Another Pandemic Christmas

The start of a new year always spurs me into a frenzy thinking about all the possibilities of the upcoming 365 days: how to use my precious vacation time, what trips to take, what races to sign up for, what permits to reserve and Airbnbs to book and so on. But this year I’ve realized there's value in not just looking ahead, but taking a moment to look back too. Despite a pandemic still looming large in the world, I’m grateful for everything I was able to do in 2021:

• I joined an all-women’s running club, and tried to hang on as best I could on their speedy runs

• Owen and I bought a first generation 4Runner that's older than we are

• Owen and I hiked Mt Whitney, testing our luck by summiting in a storm, and were spared by the mountain gods

• I transitioned from working 100% remote to going back to the office twice a week

• I ran the Rut 50K, actually enjoyed much of the race, and finished in one piece

• I spent two weeks with my parents and sister in NJ, the first time I saw them since before the pandemic

• I attended the weddings of three of my best friends as they (finally) got married 

• Owen and I hosted our first visitors since we moved to the Santa Cruz Mountains 

• I kept up my morning running routine with Denali (though I never figured out how to get her to enjoy putting her harness on)

I am still excited to daydream about what might happen in 2022. But for now, I’m going to take time to celebrate this past year. And I never did write about how the end of the year wrapped up, so I believe I owe you all some stories. Let’s start back in mid-November.

My friend from college, Evan, visited over Veteran’s Day weekend. It had been years since we’d seen each other, and it was great to reconnect with an old friend. We spent the weekend helping him get his Pacific Ocean fix, first with a long walk at Manresa State Beach. He marveled at all the shorebirds, and I tried not to get taken out by Denali as she chased said shorebirds. We even made a quick overnight trip down to Big Sur. Evan was convinced something was bound to go wrong during his time with us, since misadventures always seem to find Owen and I. But everything in Big Sur was going great. We showed him the secret view of the Bixby Bridge, stopped at Big Sur Lodge to buy beer, went on a short hike, and experienced the unexpected party scene that is Sand Dollar Beach. 

Sand Dollar Beach

We didn’t hit any snafus until it was time to look for a spot to camp for the night. But first, we needed to find water. None of us had enough to make it until the next morning and we hadn’t brought a water filter. Luckily there was a campground nearby; we didn’t need a site, just an unsupervised tap where we could discreetly fill up our water bottles. Problem was, every tap had a bright pink sign saying the water system was shut down. I tried turning one on, just to make sure they weren’t messing with us. To our dismay, it worked! Just as Evan filled a bottle and took his first sip, we heard “I wouldn’t drink that if I were you.” It was the camp host, and she explained that people had been getting sick in the campground, and they suspected the water system. There was nowhere else to get water nearby, but the campground did sell bottled water. Now, those of you that know me well know that bottled water is public enemy #1 to me. But in this case, we had no choice so we forked over the money and left. 

The water situation took us much longer than we expected, so by the time we turned off Highway 1 to go searching for a spot in the national forest to camp, we were rapidly losing daylight. For those of you that have ever searched for a flat place to pull off a windy, mountainous road in the dark, you know it’s not easy. Eventually we found a spot though, and started setting up camp. Owen got in the truck to move it forward a bit so we had more space. Minor problem: the truck wouldn't start. Panic set in almost immediately, at least for me. We were miles away from the highway, and Evan's flight left tomorrow. We all put our heads together, and realized we just had to push the truck up one hill, and then it was all downhill to let gravity take us back to the highway. What I forgot was that we had a secret weapon - Owen - who knows how to fix almost anything. Eventually he figured out that the starter wire had jiggled loose on the bumpy roads, and it was a simple reattachment. When it was all said and done, we laughed over the day’s turn of events while enjoying our overpriced beer. Evan's time with us was not over without one last hiccup, though. The next morning, we were on a leisurely hike when he realized he grossly underestimated how much time we had left until his flight took off. This did not bode well for any of us, especially since the 4Runner tops out at a measly 70 mph. We got Evan to the airport about a half hour before his flight departed, and somehow he made it. I guess Evan was right about minor fiascos finding us...

