Running America's Hardest 50K

Back in 2019, so basically an eternity ago, I saw a photo on the cover of Runner’s World magazine of the Rut 50K trail race in Big Sky, Montana. The photo featured a runner descending a scree field on Headwaters Ridge in the fog and it looked like absolute hell. I decided to sign myself up. The 2020 race didn’t happen, but by this spring chances were looking good that the race would be possible on Labor Day weekend so I started training. It wasn’t until this summer that I finally read through all the course details on the race website. A couple things stood out to me: “EXTREMELY STEEP & TECHNICAL”, “15% off trail”, and “September in Montana often brings the first winter snowstorms and blizzards to the high peaks.” What had I gotten myself into?

I had three main goals for the race: 1) Get to the starting line healthy, 2) finish, and 3) have some fun. I was probably most anxious about my first goal, and I don’t mean I was worried about getting COVID (though I didn’t want that to happen either). No, I was paranoid about doing something stupid, something that would render my months of training useless. Something like twisting an ankle while dancing around the house, or being taken out by Denali on a walk, or getting water in my ear the day before the race then violently shaking my head to get it out, tweaking my back in the process (I may be familiar with that last one). My coworkers did nothing to calm my nerves. The day before I left, their parting words were “don’t twist an ankle” and “don’t get hurt.” 

I managed to not hurt myself before leaving for the race. But I still had to get there in one piece. And did I mention, Owen and I were driving to Montana in the 4Runner, a truck that’s 34 years old? I didn’t have a whole lot of confidence in the 4Runner when we first hit the road. At some point on the second day the speedometer stopped working. I almost wanted to get pulled over so Owen could say to a cop he honestly had no idea how fast we were going. The second night we camped in a National Forest in Idaho. It was so cold the water in Denali’s bowl froze, and the next morning the truck wouldn’t start. For a moment, I thought I’d have to beg a stranger for a ride to Montana, but somehow Owen got it started. That afternoon we crossed into Montana, and I finally understood what the term big sky country meant. That night, I read Out and Back, an account of how professional ultrarunner Hillary Allen nearly fell to her death while running in a mountain ultra race. In hindsight, it might not have been the best reading material choice but it did remind me that unlike professional ultra runners, there was no pressure for me to win the race tomorrow. And with that thought, I fell right to sleep. 

Quick pit stop at the Snake River in Idaho

At the starting line the next morning I felt a little scattered, second guessing my gear choices and checking the aid station cutoff times. But once the elk bugle went off signifying the start of the race, the excitement set in. We climbed up, up, up and when I looked behind me the sun was rising above the surrounding mountains. This is why I run ultras, I thought to myself. The first ten miles of the course were said to be the most runnable and I focused on just taking it easy and enjoying myself. I even grouped up with some women for awhile and picked their brains about what it was like living in Montana. My first hiccup didn’t come until mile 10, at an aid station. My pack was so full of extra gear (emergency blanket, jacket, food), that I could barely jam my full water bladder back in. So I shoved it until it exploded open, soaking me in the process. Owen and Denali were there but spectators weren’t supposed to offer any assistance so they just looked on, helpless. 

Dawn patrol

After the aid station we had a major climb, and somewhere along the way I finally got a view of Lone Peak, the highest part of the course at over 11,000 feet. It felt impossibly far away and impossibly high, but I got into my slow gear and just kept hiking. I’ve never thought of myself as fast on the climbs but I felt really strong and began passing people one by one. I even got called a beast, which is the highest compliment in outdoor pursuits. We were well above the tree line and the terrain eventually turned to scree, with narrow drop offs on each side. A strange mantra popped into my head: “follow the flags, they are your friend” and I went with it, focusing on nothing but the small orange flags marking the course. Eventually I made it to the summit of Lone Peak, and you’d think everything would get easier after that, right? You would be very, very wrong. 

