the unreality of it all

Two-thirds of the way through our European trip, I was sitting in the back seat of our friend's mom's station wagon writing: "When we return home I may just sit down and ask myself 'What just happened?'" We were about to cross the border from Italy into France, driving along the coast through tunnel after tunnel that had been carved from the coastal mountains. Between tunnels we could view town after town perched between the road and the Mediterranean. I began this post fewer than 48 hours after arriving home and at the time, it seemed to have been a dream. But it was not a dream and I have the receipts and my folded and refolded itinerary to prove it. Also a few souvenirs and a temporary passport. It all happened: London, Riga, Prague, Salzburg, Genoa, Arles. Lespignan, Paris. I have proof. I just need to piece it all together.

Jon and I had been wanting to make a trip to Europe for a few years. Our friend was living in London and about to move back to his home country of Latvia. (Latvia? Check the map. It's that small Baltic country between Estonia and Lithuania, butting up against Russia and Belarus.) We decided to fly to London to meet him, then fly together to Riga for a few days before traveling around, visiting a few cities. At first we were going to do a short trip, maybe cover some ground in the Baltic region before flying out from Copenhagen. But some other friends had recently moved from Alaska back to southern France. We thought it would be nice to visit them. Jon glanced at the map and suggested we fly out of Paris. I'll admit, I was concerned. It may all look close together on the map, but Europe is a huge place with so many things to see. I booked the trip and crossed my fingers in hopes that we would see what we wanted on our lists.

bike, bus, ben

Upon arriving in London, our friend, Janis (pronounced Yannis) met us at the airport and we traveled by train to central London for lunch and a stroll around the busy city. After a few dropped calls and messages, we finally arrived at the place we'd booked for our stay (which is its own story) and were able to get some sleep. The next day, we continued our explorations with a visit to the British Museum with its wealth of items collected within: Greek urns, early Roman artifacts, the much-visited mummies and Rosetta Stone. Our minds full, we strolled around the city, looking into shop windows as the light began to fade: Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace, where we decided we were all very hungry. We found a pub near Big Ben and drank our not-quite-cold beers while waiting for our food. Meat pies, curry. Enough to fill the void. Then off into the night to the nearest tube station and the noisy trip to the sad room we'd rented for our stay.

Earlier in the evening I had picked up the book District and Circle.

The next day we took the now-familiar tube (mind the gap!) to Janis's work place where we picked up three folding Brompton bicycles for our explorations. We wanted to go to Greenwich to see the museum. Janis mapped the route, then we cycled together along streets and paths to get to the museum and observatory located on a hill high above the city, which is the most logical place for an observatory, after all. The museum and observatory were surrounded by a large, almost rural-feeling green space. We studied the exhibits while rain began falling. We learned, among other things, about the quest to solve the "longitude problem" a problem that had puzzled scientists and sailors for centuries.

Not quite portable.

Returning to London, our ride included busy streets and a few sidewalks as we pedaled in the rain to the Tate Modern. On that particular day, most of their galleries were closed due to an unnamed technical glitch. We hadn't much time anyway because we were to join Janis at an end-of-season work party that would double as his going-away party. We zipped along the wet streets, navigating roundabouts and cobbles until finally making it back to his work place which occupied one of the many enclosed arches underneath the city's rail line. We changed into nicer clothes, then boarded a bus to take us to the party. Yes, upper level on one of the ubiquitous double-decker buses which gave us a unique, white-knuckle view of London's rush-hour bus, car, scooter and bike traffic. Yikes!

View from the upper deck doesn't look all that scary. Lots of bikes
jockeying for the same space as the buses, cars and motor scooters.

At the party, a man who works for the London ambulance service (a client) asked me if we'd biked through the grassy park-like area on our way to the Greenwich museum. Yes, we had. That, he told me, was where during the plague the bodies had been sent for burial. I paused for a moment at the gruesome thought of all those bodies buried unceremoniously on the outskirts of the city. Then I couldn't help but think of this.

We stayed out late that night, joining the coworkers as they migrated to a corner pub where they proceeded to get drunk as college students at a frat party. Finally we walked to the tube stop to see the truly deranged on the late night train, shouting admonitions, scaring the other passengers, including a young woman we offered to walk with if the man exited at our stop. After a late night take-out order of schwarma, we walked the now-quiet streets back to our room and to bed.

