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.


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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.

perma-grins installed here

after the final descent... hooray for singletrack!

In the fall of 2004, I went to a meeting of the Far North Bicentennial Park users. It was their first monthly meeting after returning from a summer hiatus. The room was packed. A few days earlier, someone had posted signs in the park urging park users to attend. There was chatter on the online forums.

The reason: some trails had been widened and smoothed to make trail grooming for skiing easier in winter. Cyclists were mad; skiers didn't get it. There was lots of frustration at the meeting. People weren't sure how to get all the user groups to get along. I remember finally saying something about people getting involved if they want better trails. Others said the same.

Soon, I received an email about a meeting to talk about what we mountain bikers could do next. What started was an idea for Singletrack Advocates (STA). We were going to maintain trails, preserve skinny trails. We would even create skinny trails. I don't know if at that time many in the group envisioned what would happen in the next few years. Trailbuilding schools with IMBA, consulting with the municipality and trail design experts, working with all the different park users to build understanding, organizing the mountain biking community. Attending meetings.

Then, last year the group put in nearly eight miles of twisty, rolling singletrack in the same park. An all-volunteer group. And like any group that gets things done, it's the unifying force of one person that makes all the difference. A person who can rally people, work with different user groups, find the resources and keep charging through, breaking red tape like a champion crossing the finish line.

When Jon and I rode the STA trails this evening after work, I knew that without our fearless leader, Queen Bee, I wouldn't have been wearing that perma-grin as I descended on Stinger. There would not have been a Stinger. Thanks Janice for keeping at it and for rallying all the volunteers. And thanks volunteers and steering committee. I'm proud to be a part of STA.

Please, sir, can we make some more?

closed!

They closed Rover's Run Trail yesterday. Some call it "Mellen's Way," though the renaming attempt has been foiled by the media which refuse to use the new moniker. Nevermind, though, the trail is closed until October by order of the Parks & Recreation department. It's because of the bears. It's because of the people. It's the fish. It's the wildlife managers.

It's for our protection.

I've biked this trail for years. The year I worked on my book I encountered a black bear sow and two cubs. I skidded to a stop and waited, all the while calling for Jon who was behind me planting trail markers for an event. It made me a bit nervous. A bit more aware, in the same way I'm aware when I'm walking down a street at night in an unfamiliar city or neighborhood. Wary but confident that I can handle whatever arises.

Then last summer the brown bears caused trouble. They seriously mauled two people on the Rover's Run trail, one, a teenage mountain biker. After a runner was attacked, the trail was closed until winter. Two men were also attacked and chased on a trail nearby - the Double-Bubble portion of Spencer Loop. A brownie also chased a runner on the eastern portion of Spencer Loop. Both these trails remained open and are open now.

But Rover's has been closed because it is near a salmon stream, though other trails near the stream have not been closed. I've seen brown bear tracks on a trail across the road from this stream. It has not been closed either.

The trail is not the best one in Anchorage's parks, but it's popular and it connects us to other trails. I happen to live just over two miles from it and commute within a half-mile of the trail on my way to and from work. I'll tell you that it was a bit spooky riding through the park last year, especially after the second mauling. Partly because I arrived at the trailhead to find police tape blocking my exit from the trails I'd just biked; partly because an officer was gathering his gun and gear to head out into the woods to find that bear. But mostly because after that second attack, the park felt abandoned, like an empty street in a nameless city. You felt there should be people there but just didn't know where they were.

Where they were was not in Far North Bicentennial Park. They were in the state park, at Kincaid Park on the west side; they were even on the Resurrection Trail where there are loads of bears and little hope for cell phone service (so I hear from people who have cell phones) in case you need to call for help.

So last year the city told residents to stay off one trail, so people abandoned the entire park. We can assume that bears felt comfortable moving in. Now here we are with the start of the summer mountain biking season and Parks and Recreation is closing down a trail. I'm sure there's been lots of pressure to do so (mostly from people who don't use trails). This is precisely what the city shouldn't do. What they should do is tell every mountain biker, hiker and equestrian to fill those trails. Stop-and-go traffic, fender-to-hoof all along the trail. Weekends, evenings after work. Fill those trails.

Because if we are out there making noise, passing through, causing a commotion, no bear is going to want to choose that trail as a buffet and playground for raising a family. Trouble isn't going to move into a busy park.

For the record, I don't advocate poaching closed trails (esp. when there's a camera and they can always find out who you are so you can be ticketed and it makes all of us look bad as a group), but I do think we all need to make a case for reasonable trail management. Closing one trail is a simplistic solution whose repercusions will resonnate throughout the park. Not in a good way. If people don't think a park is safe, will they fund projects to improve it? Will people schedule events in the park helping put more fees in the city coffers? I think not. The people pressuring Parks & Rec to close this trail should think a little more creatively about how to make our parks safe rather than scaring people away.

rainy days

may the wind be at your back...