Climbing to Lone Peak

I’ve always loved the thrill of descents in trail runs. But this terrain was like nothing I’d ever encountered, and it kicked my ass. I actually preferred the scree, because at least it gave my feet something to grip onto. Navigating down the steep bare dirt was next to impossible. The race has a rule that only ski patrol are allowed on certain sections of the course, and I’m pretty sure this descent was why that rule was created. At one point, the course got so steep that I was at a loss for how to navigate down until a woman behind me advised to get on all fours and crab walk down. (It worked!) Meanwhile, she was putting on crampons for extra grip. Then, two things happened that boosted my confidence in my slow and steady tortoise approach. I saw a runner that had fallen getting taken by helicopter off the course, and then someone above me fell and crashed into me. Luckily neither of us got hurt, but it reminded me that there was no way I’d finish the course if I bombed down the hills recklessly. 

Finally the steep descent was over but I had a new problem: I could barely run. My quads were trashed from braking with every step, and the bottom of my feet were throbbing with pain every so often. With about six miles left, I knew I had to dig deep. I employed two new mantras that I came up with on the spot: “Let the music take you” reminded me to focus on my playlist and “light on your feet” was for any time I felt sharp stabs of pain. With maybe two miles to go I started chatting with a woman and we decided that we were making it to that finish line, even if we had to crawl. Luckily, I didn’t actually need to crawl through the finish line- it was more of a hobble-  and 11.5 hours after I started, it was all over. I have heard the Rut described as possibly America's hardest 50K, and I have to agree.

Owen and I took the week after the race off from work so we could explore Montana and Idaho. I had planned out the first two days- checking out Missoula and hiking to a hot spring- but after that I left it up to Owen. Which meant that there were zero concrete plans, just vague ideas. It goes against my hyper-organized nature to travel that way, but I’ve come to accept that it’s actually really fun. We drove a remote section of the Idaho Backcountry Discovery Route through the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness and the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness, and survived despite carrying none of the gear recommended on the warning signs. The rest of our days were spent cruising on random beautiful backroads, and each night we found a campground or forest to sleep in.

Heading to Jerry Johnson hot springs

Somewhere near the Continental Divide

The benefit of traveling this way was that every new lookout or roadside stop we discovered was a complete surprise. I’m not sure what I enjoyed more: swimming in a canyon to cool off, watching the sun set over Lake Como, or our late night walk in the Sawtooth Mountains. Then there were the small towns we came across. Denali had the time of her life in Salmon, ID when a middle-school class came out for recess at the park we were eating lunch in and all wanted to pet her. In another town, Ketchum, ID the leaves were starting to change color with the start of fall and it was so beautiful we could not drag ourselves away. Sure, there were some low moments like getting ambushed by bugs in Nevada, constantly having to pack and unpack the 4Runner, and thick smoke from wildfires obscuring the views. But it was exhilarating being on the road for more than just a weekend.

Lake Como, ID

Cooling off in a river

The Sawtooth Mountains

Nightfall in the Sawtooths

There was no rest for the weary, and a few days after we got home from the road trip we left for another trip: a wedding in Connecticut, two weeks of living with my parents and Kelli in NJ while working remotely, then a wedding in Virginia. My time on the east coast was filled with nostalgia: seeing high school friends, reading old yearbooks, watching family videos. And don't worry, there was no shortage of New Jersey’s finest pizza, bagels, and pork roll.

I guess Kelli wasn’t sick of me after two weeks together in NJ, because at the end of October she flew out to CA to visit us while working remotely. We had grand plans to go camping in the Sierras but Mother Nature had other ideas and sent an atmospheric river (essentially a shitload of rain) which knocked our power out for four days. It was actually fun at first. We made a mean woodstove chili, invented our own games, and went for rainy runs. But by day four, I was pissed. Our dirty dishes were festering, we were all out of clean clothes, and hot showers were but a distant memory. The power came back on just in time for us to leave for a quick weekend trip to Napa Valley, where we pretended we were fancy and explored wineries and cute towns. Someone even declared Denali a “vineyard dog.” If only they saw her when she's covered in mud!

That finally brings me to now. It has been quite an eventful fall, and it's not over yet!

Rain and Fire

Why do we climb mountains? For the physical challenge? For the views? Simply because they’re there? For the post-hike pizza and beers? (That’s my vote.) Well, when Owen and I were just two miles shy of the summit of Mount Whitney, in the middle of a storm, I thought maybe this is the universe telling us we’re not meant to climb this mountain. But let me back up. 