The next day we packed our bags and took the tube one last time to the city where we stashed the luggage so we could take another walk around before our late-afternoon flight. It was a warm, sunny day. We walked by St Paul's Cathedral, then crossed the Millennium Bridge, past the groundlings waiting to get tickets for the Globe. Janis had left to finish his packing and wrap up some business. Jon and I were on our own for the afternoon. We returned to the Tate to see if everything was open. But first, some lunch. We went to the restaurant (not to be confused with the cafe) in the museum. I remember looking at the menu and when Jon seemed hesitant, I remember telling him: I want to sit and enjoy a meal and not feel like I'm rushing. Because everything we had done for the past few days had felt like a race to do what we were doing so we could go to the next place, do the next thing. Pile that atop the jetlag and who wouldn't be a little stressed out? So, we got a table. Shared parsnip and pear soup, barley risotto, Suffolk chicken with potatoes, I don't remember everything, but I slowed down and was aware of each flavor as we relaxed for the hour. We then wandered the galleries where we saw works by Picasso, Dali and others, plus an entire room filled with Soviet Propaganda posters. I was glad we'd returned to see more of the museum.

Detail of gate at the Globe.

How could I walk past this?

When it was time to meet Janis, he was running late. Jon and I sat down in a coffee shop to wait for him while I sent a message to our host in our next city: Riga. Then came the next rush: when Janis finally showed up, we gathered our bags from his workplace and hustled to the tube station, then the train that would take us to the airport. What I remember most of the rush to the airport was running down a spiral stairway in a tube station, lugging my suitcase because an escalator was out of order, then sitting in a hot train, sweating, relieved that we would make the airport in time to catch our flight. I didn't know at the time that at the next airport I would want everyone to hurry up. Because once we were in RIX, everything came to a stop.

The man checking passports looked at mine. Looked at Jon's.
Took them to a woman in a room near Passport Control.
She asked a few questions.
We couldn't enter the country. I didn't understand. Schengen. You must have 90 days before your passport expires to enter the region known as Schengen, the region that includes 26 European nations that have open borders with each other. We both had 76 days left on our passports, having applied for them at the same time almost 10 years ago. What could we do? It was midnight. They let me call the U.S. Embassy. Was that the first time someone said we needed to go back to London and get temporary passports from the embassy there? Maybe. I would have all night to worry over what to do.

trail reports and melting glaciers

I just pedaled through it. No problem!

Has it already been two weeks since the weekend cabin trip with the girls? Indeed, it has. Let me tell you about it.

Word on the news and on social media was that the water at Eklutna Lake was high. Maybe record-breaking high. After a warmer-than-recent-years summer and a week or so of rain, the lake that takes its name from the glacier that feeds it and which provides tap water for much of Anchorage was inundated. I saw photos of the Lakeside Trail covered in water. But I had weekend plans with my friends and I'd waited all year - more than a year - for the trip. A little high water wouldn't stop us. Besides, we could always retreat to the steeper, wider gravel trail.

I had my new rain pants and my jacket ready. I had waterproof socks and shoe covers. Dry bags and dry gear for the two nights at the cabin. I was ready for August to keep the water coming. But just before Corinne picked me up I looked out the window and pointed out a patch of blue to Jon. "There's a suckerhole." We laughed. Then the sky continued to clear, the sun broke through. I finished packing my bags and headed out.

When we arrived at the trailhead, our friends were already warm. Some were wearing long-sleeve tops and regretting their packing decisions. I had resisted the urge to bring shorts, donning knickers instead. And a long-sleeve wool top. It could get cold at any time!

This one is a little deep - we'll see it on the return trip.

Along the trail were remnants of last fall's hurricane-force storm (the one nobody in the Lower-48 heard about because we don't have millions of people living here). My friends were out there during part of the storm. A bench that once faced the lake was in the lake. Parts of the trail had sloughed into the water. We stopped to inspect a long puddle. Saw the pebble-covered bottom and decided to ride through it. It was one of several. Some, we detoured around, taking the high trail. Some, we had no alternative but to keep pedaling.

Cabin, glacier, river, waterfall (out of frame). I do love this place.

