foul up my mood for a few hours. But then I remembered the solution:

With a refreshed attitude I continued pushing downhill toward the Dalzell Gorge, stopping once to fiddle with a constricted hydration hose, once to slather super glue onto the biggest holes in my feet, once to unload the bike so that I could splash through an open creek and once to trundle it up a steep hill.These brief breaks allowed the nerd-herd to move ahead and I enjoyed the trail into and through the gorge alone.Dumping out of the gorge and onto the Tatina River pimp-slapped me back to reality. I'm even more embarrassed about my Euro-fueled moodswing back up in the pass now that I'm down here and I get to see this:Although these pics get me salivating to be back there right now, they do nothing to capture the ethereal rawness and remoteness of the place. And that's as it should be.
A friend and fellow racer refers to trail/situation-induced highs as 'white moments' and in the fleeting alpine light of the ensuing afternoon they flowed freely. These moments are, to me, so priceless and so rare that it's difficult to find words for them and photos do nothing to bring them back. They merely get enjoyed in situ and then you move on, glowing. Glowing is the most appropriate word I can think of, now, to describe the way I felt as I passed through Rohn, traversed the South Fork of the Kuskokwim, then worked out past the Post River and Egypt Mountain before bivying on Farewell Lake. I have no recollection of time passing, nor of energy expenditure or caloric intake, they all coalesce into one fluid moment that lasted for hours, the recollection of which brings out goosebumps and a certain detached/glazed expression punctuated by a vacuous grin.

Just priceless.

Windy meadows to Rainy Pass.

The last two mornings it took an extra moment (after opening my eyes) to get my bearings. Not this morning! If you've ever been through Rainy Pass you'll never forget it, regardless of the time of day or the weather as you went through, even though *both* of those factors will be a big part of your memories of the event. (Every Idita-race veteran is nodding their head vigorously right now...) It's difficult to explain how the moment before my eyes opened I was already wired by the prospect of potentially making it to the pass today. The mountains between here and there were merely a scenically striking bonus to keep me entertained as I wended my way pass-ward.The trail continued as hardpacked as ever and riding was no chore even with my only-slightly-lighter-than-at-the-start steed. Easy travel, a light frame of mind, and even some fun dipsy-doodling on contouring trail near Round Mountain made the morning pass quickly and I found myself rolling across Puntilla Lake around noon.

Sharon and Dick are the caretakers of the Rainy Pass Lodge and although we're really just acquaintances who've met along the trail they seem like lifelong friends. I wouldn't dream of passing through without stopping for a spell. Dick is not to be found but Sharon comes out and shares the highlights of the winter so far. These two live a lifestyle that many would kill to hear firsthand tales of and few could ever commit to, and time passes quickly as she shares some of the latest. It seems that their children have upped the pressure on her and Dick (who are in their 70's although you'd never know it to look at them) to leave this utopia behind and reenter society to be closer to help 'should something go wrong'. I don't even need to ask if the kids that are leading this charge have visited Sharon and Dick out here. If they had they'd be clamoring to move back in with the 'rents instead of trying to force their own fears and anxieties onto two people who've truly found their place in the world. Most of us (raises hand) would give limbs to have the opportunity to live this peacefully and contentedly right up until the moment that we keel over into a drift on our way back from the outhouse.

I leave Sharon's company in an even better headspace and am able to ride the sinuous trail through the foothills north of the lake and out above treeline.Once on top the wind is up and the trail has been alternately drifted over and scoured clean, mandating the first extended Idita-pushing of the trip. Although there is a certain stigma attached to walking with one's bike I'm thrilled to be doing it here, now.
Instead of frustratedly focusing on the gossamer thin line of semi-ridable trail I stroll along effortlessly, keeping my head up and appreciating the austere alpine views, all as my creative subconscious has a field day with the whipped and whirled shapes passing beneath my feet.Abstract, yes?
But a slightly different angle gives perspective to it.
Sastrugified wolf tracks in the foreground, with the trail, a tripod, and the Alaska Range beyond.

High clouds move in and flatten the light, but before long the sun peeks through beneath and the contrast it lends makes for breathtaking scenery and (even with my gutless point and shoot) stunning photography. My soul sings and I can't think of a place I'd rather be.Working up the Happy River Valley toward Kohlsaat Peak.

In every race I've appreciated this place but never fully and I've always cursed myself for rushing through it. Today there is no cursing, merely measured breaths, even footsteps and a constant full-to-the-brim grin on my face. Too many times to count I simply stopped, sat on the top tube of the bike, and gazed at all that surrounded me. I should have adopted this mode of travel years ago...

As the sun dips beyond the range and the cloud pyrotechnics begin, it occurs to me that my mood is certainly influenced by the surrounding landscape but maybe some of it is due to the lack of mental interruption as I travel?Aside from the conversations I had back at Puntilla I've been on my own all day and haven't had to divert my thoughts to focus on another persons' needs. In my everyday world there is a constant stream of visitors, emails, and phone calls to be fielded, leaving little room for proactive thought and even less for introspection. Is it possible that the uninterruptedness of today's train of thought is more responsible for the mood than the scenery?

At the moment I have no answer, but it's a compelling thought to consider as I inch further into the mountains.

I can see a skier catching up as I approach the mouth of Pass Creek. A steady plodding pace finds me just inside the protection of this feature when Rajko the Slovenian Strongman pulls up alongside and accuses me of being an 'animal'. I've got news for you friend--I'm just out for a walk with my bike and besides, you've got a gargantuan pack and a full sled and you just caught me! Raje's English is worlds better than my Slovenian, but it's really what isn't being said that seems important. Night is falling, the wind is gusting, the valley is filling up with cloud, and (so he tells me) there's no trail down the backside of the pass. Despite all of this we chat like childhood chums, laughing over trail anecdotes in the darkness and reluctant to resume travel even though the lack of movement has started us both shivering.

Perhaps it was the day, the mood, the scenery, or some combination of factors I'm too dim to perceive, but Rajko seemed more comfortable and content being 'out here' than just about anyone I've ever met. As he pulls ahead I make a mental note that this is a person that needs to be invited on future 'splorations.

The trail zigzags up the ever-narrowing valley and I can occasionally see Rajko's headlamp as he rounds a corner or searches for a hint of trail. Some time later my peripheral vision picks up a flash up high and it could be that I've seen him atop the pass proper. Walking along my eyes stay fixated on that spot--short-term destination, icon of the route, and potential campsite all rolled into one. My focus is yanked to the inches beneath my feet as I negotiate an open stream. The situation briefly becomes emergent as the drifted bank collapses and blocks the quickly rising water with me stuck in it, but then I spot an alternate exit and splash over to it as the current slowly erodes the increasingly-slushy drift. Glancing again in the direction of the pass I spot lights again but higher than I think they should be, and have to double-take to realize my error. Instead of looking at the low-powered LED's of a Slovenian skier I'm witnessing the early appearance of the aurora only slightly farther away. The display is low in the sky but even what little I can see of it keeps me hyper-motivated as I push the final steep pitch to the top of the pass.

I walk a few steps past the summit while devouring the star-lit view above, below, and beyond, then commence to stomping out a tent platform in the compacted wind slab beneath my feet. An hour later I'm snuggled into a windless perch atop the world with a full belly, dry and happy feet, another ~20 hours worth of hot water and food ready and waiting, and a handlebar-wide grin on my face. Life's pretty good--if you're into this sorta thing...