At 14,495 feet, Mount Whitney is the tallest mountain in the contiguous United States. It doesn’t require technical skills to get to the top and it’s only a seven hour drive from us. When I first heard about it after moving to California, I couldn’t help myself, I wanted to give it a shot. Me and thousands of other people. Therein lies the first challenge: unless you can dedicate at least a week to the trip, you have to apply for an extremely hard to get permit to hike the shorter, more popular route. 

Luck hasn’t exactly been on our side. A couple years of no goes, a canceled permit last year due to the wildfires. Finally this July, permit in hand and wildfire free, Owen and I were ready to give it a try. The trip got off to a promising start. We got to Lone Pine, the town below Mount Whitney, in the early evening with plenty of time for last minute preparations. Owen bought a lightweight hat at the local gear store (which came with a free road soda), and we picked up trash bags to use as pack covers just in case it rained. We had a relaxing evening at the trailhead campground, enjoying brownies and icecream as we finalized our plans. Our permit was good for the next two days, and in an ideal world we wanted to summit the second day. This way we could hike most of the way there the first day, camp close to the summit, and make our way to the top early the next morning before there’d be any afternoon storms. Unfortunately, there was a storm forecasted for the morning of our second day, so our only chance to summit safely would be the first day of our permit. 

We started up the trail around 4 a.m,, hiking the first mile or two with our headlamps in the early morning dawn. It’s 11 miles to the summit and we figured eight hours would be plenty of time for us to make it there by noon, before any afternoon storms could roll in. I had asked a friend that had summited several 14ers for advice before our trip, and the piece that stuck in my mind was: pace yourself, take it slow. So we did. There were snack breaks, bathroom breaks, photo breaks, and an encounter with the youngest hikers to summit Mount Whitney. They were six years old, and this was their second time summiting. They were known as the “Super Hiking Twins.” After meeting them I thought, we have got this in the bag! If six-year olds can summit, surely we can. 

Early morning miles

But time started slipping away from us, and we fell behind schedule. Seven miles into the hike we set up our tent and cached most of our gear at Trail Camp and started up the section of 99 switchbacks. We were maybe three switchbacks up when hikers coming down from the summit told us it had been snowing and hailing higher up. I glanced at Owen’s bare legs and wondered how he would fare. Then we saw a miserable-looking guy wearing shorts who literally told us not to do what he did. It was decided: I made Owen go back down to our camp and put pants on. He didn’t have to backtrack far, maybe a quarter mile, but it was taking forever. I could see our tent from where I sat, and when he had been in there longer than normal I started wondering whether he had cracked his head open or fallen asleep. Finally, he emerged, and then finally, he made it back to me. I immediately charged up the switchbacks, ready to GO! 

Still smiling

As we ascended the switchbacks, we got more reports of rain and cold temperatures at the summit. Our self-declared deadline of being at the summit by noon was quickly slipping out of reach. By the time we made it to Trail Crest, two miles from the summit, it was well past noon, the rain was only getting worse, and we were unsure whether it was worth pushing on. To make matters worse, we seemed to be one of the last groups of people still heading up to the summit, everyone else was coming down. We tried to rationally assess the situation: we had plenty of food, water, and energy, we weren’t cold, and we weren’t far from the summit. We pushed on! 

Working our way up the 99 switchbacks

By now, we were at 13,500 feet overlooking the Sequoia-Kings Canyon Wilderness but we couldn't see a darned thing because of the clouds. Then out of nowhere the skies opened up and we finally got a view. It felt like we were on top of the world! At that point, I figured we had maybe a quarter mile left, half mile tops. I figured wrong. We ran into a hiker coming off the summit who told us we had about a mile left, and that it felt more like five miles. That was a new low point for me. I was deeply worried that we were out of time, that the storm would get worse any minute. 

Picking our way up the mountain

A rare glimpse into the wilderness below us

Somehow, someway, we finally made it to the summit. It was 2:30 p.m. and we were the only ones up there. There was no view, and we didn’t sign the logbook. We sat in the stone hut to try to warm up, wolfed down a couple plain tortillas, and took a few photos. I know that sounds a little anticlimactic. I was relieved we made it, and so proud of us. But I’m not going to sugarcoat it: we had been hiking for over 10 hours, we were cold and hungry, we were feeling the effects of the altitude, and we still had to hike four miles back to our tent. Speaking of the altitude, Owen confessed to me that sluggishness from the altitude was why it had taken him so long to put his pants on. 

