Farewell, California

Nearly eight years ago I moved to California. I had four boxes, a duffel bag, a cooler full of deer meat (don’t ask), and my bike. I had no car and no job. I had no clue. No clue how expensive rent is, how intense Silicon Valley can be, how terrible the traffic is. But also no clue of the serenely peaceful redwood forests in the Santa Cruz Mountains, how the granite monoliths in Yosemite literally make your jaw drop, how you can see millions of stars on a clear night in Death Valley. Luckily, I had Owen and together we learned that there is a lifetime of adventures waiting to be had in the forests, mountains and deserts of California. 

I’ve tried my best to chronicle those adventures and I am grateful for every single one. Looking back, it’s unreal how much we’ve done and seen in the past eight years. We learned how to dispersed camp on public lands. I trained for my first ultramarathon. Owen bought a motorcycle and we rode it up to Alaska. On a whim, we discovered hot springs in the backcountry of Death Valley. We took more road trips than any sane person would ever fathom. We almost got struck by lightning on Mount Whitney. We drove up to Oregon and bought a 30 year old truck with bags of cash. We trespassed in a giant sequoia grove on my birthday (story below!). We got married and adopted a Siberian husky. We took a three-month sabbatical from our jobs. We took Denali on a bush plane. We survived 30+ days without power last winter and became true “mountain people.” 

And also: we made friends, then said goodbye as most of them left the Bay Area. We watched in horror as the average price of a single family home skyrocketed. We celebrated many, many holidays alone. I didn’t see my family for nearly two years during the pandemic. We battled soul sucking traffic and commutes.

After eight years in California, our journey here has finally come to an end. So, what’s next for us? Well, in college my friends and I all dreamed of moving to Colorado and even joked about “the race to Colorado” to see who could move there first. Madeline lived there for a good stint, Evan moved there several years ago and is now a proud home-owner. Lots of people that were never officially in the race have even beat us: my sister, Owen’s sister, his cousin. So, while we may be DFL (dead freakin’ last), we are finally making it happen!

Now for the logistics: we leave later today (!!!) with Owen driving a moving truck towing the 4Runner and me and Denali in Yaris. We are renting a house in Louisville, Colorado. Owen starts his new job at Maybell Quantum on April 8 and I’m in the process of finding a job out there. Before I close, this wouldn’t be one of my blog posts without a few stories, so here goes, albeit a condensed version.

Just last weekend we went to Lake Tahoe for our last days of snowboarding at our favorite ski resort. That morning the road into the resort was closed because Caltrans was blasting to mitigate avalanche risk. While we were waiting in the long line of cars, I took Denali for a walk, all the way to the start of the road closure and ducked under the “road closed” gate, not thinking much of it. Beyond the gate the snow was untouched, the forest silent, and no one else was around - it was absolutely beautiful. It wasn’t until a Caltrans truck drove up that I realized I was probably not supposed to be there. I got a stern talking-to and solemnly promised to never walk beyond a road closure again. I also got important intel that they predicted the road might open at 11am. Score! The road ended up opening even earlier, and I made it to the women’s snowboarding clinic that I was taking that weekend just a little late. My group introduced each other and I updated them about the road closure, my accidental illicit activity, etc. As we were all chatting at lunch a couple hours later, I found out that my instructor’s boyfriend works for Caltrans. When she shared that he’s actually the one who opened the pass that was closed this morning, it dawned on us at the same moment: he was probably the one who caught me behind the road closure! She pulled up a photo of him on her phone and I confirmed it was him. What a small world. 

Back in February we went on our annual trip to Death Valley National Park for President’s Day weekend. Normally hundreds of people come out to these hot springs in a remote stretch of the park for a weekend of festivities, culminating in a baseball game. This year was different though because all the normal routes into the springs were snowed in. The options were to drive through extremely deep snow or an extremely rocky route. We chose the rocks and it was so bumpy it shook the keys out of the 4Runner’s ignition several times. In reward for our efforts we had a couple mellow days at the hot springs with a smaller group of folks. Afterwards we explored the frontcountry: we hiked Titus Canyon, a 4x4 road, at sunset with Denali. We also checked out the temporary lake that formed in Badwater Basin from recent intense rains (that area is normally nearly bone dry).

Best to drive in the dark right?

