About a year and half ago I felt like the cage opened up and I was able to create this wildly, abundant, and exuberant life– knowing for the most part that it wasn’t sustainable long term. I kept saying that I got a pass, I could do whatever I want and figure out the things that mattered to me again. It was like going from total control to unfettered freedom. But I knew it wasn’t sustainable, at some point the pendulum would swing back and I’d find that equilibrium that was missing for so long. Maybe that’s what made it all the more sweeter, knowing how fleeting it would all be, still is.
Last year I had about 70 days on backcountry skis, which is by far the biggest season I have had considered I started in Winter 2020, had about 3 days, 2021 about 8 days, 2022 about 12 days. I thought about that number about half way through this season and realized my trajectory probably won’t put me to achieve more than that this year. Does it matter if we aren’t always on a positive linear trajectory with what we’re doing? Is it naive to think that each year will just be a stepping stone to the next level without any back steps, maybe, maybe not. I’ve talked about this with friends in terms of the healing trajectory like once you open up the door to the dark closet where all your shame is you still have to go through all the muck to get to the light and sometimes the current carries you and other times you’re swimming against it and losing ground. But as long as you’re still moving, right? Does it matter if it’s forward or if you’re moving how you can, meeting yourself with grace, taking a breath and figuring out the line down.
Despite me knowing that I was getting off the accelerated train from the past year I still signed up for some big races/events(tbd?). Which means that I have been skiing when I can and trying to build and maintain the fitness that I’ve acquired. On a more recent outing I went down to Turnigan with Charlotte and despite reading all the avy forecasts and looking at surface angles I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss. On the skintrack up I had the feeling of what if I just tumble over the side, or the whole side of the mountain just detaches and that’s it. Every trip outside remains a meditation on mortality. Once on top I still couldn’t really shake this weird feeling. Misplaced anxiety is what I’ve come to call it. Charlotte skied down first and once she was at a spot out of the way I pushed off.
My anxiety was accelerated and any sluff that was coming off put me in a heighten state of all the snow just fracturing and carrying me down with it. I got to the bottom and we skied back to the skin track deciding to take another lap. On the way up I told her about my anxiety with the snow, she said she noticed as I kept turning to look up. It was a weird feeling but saying it out loud took away a lot of the power and the next run seemed a lot smoother, at least from an anxiety perspective but maybe also a helpful hack of singing Kesha to myself on the way down…
This is a bit of a weird post because I’m in a bit of a weird place. I was at yoga last night and the teacher said that if you’re wobbly and uncertain that’s where you can grow, figure out the wobbles and find your footing. I’m sure he was talking beyond me finding my footing in dancer pose and that’s what it feels like, figuring out the wobbles and where I’ll land, what will be certain, what am I creating that will be certain, or is it just the fact that there is no certainty and that’s all we get. The impermanence of it all is all the permanence we get.
I’ve had some really great days out too, mostly with Charlotte as we have similar schedules but long days with Hailey as we’re resurrecting our long slogs home, Ana and I have done some boot packing to burn off some excess energy, and team couch (Ana and Grande) got me out the door for my one fat bike a year ride. Sadly, no photo evidence exists of that ride as it was like like -7 and I was cold. And have done more skate skiing this year than years prior with the Hot Laps group and squeezing in the occasional lunch break with others.
I’m set to do the Last Skier Standing race this weekend in Maine but my skis are still in Canada and it’s been a bit of a cluster to sort through. I’ve been grappling with what to do all week– do I race on rentals and piece together the other equipment I would want or just scratch it and go do something else. I was convinced I was going to scratch yesterday, calling Rosie to gain perspective and mostly support my decision to not race.
Then the race director reached out saying they have skis ready for me and anything else I need to get to the starting line and then that’s it. The wobbles– where is the solid footing. What part of me is wanting to race and why, Rosie posed this to me. I hadn’t thought about that. I thought back to when I registered, the excitement of getting to explore more of me in a new sport, a new area. But not wanting it to be like this– but how often do we not want it to be like this and learning to adjust to bend before breaking. Wobbles. Flashbacks to being stuck in O’Hare and not making it to the bike race in Iceland, am I becoming the person who signs up for races and just is accumulating DNS? Or is it me ignoring messages again and again until I finally learn the lesson– is there any meaning to make from this mess. Wobbles.
A friend recently stated that they have limited free time so they try to be intentional with what they do. I thought back to my philosophy professor in college who always talked about when she was a corporate lawyer and from the outside it wasn’t viewed that her external values aligned with her internal values so she changed course, moved to Boulder, got a PhD and started teaching philosophy. Don’t we all have limited free time and where we put it and how we spend our time is our message to the world, to the outside. Do my external and internal value system align, do people know what I value by what I do? Wobbles.
I recently watched two movies, Earthside, a tribute to Hilaree Nelson (having watched it twice now, I cried both times) and the Maah Daah Hey Film that focuses on Kelly Magelky and his last time lining up for the race (unbeknownst to him at the time). Both of these athletes have inspired me in my athletic pursuits in similar and different ways. Kelly and I have talked over the years about the challenges in sometimes even getting to the starting line, finding the balance, going after big objectives while also balancing life– racing is easy, everything before it, well. Finding certainty in the things you can control and letting go of the things you cannot. Wobbles.
Besides these two individuals, I’ve found a lot of inspiration in my life from those I’m surrounded by and the grace that they show while navigate tricky situations with motherhood, careers, marriage/relationships, chronic and terminal illnesses, reinventing themselves after loss, big objectives, changing course, getting to the starting line with grace and going from there.
I guess this is me still trying to figure out the footing, the certainty, the optimal line down, the getting to the starting line with grace and going from there.
The last time I went nordic skating was January 2022, right after my panic attack. I was still in the throes of being convinced that at any moment I would die or would be close to dying and didn’t have trust in myself of my body that I would actually fight to survive (in a weird almost fawn state). When I found myself in the middle of a large lake that had multiple cars on it and tents set up for ice fishing I could not shake the feeling that at any one moment I would just collapse through the ice and that would be it. I retreated to the shore line and that was that, I decided I wouldn’t venture out again. Last year, I went once, or tried to with Charlotte on one of our ski/cabin adventures with all the activities. I mismatched my boots and skates so she skated around a bit and I walked around the ice.
Apparently there is a nordic ice skating season that happens (every year?) and last year when I was in Ottawa they talked about how when the canals freeze they skate around and people commute to work. This year after getting back from DC and with the weather not quite snowing but with temperatures certainly dropping it made for prime ice, or that’s what I’ve been told. I never paid attention to it because each fall before this I was usually in the throws of Cyclocross or the snow came earlier and was skiing. Hailey texted me to see if I wanted to run up to one of the alpine lakes and skate around, I said sure– both of us not really being ice skaters figured it would be fun and always down for a dual sport day. I borrowed a pair of skates and packed our bags and headed out on the trail run to the lake. We caught up over the past few weeks on all the happenings that had happened when I was out of state. We also both talked about how our previous focus on athletics didn’t really allow for the space of other pursuits, partly why we both took a step back (her step was a little bigger than mine) and then we talked about those other pursuits. We ran up the trail and got to the lake, the wind had picked up but was still pretty picture perfect. We changed into our skates securing our packs on the shore and stepped onto the ice.
