Grizzly Adam.net

The blue sky disappearred. Dark, angry clouds moved rapidly overhead. Thunder rumbled across the sky. Rain drops thumped off the rocks and splashed onto the narrow, dusty trail. I moved slowly. So, slowly. The storm turned violent. Wind, rain, lightning. I had no place to hide.  I was surrounded by high alpine tundra.  And still, I moved slowly… too slowly. Why couldn’t I go any faster? A flash of light streaked across the sky; an ear-splitting crack exploded all around me.

I woke up in my bed. It was still February. Still winter. And the Colorado Trail Race, still months away.

I walked to the window and peered outside, surprised to see that it was not raining.

I’m amazed, and a little bit disturbed, at how quickly the CTR has engulfed me. I’ve been kept awake at night by gear comparison tables, maps, and the ride reports from other racers. The ride reports might be the most useful resources available for someone trying to wrap their mind around a Colorado Trail through-ride. They might also be the most effective deterrent. As I read, I ask myself, “do I really want to do that?” In the past, the answer was always an easy, unprovoked, “no, not really.” But not anymore.

Privately (and publicly) committing to an event that requires homework, along with the normal physical preparation, has a strange cementing effect. The question is no longer “am I going to ride in the race?” Instead, it’s “how am I going to get ready for the race?” Ah, how indeed?

Reading, of course. But also doing. That is, strapping the bags to the bike, and pedaling.

Alas, it’s still winter. Sort of. There hasn’t been much snow to speak of over the last few weeks. And the temperatures have been mild. I’ve started to see cyclists on the roads. The sun is hanging in the sky a little bit longer every day. But winter isn’t finished. There’s still more snow, more skiing, more cold. And that means more time obsessing over trail maps, gear tables, and the experiences of other people.

I coasted into the parking lot at Waterton Canyon. It was well past midnight, I had just finished a 20 hour blitz. My hands and feet were numb. My legs were heavy and worn. I was wet with sweat and rain. But I was smiling. I had done it. The Colorado Trail—all 470 miles—was behind me. I was a CTR finisher.

I was dreaming again. But not in my sleep. Daydreaming. Visualizing a moment that has become the sole motivation for every session on the indoor trainer, every repetition with the weights, every interval, and skipped dessert. It’s the same daydream that helped me arrive in Fruita, Park City, Eagle Point, Old Pueblo, and countless other finish lines.

Every pedal stroke, and every mile that I ride and race gets me a little bit closer to Denver. The Colorado Trail Race is not 480 miles, it’s far longer than that. The trail to Denver started in my basement weeks ago, and will pass through the deserts of St. George, the hoodoo of Moab, and up and over  the Wasatch and Tushar mountains. It will be glorious and tedious. But already some of that is behind me. And already, it’s too late to turn around.

I was pedaling through the Saint George desert, somewhere underneath Gooseberry Mesa, when I made the decision: “I am going to ride the Colorado Trail Race this year.” That was January 2008. The next day, my wife told me we were having twins. I didn’t make it to the Colorado Trail Race that summer. In fact, I hardly raced, (or rode) at all that year.

In the 5 years that have passed since then, I have made the same declaration every winter. “The CTR, this year.” And yet, I’ve never made it to that start line. Why not? Oh, I have my reasons. Some of them are almost legitimate. But mostly, I’ve stayed away from that race because it scares me witless. But every year the ambition returns because the very things that scare me about the ride, are also the things that I love most about it. 480 miles and 60,000 vertical of remote, rugged, high-altitude,  self-supported, Rocky Mountain nirvana. OK, maybe not nirvana. But even a glimpse of that should make the slow-motion hike-a-biking and assiduous pedaling worth the effort. Right?

And so, I’ve run out of excuses. In 2013, it’s the Colorado Trail or bust.