After what can only be described as a gorgeous Memorial Day Weekend during which I worked every day, my two days off fell on... the rainy days! Wednesday, I had in mind a hike, but with the showers on the east side, I opted to file all the loose papers in my office instead. In the process I found my thumb drive, a bill that needs to be paid and lots of papers that went into the recycling bag. It was a productive day.

So on Thursday, I was determined to get my hike. I parked at Glen Alps. The wind was blowing down the Powerline trail where I quickly turned onto the Middle Fork trail. It was mucky in places, but much of it was out of the wind that blew from Powerline Pass. It was my first hike of the season and I'm still glad I have my waterproof boots for all the wet areas.

Being out there on a rainy day meant I had the trail to myself much of the time. Alone with the landscape and my thoughts, I moved along the boardwalks and narrow trail, scanning the high slopes for wildlife and signs of fresh snow or ash from this spring's volcanic eruption of Mt Redoubt.

You'll have to open this one to see all the sheep on the slope.

ripples of snow with ash.

Some of the wildflowers were in bloom

thanks to the early spring sunshine,
while trees were just starting to bud.

Partway into the hike I had to decide whether it would be an out-and-back route or a loop. Once I passed the cutoff for Williwaw Lakes, I decided I'd take the trail all the way to Prospect Heights then head straight up the Powerline back to Glen Alps.

Hiking up the powerline, I set a rhythm that reminded me of how it feels to ride my single speed. Too slow and it feels like you're dragging and lose all momentum. It seems it will take forever. Too fast and you wear yourself out. Set the right tempo for yourself, however, and you can maintain that pace for quite a way. In this case, hiking uphill into the headwind for over a mile, once I set my pace, I felt I hadn't bit off more than I could chew. I arrived back at the trailhead just as the after-work crowd started showing up. I was happy to slip into my car and out of the hiking boots before heading back into town where things take on unnatural paces based on other people, clocks and intervals between red lights.

It was good to be out on the trails, even for a somewhat chilly afternoon.

uprooted tree, and all it brings along

fifteen years

aboard the Malaspina ferry, May 1994

Fifteen years ago on Memorial Day, I arrived at my sister's front door in Eagle River, just up the road from Anchorage. I'd made the journey from Milwaukee, Wisc., to Alaska in just over three weeks with a dog as my companion. At the start of the trip, I drove my truck to Minneapolis while my youngest brother drove a U-Haul carrying all my possessions to a house he had just bought in the city. I told him he could borrow my furniture (and my boxes of books, clothes, dishes... everything) while I was in Alaska. Then I took off.

I camped mostly, learning to set up my new tent proficiently and feeling safe from strangers because of the protection of my dog. We visited places I'd never been: Devil's Tower, the Badlands, Mount Rushmore, Wounded Knee, Yellowstone and the Tetons. Glacier National Park. Southeast Alaska by ferry.

Along the way I met a variety of people, most of whom I expect I'll never meet again: some college students at semester's end, a traveler camping out on his way to a new job, a couple guys camping independently in the Badlands. People camping on the ferry. I didn't meet many other women travelers. I guess there's a reason for that. Before I left on my trip people were worried about me. When I told them I was taking the dog, they seemed a little relieved, but were probably still a bit worried. Yet I couldn't have imagined not taking the journey because I didn't have a human companion. Just days before leaving Milwaukee, I'd been in front of a judge declaring no future claims in case my soon-to-be-former husband won the lottery the next day.

For the previous six months I'd been living in a small apartment in a converted mansion in what some considered the inner-city, but which felt pretty alive and comfortable to me despite my small-town upbringing. Going off on a road-trip on my own felt like the natural thing to do; the only thing to do. It would cleanse me. It would restore me; free me. It was a big leap at a new life that could only happen with a change in location. Once I left, I didn't look back with regret. Not even once.

I remember that as I drove here I'd stop in communities for a day or so, taking my time to stroll around before I headed to the next campsite. I'd take note of places where I'd think, if it doesn't work out in Alaska, I could always move here. That first year was a rough one. Finding a job; eventually moving out of my very understanding sister's rec room into an Anchorage neighborhood.

It took awhile to figure out whether it would work; whether I would fit in here. After a year I met Jon and have continued to meet more and more like-minded people. I remember several years ago, after Jon and I had moved in together. I was headed to Wisconsin to visit my dad while he was having heart surgery. I told Jon I had to go home for a visit, to which he said, "This is home."

And that was when I began to realize that there comes a time when you're no longer a visitor in the community where you decide to live. There comes a time when you become a part of it and you feel connected to the people and the geography and the sky. When you care and you stand up and get involved in issues that are important for the community. That's when you've found the place to call home.

I still go back to visit my family and I love visiting the Lower-48 and other places on trips, but when the jet touches down at the Ted, it's always with great relief that I'm home with the familiar mountains to the east and the moose munching on trees in the neighbor's yard. It's just hard to believe it's been 15 years.