We started skating around in the tracks that other people had been. The ice was incredibly clear, which was a bit unnerving to look down and see huge rocks at the bottom of the lake. We skated out towards the edge of the lake that is tucked under the mountain and faced a nasty headwind. Nordic Skates are designed to glide over various ice conditions and seem to provide a bit more stability than ice/hockey skates because they are longer and sit a bit lower with the boot (not that I actually really know because I have never used hockey stakes and very minimal ice skates).
As we skated we chatted about the ice, conditions, and plans for the winter. When we turned around we were met with a nice tailwind that didn’t require any effort on our part to keep moving. We circled to the other side of the lake and then back around staying away from the center just to be safe. I felt flickers of my amygdala but more in the sense of oh this is something new and I should be cautious and aware and not oh this is something that will immediately kill me if I let my guard down, progress right. I’ve talked to my therapist a lot about how people often say comparison is the thief of joy but I’ve found it to be quite the opposite, comparison seems to highlight the joy that exists. All the things and spaces I get to exist in now that don’t come with stipulations or what ifs or being worried that I’ll cease to exist.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about my amygdala the past few years and probably becoming acutely aware with all parts of my brain, first after my brain injury, second after they thought there was a tumor on my pituitary gland, and third after the panic attack. My therapist(s) says that I intellectualize my feelings too much and I’m sure that’s true but sometimes it helps me to be able to rationalize things– as if there is a possibility of making some type of meaning from it all. After the panic attack I wrote down, in multiple places, “Your amygdala was running wild without being effectively calmed by the prefrontal cortex. The amygdala is the source of fight and flight responses and is responsible for a lot of bad decisions. The prefrontal cortex is in charge of the tough things like delayed gratification, saving money, not punching your sister. You can’t afford to believe you amygdala.”
But damn, that amygdala can run willllllld. And when I had my big trauma response, that piece was certainly running wild with logic being thrown out the window. In a weird way that response also gave me a greater sense of confidence that has been missing for so long — I will fight back. If I fall through the ice, I will fight. Because for so long I didn’t trust my amygdala, she had run wild in the panic attack over what seemed to be a terrible thought and not an actual threat. When my back is against the wall, instead of saying, this is fine, I’ll actually get myself out (results may vary). Also helpful when you find yourself on a trail in the dark in a foreign country, I remind myself I might mistake a tree for a burglar but I’ll never mistake a burglar for a tree.
I did another skate a few days later with Polly and Ketchup and then headed back to DC for another week long stint. Because of how uneasy I had felt my dad ended up staying in Anchorage longer, which was great to have him help with some lingering projects but also to continue to help me work towards moving forward.
He left just as the snow was settling in, as I’m sure he saw the amount of shoveling that awaited in the driveway. I had another friend come in for a few days and despite all the snow, we did very little to leave the house and venture out on the roads.
With all the snow finally settling in I dug out my ski stuff and Charlotte and I headed up to Arctic Valley to work out my first turns of the season. I wasn’t sure what it would looked like as last fall we had made a goal to get 1200 elevation gain for the months of September and October— we did it again this year but my attempts were mostly haphazard with all the travel and flatness of DC. I was surprised that my first few turns didn’t seem like that steep of a learning curve despite being off skis for a few months at this point. It gave me some confidence for what’s to come this season — and motivation for more box jumps.
After two days on skis, one being more a backyard recon adventure with the snow seeming unstable, I headed to Barcelona for work.
I was greeted to 60 degree temps and sun— despite others having their winter jackets on I was running in a tank top/sports bra. Unlike other trips, I had back to back days of work which left little time to explore the city. I did squeeze a few runs in and was able to find some trails above the city which left me with feelings of wanting to return. A constant tension of going to where you’ve been or exploring an unknown. I was reminded of my amygdala on this trip as we spent a lot of time discussing risk vs uncertainty. Most of my work is centered on preventing and responding better to disease outbreaks which is no small feat and it’s multifaceted.
In discussing risk we talk about the known factors, the things you can plan for, with uncertainty you don’t know what you don’t know— unsure of what crevasse will open up and be exposed. This thinking carries over a lot in the backcountry, some risk is predictable and a certain amount acceptable, but the uncertainty can create unknown factors that you can’t anticipate so hard to say how you’ll need to respond.
But something I’m working to embody not only in my work but my outdoor life is the foresight and awareness to know that there are a multitude of things you won’t see coming, but laying the infrastructure so that when something unpredictable comes up the foundation is laid that allows for flexibility, adaptability, and the confidence to figure it out. I was talking to a good friend about this as we both spent the past year moving around a lot for work and play and it resulted in increasing our confidence in knowing how quickly we can establish a foundation and find stability in the instability, something that without all my travel would have taken longer to get back to.
I used to tell my therapist that I would consider myself healed when I could drink a cup of coffee, an indulgence that was absent for so long. But I drank that cup and still didn’t feel healed and continued to move the goal post of what it meant to be healed from all the trauma of the past few years. I’m finally approaching it from a more of a place of realizing it’s not a destination but more of a windy trail up the mountain side where at points you’ll feel like you can fly up with graceful steps and an easiness that keeps you on the trail and other times you’ll be met with resistance, with the stumbles, the wrong turns, and the occasional run into a cactus (not speaking from experience or anything). But those falters make it that much easier to relish in the grace. My friend Jeremy recently pointed out that without the depth of cold he’s felt he wouldn’t know the warmth so well. I think of this and the comparison of joy— to know pain, shortcomings, trauma is to know joy, fulfillment, adventure and damn when you hit that flow state it’s unlike anything else in being alive, whether that’s work, relationships, life and/or play. So while comparison gets a bad rap of being a thief, I’ll continue to think of it as an enhancer. I think of the past few years as the tuition I paid towards the life I was crafting. Kind of like every time I ride my bike and don’t get hit by a car I’m like wow that was a great ride— even if there were shortcomings. I left the sun to head back to spend a weekend on the east coast (got skunked out with some rain so ended up having much needed restorative days) and then Anchorage before dashing off again. With all the travel and in between, I’m learning to be much more intentional with where I direct my time, in adventure pursuits, friendships, and work projects. But still occasionally overbook, it’s a learning process, am I right.
“It would be a terrible mistake to go through life thinking that people are the sum total of what you see.” -This Is Where I Leave You.
When COVID started and some people ignored or scoffed at the virus a small part me inside wished they would get it and it would be bad so they would learn their lesson. I’m sure part of me even wished they would die. I mean at some point we’re all like I hope this person learns their lesson or karma comes back around. But over time realized it was more nuanced than that– it wasn’t simply someone making a statement on this virus being fake but it was how they were getting their information, what context was it in, and what lens were they viewing it from. I started to show more compassion or at least trying by reminding myself they are operating within their own vantage point just as much as I’m operating within mine. Slightly biased as we all are. So much of the labels and narratives we tell ourselves come from our lived experiences– and those experiences are often in conflict with others. And it’s true, our lived experiences inform how we interpret others. People enact their performances of meaning in their life within the frame of a well-formed story more so than facts or reality.
