into the unknown forest

A few years ago I was in a writing class. One of the participants, Angela, is an artist who worked for years at an outdoor gear store in town. When she told the class that her goal was to leave the store and work full-time on her art, one person pleaded: "But you can't leave..."

I think of that sometimes, how tied up my identity is with the job where I often put in more than forty hours a week. How people see me as an expert whose advice is sought, who is so connected with Paramount and with cycling... I mean, I even took on the handle Alaska Bike Girl, affirming my identity to the rest of the world. But eventually, I have to push myself away and follow my goals.

I'm a writer. And if I want to be a writer, I have to act like one. Think like one. I must write. More than one book. More than a blog. I have to live the part by dedicating my time to finishing the short stories that are only up to five pages long. Start the projects I've only jotted down as ideas. Pursue the visions that need more than just a few hours a week. It's become obvious that I can't write at the level I want and have a full-time job (and a healthy relationship with Jon). I have to make a clean break. And this is when it happens. Friday is my last day.

I've put this off for some time. Over a year. Hell, I started drafting this post back in May! And it's tough to commit to leaving my job when so many people are stressed about the economy, losing their jobs and making financial sacrifices, but I have been planning and saving for this day. What made me wait was the same thing that can hold anyone back from making a big change: fear. Fear that I was doing the wrong thing; that I would regret my decision; that I wouldn't be able to make a living as a writer.

Almost two weeks ago, another Alaskan woman in her mid-40s announced she was leaving her job. She looked nervous on camera, as would be expected. Since the announcement, I imagine she feels a bit relieved. That's how I'm starting to feel. Because deciding to make a career or job change is something we hold onto as a big secret, partly (for me) out of fear that we won't have the guts to follow through with it. Telling a close friend or a partner is one thing; announcing it to the community is another. It's hard to take it back once you set things in motion. It's scary not knowing how it's all going to work out. But the signs were everywhere, including a chance encounter with a former Anchorage Daily News editor.

Jon and I were at a party for a friend who was about to go in for brain surgery. He used to work for the ADN, so there were lots of people there from the paper. As Michael Carey was preparing to leave, I had a chance to reintroduce myself to him - we met many years ago at an editorial board meeting. I told him I was getting ready to leave my job to write full time, to which he advised that I not delay. You just have to do it. Other writers and artists seem to understand this need to pursue that creative something that is boiling up inside ourselves, pushing and calling us to let it out. But heeding the call is akin to stepping into an unknown forest at midnight, barefoot and without a headlamp. It would much easier to stay where I am.

But I know that if I didn't take the step, I would regret it. And life shouldn't be measured with a list of regrets, but with chances taken, passions followed. I've had a good run working at Paramount. I've worked with some fantastic, smart, funny, committed people over the years. I've met people from all walks of life and from many points on the planet. I've listened as people told of their plans for adventure and heard their stories upon return. It's been a fascinating and rewarding time, but there is so much more I need to do and say.

Okay, I'm going to step off the curb... now.

all or nothing - part II

Looking west from the far side of Rabbit Lake.

Our friend Pete recently returned from the Lower-48 after a head-on collision with a truck. He was on a bicycle, timing himself as he pedaled the Continental Divide Trail from Canada to Mexico. He returned to Anchorage to recuperate and figure out how he was going to pay for a very expensive helicopter ride and medical bills. He has a broken collarbone an injured hand, and lots of body stiffness.

When he showed up at the shop last Monday afternoon, his tan face and long hair were good to see. We were all concerned after his wreck, so seeing him acting his usual self, boyish humor included, was a relief. Now that he's momentarily off the bike (allowing me to maybe keep up with him), we decided on a little hike.

Next to a stream: stop picking that scab!

July Seventh: Rabbit Lake Trail. Another hot day. A little sunblock this time but one application is just not enough for a full day out there. I still compare to last summer when we still had snow patches along the side of the trail in early July and wore long sleeves to keep off the chill.

From the archives: July 10, 2008.

This year the streams provided a splashing relief from the warm, still air. Instead of fog, smoke from forest fires clouded the air. When we reached the lake, which we had mostly to ourselves, I soaked my feet in the water before I continued hiking around to the far shore while Pete napped in the sun.

Destination: just below the Suicide Peaks in the distance.

Maybe it was because the 11-mile hike was only my second longish hike of the year, but that warm sun really sapped my energy. Rehydrating and napping were the best ways to recuperate so I'd be ready for the next day. I'd promised Jon I would ride with him and a product rep from Giant. The plan: ride Lost Lake Trail, just outside Seward.