Already the gear-gazing and route-scouting are happening. My Google search history from the last few days looks something like this:

“Colorado Trail Race bikes”

“Clean water on the Colorado Trail”

“SteriPen vs filter”

“Weights and burn times of Fenix flashlights”

“Colorado topo maps”

“Calorie content of Hostess Little Debbie snacks”

“Can I ride a moto at the CTR instead of a bicycle”

The rest of the summer is  starting to fade into the background. The tunnel vision that has aided (and ailed) me in the past is being focused on Durango, Colorado, and the ribbon of rock and dirt that winds and climbs its way to Denver. I’ve never attempted anything this ambitious. But I think I’m up to the challenge. I can ride slowly for a long time. I enjoy being at altitude. I can carry on conversations with myself for days. And I like pain. Well, I don’t like pain, but I can tolerate an unhealthy amount of it. Pushing a bike, while tedious, is still better than pushing papers around a desk. Anyway, isn’t that what ski touring is, just hike-a-bike practice?

Ralph Waldo Emerson said to “always do what you are afraid to do.” I think there’s wisdom (and insanity) in that.

I was afraid of 100 mile races.

I was afraid of 24-hour solo racing.

The Kokopelli Trail Race scared me.

The Crusher and the Point 2 Point still scare me.

And the CTR? Terrifying.

And yet, I know that the CTR is an event I need to do. From the minute I first read about it in 2007, I knew that I was going to try it. Between now and July 21 I expect to bump up against reality more than once. I’m a working stiff with 5 kids. I don’t win bike races. I eat cheese and cake (not at the same time) more than I should, and I like sleep more than intervals. Nevertheless, I’ve confronted my fears in the past, and beaten them.

The dragon of Resistance will be busy. He’ll do everything he can to help me find a new excuse to “wait until next year.” But next year is this year. It’s right now. So, I’ll let the dragon fly at will. It’ll all be in vain however, because I’ll be too distracted by GPS tracks, elevation profiles, and learning the business hours of the stores in Silverton, or Leadville, to let doubt cloud my ambition, or fear paralyze my legs.

I am going to ride the Colorado Trail Race.

But I’m not going to ride the trail just because it’s hard. I’m heading to Durango (and then on to Denver) because I want to know what it’s like to spend 5+ days traveling through the mountains on my bicycle. I want to watch the soft glow of a new day illuminate 14,000 foot peaks in pale orange, pink, and red. I want to see the iconic wooden trail markings, ride across the sky-scraper tundra, and float (and bump, barrel, and hike) through thick forests, grassy, flower-addled meadows, and a vast array of topographical indulgence.

I’ve been on the Colorado Trail before. But only briefly. In that short time, the trail got into my blood (and a little of my blood, into it), and has been circulating impatiently, urging me to return in earnest, and to ride the entire route. Or try to, anyway.

I want to know what so many other riders already know. Asking questions, reading stories, and looking at pictures have helped acquire a little bit of that knowledge. But looking isn’t doing. Even more than knowledge, I want experience. I want this experience. And there’s only one way to go get it.

It’s still winter here in Utah, but I’m ready for another summer of dragon chasing and slaying. I’m looking forward to being a pin on a map, and a crackly, tired voice on a podcast. I can already see the long views, smell the wildflowers, and taste the cold water. I’m dreading the pain, and the nausea, and the hard choices. I’m craving the simplicity of riding my bike all day, every day.

Long live the Colorado Trail. And long live the foolish quest to through-ride it on a mountain bike.

It’s really easy to believe that the world is ending.

It’s also really easy to want the world to end.

The daily news is saturated with war, famine, disease, and danger. Fear is the currency that governments use to buy our obedience. The national message is steeped in imminent demise; economic, social, and physical. The perpetuation of war (and its moral equivalents) is the engine of the State. We are mere pawns in the game of thrones. Our ongoing misery is regrettable collateral damage. The plight of the individual is, of course, subservient to the health of the State.

Our hopes and dreams, our ambitions and goals, our lives, are enabled (we are told) by the benevolence of aristocrats. As long as we do our part, we are granted a little time and money to pursue something other than paying taxes and waiting impatiently for death.

Overstated?

Maybe. But not by much.

Nevertheless, there is an escape. And it isn’t elaborate or expensive, nor does it require overbearing (threats of) violence by the State.

Our escape is the outdoors. Bikes. Skis. Boots.

Self-propulsion.

Government isn’t entirely responsible for our plight. We, after all, created the government. But we also busily, and happily, burden ourselves with undue grief and sickness. We are addicted to pain killers, anti-depressants, steroids, artificial virility, and the social validation that each new wonder-drug promises. Instead of living lives of adventure (however one might define that), risk, and spontaneous delight, we instead trudge through our days afraid, malaised, cynical, and sick. We are easily entertained, artfully distracted, and barraged with mindless information.