That’s why I think I’ve been drawn to my career in international human rights. There is far less nuance or at least it’s easier to objectively state that. The problem is really on what you should do and what you can do because of international legal constraints. I often think of proportionality, necessity, and accountability, beyond the work and I do and in my day-to-day life. Is the response proportional to the threat, is it necessary, and if a violation or breech happen, what can accountability look like. My dad was a prosecutor for most of his career and I told him I couldn’t do what he did, I can’t stomach the intimate crimes. It’s too much to think of someone seeing the humanity in another human being and then pulling the trigger and denying it. So much because it’s not always clear cut-human are very complicated. There was one case from law school that a DA came in to talk about thinking it was a straightforward case, person A shot person B and it was on video. The thought was to charge person A, but then they rewound the video and they saw a lot of evidence that changed the narrative and the trajectory of the outcome. Person A ended up not being charged with anything (happy to explain the details but could be pretty triggering so not putting them in here).
It’s easier to not be that close to the crime (at least for me). I did some work on a Truth, Reconciliation and Reparations Committee once and it was trying to bring this community (country) back together after a brutal dictator had inflicted so much harm and pain. Especially because holding said dictator accountable was thorny so how do you heal and what justice can be deployed when accountability is lacking in some areas. Individuals were called to give witness statements and they were all taken into account to figure out potential solutions to move forward. I thought the dictator deserved to be held accountable for all he had done but in order to do that we had to know all that he had done through witness statements (and had to have him in the right jurisdiction after he left his position). It’s also very challenging because often these things are done as the world watches, or knows, or there is notice, and witness to these atrocities. This dictator was announcing what he was doing as he was doing it and little outside intervention happened. Because there is this whole issue of sovereignty but that also means that when accountability starts to happen there are a lot of resources that are deployed to facilitate the healing process because a lot of individuals were in fact bearing witness to what happened.
The denial of humanity is absolutely present in human rights, that’s for certain. It starts with this whole othering system and language, carving out how people are different from one another in religious, cultural, geographic, race, what you have it, putting people into categories makes it easier to identify how they are different than you. This happens regardless of the level you’re operating at. I certainly do it to some extent with death and accident reports, like oh that person made that decision and that’s why they died or this person had these co-morbidities that I don’t so I’ll be safe. We rationalize how we would be different, how it would be different if we were in the same scenario. Oh that won’t happen here, that’s an issue for over there.
I’m sure some of you are probably like why is she talking about accountability (and others have probably learned to roll with it at this point). I had a big trauma response earlier this week and it was almost startling since that level of response has only happened twice before. A blanket that someone had appeared in my garage, in a location that not a lot of people know I’m currently living. The last we had spoken was 5 months ago when I was informed, they had it. I mostly didn’t feel like it was worth engaging about it so bought a new blanket and went on my way. It got mostly complicated because at the time I was trying to repair what had been fractured but it was compounded with other factors and just seemed like a lot to navigate so took a backseat and I focused on other things. So, this blanket was in my garage in a space I hadn’t occupied because I had been in DC. My dad had been at my place so there was only 8 days that someone could have accessed the space without someone occupying it, absurd to even think that, right? I found the blanket on a Friday night and rushed upstairs to inform my dad and broke down sobbing, saying that I didn’t think anyone understood how terrible it all had been, including me. I was enraged and my first thought was to inform the cops, absurd right that I would jump to that conclusion? My dad, a former prosecutor reminded me that was probably not the best route and what other evidence did I have. There must be some logical conclusion. I had an event that weekend but texted those that I knew had been in the space while I was away. They all came back inconclusive, and everyone said it was odd that it showed up there with no heads up. I didn’t know what else to do, my mom suggested my dad call this person to get information, I thought that would make it worse, I also felt like I couldn’t reach out to other friends as I didn’t want to put them in the middle and make it worse. So, I did what seemed logical and posted on social media, after all the options seem exhausted. I asked if anyone had been in custody of that blanket and that finding it made me realize how unsafe and exhausted, I have been over the past 14 months. Absurd, right, like of all the options that’s the one I thought I had, trauma does weird stuff to your brain and I’m the first to admit how illogical it can all get as you try to jump through the landmines that were once deployed. I also asked for recommendations on security cameras because it made me realize how vulnerable I was even if there was a simple explanation.
Later that evening an answer emerged that a mutual friend had picked it up and delivered but was also in the midst of a chaotic move and had forgot to mention it to me, the person who had it didn’t think it would be a big deal to not tell me. My damage had been done though. I had another friend call me to discuss what I had posted, it was harsh and certainly didn’t put the person who had the blanket in the best light. I talked through it with him but realized how much my personal safety and what I felt like is a violation is maybe not in line with what others think. I did feel bad for having such a public reaction (growing up as the prosecutor’s daughter was very conscious of public perception– even if you weren’t doing anything wrong but it could be perceived that way, and often erred on the side of caution– or maybe walked a fine line? I’m sure Jane has stories) and like what would this look like in a deposition (anyone else ever live their life that way?). I did a follow up post saying that the blanket had an explanation and it wasn’t right of me to blast the person like I did, the situation is far more nuanced and social media isn’t the place for these things to air. And that’s true with so much that gets put out there, even beyond social media, things are much more nuanced and even having a conversation parties can walk away with different ideas of what happened.
Having such a big trauma response made me realize how much my body had been absorbing and thinking that the way I was being treated was fine– even making excuses for the behavior. The way I reacted made me realize how much I had felt violated mentally, emotionally, and physically, in the past few years. Having such a visceral response really put it into perspective, like oh this experience actually caused a lot of pain. Maybe if I had realized that sooner it wouldn’t have resulted in such a big reaction, hard to say. I think some of the stalling in recognizing this is I kept saying oh it doesn’t really have to be like this, or it could have been different. I used to think the same with the guy who hit me with a car, he could have just stopped, it didn’t have to be that bad, but he didn’t and so he was held accountable and I was left to pick up my pieces. He actually wrote me a letter later saying that he drove off because someone had hit him a few weeks before and drove off — not sure how that one got through his parole officer approval. Oh so I guess what they say, an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. It also made me realize how much I’ve been operating from this place of pain, not in all of areas of my life but this one small area that occasionally rears its head.
It’s been challenging because I am conscious that I have this platform and that talking about my personal life may make others uncomfortable, especially when if what I’m saying doesn’t align or they don’t agree with the narrative and the truth that I have doesn’t align with their lived experience. It’s a delicate balance because with the guy who hit me it’s so easy to other him, I would never do that, my friends would never do that. We don’t actually know how we’ll respond until we’re in the situation. I certainly didn’t ever see my response of blasting a hot take on social media coming and figuring out how to pick up the pieces remains a jagged zigzag of feeling like I need to apologize to the community and friends that have inevitably got put in the middle- and taking accountability for showing myself as a human in this moment of weakness when so much had been building up. This has been tricky to navigate because it’s not an experience with some stranger that denied my humanity when he drove off and left me in the road. Maybe that’s why this has felt like it’s taken so long to heal from. I know some reading it will see it as an overreaction, how could I even jump to this conclusion that this person would do that. I’m happy to explain my experience but I don’t think this is the place and even in explaining the lived experience there are always two sides to everything. I think I could, as well as others, certainly benefit at holding space for the complexities and the duality, multifaceted to exist and for all the narratives to be interwove. Not a place of if/then but if/and statements.