Stone shelter at the summit

WE MADE IT!

We hiked off the summit as fast as the rocky terrain would allow, trying to beat the worsening storm. I didn’t even realize it started thundering until Owen stopped to tell me- I couldn’t hear it through my double layer of hoods! I seriously started to question whether we made the right decision to summit. But then I saw the last thing I was expecting: people who were heading up the mountain. Instantly, I no longer felt like the most foolish person out there. 

When we got to camp, I immediately stripped off all my clothes. Every single layer was soaked (not the best trip to discover my rain jacket was no longer waterproof). Thank god my sleeping bag was dry in our tent, and I holed up in there until I could start functioning again. That night we listened to the rain pick up, the thunder continue, and rock slides every so often. It seemed like we were in a place humans weren’t meant to linger. 

I was worried about the hike out the next morning because I had no dry warm layers, but I shouldn’t have been. We slept in and actually got rewarded because of it: by the time we started hiking down, the rain had stopped and the sun came out. Seven miles later, just as we reached our car, it started raining and hailing again. A fitting way to end the hike that almost completely kicked our asses. That, and scarfing down the rest of our brownies. 

All was well again: the sun was out!

The next couple weekends, I recovered from the hike. By “recovered,” I mean I resumed training for an ultramarathon. On one such run, I started off in a weird headspace. The night before, our shower caddy had fallen with a deafening bang and in my half-asleep state my first thought was that a monster had broken in and was dismembering Denali (I have quite the imagination). I was still very much freaked out the first few miles of the run, when I heard an announcement over a megaphone: “Is anyone on the trail west of Skyline Boulevard?” (I was, and I started shouting as such.) “We are going to discharge a firearm.” WTF?!? Turns out they were dispatching a sick deer, but it did nothing to calm my nerves. 

Owen turned 30 earlier this month and we wanted to celebrate the occasion as we usually do, with a camping trip. But with nearly the whole state on fire or smoked out, it was hard to know where to go, or whether to go at all. We narrowed our options to two choices: a lake deep in the mountains (and probably deep in the smoke) or Big Sur (clear but without the allure of alpine waters). We packed maps for both and waited until the last second to decide, at the end of our road, when Owen turned north. 

Turning north deposited us, several hours later, on the smoky shores of Bowman Lake. All we really wanted to do was chill by the lake and drink beers, but that turned out to be more complicated than we anticipated. The lake was nearly 50 feet lower than normal, and a field of thick muck separated us from the refreshing waters. Finally, we found a big rock to crawl up on and perched there, toasting our beers to Owen’s new decade. 

En route to the lake

Denali overlooking her kingdom

The birthday boy

Now, I’m trying to soak up the last rays of summer as the Santa Cruz mountains start inching towards fall. Soon enough, we’ll be on the road again.

A Long Expected Summer

The past few months have been pretty packed, but it actually got off to a slow start. Back in May Owen was working 24/7 between his regular job and planning annual training for the National Guard, so camping and weekend trips were off the table. Instead, Denali and I started exploring local parks. First we went for a hike at Loch Lomond (not the one in Scotland), which was a beautiful reservoir that I tried to enjoy as Denali dragged me around it. Our next two trips were trail runs, since that’s the pace we end up going whether I want to or not. Byrne-Milliron Forest was a funky park, with sculptures and art hidden in the trees and even a “Great White Redwood,” which had been bleached by the sun. The best discovery this spring with Denali was a secret entrance to one of my favorite local parks, with a trail that crosses a creek four times before ascending up into the redwoods. 

Byrne-Milliron Forest

Loch Lomond

Memorial Day Weekend we finally broke the camping dry spell with a trip up to Mount Shasta in northern California. From what I could find online, it seemed like our only option to “hike” near Mount Shasta this time of year was to walk on the road. So I was pleasantly surprised when we got there and found a perfect dog friendly hiking trail that climbed up towards the mountain with lots of snow for Denali to play in. Once we got above treeline we even let her off leash for a bit, luring her back with cheese. The next day we explored some roadside caves, drove through Lava Beds National Monument, and made our way into Modoc National Forest, in the northeast corner of California. It felt more like Nevada or Wyoming than California. It was so remote that we had a campground almost entirely to ourselves that night, on a holiday weekend. 