Running at the Racetrack

Near Titus Canyon

Badwater Basin

In January we celebrated my birthday with a trip to Shaver Lake, an area in the Sierras we had never been to before. We planned to explore a giant sequoia grove nearby, only to be thwarted by a closed road a couple miles before the grove. As we were sitting in our car wallowing a bit and deciding what to do, a contractor drove up and asked if we knew the code to the lock on the gate. Did we look like we knew it?! Sadly we said no and returned to our wallowing. He called around and after a couple minutes he got the code, opened the gate, let us drive through, and told us what the code was (so we could lock it on our way back out). He didn’t even know why we were driving that way or that it was my birthday! I will forever be grateful for that guy as the reason why I was able to celebrate my 32nd birthday among the massive trees, and how they put into perspective that 32 isn’t that old.  

Exploring a frozen waterfall

For New Years we went up to Mount Shasta, with not one but two dogs in tow since we were dogsitting Benno, our neighbor’s dog. We closed out one year and started the next in my absolute favorite way: snowshoeing in the shadow of Mount Shasta. Denali was completely in her element but Benno, a Rhodesian Ridgeback, originally bred in Africa, was not as enthusiastic about the weather. We got several comments about the two dogs, one with a natural coat, and one with an artificial coat. After our adventures in the snow we didn’t even make it until 10pm on New Years Eve, and instead celebrated East Coast NYE.

The last few days have been a whirlwind of goodbyes to the places and people we loved here, coworkers, running club, friends, and neighbors. I have been so touched by the kind words and tokens of appreciation everyone has given us: send-off meals, snacks for our road trip, bottles of wine from the local wineries. Our landlord’s daughter even sketched a beautiful portrait of Denali. In between all the goodbyes we have managed to pack up our life’s accumulations, which turned out to be a lot more than I thought, even for a minimalist. Now all that’s left to do is drive 1,500 miles to our new home. I have a good feeling about Colorado and what’s next for us. I might need a new blog title, but I hope to keep on writing, if you want to keep on reading.

Armchair Adventures

I like to say that I write this blog as much for other people as I do for myself. It gives me a reason to get out and explore so I have something to write about, even when I don’t quite feel like it. Now is one of those times. It’s too cold to go camping in the mountains, but there’s not enough snow to enjoy snowboarding or snowshoeing. Compared to the rest of the country, the weather in California is pretty ideal year-round, but if I had to pick an off-season, late fall/early winter would be it. 

All that to say we haven’t gotten out much recently. Luckily, Owen and I went on a few trips this fall that I haven’t written about yet, so I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed reliving our misadventures.

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Back in early October, when the days were longer and the Sierras were accessible, I convinced Owen to go backpacking over a three-day weekend. Some convincing was needed because he was already spending a lot of time outside those days. You see, Owen and Denali were on the tail-end of a cross-country road trip back to the west coast from New Jersey, and camping almost every night. We made plans to meet up at a trailhead in the Sierras that we were both familiar with by noon on a Saturday. 

I arrived at our designated meet up spot, parked in the shade, and hung out. 30 minutes turned into an hour, an hour and a half… where was he? There was no cell service so I couldn’t call him. I ate a snack, journaled, took a walk to see if he was parked around a bend: nothing. I got a dribble of cell service and fired off a text, which didn’t go through. I took inventory: I had a sleeping bag and sleeping pad but no tent. I had a Nalgene and trail mix, but no other food and no stove. (He had most of our group gear and food for the weekend.) I was too tired to drive all the way back home, which was over five hours, but I could drive to the nearest town to get provisions and camp that night solo. Practicalities aside though, I was starting to get worried: where was he?

Finally, three and a half hours after we were supposed to meet, an old, light pink truck pulled up and as it got closer I realized it was Owen. The bright red 4Runner was completely caked in mud, giving it a pink-beige patina. At that point it was late afternoon and I insisted we stay on schedule and hike a couple miles to camp. Owen tried to tell me what happened but I was distracted while I quickly divided up group gear, packed, and wolfed down lunch. Something about 50 miles of mud pits, maybe yesterday or maybe this morning? It wasn’t until we finally started hiking that I could focus on his story. It turned out that he met up with an old coworker who also was on a road trip and they took some backroads in Nevada that turned into mud bogs and slowed his progress to a crawl for the good part of half a day.