I think of accountability in the space of what consequences have my actions caused, who have been impacted and what do I owe. Was my response proportional to the threat and necessary? Some will say yes, some will say no. How can I expect to hold others accountable if I’m myself unwilling to be held accountable. What’s been my role in being allowed to be treated the way that I’ve been. I have spent a lot of time reflecting on how I’ve shown up this past year(s) and how I want to move forward in a space of showing up. I don’t want to operate from a place of pain and this was a big learning moment in terms of actually acknowledging how much I had been hurt and how causing more pain does not in fact teach anyone a lesson. In a lot of ways I think in some areas of my life I’ve been playing not to lose instead of playing to win (a quote my old volleyball coach loved to tell us). I think being trained as a lawyer makes the default for me to try to make sense out of something, to rationalize behavior, and put it in a very neat little box. But I guess this is what they say when they say you have to feel your feelings. I often didn’t voice my discomfort or acknowledge the hurt instead of saying, this is fine. Because I’ve found that it actually takes a lot for me to reach a breaking point. And really at one point does anyone even learn a lesson, how many times do I have to be treated the same to finally learn the lesson. I think I finally got my answer.
The man who hit me with his car was held accountable because as he was driving away I yelled out his license plate number to a witness who relayed it to the cops. I actually have no memory after that other than a few moments in the ambulance and then having all of my clothes cut off at the hospital. What followed was absolutely no idea of how to respond to getting hit by a car. My parents came out a week later and I remember laying in the hotel bed staring at my mom, feeling so shattered, and trying to figure how to get out of that hole. I did, with the help of a great support system. It took me about a year to get back to a place and a lot of the healing came in the form of writing, like I started this blog as a response as the suggestion of a professor. In this current situation, I learned so much about what I don’t want out of life, what my values are, how I want to operate in the world, which adventures are worth prioritizing, that I have this amazing support system, like all of those who have bore witness to my experience and my pain, and held space for me to return and take up space, and at the end of the day what is worth putting energy into.
This big trauma response made me realize all that it was impacting, this little fissure. In my last relationship there were certain friendships that I was not willing to give up because I didn’t think it was worth it, those friendships were too valuable to me, even if it caused a strain on the relationship. They might have been altered for a brief moment, but I could never actually severe them. I think similarly, this little trauma ball I would never want it to be the cause of my friendships or current relationship break down. I hated that I got hit by a car but after making meaning out the mess realize how much it gave me– things that I could not even conceive that would transpire years later. So this is where I leave it, I think this is a good stopping point of carrying any of this forward, it no longer serves me and it never has, so I’ll thank it for the lesson and all the good that has grown out of it (like so much good, I don’t know how I got this lucky) and be on my way. Thank you for letting me untangle this mess and give some of all of this meaning. Some of you reading this might understand, others, this might be the end of the journey and if that’s the case I do want to thank you for what you’ve given me.
I have a lot more to write about that I keep thinking about and things that are far more fun, like Mary, Skye, and Natalia visiting Alaska, me being unable to leave the country because of “national security”, going to Maine for the first time, romping around New England in the fall with Alexi and running into a friend from Anchorage at a random cider shop in Vermont, my dad driving to Alaska and only taking one wrong turn (but it was a pretty big one), and getting ready for all the upcoming ski adventures. I would much rather focus on all the adventures that I’ve been on in getting back to myself. I also realize that some of being in this space is all that I’ve worked through to process and making meaning of.
In DC for a quick week for work and then will be in Alaska for a whole 23 days in a row! Hopefully will get up to a few adventures including finally unpacking my suitcase.
I didn’t understand why I was crying so much, sure my dog was dying but this felt excessive. I told my yoga therapist, Justine, as our session began. Tenzen, had been having trouble breathing and coughing recently and after a few trips to the vet, they found tumors infiltrating his lungs, pushing against his trachea. He’s 7, I pleaded, this shouldn’t be happening. My next trip to go home was for Christmas but there was no guarantee he would make it that long— especially if the future had been anything like the past few weeks.
Tenzen, I often joke, is the baby brother we never had. He’s everyone’s favorite even if Jane is his favorite. He tolerates us in a way only a younger sibling would, not wanting to miss out on anything, he’s been put in backpacks, carried on long walks, put into cheerleading outfits, pumpkin costumes, and dressed up as a reindeer for Christmas. Beyond that he’s never too far away— even when one of us is on the treadmill, we joke that he hates the treadmill but he hates not being by you more so he lays in the hallway, intently staring at you, as if to say I can’t believe you’re making me do this. He’s the first to show up when you’re crying, even a hallmark movie will get him to cuddle up next to you.
Despite all of this, I couldn’t believe how the tears flowed, in between work meetings, constructing sentences, I worked to manage the tears. Even on my morning run, I sobbed the whole time. Fortunately, my yoga therapist had planned to focus on grief this session and so we did. It didn’t require me to talk much but rather to move through sequences and align my breath with the movement. In the movements I found myself thinking back to the moments Tenzen had been there for me. After the panic attack, I went home twice, once in February and once in March.
At the time, my therapist had recommended maybe volunteering at a shelter as dogs require you to be in the moment, my parents nixed that as they knew it would result in another dog. So when I went home, Tenzen was there waiting for me. During the day he didn’t leave my side, as if staying vigilant for the intrusive thoughts that were sure to come my way. At night, I would put him in my bed and pet him until I fell asleep, serving as a distraction from what was swirling in my brain. In the middle of the night I would wake up, multiple times, as even with beta blockers my body was still in a very heightened fight or flight response. During those moments, I would reach out to him and pull him closer, reminding myself that I was safe, I was here, I was still here. I would match my breathing to his and drift back to sleep.
I was thinking back to this space during the session when I was abruptly transported back to July 2020. It was in the height of COVID and I was in the thick of it both from a work and personal standpoint. I remember sitting in my car, learning my dad had had a direct exposure and navigating what he should be doing all while being 4,000 miles away. I never felt further from my family during this time as I was often waiting with bated breath of what was to come. I knew way more about the virus and how it behaved to feel remotely comfortable about anyone I knew contracting it — but especially those who were closest to me as I knew any potential health weakness points that the virus could capitalize on.
I walked in to the house and started sobbing, what if my dad contracted it, what if he went downhill so fast, what if he died alone, all alone in a hospital bed. It was too much to bare. My partner at the time tried to console me but my emotions were charged and I was feeling it all and completely sobbed. A few weeks later, my then partner, told me that’s the moment when he was over it and over me for how much I was stressing about COVID and my family dying. I told Justine this, thinking of all that followed, the emotions that I walled off because it was no longer safe to exist and share those vulnerabilities. At one point further into our relationship he told me that I didn’t show emotion (or maybe it was the right emotions) and I was struck by this as I felt like I always had big emotions (case in point, Jane having a book called, “Raising your spirited child”— as a seven year-old I was clearly very shocked and appalled she had such a book). But realize now, it just didn’t feel safe to show those emotions.