A happy pup at Mount Shasta

Inside an ice cave

Emerging from the cave

Two weeks later, we were on the road again, this time all the way up to Oregon to check out a used first generation Toyota 4runner for sale. During the pandemic, Owen had become a little obsessed with old 4runners, eventually convincing the minimalist in me that it would be okay to get a second car. He showed me lots of used Forerunners the past few months and I’d just smile and nod, thinking he’d never actually find “the one.” This time, it felt more real. We took out a large sum of cash from our bank accounts and made the seven hour drive up to Oregon. When we pulled up and the seller had “Owen” tattooed on the back of his leg (his son’s name), I knew it was all over. 30 minutes later, the 4runner was ours. 

We’re calling the 4runner “Little Red,” and it’s older than us if that tells you anything about it. It’s a stick shift, crank windows, no A/C. But Owen wanted a project car, something that would be good for gnarly roads in National Forests. So naturally, the first thing we did with Little Red was take it on crazy Forest Service roads! There was a lot of shaking, bouncing, and noise, but eventually Little Red got us to a secluded campsite in Shasta-Trinity National Forest and we spent the rest of the weekend checking out views of Mount Shasta and hanging out at a lake that the 4runner seller recommended. 

Four days later, I was packing up and leaving for yet another trip, this time to backpack with a near stranger on the PCT for the weekend. Smart, right? And would you believe this was my mom’s idea? The near stranger was an old family friend who was thru-hiking the PCT, and I hadn’t seen him since I was about five years old. Jaeson would be backpacking the entire Lake Tahoe section of the trail that weekend with his friend’s dog, about 65 miles in 2.5 days. I knew there was no way in hell I could do that kind of mileage so I planned to hike with him as far as I could the first day, then retrace my steps the next day. The trail cut through the Desolation Wilderness and everywhere we turned there was another backcountry lake or spectacular view of granite peaks. But no plan survives first contact with the enemy, as they say, and we were no exception. In our case, the enemy was threefold: a rocky trail, crazy hot temperatures, and a tired dog. We made it about 16 miles the first day, which may have been a backpacking record for me but was nowhere near as far as Jaeson needed to go to catch his ride at Donner Summit in time. So we decided to hike out together the next day so I could drive him back into town. I managed to power through the 16 miles back, but my muscles were so tight on the drive home that I could barely hobble out of the car to get gas. Lesson learned: I’m in shape, but not in thru-hiker shape!

Desolation Wilderness views

Lake Aloha

Two weeks later, it was yet another holiday weekend: the 4th of July. Owen and I debated our options: we could stay home and rest, or we could go backpacking in the Trinity Alps Wilderness in northern California like we usually do over the 4th of July. It was a no brainer. We selected the Caribou Lakes Basin as our destination, which supposedly had a long drive on a rough road to get to the trailhead, perfect for the 4runner. What we failed to account for was that taking the 4runner meant we had no A/C, and temperatures were in the triple digits that entire weekend. Needless to say, the drive up was pretty rough and by the time we got to the trailhead on Saturday afternoon we were too tired to hike. Instead we crashed at one of the campsites there and started the hike the next morning, feeling slightly more refreshed. 

The hike itself was magnificent. We wound past meadows, hung on to the trail as it traversed a rocky cliffside, and eventually dropped down into a backcountry lake which we had almost entirely to ourselves. We were excited to recover that night, but the local wildlife had something else in store for us. A small herd of deer wandered around our camp half the night, which Denali was not too thrilled about, and it took Owen and I both to hold her back from jumping right through our mesh tent. 

Caribou Lakes Basin

Less than 48 hours after we got home from Trinity Alps, we flew out to Colorado for Madeline and Evan’s bachelor/bachelorette party and wedding. It was four days of socializing, celebrating, eating, drinking, and dancing in Vail and Carbondale. After not interacting with anyone except our neighbors and a few friends for the past year and a half, it felt like going from 0 to 60 in 2.5. But seeing one of my best friends finally get married was the best initiation back into real life I could have hoped for. 