The rest of the weekend was, luckily, not filled with 50 miles of mud pits. We set up base camp in a clearing alongside Wolf Creek and day hiked to a meadow that made a perfect lunch spot. In researching the trail I’d found a trip report from a couple years ago that mentioned an old cabin in the area, not far off the trail. Old cabins aren’t really my thing so I didn’t pay much attention to its location or any details, but when I mentioned it to Owen he insisted we look for it. (He is a child at heart: faint trails, garbage, and abandoned buildings are like sirens calling for him to explore them.) For miles, we kept our eyes peeled for side trails that might lead to a cabin, even following a few that disappeared in dense brush and swamps. Finally, he saw a glint of metal off in the distance and we bushwhacked to it. The “cabin” was completely destroyed, the roof caved in likely by heavy snowfall last winter. Somehow that made it even more intriguing to Owen and he carefully crawled inside it to explore the remnants.

We took a somewhat last-minute trip at the end of October to Colorado. I know late October isn’t exactly Colorado’s prime season but we were eager to visit my sister and my friend Evan from college before winter set in out there. We made tentative plans to go camping, but decided against it a couple days before we flew out, worried it might be too cold. Little did we know…

We got to enjoy fall colors in the foothills of the Rockies for approximately a day and a half after we arrived, and then it instantly turned to winter. I’m talking lows in the teens and several inches of snow. We went on a beautiful snowy hike with Evan and his girlfriend in a national forest and explored the small town of Golden another day with Kelli and her boy/friend. California’s climate had given me zero preparation for this weather and I froze my ass off the entire time! So we mostly holed up inside, gorged ourselves on delicious food, baked cookies, and binge watched tv and movies. It wasn’t camping, but it was pretty damn nice. 

In early November we went on a backpacking trip in the Ventana Wilderness of Los Padres National Forest. This was not our typical kind of trip. For one, Owen got up earlier than me each morning and hiked further than me each day. Why? He wasn’t out there just for the good views, chill vibes, and freeze-dried meals. He had a specific, singular purpose: he had drawn one of only 25 harvest tags for a deer in the designated wilderness area. (My friend was convinced the term of art is to “catch” a deer. I explained to her, the deer hunting "expert" I am, that the correct term is to “harvest” a deer.)

It was Owen’s first time backcountry hunting. I was just along for the ride, and to help carry out the meat if he got a deer. Big emphasis on “if.” I didn’t know how I’d react, or what all needed to be done if he was successful but I tried not to worry too much. We set up camp a few miles from the trailhead and went for a scouting walk the first night to look for deer. I always enjoy the views on our backpacking trips, but this was different. This was a much more heightened sense of awareness, a deeper stillness, a stronger sense of connection with the landscape. When we finally spotted deer grazing, Owen was so elated he had to steady his shaking hands on my head to see through the binoculars clearly. Denali knew something was afoot since her humans were whispering and moving about excitedly. 

Very early the next morning he headed out to sneak into his hunting spot before sunrise and wait for a deer. We made a plan the night before: if I heard a gunshot, I was to wait 30 minutes, and then hike out towards where he was hunting. A couple hours after he’d left I was perched in a tree eating breakfast when a gunshot pierced the air. I leapt out of the tree, adrenaline racing through my body, cleaned up camp, and packed my backpack. Denali and I hiked briskly toward his hunting spot as I scanned the landscape for his blaze orange hat. Finally, I spotted him, hiking on the trail towards us, which I was not expecting. He was just as surprised to see us. It turned out the gunshot wasn’t his! Ultimately he didn’t end up getting a deer on that trip, but it was still a useful scouting exercise. He returned to the same spot the next week, and 18 hours later came home with our source of meat for the foreseeable future. Denali was by Owen's side each evening as he processed the deer lending her support in catching any scraps that may have been left unattended.

We went on one final backpacking trip of the year over Thanksgiving. We usually go somewhere far away for Thanksgiving, some epic spot in the desert, but this year our hearts weren’t in it. We wanted to be outside for the holiday but not travel too far so we settled on Big Sur. Pretty much anything that could go wrong did. We got a late start and didn’t arrive at the campsite until dark, no big deal except Owen forgot his headlamp. We also forgot a lighter. Denali was wet, muddy, and covered in dozens of ticks. And the clincher was we discovered a puncture wound on her foot. Needless to say, we hiked out a day early and were more than happy to spend the extra day back home getting a Christmas tree, decorating, and enjoying the great indoors. After an incredible spring, summer, and fall spent camping and backpacking, it is now time to take a little winter hiatus.

California to the Jersey Shore, Via the Swiss Alps

It’s an hour before sunset on an early September evening and I’m meditating on a rock at 10,000 feet in the Swiss Alps. I’ve run 20 miles and climbed almost 9,000 vertical feet over the past two days to get here. I feel surprisingly calm. I’m not thinking about my sore quads, my tight hamstrings, the 80 miles of running I have in front of me, or the stress I felt leading up to the trip. The stress that comes when you’ve forked over thousands of dollars to go trail running through the Alps, and as the trip approaches you wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake. 