The cabin was as I remembered. The big windows giving us a view of the river, glacier, peaks, Serenity Falls. I placed my helmet on my favorite bunk in the back corner and went outside to haul firewood and water up to the cabin. The last time I was at the Serenity Cabin (two years ago) I'd used my BOB trailer. I remember how much my shoulder hurt after riding to the cabin and especially after helping refill the water jugs and pulling them back to the cabin in my BOB. I nearly cried for the pain in my shoulder. I didn't sleep well. I spent lots of time sitting on my bunk writing. This year was different. I'm stronger, healed (though careful), and my mind is in a different place.

Bikes lined up under the eaves.

Wine was opened. More friends arrived. The cabin became loud as dinner was prepared and 11 women spoke at once. I went back and forth between the deck and the common area, a little overwhelmed with being surrounded by the group. The last few times I've gone to the cabin a few of us have gone out a day early. A group of five or six relaxing in relative quiet. The energy was a little much. Even though I grew up in a large family, we didn't become boisterous until we were adults and Dad's voice had softened. I often sought quiet places like the wagon paths, pastures and woods near our house. I still become lost in large groups, opting for intimate conversations, eavesdropping or hiding away - in this case, either on the deck or under the fog of a little too much wine, I suppose.

Watched these bears from the deck just after we had breakfast.

Saturday hike/stroll. Testing the limits of my waterproof socks.

Jo-Ann and Corinne and Serenity Falls. Out for an evening stroll.

Evening light, down-valley.

After two nights at the cabin, which seemed like not enough time to me, we gathered our gear, tidied the cabin and headed out. The day was calm and the sky cloudless. The sounds of our voices and our bikes filled the air as we pedaled back to the trailhead. But it was Sunday, so soon we heard four-wheelers approaching. In twos and threes they drove down the trail, slowing when they saw us. We did the same.

We may have pushed some logs out of the way, but it was still a bit deep to ride!

We took turns riding through the deep, long puddles. We cleared floating logs from one path so we could travel through unobstructed. We basked in unexpected sunlight that made wet feet into no big deal and made a slow journey together, back to the trailhead.

On a day like this, no hurry.

august resurrection

Two weeks ago Jon and I had a few days off together and decided to head south. To the south shore of Turnagain Arm where the town of Hope rests on the bank of Resurrection Creek. The old gold-mining town was about to be flooded with mountain bikers ready to tackle the 100-plus mile Soggy Bottom race. But Jon and I just wanted to do a ride together.

It would be my first time biking Resurrection Trail in two years and I was a little apprehensive about tackling the 40-miler. It's one of my favorite rides for the sweet singletrack that threads through the mountain pass, past small ponds and lakes and finally descends from the high country toward the slightly larger town of Cooper Landing. I hoped I could handle it. We left our friends' cabin just before 11 that morning; our friend Art joined us for the ride while Lynn promised to pick us up at around 6 p.m. at the other end. We figured that would give us enough time to enjoy the trail at a comfortable pace and a little time to hang out if the weather was nice.

As we pedaled toward the trailhead, I fell behind and wondered if I was making the right decision. I felt a twinge in my left knee and adjusted my foot. Once on the trail, it was clear Jon and Art would be waiting for me frequently - no surprise when riding with a couple of strong guys - and the idea was a little demoralizing. I didn't want to ride solo on a group ride! I also didn't want to hold them up, leaving them prey to the mosquitoes and biting flies that buzz through the forest seeking warm flesh.

I tried to ramp up my speed and mentally prepare for the miles ahead. Then I had an idea. When we next gathered, I told them that I wasn't going to be able to keep up and that it bugged me that we were so far apart. I asked Jon to carry my camera and to take the photos. After all, if he was going to be up front, he would get better pics than I. All my annoyance dissipated. I rode my pace; knew they would be stopping more frequently. I powered up hills I hadn't seen in so long that I had sometimes wondered if I would ever bike the trail again.

When we arrived at the pass, I knew I'd have no trouble going the full distance. Finally, I had returned to the kind of riding I love in one of my favorite places to bike.

Breathing hard, climbing toward the pass.

 

Cresting the high point. Hope and Turnagain Arm are nearly 20 miles behind me.

Art descends among the wildflowers.

A little cool at our lunch stop, but we warmed up quickly!

Non-stop wildflowers!