But the mountains and the deserts can change us.

We don’t have to accept the top-down deception that athletes, politicians, and the social elite insist we endure. Professional athletes cheat. Politicians lie. Hollywood is brimming with hypocrites. Big deal. Instead of feigning outrage at the (perceived) injustice, why not simply ignore it altogether? Stop being persistently offended. Too many days are wasted in thralls of manufactured despair. Instead, go outside and unplug the white noise and finger pointing.

People are wild and unpredictable. People are explorers, innovators, inventors. People are not ungulates, nor are they lemmings. We have been designed to adapt and thrive in open, free, environments. We are most happy, as individuals, and as societies, in the blank, empty spaces of freedom. In those spaces we replace the fear of demise with the optimism of experience. There we learn to ignore the aristocrats and to embrace our own greatness. No anti-depressant can match the deliverance of a mountain top, or canyon bottom.

Moving oneself through forests of aspen and spruce, or across the tabled, tawny desert scrublands is empowering. Confidences grow, ills disappear, and we rediscover the primal spirit within each of us that begs for big skies and rugged horizons. People are like rivers; we run best un-damned.

Before we decide to succumb to the unhinged determinism of doomsayers and soothsayers, let’s each go for walk in the woods, or ride our bikes through the desert. It’s impossible to be pessimistic about our Earthly plight in the expanse of nature.

Live free.

Be happy.

Go outside.

The pearl blue sky collided with the stark white of the mountain snow. Outcroppings of rock interrupted the blue and white with defiant splashes of granite brown. Scattered evergreen trees huddled against the hill, indifferent to the cold, naked winter. The clean air, the blue sky, and the sunshine were anathema to the gray, toxic malaise that was laying siege to the valley below. Our homes were engulfed in misty soup; bitter, metallic, lingering. An escape was mandatory.

I had almost forgotten the elevating influence of sunshine. My mood, like the air in the valley, had been stagnant and unpleasant. Rising above the fog into the high-reaches of the snowy mountains was a literal and figurative cleansing. A purging of toxins, and a clearing of the mind. Hiking through the snow and into the massive cirques of Timpanogos was a reminder that wilderness has a unique redemptive quality; an ability to heal the body and the soul. John Muir wrote that “…our bodies were made to thrive only in pure air, and the scenes in which pure air is found.” Indeed!

And during the annual inversions of a Wasatch winter, mountain air is the only clean air.

As I hiked, the disgruntled, impatient frustrations of the lowlands burned away. The trudging and trail-breaking replaced the loitering apathy of the cold, dirty world below. The joy of winter, and the beauty of snow and sky—lost momentarily—were rediscovered in a grand and sudden ecstacy. For the first time in weeks, I felt whole and happy.

Timpanogos is bigger, and more spectacular, than its ever given credit for. The many cirques, high-elevation meadows, and awe-inspiring reliefs offer a life-time of exploration. Contrary to the river of human traffic that ascends its slopes in the summertime, it is an entirely empty mountain during the winter. That emptiness is motivation enough to climb through the snow. The white-laden beauty of the basins and alpine peaks is an indulgent perk, amplified by the quiet, stillness of the hill.

With no trail, and no crowds, to lead the way, we made our own way. Upward. Through and around bands of rock, trees, hogsback ridge lines, and avalanche paths. When, at last, we sat down for lunch, the world unfolded at our feet. Far below, the poisonous blanket of smog and fog covered the cities. But here, high on the hill, we could see through the clear skies across a mapfull of mountainous miles. To the north, Lone Peak and the Pfeifferhorn were hooked and craggy, Box Elder, Red Baldy, and the American Fork Twins, were radiant in the gleaming winter light. To the east, the edge of the Uintas scraped the horizon, and to the south, Provo Peak, Cascade Moutain, and Nebo rivaled the rugged, wonderful beauty of Timpanogos.

We ate our modest lunches underneath the summit, in a wide basin that explodes colorfully with wildflowers during the spring and summer, but today was a sea of flowing, rolling white. We talked as we ate. We gawked as we talked. Three of us, in our natural habitat. Dirtbags, gear heads, hikers and skiers. The warm sun bounced off the snow, baking our faces. Nobody wanted to be the first to make for home. So we sat a little longer.