Meditation spot

When I first signed up for the guided trail running vacation in January, I wasn’t stressed. I’d been running consistently all winter and looked forward to the extra motivation that having a trip of this scale would provide. Four months into my training, a knee injury shook my confidence. Could my body actually handle the rigors of training, nevertheless running intensely for a week in a row? What did I know about injury prevention and recovery? Sure, I’d done several long trail races but I was always so sore the next day I could barely walk. I cursed myself for signing up for the most challenging trip the company offers. As my departure date got closer the worries intensified. To name a few: getting COVID, twisting an ankle, busting a knee, issues with my achilles, my hamstrings, my back. Debilitating soreness. Runaway ingrown toenail pain. Athlete’s foot taking a turn for the worse. Doing something stupid like closing the car trunk or door on myself. (Sadly, that’s actually happened. Twice.) Owen likes to joke that I should be put in a bubble in the weeks leading up to my big races. 

My trip insurance didn’t include fear or anxiety as a reimbursable reason to cancel, so in early September I boarded a plane to Switzerland, hoping the experience I had in the mountains would make up for my lower training mileage. After the 11 hour overnight flight I felt a little groggy but was confident I’d have no trouble getting to my group’s meeting point in Arolla, a remote village in the Alps. After all, I’d be traveling by train and the Swiss train system is known for being reliable and easy to navigate. But when the ticket agent told me that what was supposed to be a 5 hour trip would take 14 hours, I immediately started stress-sweating. The best she could do was book me a ticket to Sion, a destination about 25 miles from Arolla, and I’d figure out the rest later. Maybe I could hitchhike the last stretch?

As I journeyed through the Swiss countryside, I problem-solved. Another ticket agent told me to take a bus from Sion to Arolla. I found a map of Switzerland’s entire public transit system and tracked where I was going. However, another mini crisis shortly ensued in the train bathroom, of all places. I couldn’t figure out how to flush the darn toilet or turn the sink on. With my hands covered in soap I dashed into another bathroom across the way to see if it had any instructions or labels. Meanwhile, a lady almost walked into the bathroom I’d just defiled: disaster! With the knowledge that the Swiss take pride in having pristine public bathrooms fresh in my mind from the book I was reading, I shoved my dignity down and asked the lady how to operate the bathroom. (In case you ever find yourself in the bathroom on a Swiss train, flush the toilet by pressing a button labeled “WC.”) By the time I finally emerged from the bathroom, the train was traveling in the complete opposite direction. Some strange space-time-toilet continuum, apparently. 

View of the Swiss countryside from the trail

I finally made it to Arolla and met our guide and the six others in my group. The night was a blur of wine, bread, cheese, and trying to remember everyone’s names: Annie, a bad-ass trail runner in her 60s from Montana, Joanna and Keith, from Oregon, celebrating their 15th wedding anniversary, Jason, a dad and coach from Boston, Patrick, a soon-to-be dad from North Carolina, and David, a real estate agent from Colorado with several 100-milers under his belt. Plus our guide Mark, a former Gurkha officer in the British army. The next morning our group set off on our “warm-up” run (10.6 miles), and I got my first taste of trail running in the Alps. It was unbelievable how little we had to work to get such amazing views. This was mountain trail running at its best: green-blue lakes, views of glaciers and snowy peaks, scree fields. But there was a twist: we came across a mountain hut at the halfway point, the Cabane des Aiguilles Rouges, serving sandwiches, soups, pastries, and drinks. I would come to love these huts and cafes that were so plentiful in the Swiss Alps. But that day, I wasn’t so sure about them. I mistakenly ordered a gigantic sandwich and tried to keep it down as we continued on our run. Lesson learned! That night I was only slightly sore but deployed multiple recovery methods: I stretched, rolled out my muscles, and chugged an Airborne drink and a chocolatey sports recovery drink. Those two, unsurprisingly, do not mix well. 

Our hotel in Arolla

Day 1 of running, not too shabby!

Lunch stop, photo by: Keith 

The next morning we left the comfort of our hotel and had nine miles and over 5,000 feet of climbing to get to our lodging for the night, the rustic Becs de Bosson alpine hut. We joked that we looked like turtles, carrying everything on our backs. Besides food and water I had a sleeping bag liner, rain gear, long sleeve, gloves, headlamp, toothbrush, toothpaste, sunscreen, and soap. My pack might have been heavy, but I was not going to be weighed down by my lunch again. I ordered just a pastry at the Buvette de l'A Vieille cafe, and smugly power hiked ahead of those in our group slowed down by beers and big plates of food. Halfway through the climb, everyone rallied for a dance party to the Bee Gees, complete with speakers that our guide had carried just for the occasion! I knew right then that these were my people, even if they did eat too much for lunch.