I told Justine it was like I turned my emotions off during that time and in this space I was able to finally realize the softest part of me that has existed but it didn’t feel safe to exist. The most vulnerable part. And then it was almost comical thinking of all the times I had showed big emotions before that relationship and honestly so grateful to my parents and those around me who dealt with it, like other ex boyfriends who were probably like why are you crying over this person who has been dead for 2 years but let me and didn’t invalidate that part of me. Oh my gosh, I realized, this was the part I was waiting to return but didn’t know she was gone. I spend a lot of time in therapy and yoga talking about the parts of me that didn’t exist in that space and those parts of me that remained to keep some of the foundation in place for when it was safe for the other parts to return. I felt like during that session there was a calling for this part to return, finally in a place to process all the self abandonment that had happened for a ‘this is fine’ part of me to remain. Justine reminded me that it’s totally normal to feel these big emotions and feelings over the loss of a pet, especially a family pet and there is no need to diminish the impact he has had on your life.
Part of my grieving was trying to figure out when to get home to see him. I’m finishing up my 7 week stint in DC and when arriving back in Alaska have a good friend’s wedding festivities over a string of weekends (which I love weddings but this one is especially magical, as the bride just got declared No-evidence of disease for cancer and it literally feels like a miracle). I had made plans to go to the Grand Canyon for my last weekend down here with a friend from Alaska, she would fly down and I’d fly over and we’d do a smash and dash of the river trails and seeing how far we could get within the 36 hours we’d be in Arizona. And I love the canyon, it’s been a great source of healing and joy for me over the years.
But it was the only weekend that would potentially work for me to go home and see Tenzen. But I was worried if I bailed on the Grand Canyon with her she wouldn’t want to be friends with me anymore— I know dramatic and can you believe I thought I wasn’t emotional. Like if I couldn’t physically show up for her, that was it. In the COVID relationship everything felt transactional, like if I wasn’t able to do something or be a certain way that was it and it often felt that people were friends with me only because of this relationship and without it I didn’t have any value. This feeling got compounded last year when someone I thought was a good friend (like the type of friend you can call in the middle of the night) and one that seemed to exist before that relationship, treated me in a similar manner of leaving me feeling disposable and transactional. Kind of like a 1-2 punch. It’s not so much what she did but how she handled it that was painful. It was a deep wounding that I have never had to navigate in a friendship (which even now typing it out seems to not fit what we actually were base on what transpired). It made me realize we weren’t as good of friends as I thought and it was pretty painful in how it all happened. It made me re-evaluate how I show up in friendships and what my role was in this experience.
Unfortunately, it has also brought triggers to other friendships, like what if they treat me similar, what if something changes and they don’t seem to value me in the slightest, what if they just completely change in how they treat me— what if it all changes what I thought the past few years were based on, what if I have misinterpreted everything. And I’m sure all my friends reading this are hecka annoyed that I would even consider them to behave that way and I do have more faith that these ruptures if they happen with others can be repaired because I have certainly learned a lot. For so long I tried to diminish how painful of an experience it was— like I even wrote a list once of all the things that would hurt more than that experience- on it was Tenzen or Alvin dying and it checks out. I think so often, we’re quick to dismiss our experiences and invalidate what actually happened. I certainly do this, having experienced (not personally but from a career standpoint) the worst of humanity with war crimes, a rupture in what I thought was a friendship isn’t anything to compare to the atrocities of human rights violations. But at the same time, it feels like this level of human decency was violated for me— and not acknowledging how painful it actually was probably let it fester more than it should have. Even now I’m like should I be even writing about this when yesterday I was giving a lecture on violations of international humanitarian law. But as Kara says, “it only takes one dick to ruin the party”
Part of the issue in the rupture seemed to be was my physical proximity and that was a very common theme in the COVID relationship, which if you’ve learned anything about me it’s that I don’t often stay in once place for very long — Alaska is my home base but for context I haven’t spent more than 30 days consecutively in the state since May 2022. I’ve never felt that it was held against me in this way– almost the opposite, people are happy to be on the receiving end of chocolates, trinkets, and especially Trader Joe’s I bring back — and in a lot of ways, traveling has helped me preserve many of my long distance relationships because I do see them a lot more often. But then again, I feel like those who engage in a friendship with me see the value beyond my physical proximity and those people who don’t well I guess I’m not friends with them so.
I texted my friend, telling her that I was so sorry but felt like I needed to go home and try to see Tenzen. She immediately responded, of course you should go home and she would figure out her plans without me. I was so relieved. It made me dig into why I felt so much tension in having to prioritize Tenzen over the Grand Canyon Trip. I was always so worried that in my last relationship something would happen to a family member and I’d want to go home but it would have came with conditions, or a fight, or me having to pick between the two. If anything I’ve realized that I want people in my life who don’t make me pick. This past year has made me realize how much I do value my friendships and I think that’s part of the reason this was so painful but in a way it’s made me realize how rich and deep the friendships I have are– so while it’s easy to focus on the negative I do really work to remind myself of all the good that has grown in this place. I’m eternally grateful for those friends I can call in the middle of the night (or during all hours since it seems like they are all spread out in multiple time zones) or to pick me up from a colonoscopy! But even the friendships that exist in smaller contexts fill me with so much joy– most days I wake up and I can’t believe this is my actual life. I think one thing that has been hard with Tenzen is I can’t tell him how much he means to me and while I can and do with most of my friends I do keep in mind actions speak louder than words–so I’m sure he knows it and can feel it. My therapist always talks about post-traumatic growth that can come out of trauma and feel like I’m starting to occupy that space in terms of being able to approach things from a gratitude and abundance standpoint. Sometimes I think of how this spontaneous moment in the panic attack that was so horrible was actually the catalyst for so many good things that followed, like being shaken into existence, even if it took a while to land on my feet. One thing that they don’t talk about after trauma is how hard it can be to embrace joy but feel like I’m more and more willing to sink into it so there’s that.
As it happened, I ended up on the same flight home as my mom from DC– it’s the second time I’ve been on the same flight with her this year so I guess I get it from my mama. I ended up having a quick turn around time as I arrived late Wednesday night to South Dakota and headed back to DC on Sunday. But plenty of time to give Tenzen all the roast beef, salmon, and pup cups. And after I left he went to the vet and some of the tumors are smaller so hopefully that means a few more months.
As for Tenzen, I think of all he’s brought me and my family — he served as a common denominator for communication, with daily photos taking over our family chat. My dad goes up and spends most afternoons with him. Despite him starting as Frank’s dog, he’s really become a family dog, with all of us spending months alone with him. He kept my mom company all during COVID and even though he can occasionally be a dick (or The Little Prince as my mom affectionally calls him) our lives are so much richer for having him. And with dogs, there is no conditionality to their love— they take you when they can get you and are always happy to see you no matter the distance (Tenzen, is a pro at FaceTime calls). I think to Tenzen, of all the things he gave me, this final act might be the greatest with the part of me that was missing for so long, feeling safe enough to finally return.