July Eighth: Lost Lake. Just after noon. Jon, Paul and I hit the trail from the Primrose Trailhead on the south shore of Kenai Lake. The day was hazy with smoke from forest fires, but not so bad that we actually smelled the smoke. Climbing through the forest I must always remind myself that the payoff for pushing my bike over the ever-more-exposed roots will be an expansive view from the top and a sweet singletrack descent. Though I know I can bail anytime I want, I know that the best is ahead so I plug away at my own pace, swatting at the biting flies that try to gather on my legs whenever I stop. I try not to stop. I'm also relieved that I'm not the only one who has to dismount.

The view behind us of Lost Lake, just before the final summit.

Lots of people do this ride from the other end so they can blast through the descent to Primrose. I've been meaning to do it that way but I love the view of Seward from the top of the climb and the occasional views of the bay whenever I stop along the descent, though this day the views were barely visible through the veil of smoke.

Jon and I took a break to cool off in one of the alpine lakes. I could feel my body temperature dropping after just a couple minutes in the water and from the cooling breeze that was blowing from Seward. I felt ready for more climbing as we passed Lost Lake and I again settled into my pace.

Paul on Giant's new twenty-niner.

Paul and Jon ready for the final descent.
Did I mention that Paul works for Giant?

The descent was fast and uninterrupted by other trail users. I slowed for some patches where gravel had been added to the trail to improve the surface. (I imagine that the trail crew hoped rain and trail users would compact the gravel, instead it was loose, so I had to watch my corners as my tires sunk in.) Rocky sections, water bars and dips, skinny sections of trail, shale on the side slopes as we neared Seward. All were familiar yet new since I haven't been on the trail in a few years. At the parking lot we heard ravens calling out to each other while we pumped our tires and had a snack to get ready for the final stretch.

We formed a paceline to ride up the highway to return to the car. All told: 15 miles of trail; 12 of road. It made for a long, satisfying day. Exhausting. A welcome beer at the car before heading back to Anchorage for a salmon dinner. Paul got a real Alaskan mountain bike experience. Everything but a dip in a mountain lake.

all or nothing

I once read on a band's website that they were either too busy to post any news or there was nothing going on, therefore nothing worth posting. The past week has been mostly the former. Weather in the 70s and even 80s - uncommon in Southcentral Alaska - has kept me busy biking and hiking in my free time and too exhausted to write coherent notes about it all. It seems I could post a calendar of the past week's activities. True to my day planner, it'll be a photo calendar:

July Second: Jon and I head for Hope, AK. On the way, ride part of Johnson Pass Trail - to Bench Lake and back. About 19 miles of beautiful backcountry mountain biking.

Riding through a meadow lined with
false hellebore (I think) and cow parsnip.

Resting on the bank of Bench Lake.

To the bridge!

Soon we would spend three nights with our friends, Lynn & Art, at their cabin. Friends would drop in all weekend, most bringing food, some bringing stories and news from outside this small laid-back town.

July Third: Hit the trail at about 1:30 with my friend Jo-Ann after driving to the Devil's Pass Trailhead (Jon and Art would ride from Hope to Devil's Pass and pick up the car). We set a comfortable pace as we climbed along a creek, up a valley that opened into the wide tundra of the pass. Clear skies. Once in the pass the wind cooled us after the sweaty climb. We had more climbing ahead, but after the high point on Resurrection Trail (2,600 feet), it would be mostly descending. All told, about 34 miles of happiness.

Jo-Ann cruises through a rock garden.

Meeting up with Art and Jon - the most important
piece of information: where I stashed their beers
in the creek for when they finished the ride.

Our news blackout ended when we arrived at the cabin, anxious for a cold beer and a hot sauna, to learn that the governor had announced that morning that she would resign. Why, when and what would happen next fueled speculation around the campfire that night and in downtown Hope the next day. An iPhone with a very slow connection gave us a news fix the next morning, but speculating was more fun.

July Fourth was a good day to rest, so while Jo-Ann's man, Adam, tackled a 90-ish-miler, Jon, Jo-Ann and I biked to downtown Hope to catch the breeze coming off Turnagain Arm and get an ice cream at the local stand. No idea why there was a blue dinasaur hanging from the flagpole.

I don't know, do you think this is political?

Jon offering pointers on skipping stones.
I didn't think I needed a helmet for this maneuver.

For Pam & her mom: the coffee cart is still there, though they were on a break.