Village of Evolene

Can you imagine running after eating that?!

When we finally arrived at the hut we took in the 360-degree views and changed out of our trail shoes into Crocs, mandatory footwear provided by the hut. We also got a lesson in hut culture, mostly regarding the use of the toilets, which I listened to intently, not wanting a repeat of the train bathroom incident. After my aforementioned meditation on a rock we all piled into the dining room for a three-course, albeit simple dinner, then everyone wandered outside to enjoy the sunset. Even the two black hut cats joined us! Our sleeping arrangement was a tiny room for the eight of us, equipped with four bunk beds. I snagged a bottom bed, which meant I had to hand various requested items up to the folks in the top bunks: massage ball, water bottles, clothes, headlamp. Sometime in the middle of the night the massage ball bounced out the window and the water bottle fell down to the bottom bunk under Annie’s pillow! Armed with earplugs I didn’t hear any of it though, or the fifteen total bathroom trips that we cumulatively made throughout the night (we counted the next day). 

Becs de Bosson hut

Even the hut cat came out to enjoy the sunset

Day three was our longest day of running, almost 18 miles with over 11,000 feet of elevation change. We descended from the high alpine to the turquoise blue waters of Lac de Moiry, then picked our way across rocky, technical terrain, too remote for any of the cafes that we had gotten so used to for lunch. Finally in late afternoon we plopped our weary bodies into Cabane de Petit Mountet and I greedily eyed the menu. Screw small pastries, today I would feast! I settled on a gigantic bowl of pasta, potatoes, and cheese. Between the rejuvenating meal and the ibex we saw shortly after, I had the motivation I needed to stumble the last three miles to our hotel in the town of Zinal.

Annie and I, photo by: Mark Brightwell

Photo by: Mark Brightwell

View from our hotel room in Zinal

That night over dinner our guide gravely warned us there would not be any cafes to stop at for lunch the next day. We took matters into our own hands and decided to pack a picnic lunch. The next morning everyone went to the grocery store to procure their assigned items. I was responsible for nutella and “stole” multiple single serving packets from our hotel’s breakfast buffet. After a couple hours ascending out of the Zinal Valley we came to a little cabin with a picnic table, a perfect lunch spot. It was clearly owned by someone but they weren’t home and we decided if they arrived we would just invite them to join us. We certainly had enough to share: meats, cheeses, breads, mustard, tomatoes, avocados, plums, nutella, chocolate bars, and even bagged wine, cooled in a water trough nearby. 

Hauling a baguette up, photo by: Mark Brightwell

What's left of our picnic, photo by: Keith

That afternoon was some of my favorite running of the entire trip. Perhaps the mid-run wine had something to do with it? I led five of us down a fast, flowy, semi-technical shelf trail, navigating roots and rocks at top speed while views of the Turtmann glacier came closer and closer into view. We finished the run with a soak in a glacial stream before ascending to the Turtmann Hut, our digs for the night. The vibe of this hut was less calm and peaceful, like our first hut, and more rowdy, drunken celebration manifested as the shirtless, barefoot German guys joking with each other and doing handstands on the patio.

Glacial soak, photo by: Joanna

View from the Turtmann Hut

Can you believe that sleeps 8?

The next day’s run was a blur of scree fields with some off-trail running sprinkled in. Another runner, Kyle, was running roughly the same route as our group, except he was doing it self-guided, on his own. Each day it was a fun surprise to see where we’d cross paths with Kyle. Sometimes it was at a cafe for lunch, other times it wasn’t until we arrived in town or at our hut for the evening This particular day, Kyle came striding up to us in the most unlikely of places, while we were off trail picking our way through a mucky field, carefully avoiding the cow pies. As quickly as he appeared, he was gone. Which was usually how each day’s Kyle sighting went.

Lost sheep high up on the mountain

I was relieved when we finally arrived at our lunch spot at Jungeralp. It was quite a nice establishment, not really a “shoes-off” kind of place, but at this point on the trip we didn’t care. As soon as we sat down at our outdoor table we all popped our shoes off to let our feet air out. Our guide even wandered inside, shoeless, to check out the desserts. After lunch we had a decision to make: take a cable car down to St. Niklaus, the village we’d stay in that night, or descend thousands of vertical feet on foot. Somehow, no one was tempted by the shortcut.