I’m sure if you’ve gotten to this point, you might be like Jane and feel that I should stop talking about the dark parts that exist so I can give space for the joy to grow. While I agree I also feel like writing is my way to process things, especially when I have some distance and can look at things a bit more objectively rather than feeling like I’m in the eye of a hurricane. I have started writing more- little poems here and there and those can be found here: https://www.instagram.com/katherinefarrellginsbach/
One thing that has been really fun this past year is how much of my creativity has returned and it’s been a lot of fun to reclaim that space with stories, stickers, and parties and so much more to think about than just trying to survive. So I’m here for all your sticker needs, theme parties, and/or party invites.
Anyways, with all this I am finally getting the inkling to finish writing about the Maah Daah Hey 150. Having taken a year off to rest (or retire) I’ve gained new perspectives and priorities on how I want to move forward in the athletic world— skin track social club, anyone?
Charlotte, Abi, and I have been tracking our elevation gains for September and October like we did last year but being in DC for so much of a chunk of this time means this flat lander is ready to climb some hills when I get back to Alaska. I did make the most of my east coast time with two trips up to New England and I’ve been able to spend some quality time with my cousins, which has been really lovely.
Leaning more and more into “wherever you go, there are you are.”
And just a note, Tenzen is still alive (in case that got lost in all the translation)- he’s breathing a bit better, eating all the roast beef, salmon, and pup cups, and is responding to the steroids so we’re hoping that means at least a few more months.
When I was at the starting line for the 2013 Leadville 100 MTB, I thought back to the year that had brought me to that place. I was suppose to race in 2012 but suffered a broken wrist and traumatic brain injury on a training ride two weeks before the race. A medical deferment was granted and learning to trust myself on the bike began. It was a year filled with ups and downs, self-doubt, but throughout it all a deep well of confidence knowing that I would be okay regardless of what happened.
I had similar feelings standing at the 2023 Leadville MTB 100. This time I was there as a crew member and not a racer. I thought back to the past year, the healing that has taken place, the depths I have ventured, the pendulum swinging from ruthless control to rediscovering myself. The journey that it’s been, the micro shocks that still resonate, the feeling of being so lost and finally returning home.
I have plenty of other blog posts in the draft box but this is what’s coming out so here we go. Feel free to skip this one in case you were here for more adventures at this point. I think of writing this as a letter of how to return to myself in case I ever get lost again–turns out my writing wasn’t the problem, it was the solution. It’s been a year plus since the panic attack and while those wounds are turning into scars it’s been a process of forgiving myself for even getting into that position to begin with. This weekend was a huge reminder of how far I’ve come but made me realize how breaking myself into 1,000 different pieces was still too much for some–and how those that truly love me will never ask me to break.
Sully had crewed four times for me when I did the Leadville 100 and a few other people over the years so when he mentioned that he was going to do it, I offered to crew for him this winter. While we dated 6 years ago, we were able to build a friendship out of the racer/mechanic side of our relationship when we broke up, and I’m incredibly grateful for it. And while I have similar friendships with other ex’s I didn’t realize how rare it actually is.
Sully picked me up Friday morning to head up to Leadville. I was reminded of the time Sully picked me from Dave and Allison’s to go ride my new bike after it had been built up. I had sent a video message from outside the house instead of from inside the house (I had been asked to send one from inside the bedroom) and instead of being on a call getting to talk about how great my bike was I had to try and explain why I sent a video from outside instead of inside (walls were thin and Sam was sleeping next door) and was met with hostility. Now, I texted Dave and Allison to let them know I was leaving and Ruby had just been out and a text to my teammate in Leadville that we were headed that way. I took a breath.
We had plenty of time in Leadville for the expo and to catch up with other friends who would be racing. Even the brief interactions filled me with happiness in being back in the endurance cycling community.
Afterwards we went for a ride on the college trails. Despite the Leadville 100 being the draw to Leadville, there is amazing single track to be had. We headed out on the college trails, Sully talking about how he had been on them for his fat bike races this past winter. I thought back to the openers I had done on these trails the day before the race— the excitement and anticipation of what was to come.
Claire and I on the observation deck in 2015
That night I headed to trivia to meet up with some old teammates. The last time I had been in Leadville was in 2019 after I had taken the bar exam and was headed to Alaska— while we’ve certainly communicated since then I haven’t seen anyone since COVID and we quickly caught up as if we hadn’t missed a beat. I’m incredibly grateful for this group, all showing amazing strength and resiliency in racing and their personal lives.
I joked about how Alaska is like Leadville- not for everyone and with great trail access but we have two Costcos. We all joked about all ending up living in Leadville at some point which honestly would be amazing–currently 5 do and 1 is starting a year long lease there (leaving 3 of us out-of-staters). I was met with tension in my body, could I actually think about this— it had been posed to me that I needed to commit to staying in Alaska for 5 years in order to make my last relationship work. I thought it was a strange thing as while I love living in Alaska I never felt like I could commit to that because I didn’t want to close myself to opportunities and want a partner who is open to discussion and honestly who knows what time will bring. My outstate friendships seemed like always a threat, as if I would pick up and move at any point because of friends elsewhere–but have been blessed with people who understand long-distance friendships and don’t hold it against me. Anyways, I let myself think about what living in Leadville would be like, this community, this place, these women. And sunk into the feeling of being supported. I took a breath.
That night I slept on Judy’s couch knowing there would be coffee waiting for me in the morning as she was heading out early to get to the first and last aid station (mile 10 and 90). The year I got a brain injury I ended up volunteering at mile 10 of the race with my dad. It was a blur (not because of the brain injury) but because no one really stops and if they do they are already in trouble. I thought back to how quickly that section goes, the pack that pulls you up and through the aid station. I thought back to all the support I had when I had my brain injury, all of those on my team, my family— my mom took a lot of time off to make sure I sat in a very dark room in a basement (thanks again Molly and Abe!) and run me around to appointments. Frank and my dad built up a bed frame for me but I couldn’t remember the size of my bed so turns out it was the wrong one, but Frank did find some humor in the situation as I was sobbing. And all my doctors and friends that met me with grace. Neven, who also had a brain injury at one point from cycling, I would text throughout grad school to see if my symptoms were normal life or post-TBI symptoms. She would always assure me they were normal life. And then I thought back to the past year, the support that surrounded me— the assurances that post-panic attack my symptoms were typical. The text messages from aunts, the daily photos of Alvin, the calls and FaceTimes from other family members and friends. The dog walks, ski trips, bike rides, trail runs, dinners, long weekend with friends, and heart-to-hearts. All the things that helped to bring me back to myself. In some ways I felt like I had been selfishly asking for too much support but now I’m in a place where I can offer support— and I’m always reminded of a family friend that when going through a nasty divorce (her husband was abusive) he fled back to his country and her mom and grandmother hunted him down and made him sign the divorce papers– and realizing that people want to support and help those they love and care about. In a lot of ways just feel extremely blessed and fortunate to have the support and community that I do.
The gun went off and Sully rolled through the start, I made my way down 6th avenue to watch the rest of the start from Ann’s deck.
Renee checked in with me and we talked about the day of where people would be. I left the house to get my things packed up and beat the traffic to Twin Lakes. I drove out and parked close to Big Tall Wayne’s Canyon van, he was there crewing for Peter Stetina and I figured it would be a good spot that Sully could find easily. I had a friend text me to say she was at Twin Lakes crewing for her husband so went and caught up with her before any riders went through. I got back to the tent and told Wayne that it was actually my ex-boyfriend from high school’s wife (who is very lovely and has done Leadville in her own right!) and he joked that one day a year all my ex-boyfriends convene to race Leadville, I laughed and took a breath.