Owen hiked to the Maroon Bells

We got back from Colorado on Sunday and have been dog sitting our neighbor’s dog Benno since then while they’re on vacation. For two supposedly energetic dogs (our husky and their Rhodesian Ridgeback), I can’t believe how much they sleep every day! Benno was a bit fussy at night, but it wasn’t always his fault. At one point we turned on the light and Denali was sitting in his crate! Overall, there were no accidents, injuries, or escapes so I would consider it a successful week. 

The life of the party

That brings me to now. Now, we are frantically packing for another trip, one we have been trying to take for years. I am slightly sleep deprived, a little behind at work, and in desperate need of a Netflix binge session. But I’m so happy we’ve had the chance to get outside so much this summer and even more grateful we can start to see friends again.

A Few Screws Loose

If you've been reading this blog long enough, you know that Owen and I are slightly obsessed with Death Valley National Park. For the past four years we've done an annual trip to the park over President's Day weekend. This year, despite how different our lives look during the pandemic, it was a relief that we could keep up the tradition.

Death Valley is the largest national park in the lower 48, and you could probably spend a lifetime exploring it and never see the same thing twice. We, however, were going back to a place we’d been: the Saline Valley. Two years ago we discovered it on a whim and were in awe. We were drawn back to it this year. The first day we hightailed it down to Inyo National Forest, just outside the park. I say hightailed it, but really it was 10 hours of monotonous, cold, windy highway driving. The reward came later that night: one of the most remote campsites we’ve ever had, and some of the best stars I’ve ever seen. The next morning, we drove into Saline Valley via the “easy” North Pass, which involved riding through a couple inches of snow in parts, and shook the motorcycle so hard that the screws to the headlights came out. Nothing we couldn’t handle though.

Secluded campsite in the National Forest

Entering Saline Valley via the North Pass

For the next two days, we enjoyed our version of a relaxing vacation, or as relaxing as it can be when you're motorcycle camping in the desert. For example, leisurely afternoon naps in the tent. Sounds fun, right? Sure, and it was also the only way we could avoid the violent wind storm that swept through camp. Later, we sipped on boxed wine, savoring it as long as we could since we only had space for two “juice boxes” in the motorcycle panniers. One morning, with vague directions from a fellow camper we discovered a fern wall with water trickling over it deep in a canyon. Our last night there, we conquered a fear we’d been trying to overcome for years: we went skinny dipping! Don't worry, there's no pictures! For a few blissful minutes we had the upper wild hot springs all to ourselves, until an entire crew of seven or eight Jeeps showed up to camp nearby. Making casual conversation with strangers while naked was definitely out of my comfort zone, but I survived.

Finally found the fern wall!

A trip to the Saline Valley would not be complete without meeting some of the folks that have made the Saline Valley what it is, people that have been coming to the springs longer than I've been alive. There were the “burned-out Burners,” someone who offered to let us stay in his house in Nevada if we were ever in the area, and an old timer who knew all the locations of old mining cabins in the park and had almost blown one up years ago when he set fire to a mattress. And of course there were the people with war stories about the various breakdowns and mishaps on the gnarly roads leading to the springs. We used those tales as an opportunity to ask as many questions as we could about Steele Pass, the road we’d take out of Saline Valley the next morning. 

We had been told several things about the Steele Pass route. There were lots of rocks, the road disappeared in many places, and there was a series of steps, also referred to as dry falls, that is dry waterfalls. Lastly, there were some sandy sections at the end, which Owen said he was actually looking forward to. The first few hours luckily the road never disappeared, but it was rocky with lots of loose gravel. I actually got off and walked a couple sections. Not easy in the heat. By the time we made it to the waterfall steps, we were already pretty spent. Rest was not in sight yet, though. We had to take the panniers and dry bag off, carry them down the steps (so the bike would be lighter), and rearrange rocks at some of the more precarious drops. Then all I could do was hope for the best as Owen navigated the bike carefully down. The steps are the most talked about challenge of Steele Pass, so it was pretty darn satisfying when Owen successfully cleared the final step.