We made it a shoes-off kind of place

When we arrived in St. Niklaus I let Annie, my roommate for the trip, clean up in our hotel room first while I sat across the street at a cafe with Patrick, Jason, and David to enjoy a beer. By this point, Annie and I had our hotel routines down. One of us would get the room first to shower and destinkify, while the other would usually get a drink, then we’d switch. Most importantly, we knew not to bring our trail running shoes into our rooms. In this particular hotel in St. Niklaus, we were all staying along the same hallway, and with seven pairs of shoes festering together we stunk up the place. I felt terrible for the elderly German man who was also along our hallway.

By now, we’d run for five days through the Alps and I thought we had seen it all. I actually hit a low point, feeling tired and sore and uninspired enough that I broke out my running playlist. I didn’t need it for long though. From St. Niklaus the trails had a little bit of everything, from a cave to rockfall shelters to a culvert that we had to crouch down to walk through. We even went across the world’s third longest pedestrian suspension bridge. It was here that we finally discovered what would slow Patrick down, the fastest one in our group. Not a gigantic meal, or multiple beers, or even two liters of wine had done the trick. No, it was his fear of heights on the suspension bridge! That afternoon we danced our way into Fluhalp Hut, our last hut of the trip. This was by far the most upscale: it had hot showers, more spacious rooms, designer slides for hut shoes, and even a wedding happening that night! The best part wasn’t the upscale accommodations though, it was the simple beauty of watching the sun set behind the Matterhorn, knowing we had run almost 80 miles to see one of the most iconic mountains in the world.  

World's third longest suspension bridge

The Matterhorn!

Sunset from Fluhalp Hut

Day seven was our last day of running, or so I thought. We made our way toward Zermatt under the hulking Matterhorn, and even got to run with the elusive Kyle all day! Somewhere along the way, our guide casually mentioned that we could also run tomorrow, if we wanted to. I had been looking forward to celebrating our last day of the trip in Zermatt by exploring the city, perhaps indulging in some Swiss chocolates or lounging in the hotel spa. Anything but running, really. As the day went on though, I opened my mind to the prospect of running tomorrow. Our guide said it would be the most beautiful day yet, and frankly I couldn’t let myself miss that. At this point I was a full blown, Alps-worn, trekking-pole toting trail runner who greeted people in French or German and ate gigantic lunches at huts and rolled my way down the trail afterward. What was one more day? The hotel that night in Zermatt certainly helped rejuvenate me. It made last night’s “fancy” hut seem like a trailside lean-to. Our room had fluffy white bathrobes, soap shaped like sheep, and a view of the Matterhorn from our own private patio. I felt severely underdressed for that evening’s four-course meal in denim shorts and a t-shirt. This was not a shoes-off kind of place!

Zermatt, after our last official run

Our swanky hotel

We had a smaller group for the last day’s bonus run. Joanna and Keith had split off to travel back to Geneva. Annie joined for a bit but headed back to the hotel early. That left me, Mark, David, Patrick, and Jason. I was worried I’d be the slowest one and hold the group back, but at this point I was so acquainted with the trails that I was practically flying down them, even if I still couldn’t keep up with Patrick or David. It was as epic as our guide had promised. We were in the shadow of the Matterhorn all day, on flowy singletrack trails that we had all to ourselves. We nearly touched the edge of a glacier. When I ran out of snacks, I fueled on a Swiss chocolate bar. I devoured my largest lunch of the trip. And best of all, I made it back to the hotel, 101.4 miles of trail running through the Alps, without “stuffing it” (our guide’s term for wiping out).

Photo by: Mark Brightwell

Photo by: Mark Brightwell

Our last meal as a group that evening was bittersweet as we shared our favorite parts of the trip and our goals looking forward. For the first time on the trip, I think I ate more than our guide, who was slumped in the corner sipping tea and nursing an upset stomach. After eight days of running, we finally wore him down!

That was on September 11. Four days later I was sitting on a beach at the Jersey Shore, reading a magazine, thinking about what ice cream flavor I might order that night from Skipper Dipper. After loading up on bread, cheese, meats, and pastries in the Swiss Alps, I probably didn’t need to do an eating tour of the Jersey Shore too, but it’s kind of my family’s tradition on our annual beach vacation. I wasn’t going to argue with that!

Getting our ice cream fix at Skipper Dipper