How do you like those hours?

without judgment

As people around the world analyze the life and death of Michael Jackson, I clicked on a story link that gave me a bit in perspective. For Generation X, it is the end of a cultural era. One of those reference points for a generation always in the shadow of the Boomers. I straddle the generations, so, from childhood, I vaguely remembered Michael from the Jackson 5. I remember more that he was a part of the soundtrack of the student union at the University of Wisconsin, Madison.

Freshman year, there I was, a kid from a small farming town of just over 1,500 thrust into the expansive campus in the capital city. I didn't know how to study, wasn't in the dorms and was going through enough inner and family turmoil to be more than just a little confused about my direction.

The student union was positioned on the shore of Lake Mendota. Heavy wooden chairs and tables inside; metal ones on the outdoor terrace. Back then the drinking age was 18 and you could buy a pitcher of beer at the bar along with a bag of popcorn. People were allowed to smoke in the building and scents from standard commercial cigarettes were often overpowered by the smell of cloves. It wasn't uncommon to see people pass a joint around either. Everything was accepted, or at least tolerated.

If I remember any sound from the Union, besides that of the heavy chairs scraping across the floor, it's the sound of the jukebox that was situated just to the left of the main entry to the Rathskeller. A real jukebox packed with 45 records and songs that can take me back to that year if I let them: Take me to the River (Talking Heads version), Dock of the Bay (Otis Redding's plane crashed in nearby Lake Monona just days before the song was released in '67) and the Jackson 5's "ABC."

I used to go to the Union to study, I would say, but really I was there to socialize. Or to watch other people socialize while I disappeared at a small table under an arch. It provided the atmosphere where I could hang out and meet new people without being in a real bar. It was where I met a future housemate. It was where I would sometimes go in the summer after my first year of college, before I took off for an out-of-state school and other diversions before finally getting my degree from UW-Milwaukee (yes, it took three schools and about four majors for me to find my way).

A few years later I went back to the Union. The lighting seemed brighter in the Rathskeller. I remember that there were bouncers. The old jukebox had been replaced by a more modern model that played CDs. And though I was still in my 20s, I suddenly felt old and very far away from those days when I was 19 and trying to figure it out. Now I'm 44 and still trying to figure it out, though that is what life's journey is all about, I suppose.

And after all the turmoil that Michael went through - from child prodigy and maybe even musical genius, through his mistakes, I imagine that he was still trying to figure it all out and along the way he got painfully, publicly lost. The people he hurt may one day forgive him. A large part of the public will not. But can we at least appreciate that for a time he shared with the world his talents? When I think about it, I remember those old Jackson 5 songs "I'll be there," as well as those groundbreaking songs from the 80s. He contributed to the soundtrack our generation grew up with. That will always be there.

Note: I began this post on June 26 and called it "milestones." I said what was going through my head at the time. Lots has been said since his death, and earlier this week was the memorial service. After reading things written by other people, I wasn't sure how to finish this post. It's hard to not judge, but now is not the time to judge. Now is time to allow people to be sad and also to celebrate what was positive in his life. It's what any of us would want when our days are over.

the climb

I've biked in Anchorage for over a dozen years. I've done some tough rides; all of the mountain bike passes: Powerline, Johnson, Resurrection. Lost Lake trail, with climbs so grindingly steep that I had one friend tell me she would never ride it again, remains one of my favorites. But I'd never biked up Potter Valley Road.

Okay, okay! You could say I had my reasons (like a climb up Stuckagain right near my house) but mostly I just avoided it. It's out of the way - in other words, I'd bike five miles past my work to get to it, ride up, then ride back down and continue either to work or to home. When I'm commuting, I don't normally add an extra loop, because in the morning I'm arriving just in time and in the evening I feel spent. Besides, that ride is for racers, I thought. But last night my excuses were overridden by Jon's encouragement, a warm evening and a few shots of Hammer Gel.


View Larger Map

It's a short hill at just under two miles of pavement, but steep and filled with switchbacks, which actually make for an easier climb mentally. There's nothing that looks more daunting to me than a long, straight hill (Rabbit Creek Road). After biking from the shop, I reset my computer so I could time the ride, just so I'd know. I put my wind vest and ear band into my backpack and clipped into my pedals.

Then I paced myself, turning the pedals over and over in my low gears, thinking about the time Jon and I were biking on the Coromandel in New Zealand pulling our BOB trailers with all our camping gear. Remembering that turning the pedals is always easier than walking when you have a loaded BOB. But now I was on my carbon road bike with my fancy new carbon saddle. There was no way I wasn't going to make it up in one try. The question was: how much will it hurt?