When finally it was time to descend, we hooted and hollered through the surprisingly soft, fast, and unskied snow. Had anyone skied these lines this year? Doubtful. First tracks. Virgin snow. Our exit was a long, narrow, and utterly wonderful chute. An hour-glass—wide slopes and narrow chokes.

And then we were home. Once again beneath a murky blanket of stagnant, trapped air. Back among the vehicles and the traffic. We were no longer dirtbags or gear heads, but husbands, fathers, and cubical-occupants. The fantasy had ended. Reality, as always, had the last laugh.

But not for long. Another day on the mountain, and another escape from the foggy uncertainty of life in the lowlands, is always near at hand.

‘Tis the season for lists.

All things considered, 2012 wasn’t a bad year. It wasn’t a great year either. It just was. And now that it’s over, I’ve been looking back (always dangerous) at some of the best days of 2012. And so, without any further introduction, I give you my favorite things, 2012 edition:

Favorite Bike Race: Bike racing in 2012 was exactly mediocre. Not the events themselves, but my performances in them. I spent most of the season fighting off illness or mechanical problems. Which isn’t to say that I didn’t have a great time competing. The True Grit 50, the Crusher, and the Race USCS series, all provided stellar race days with great competition and solid courses. My pedaling was the only mediocre thing about these events.

But my very favorite race in 2012 was one that I didn’t even ride in. Instead, I was a coach. The inaugural Utah High School Cycling League race in Park City was an amazing day. It was much more than a simple cross-country mountain bike race. It was the future. And the future of mountain bike racing in Utah is very, very bright. And fast. Watching kids fall in love with mountain bike racing was something that I felt honored to be a part of. There’s nothing that’s better than kids racing bikes.

Favorite Ski Day: The best ski day of 2012 just happened a few days ago in Days Fork:

Favorite Gear Upgrade: This one’s easy. Tubular cyclocross tires. After multiple (and vexing) flat tires during the first few ‘cross races of the season, I finally decided to try tubular wheels. I waited too long. The benefits were obvious almost immediately. My riding and handling improved instantly, and I rode the rest of the year flat-free.

Favorite Music: I’m no audiophile, but I enjoy digging through Spotify to see what I can find. I use some of my favorite finds in my ‘cross videos. I put together a CX playlist.

And Speaking of ‘Cross Videos: Shooting the race at Rocky Mountain Raceway was really fun.

Favorite Book: The Secret Race by Tyler Hamilton and Daniel Coyle

Favorite New Trail: The Pinecone Trail in Park City:

And there you go. A few of my favorite things from 2012.

Here’s to a brilliant 2013!

For as long as I’ve been a skier (since I was a kid), there have been hushed whispers of something called The Interconnect—a large network of gondolas, lifts, and trams, that would link the Salt Lake and Park City ski areas together. On its surface, it always sounded like a great idea. “I could ski at several resorts on the same day, it would be like Europe!” Ah, yes. Europe. Every magazine editor and ski-vacationer’s dream. “Europe.” Crowded, expensive, and icy.*

No thanks.

*Which is not to say that there isn’t great skiing in Europe.

But why would I want to spend most of my ski day riding lifts between different resorts?* Is there really not enough terrain at Snowbird or Brighton to entertain a skier for 8 hours?

*Currently it is quite feasible to ski more than one resort in a day. Next-door neighbor resorts offer passes that can be used to ski between each other. Further, A ski-tourer can visit terrain near each resort in the PC/SLC area during a relatively moderate day of hiking and skiing.

After a little bit of thought (and time spent in the central Wasatch) I realized that an Interconnect would only shore up marketing material (“Come and ski the biggest ski complex in the United States!”), rather than enhance the experience of skiing in Utah.

I don’t ski at resorts very often. But I’ve loved teaching my kids how to ski on the same resort slopes where I learned when I was 10 years old. And sometimes a day of groomed laps is really a lot of fun. But the kind of skiing that I enjoy most doesn’t involve lift-lines, lift-tickets, ski patrollers, or switch-landing teenagers. Instead, I prefer hiking for my turns in the backcountry.