Jon's bike... guess I should have taken his picture!

Art cruises through the fireweed.

Thanks to Jon for taking the photos, and to Art and Lynn for hosting us at their cabin in Hope. It was good to be back!

garden tour, 2013

Sunday was the annual Anchorage Garden Tour, when, for five hours several local gardens are open for public viewing. Two years ago I biked it with my friends, Corinne and Paul, so when Corinne said it was coming up, I jumped on board. A few other friends decided to join in.

Seven of us gathered with our bicycles at a local park and headed off to the first garden, in the Airport Heights neighborhood. We visited four more gardens in Turnagain, and then a final garden on the shore of Sand Lake, just south of Raspberry Road. The day was warmer than I expected with no need for the rain gear I'd packed. I was glad a couple people brought sunblock because that was not even on my radar. Along the way, we biked neighborhood streets and greenbelt trails. We even had a picnic lunch in a park across from one of the gardens. All told, I biked 30 miles. But it wasn't about the mileage, it was about the gardens.

What I love about visiting the different gardens are all the ideas I pick up and stash away for later, i.e., that day when we are finally ready to start dealing with the landscape in both the front and back yards. Meanwhile, here are some ideas I liked:

Rain-gutter garden!

Painted furniture (and no lawn to mow!)

Outdoor art on the garden shed.

Umbrella to make mini-greenhouse!

Corinne matching the poppies!

Hen house (though that screened area looks like a perfect place to write!)

Choose one color; now it becomes all about shapes & textures.

Close-up.

My shadow & I love this angled planting!

Fence made of reclaimed metal with tile & glass, paint accents.

Watermelon berries!

Nice kitty.

It's patriotic to re-purpose your old sports equipment!
(Be careful of the black arm rests on a sunny day!)

I'm claiming the hammock and the float plane!

rough terrain

Something from last week has been on my mind. While Jon and I were driving to Seward for our weekend camping trip, I brought up something that happened earlier in the week. Along the shores of Turnagain Arm, just south of Anchorage, a woman's body was recovered.

Her name was Martha and she was someone Jon had known years ago, having dated Martha's then-roommate. I had met Martha a few times through the Alaska Women's Environmental Network (AWEN) and at the Alaska Center for the Environment (ACE). But neither of us knew her well. When a news report had listed her as missing, I worried. Her husband had said she was "despondent," not answering her phone, hadn't shown up for work. They found her car, then they found her body.

As we drove along the Arm, I told Jon how I wondered what the husband had meant by despondent, because in the past few weeks I'd had days in a row where I felt so low that even riding my bike didn't interest me. I'll admit now that I didn't answer the phone. I did go on a hike with one of my friends and when it didn't cheer me up, I told her I'd had a problem with this depression for a long time. She asked for how long and I told her since I was a teen. My friend seemed to not know what to say. I wondered if I'd made a mistake or maybe she just needed to think it through. A weight settled inside me and we dropped the subject. I've never told any of my other friends about my depression. Jon is the one who sees it, encourages me, knows that at times I am inconsolable. Listens to me when I tell him "This is not how normal people are!"

Now I was scared. What had happened to this woman who had been a light in the community, a leader, a warrior for the environment? What about me? What was to stop me from getting to that point where I could not go on?

Jon asked if any of my friends knew Martha, and because I use social media a little more than I like to admit, I told him a few were. Why not ask them if she had a problem with depression, he suggested. I was doubtful. Look at me, I reminded him. I tell nobody. Throughout our lives, we act. We have our public side, then we have the side we show our partner and very few others - if any. Jon and I talked about why this is the case. And what we agreed is that people with depression are afraid we will be judged. Judged for being weak; for not appreciating all that is before us; all that we have; be it family or friends, possessions or just a brilliant summer day.

Two weeks ago, I was very down. There was little that would make me smile. I didn't want to smile. My energy was drained, but I convinced myself that I should do some research and the book I needed was at the library on the university campus where parking is pricey. I dragged myself out of the house, climbed on my bike and rode the few miles to the Consortium Library (where I discovered that I'd forgotten my note with the book title, forcing me to speak with another person). Eventually I found the book, checked it out and biked home.