At the top of the first step

The last obstacle of the route, and we weren’t even really considering it an obstacle, was the sand. Boy, were we wrong. We had ridden through sand before, but this was not sand. This was moon dust that went "poof" when we hit it and covered everything in a fine layer of brown powder. It didn’t take long for the bike to get stuck in a deep rut, and we used nearly all our remaining energy to pull it out. We were steps away from the tallest sand dunes in California and possibly North America, but I could not enjoy the views. I was over it. Over the ride, over the sand, over being dirty. We had a hotel room booked for that night, and I’d basically checked out in my mind and checked into the hotel. And then something happened that would jar me out of my bad mood, bringing all my attention back to the present. We crashed. 

Moon dust (on my right foot)

Eureka Dunes

Deep, deep ruts- not good

To me, crashing sounds dramatic. That’s the term Owen uses to describe it, but I think “fell over” is more accurate. We were going 15 mph max and fell over in the sand. It wouldn’t have been a big deal, except that the motorcycle fell on Owen’s foot. What I remember most is that he kept yelling "Get the Advil!" What he remembers most is that after the crash I stepped on his foot. In my defense, he was laying on the ground in an unusual position and I wasn’t expecting his foot to be where it was! Pretty quickly, my mind spiraled. We’re stuck in the desert and we can’t ride out. How do we get to a rental car? Where’s the nearest rental car? How do we get the motorcycle back to our house? How much is all this going to cost? Denali’s going to be stuck at the dog sitters. All that worrying did nothing to help, though. Because Owen got on the motorcycle, rode us to the hotel, and (spoiler alert) was able to ride us all the way home the next day.

Those 100 miles to the hotel were the toughest yet, not because the riding was technical but because we were completely beaten down. When we finally arrived I had one thing on my mind: food. We skipped right past the overpriced restaurant and instead procured junk food from the gift shop, then went back to the hotel room to gorge on wraps, chips, and a pint of ice cream. I’ll spare you the boring details of the rest of the trip, which involved a lot of highway driving to get home with a quick stop to help someone repair their car. I was so tired when we got home that I didn’t quite get off the motorcycle as much as fell off, which was a pretty fitting way to end the trip.

Trying to enjoy the views after a long day

Luckily Owen’s foot was just badly bruised, not broken, according to the x-rays. That didn’t stop me from going into full on caretaker mode for a couple of days, banning him from driving, running all the errands, and taking Denali for every walk. It was exhausting! Slowly he eased back into things and after a couple weeks of rest he was ready to go snowboarding again. For one snowboarding weekend in Lake Tahoe, we stayed at an Airbnb with a most unusual host who had epic stories about bear encounters in Alaska, had a pet pigeon who Denali did not get along with, and was into all sorts of conspiracy theories. It was a fine home base for a weekend in the mountains though and we celebrated the first day of spring with a beautiful day of snowboarding. While we never made it for a true powder day this season, I was able to cross something else off my bucket list: weekday snowboarding! I randomly had Caesar Chavez Day off, a Wednesday at the end of March, and went up to Tahoe for one last solo snowboarding day. For some reason I thought one solo day would magically improve my form and make me a better rider. It didn’t, but there was an unexpected bonus of riding solo: the (socially distanced) chairlift conversations. I got trail running intel from a veterinarian who runs with 5+ dogs at once, musings from an old-timer about how the mountain has changed through the years, and solid advice from a skier, that the most rewarding things in life are never easy. Come to think of it, it’s a pretty apt metaphor for my snowboarding. Even 10+ years into this hobby I still feel like a beginner sometimes, but the good days and good runs make it all worth it.

Girl power at my snowboarding lesson

A successful solo day

Since the skiing season ended I've mostly been doing little adventures nearby. I joined a women's running group based in Santa Cruz and try my best to keep up with the speedy ladies. Most of the activities though have revolved around Denali: play dates, dog parks, dog beach, and something called bikejoring which is essentially dog powered mountain biking. The American Kennel Club describes it as "not for the faint-hearted" and I would agree. I've been too chicken to give it a go, but happily bike behind as Denali pulls Owen along for a wild ride. We were supposed to go camping last weekend, but thunder-snow in the forecast derailed our plans. Here's to hoping I can get out soon before I become too much of a mountain hermit!

Trail running excursion in Marin with the running group