Jon disappeared around a bend early on, promising to document the trip with the camera (I also didn't want to carry the extra weight up the hill). When I saw him riding toward me I knew I was close to the top. He rode alongside snapping a few shots. Then he pointed at a line painted on the pavement and said that was the end. Ahead I could see the pavement give way to gravel, so I looked at my computer: 17 minutes and 40 seconds. Done.

what's for dinner?

I was careful to not overcook the corners on the descent. Then we headed home, Jon convincing me to go up Rabbit Creek to Hillside Drive. I was relieved that I always carry an energy bar, just in case because I did need it. At home, after stretching, I powered up the computer to see the race results for the ride. Some racers do it in under 10 minutes. One of my friends did it in just over 17, so, of course, I wonder how fast I can do it next time.

fish on!

I told someone I felt more Alaskan after the fishing trip I took with Jon and our friends last week. I've been fishing before, but unlike anyone I know who's gone salmon fishing here, I've never had one on the line. Not one. I'd go with Jon. Cast and reel, cast and reel. Watching as he'd haul in another and add it to the stringer in the river. Soon I'd retreat to the bank or the tent with a book and fall asleep as he fished until it was too dark to see the water or he had his limit. That lasted a couple of seasons before I stopped going.

For the last two years Jon's gone fishing with friends during the personal use fishery at Kasilof on the shore of Cook Inlet. He doesn't call it fishing; he calls it harvesting. (For each family, the head of household can get 25 fish, then 10 more for each additional person in that household.) Rather than standing on the river bank casting a line, people set out nets, either attached to something on shore, or anchored just off shore. The net is dropped, with the heavy lead line sinking while the lighter buoy line floats. The net is strung between them, floating vertically in the silty water as the salmon head up the inlet for the mouth of the Kasilof River.

Our beach neighbors with their haul of salmon.

Our nets are dropped off shore from a small boat. After a few hours waiting and watching from shore, a group goes out to check the net and pick out the fish. I volunteered to pick the net, not knowing how much work it would be but excited to experience the process. I'd already seen fish hauled ashore by other set-netters the night before and wanted to see what our nets had captured.

John readying one of the nets.

Randy, John & Art return from setting nets.

I went out with Jon and our friend John who was at the motor and oars as Jon & I picked. When I hauled the first fish over the bow, Jon said you have to kiss the first fish you bring in. I could have argued and said that was just crazy. On the other hand, what harm would it be to kiss the first fish and thank it for swimming into our net to become dinner? So I pulled the slippery, silver fish to my lips, gave it a kiss and put it in the basket. I know it's not an official tradition, but I don't think it's such a bad idea. Besides, after 15 years here, this was the first fish I had ever pulled out of the water. Finally I had my fish! But there were lots more to haul in.

Many salmon.

Lynn at the filet table.

We camped for two nights above the high tide line in the days leading up to the summer solstice. We walked along the rocky beach, stayed up late and got up early (before 6am). It was the first camping trip of the year and as always, it felt good to be back in the tent, even when I was lying awake listening to rain on the fly. We were among dozens of other families who were doing the same thing we were: getting our catch of fish to fill the freezer or pantry so that we could do all the other things we want to do to fill our long summer days.

Around the fire after a full day -
Judy, Art, Lynn, Dave, Nicole, Randy, Jon & John.

After spending Saturday and Sunday evenings at home processing: Jon cleans and chops the salmon into chunks; I wrap and vacuum seal; label and freeze them, we're ready to get back to the other outdoor activities we love. And this winter we'll appreciate that we took a few days to fill the freezer.

The gulls dine on the scraps.

Mt. Redoubt, still steaming across the inlet.

russian lakes trail

Jo-Ann

Three riders. Perfect conditions, meaning no downed trees to cross, only a few areas with water on the trail, no crashes. Fifty-nine piles of bear scat but no other sign of the critters, except the note in a cabin logbook talking about a bear than gnawed on the door.

Jo-Ann at the cabin door... see the tooth marks?

A grouse chick didn't know what to do when her mom & sibling scurried down the trail in front of us. I stepped off the trail and carried my bike around it.

hey, little birdy!

We met a trail crew at the lake when we stopped to eat lunch on the breezy shore, away from the bugs. The guys had finished working on another cabin and used bikes and BOB trailers to get around on the trail. Everything fit into the float plane and they waved as they took off, headed back to Seward.

Can't believe how much gear they fit in the plane body & floats!

Wildflowers in the sloping meadows.

Lisa enters the meadow.

The window to ride this trail is very short. After the downed trees are cleared and snow fields melt and dry, but before the cow parsnip has overgrown the trail and before bears are abundant fishing for the salmon that swim upstream to spawn. We caught the window just right.