I rode through a route that goes between my street and the nearby school, through a cul-de-sac to an intersection. As I made my turn, something in the rock garden on the corner caught my eye. I hit my brakes. Two perfect boletus mushrooms were pushing through the loosened soil. I looked at them. Allowed a smile. I considered picking them, wondered if my neighbors knew what deliciousness was growing in their yard. I left them, in case the family planned to pick them for dinner. Later in the evening, when Jon called to say he was leaving the shop, I told him to be sure to bike past that house and notice the rock garden. He arrived not an hour later with not two, but three mushrooms from his ride.

These little unexpected moments of joy can pull me from my malaise as if a switch has flipped on a light. I've often wondered if these deep canyons in my mind magnify those moments of soaring happiness. Do I experience life's highs more intensely because of the mental distance traveled to get there? Because when I'm in that headspace, I can see that this is indeed a beautiful world.

But just like knowing that the day-after-day sunny weather we've had this summer will ultimately end with skies that cloud and bring rain, I know the down days will return. I will wonder again how many days the darkness outside or within will last. I will try to keep myself busy. Try to not leave too much time to ponder my failings, my inadequacies, my insecurities, disappointments. Those things that lead to the downward spiral. I will try to focus on the positive moments for as long as I can. Try to link together as many good days as I can, continuing to focus on the simple beauty around me.

postscript:

It has taken me a few days to write this and I'm still nervous as hell about posting it. I did call a friend who is listed among Martha's friends on social media. While their interests sometimes overlapped, they were acquaintances and he had no knowledge of the struggles Martha went through. I'm glad I spoke with him. He's a writer and a teacher of writing, an observant and generous person. Though it was tough sharing with him my reasons for being concerned, his encouragement told me I needed to complete the thought.

For my friends who may be worried, I'm mostly okay, though I've found it's much easier to mend a shoulder than a mind and not nearly as hard to speak of a physical ailment than a mental one. I realized as I was riding my bike on some trails this Wednesday that part of what compels me to share this story is this relationship I have with words. If I can give voice to these feelings; if I can speak its name; if I can call it out; if I can tell the world it's lurking, maybe I can take away its power. So, call it my flip-off to Depression. There. I've said it's name. Yet I am so nervous about hitting the "publish" button, the real moment of truth.

post postcript:

We've had a couple rain storms in Anchorage in the last two days. I'm okay with that.

bike camping

Last Friday Jon and I celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary. After talking about a few options, we decided to drive toward Seward with the bikes and camping gear in the car, then bike up to Lost Lake. We've biked the entire length of the trail several times and I've long wanted to spend the night camping there. I figured seven miles to the lake would be very manageable as a first camping trip of the year. In fact, it was to be my first camping trip since 2011! I was ready.

We hit the trail just before 7 p.m. with Jon pulling the BOB trailer while I went light with rear panniers and my Camelbak. Parts of the trail were steep and sloughing away. In a couple places it was verging on being overgrown. Several times I got off to walk a rocky or otherwise sketchy section, pushing the bike or lifting the back end over something. After a few miles, the trail emerged from the trees and became a winding path, mostly rideable - even the elevated boardwalk, which I cleaned without thinking (best leave the thinking out when getting ready to ride the narrow planks).

Jon bikes toward the lake; Resurrection Bay in the background.

Approaching Lost Lake at 9 p.m.

Near the high point, the wind was kicking up but I rode in short sleeves toward the south end of the lake. After a little wandering we found a level campsite high above the lake and slightly sheltered from the wind. Despite mosquitoes buzzing on the outside of the tent, we eventually got to sleep.

11:15 p.m., shortly before turning in for the night.

Home for two nights.

The next morning, we woke to sprinkles on the tent, but soon the rain moved away (apparently headed for Anchorage, we later heard) and I climbed from the tent to make coffee. There is something perfect about sitting with a cup of coffee in the great outdoors, watching the morning light play on the lake. After breakfast and a few chores - like pumping water through our filter to fill our packs - we started out on a hike.

The bridge we didn't need to cross with bikes and gear.

Our goal was to circumnavigate the lake. We didn't know if it was possible; rather, we didn't know how far upstream to the headwaters of the lake we would need to go to make a safe stream crossing! Eventually we crossed just above a melting snow slide and where the creek braided. Jon went barefoot and I just kept my boots on - only a little water crept over the tops and I was mighty happy that I had better footing as we crossed.