Spotted along our hike and no, we did not follow instructions

After Evan left, it was nearly Thanksgiving. The past couple years, we’ve formed a loose Thanksgiving tradition of camping somewhere in the California desert and wanted to keep it going this year. We decided to head to Mojave Preserve, where we had gone last year, and then continue on to Valley of Fire State Park outside Las Vegas. On the way to Mojave I finally volunteered to try my hand at driving the 4Runner. It’s a manual, and I’d been too intimidated to try it up until then. (So yes, that means all the road trips that I’ve written about when we’ve taken the 4Runner, Owen has driven the entire time, including our trip to Montana and back. You have my permission to start bashing me now.) I drove for a couple hours and only stalled a few times and skipped third gear twice. But who needs third gear?

We stayed at the same campground in Mojave Preserve that we had been to last year, and the familiarity was comforting. We had our routine down: short hike on the Rings Trail near the campground, then whip up our Thanksgiving feast, our signature stuffing with deli turkey meat, carrots, onions, celery, and dried cranberries followed by homemade apple pie with vanilla ice cream. It wasn’t a “real” Thanksgiving meal, but damn if it wasn’t the best thing I’ve eaten camping. 

Waiting for us on the Rings Trail

Watching the sun set from the back of the 4Runner

The next morning we packed up and headed to Valley of Fire State Park. The drive goes right past Las Vegas, which I had never been to so I made Owen detour down the Las Vegas strip. I hate to admit it, but I was kind of obsessed with Las Vegas! By the time we arrived at Valley of Fire State Park, everyone and their mother was also there. We stopped at all the obligatory roadside pullouts, but there was not an unoccupied rock or nook to be found! Eventually, we ditched the truck and got out for a hike. We lost the crowds about a mile in, and we finally could enjoy the park without fighting for photo ops. On top of that, the sun was starting to set which made the reds, oranges and pink hues on the rocks look otherworldly.

We spent an uneventful night camping in BLM land outside the state park, then the next morning plotted our course home. We had about 700 miles and two days to make it back. We decided to take the scenic route on some small back roads in Nevada before popping out into the Sierra Nevada. Little did we know that one of the roads we traveled would be the Extraterrestrial Highway, complete with something called the Alien Mailbox, the Alien Inn, and all sorts of weird graffiti. We also never expected to find a “backcountry” graveyard while looking for a site to camp in a national forest. At this point in the trip, we were both getting a little sick of camping, but our faith was renewed that night as we huddled up to our small campfire, warding off the late fall chill under a sky of stars. One last treat of the trip was that we got to come home via the Sonora Pass route right before it closed for the winter. Denali turned into a complete psychopath running around in the snow, her first time this season. 

Alien Mailbox

Sonora Pass in its late fall glory

With Thanksgiving over, it was the official start of the Christmas holiday season. First up was acquiring our Christmas tree. Finding the tree was the easy part, but Denali was not too happy to share the back of the 4Runner with a tree. Next, we had to find some snow for it to really feel like the holidays. Luckily, California delivered on that one. We went up to Tahoe for a day of snowboarding in the middle of multiple snow-dumping storms. I remembered how to snowboard and even struggled my way down a mogul-filled black diamond run! It wouldn’t be the holidays without time with family and friends, and this year we were grateful to go back to NJ for Christmas. We were slightly alarmed when in the days leading up to our flight, we found out many of our young nieces and nephews had bad colds or COVID exposures at daycare, but everyone tested negative so we were in the clear. We were only home for five days but we did a lot: two Christmases, so much time with babies, a hike and drinks with Kelli and Cam, a socially distanced outdoor hangout with my friends, a tour of a friend’s new house, and feasts of New Jersey’s finest bagels, pizza, and pork roll. We made it back to California without a hitch; thankfully we weren't on one of those canceled flights. But, we did both have middle seats. And we were sitting next to each other. I didn't even know that was possible... Thanks, United, for the 4-person row!

We were back on the West Coast for New Years and celebrated in Mount Shasta, in northern California. It was a winter wonderland. We hiked in the snow, tried our hand at some mellow backcountry snowboarding, and crashed each evening with takeout, all three of us exhausted from the effort of trekking through deep snow.

I will admit the start of 2022 has been a little rocky. Early last week I tested positive for COVID-19 and have been hunkering down since then, or shall I use the formal term, isolating? I'm on day 9 of isolation now. It sounds so severe. Luckily my symptoms haven’t been too bad and I've been able to avoid people on walks and runs since we live in the middle of nowhere. I am a little sad that my marathon Netflix binge will come to an end soon, but that's likely for the best. And I should probably interact with someone other than Owen, right? 1 day to go, baby!

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.