And that’s my choice. Otheres might choose differently. It’s perfectly reasonable to prefer skiing at resorts. Indeed, it’s a necessary precursor to backcountry skiing. Learn to ski inbounds, then if desired, ski wild snow beyond the resort boundaries.

And that’s just the point: it’s a choice. An Interconnect would eliminate that choice. Cable-cars stretching from Canyons to Solitude and Park City to Brighton, among other endless combinations, would eliminate, or severely diminish, backcountry skiing in several canyons and forks in both Big and Little Cottonwood canyons, and their surroundings.

Installing lift access between the Cottonwood and Park City resorts will turn existing backcountry terrain into an ambiguous slack country, terrain that is neither wild, nor controlled by resort avalanche crews. Towing unprepared skiers to the top of uncontrolled slopes will increase the frequency of avalanche accidents. It will create a false security about the stability and safety of the snowpack. Sidecountry accidents are already a common problem. Creating more sidecountry by increasing more lift-accessible uncontrolled terrain won’t help solve that problem.*

*Of course, the easy solution for the resort is to simply claim the newly created side country as their own, thus expanding under the guise of safety. And expansion is always and forever the endgame.

But safety hazards, or the elimination of backcountry slopes, aren’t the only reasons to object to massive Wasatch resort expansion. The more intangible consequences of mass-transit in the mountains also must be considered. The Wasatch Mountains are brilliant. But they are not infinite. They are a rather small mountain range. Rugged and abrupt, yes. But expansive? no. The central Wasatch is especially vulnerable to the guiles of over-use, given its proximity to the 1.2 million people who live at the foot of the range.

Ski resort managers in the Wasatch are either ignorant, or in denial, about why people come from all over the world to ski in this obscure pocket of geography where desert and mountain collide, and create the greatest snow on Earth. Tourists aren’t coming to ride the high-speed lifts, or to eat at the restaurants and sleep at the lodges at the base of the hill. They aren’t traveling from Chicago, New York City, and Miami (and Europe!) to spend hour after hour commuting from resort to resort. And they aren’t coming for the shopping.

The reason Utah is a skier’s paradise is simple: The mountains.

The Wasatch Range is beautiful and inspiring because it still has a modicum of danger, remoteness, and wildness. There are still peaks that don’t have blinking towers atop them, canyons without paved roads or trails, and slopes that are only accessible on foot and skis. A ski resort ought to be a democratic glimpse at the mountains, a place where anyone can go to enjoy the snow, and the serenity. The Wasatch resorts contain stunning terrain, and are readily accessible for skiers and non-skiers alike. But that democratic egality should have boundaries.

Let wild stay wild.

Backcountry skiing isn’t for everybody. It requires more work and fitness, more knowledge, and more dedication, than skiing at the resort. And that’s a good thing. The steeper learning curve keeps a few unprepared people from skiing in avalanche terrain. It also reminds us that mountains are decidedly undemocratic. “Mountains are not fair or unfair,” wrote Messner, “they are just dangerous.”

Danger is a necessary element of humanity. Dumbing down the reality of mountains will dumb down our appreciation for them.

Ski resorts are becoming amusement parks. They are trying to change the mountains into the same. Safety rules and regulations are replacing common-sense and risk assessment. Paved driveways are built where ski runs once were. Roller-coasters are displacing trails. Lifts-chairs are outnumbering skiers.

When is enough terrain, enough terrain?

Does enough even occur to managers, shareholders, and owners?

Or is every nook and cranny, every canyon, and every peak a potential tram dock? Does every chute need to be a bullet point in a marketing brochure? Must paid-access, lift-assisted skiing be the only skiing in the central Wasatch?

Instead of trying to seduce potential tourists with more technology , lifts, and land (while shorting backcountry skiers) than any one person could ever ski during one vacation, maybe the local ski resorts should try to do the best with what they have. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently it is. There are at least 7 different expansion projects that are currently being pushed into reality. These projects will cost (taxpayer) money which will inevitably raise the already steep price of a lift ticket. The needed construction to build new lifts will ruin existing backcountry and in-bounds terrain. And most importantly, they will eliminate the vital (remaining) aspect of wildness from the central Wasatch mountains.

Mountains, not roller coasters. Skin tracks, not gondolas. Wilderness, not turnstiles.