Ptarmigan.

We found a cave!

Was it a mine? I wonder.

Little white flowers.

So many wildflowers!

Headwaters of Lost Lake. We'll cross on those gravel bars.

Heading back to camp

A few hours later we were back at camp, devouring dinner and wine (after briefly soaking our feet in one of the ponds) before turning in early. Exhausted.

On Sunday morning, we had a leisurely morning of coffee and breakfast. We watched from our perch as several hikers walked by. We would pass them later on our descent after our before-the-crack-of-noon start. We would also run into several cyclists we knew, most from Anchorage, who were riding the trail the way we usually do: as a day trip, maybe with a lunch stop in view of the lake. I took my time on the descent, stopping a few times just to rest my hands from the almost constant braking. Jon pulled away from me and I watched the BOB trailer bounce down the rougher sections of trail. We finally arrived in the parking lot, brimming with cars on a hot, sunny day.

I was pretty happy with how the Fargo - not to mention my shoulder - handled on the trip. I think I'm ready to tackle the Continental Divide!

Until next time.

repeats

Here we are, a misty rain falling and words piecing themselves together. The sun and warmth have been wonderful in Anchorage, but my writing inspiration has been nil. Let's see, besides work and volunteering at the museum, here's a little of what I've been up to.

I've been mountain biking and thinking an awful lot about technique. Earlier this month, my biking group hosted a clinic for its members at Kincaid Park. We had a young man teach us a few things about riding singletrack, specifically, how to best ride the many banked corners that were built on the new trails in 2011. Kevin is a talented rider, a soccer coach and recently earned his degree in phys. ed. He knows how to break down the elements of trail riding and express them to a group in a way most riders cannot.

After a discussion and brief warm-up, Kevin watched as each rider pedaled through a short stretch of trail near one of the parking lots; then, he told us what he saw and described how to improve. Most important was not hitting the brakes while in the midst of a banked corner, at least not if you're riding at all high on the bank. Instead, tap the rear brake only before entering the corner, then ride it out. Tapping the brakes while in the corner could slow momentum and drop us down to the low spot on the trail, maybe causing a crash, he warned. We rode the section the other direction while Kevin watched from the side. More discussion and we rode it again, this time biking the entire length of the trail. More discussion and a return to the parking lot.

After listening to what he said, practicing getting higher and higher on the corners, tapping my rear brake to enter the corner at just the right speed, I reached my "aha moment." It was the moment when I realized that the crash that was the final straw in tearing my rotator cuff back in 2011 was not just from crashing to a stop after coming out of a banked turn, it was from hitting my brakes during the turn itself. The slowdown in my momentum had sent me out of my high spot on the turn, to the opposite side of the trail, hitting my brakes again to save myself from crashing into something on the side of the trail. What I thought was one event was truly a series of unfortunate events. Knowing how I caused the accident is some comfort since now I know with more certainty how and why it happened.

Lesson learned: hit the brakes before the corner, not during. It reminded me of my days of learning to drive a car. Dad didn't take me driving much, leaving most of my instruction to the school's drivers' ed teacher (yes, our school had one), to Mom and my oldest brother, Mike. On one occasion, I was driving with Dad and approached a curve in the road a little too fast. Near the apex of the curve, I hit the brakes. Dad scolded. Told me to apply the brakes before, not after. No explanation. Just is. Four years later, my brother John was driving home from work late one evening. He must have been going too fast. Maybe he fell asleep. The car went off the road and rolled. He was killed on the same curve where Dad had scolded me about my braking.

That was what happened to young people where I grew up. Missed corners on two-lane highways late at night. Not many survivors, but even without a memorial posted, we learned to take those corners more seriously, with more caution. Small towns have long memories and still remember who was lost.

A week or so ago I biked with my husband Jon on the trails at Kincaid. It was our first time riding them together since they were built. I'll admit I thought twice about descending the trail where I crashed back in 2011 when the trails were brand new. He was on his new Anthem 29er and I was on a shop demo (also a 29er). Before we began the descent, I asked him to give me a little space because I may need to stop or might ride slower than he would. Then I dropped into Toilet Bowl (yes, that's the name), rode the series of banked corners and run-outs, tapped my rear brake when I needed and came out unscathed at the other end.