I saw Sully at Mile 40, switched things out and sent him off to climb Columbine— his return trip was pretty quick and after mile 60 I packed up to meet him around mile 75. I knew it might be tight but the first year I did it, Sully and Wayne saw me at Mile 75 and it was a nice little moral boost. I went there and set up getting a text from him asking to have pickles and a coke ready. Done and done. I thought back to all the pickle juice I had drank on this course— the only time I like pickles is 60 miles deep into a race.
I told him that I would probably go hang with Judy at mile 90, knowing I’d have enough time to get there. Having spent so much time training and racing this course I was familiar with all the shortcuts around the course. I got to mile 90 losing any service and talked to Judy for a bit before finding a spot on the road. I walked down further around the bend so I could have a good vantage point of riders coming up. I sat down on the ground and thought back to all the times this hill had taken it out of me, the last push before you get pulled into home. I also thought to all the times I had found myself on the ground sobbing in the past few years— at first I thought it was because of all the stress I had been feeling during COVID but now I realize it’s was all the times I felt like I was abandoning parts of myself to contort into a place my body did not want to go. Riders came by and I would try to give them an encouraging word— but I also realized that when you’re deep in it no amount of words will convince you that the suffering will be over soon and the darkness will dissipate to light. But sure enough you reach it and you feel silly for not believing them.
One guy came by and tossed me a bottle which I thought was strange but not that strange as he probably wanted to drop it before heading towards the finish line. I took it and laughed that it was the same style of bottle that Sully had but also it seemed like a popular one so didn’t think much of it. I kept waiting and waiting seeing people that Sully had been around— even if he was cramping and/or bonking he would have to be way off pace to not have been through here by now. I was worried he had a mechanical or medical so wandered up to talk to Judy about it. I mentioned I thought he would have been through here by now, she offered to walk to the spot she got service to check. “He finished an hour ago!” She told me. “What?—Oh my gosh, how did I miss him” I grabbed my stuff and headed to the car as quickly as possible. I navigated back to town and texted him that I’m not sure how I missed him and could meet him wherever. He said he was headed back to the house so I met him there. I met him and said I’m not sure how I missed him— he told me that he saw me, he gave me his bottle. WHAT? I didn’t even realize that was you. He told me I had looked zoned out— I told him I was focused on the riders coming up to try not to miss him. I laughed but still had some tension in how I had messed up, he wasn’t mad, he wasn’t even upset I had missed the finish, “Oh I figured you were out doing something and wasn’t too worried.” Wait, I can make a mistake and it’s interpreted with the kindest of intentions. I took a breath. I made him pose in front of the house so I could get a finisher picture.
He crushed the race and finished in sub-10 hours and didn’t seem too worse of ware— I had thrown up a handful of times after this race (like after multiple races) so was mostly impressed. We packed up and headed back to Boulder that night, he was working a crit the next day and I wanted to hangout a bit with Allison. I posted on instagram about the race without having to worry or get it approved and took a breath.
The next morning Dave left the eggs in the pan for me to overcook and Allison took me to a Leo Season Selfcare Sunday Event, after a hike and run to Dunkin.
During the self care event I had a tarot reading and she pulled The Empress card, saying that I need to lean more into my feminine side and that my masculine side is activated when I’m in survival mode– don’t I know it. I finished the weekend thinking about all the grace (and tough love) I had been shown this year. I think joy is one of the most vulnerable feelings you can share, the happiness that someone can easily try to rip out of you, trying to diminish the light within. I think one of the hardest parts of healing has been leaning into the joy— feeling like I can show up as myself and not have to walk on egg shells. To not have to wait with bated breath to see how I messed up and how it was interpreted. It’s been a journey and one that I wish I never had to go on but grateful for all that has been pulled out of me as a result.
I just got back to Anchorage after being gone for 2.5 weeks to a family reunion and then Leadville. I remember at times I was so jealous of my friends who could take off for multiple weeks to see their families, their partners showing no issue with it— travel within Alaska was okay but out of state travel created more friction. Maybe that’s why I’ve leaned into travel so much this past year to feel the freedom, to relax into knowing that I will arrive at my destination — now instead of placing that trust in someone else, I’ve found that it’s back in me- I will get me to my destination, I will jump and figure it out on the way down, I will chase it all and ask for more. And I feel like so much of the trust has been built up and supported by my community, for the times I have failed, been messy, chaotic, joyful, happy, adventurous, bonking, human, and they’ve met me where I’m at, no questions asked.
I thought a bit about writing on this topic broaching the waters of where I’ve been. But over the past year I’ve been able to tell my story and reclaim my narrative and in doing so have heard so many other versions of the same thing-learning that I’m not alone (which is terribly sad at how not uncommon this can be). By beginning to normalize the areas that we keep hidden, the shame we hold in ourselves, we can bring them to the light and let the wound heal. I certainly carried shame in how I showed up, in how I found myself in certain situations, I’m a smart girl, how could this happen to me– turns out it happens to a lot of us. Anyways if you haven’t seen Barbie yet, I highly recommend it.
“That world is not made for you, you did not create it, that’s why you always felt like a foreigner there because it was not for you to belong. Your sense of longing was too great, you world view too wide, yes your journey has been painful, don’t discount that, the scars you pick up along the way tell so many places that you’ve been, so many dark spaces you will never go back to, you can’t if only because there is light in them now, the darkness is no longer a thing to be feared, you’ve been there, you’ve survived and your voice will help others do the same.” — A piece of writing from March 10, 2023.
In November 2019, Grande told me about the White Mountains 100 and I put in for the lottery and got in. In March of 2020 the race was cancelled (for good reasons) and I never made it to the starting line. This past November a friend reminded me of the lottery and I put in. I got in, along with Grande, Ana, and Holly. In a lot of ways it feels like this year is the year I was planning on having in 2020 without the whole pandemic thing. It’s been weird to think about, almost like the past few years didn’t happen.
Rachel and I on a ride in January 2020–I have learned so much since then including how to dress on the bike now
But of course they did and certainly left wounds that have become scars and speaking from the scar is certainly easier than speaking from the wound. In a way this month has been one of the harder ones with memories coming back in pieces– the stark realization of how much my voice didn’t exist and the things that I took on, the sink I became for emotions, the projections that happened, the suspended space I lived in. I pointed out to some friends that I feel like I still bring things up that happened and they were like of course you do because you didn’t talk about it for so long, we had no idea what was even going on. My therapist says that it’s because I’m more out of the fight/flight mode and no longer in survival mode so have a different perspective. I mostly spent much of April getting outside with friends, going for big ski objectives, and surrounding myself with those that didn’t leave me with feelings of being disposable.
Annnnyways parts of April still felt like I was speaking from the wound realizing at all that had come out last year and at some point I’ll share more of the story, the dark places my brain took me but for now back to the Whites.
Grande, Ana, Holly, and I were all in for the White Mountains 100 which I was grateful to have others to help figure out logistics. We found a friend to stay with and Grande rented a u-haul van. Oh, that was easy now the part where I hadn’t done much (re: any) biking since October. I did a ride the week before the race with Grande and Lil’ snugs– reminding myself what it was like to pedal. I borrowed Dusty’s bike and boots for the race since I still haven’t bought a fat bike. Charlotte was able to come up for the weekend so we left on Friday afternoon, which meant I was able to be somewhat lenient with what I packed still not exactly knowing what I would be needing.
We headed up the Parks Highway and I was reminded of how long it had been since I drove that road, at least summer of 2021. The road in the park has had some erosion and has been closed for some time so in terms of biking it, there really wasn’t an appeal to go up for only about 15-20 miles of road. But driving back up, I was reminded of the first time I drove to the park and how captivating it was to see Denali so close. We got stuck in between a few military convoys but made it to Fairbanks without much fanfare. We stopped by the grocery store and then headed to the house.
I went to the airport around midnight and got Ana and Grande, despite my optimism we could not fit 3 bikes and 3 people in Charlotte’s car but Ana was able to find a truck that served as a taxi and follow us back to the house.
The next morning Charlotte headed to the local ski hill, Grande picked up the U-Haul and Holly from the airport and we all went through our things to be race ready— mostly building up bikes and laying out gear, another run to the grocery store to stock up on more food for the race. Later in the afternoon we headed to the race meeting. It’s a mandatory race meeting and if you don’t check in, it’s an automatic disqualification.
It’s also the only race meeting I’ve ever attended that had a PowerPoint. There was some good info about overflow and trail conditions, but I left the meeting feeling more like I hope I don’t die than any type of excitement for the race. I conferred with the others and they agreed that it seemed more doom and gloom, I lamented that I hadn’t even thought to pack my puffy pants and what if I had to sleep out next to the trail. I didn’t think it would be longer than 15ish hours at the most but now I was concerned that I would miss my flight that was schedule for Monday evening (36 hours after we started). The pre-race meeting was filed with information about the harsh elements that could meet us out there and a reminder that the most remote place in the lower 48 is 24 miles from a road (this doesn’t seem accurate) and the race is 27 miles from the road, and if people scratch it can be hours or days before a snow machine can get you. Lovely.
Ana and Grande had done it before and reassured me that it probably wouldn’t be that bad. Holly was on skis and depending on trial conditions, we could all end up having very different experiences. We made dinner that night and caught back up with Charlotte about the ski hill conditions. We filled her in on the pre-race meeting and then all settled into the familiar routine of catching up and dancing back and forth between life (houses, relationships, work, school, books we’re reading) and race conversations.
The morning of the race we all worked in harmony around the kitchen preparing a big breakfast and doing last minute adjustments, I put extra layers into a dry bag and stuffed it into my sack, along with my inhaler, inreach, battery pack, and emergency sour patch kids, all for safe keeping and stuffed it into the bottom of my bag. I had decided to run a camelback and knew that I would risk freezing the hose for the race but also planned on putting a small bottle into the pogie on the bike to keep that from freezing.
We loaded up with three bikes, one pair of skis, and all our gear in the back of the U-Haul van. We caravanned up to the start, grateful that with Charlotte’s car we all had seatbelts. Charlotte was going to head back to Anchorage at some point during the race- I figured out that even if I somehow finished in under 10 hours, driving back would put us into Anchorage super late for the Monday work day so I’d take a flight back Monday evening and Charlotte would head back in time to get to work on Monday. We arrived at the start– really the parking lot to the start as we all had to meet at 7:50 to cross the highway to the start. I shuffled back and forth between Charlotte’s car and the van putting on layers, debating things, and finally feeling ready.
Except I couldn’t find the water bottle I was going to put in the pogie. No matter, I had my camelback and would just put warm water in as I got into the checkpoints. Charlotte was a life saver by being able to take our puffy jackets from the start right before we lined up, meaning we could keep them on for another 9 minutes before we released them– I shivered anticipating the cold I would feel throughout the day.
I had slotted myself next to the others and when the gun started lost them all in the chaos as the wheels started to move next to me and realized I needed to go too. I followed a group up from the parking lot on the course, knowing it would be a mile or two of uphill to warm up. I was worried that I would get slung off the back but was able to hold whatever pace was being set in front of me. This wasn’t like the fatbike rides I had done before, there was no leisure happening and I was just hoping to not cause a calamity on the trail.
After the initial uphill there was a few miles descent which helped to spread the pack out a bit more. Grande and I were close but kept leap frogging and I could still see Ana in front of me. My main concern was that I didn’t want to be hours behind everyone and they would be waiting at the finish for me. As I figured, my hose froze before I had the chance to drink any water. My new plan was to drink as much as I could at the aid stations and not plan so much on drinking any in between. I stopped to adjust the seat height (I had never ridden the bike before the race– thanks again for the loaner, Dusty!), take off a layer, and rejig my hose to run under my armpit in the hopes that the warmth would thaw it a bit. I got behind Grande’s wheel but at the first aid station (mile 15 or so) she kept going and I stopped to drink something. This was also the last point where you could self bail and head back to the start without having to wait for a rescue. I noted it but didn’t think about it and drank some warm tang before peeing next to the bike and getting back on my way. I was mostly by myself at this point and my mind was pinging between thoughts, “should you eat something; oh wow, look at that; I wonder what skiing this would be like; how do people even run this; how did I get so lucky; I hope my body holds up; this isn’t what I expected but so much better”. I saw Grande in the distance and thought I would catch her shortly but then I saw something on the trail that stopped me, an antler. I got off the bike and went back to it, it was pretty cool and I figured when would I be here again to find something like this. Most of it fit in my bag and the remainder stuck out but was cinched down. I got back on the bike before realizing that the smell of death was literally chasing me. The antler gave on a distinct musk, dense and heavy, and when the wind blew just right a pungent smell would hit me and I’d be reminded that I picked up this dead thing from the trail to take home as a souvenir. Motivation to ride faster?
A few miles later I saw Grande in the distance and worked to try and catch her realizing that riding with her would be better than riding by myself, plus I hadn’t printed off course directions. I was able to catch up to her after a bit and sat on her wheel while we chatted, we would take turns in the front with me leading the on the descents and her leading on the climbs but coming back together on the flats. We rode this way to the next check-point, Cache Mountain Cabin (mile 40), both deciding that we didn’t want to take too long. We got to the cabin and they had boiled potatoes, I loaded mine with salt and bacon and ate it before pocketing two more potatoes for later. I filled my camelbak with warm water as the hose had melted out and I had been able to drink some water in between aid stations. We made small talk with the volunteers asking about trail conditions, where they snowmachined in from, and one commented about the antler in my bag. I grabbed some more tang and we headed out. The next section would bring us over a pass and onto the ice fields.
We wove our way into the forest to begin the climb up to the pass, Grande would relay what the section had been like the last time she had done it and how it compared to now. I was grateful for all the knowledge that had been passed onto me and the tricks that were given. Grande had brought extra trash bags for us to all grab and use for the overflow. I had stashed them into my pack with some ski straps making them accessible when I would need them. I joked with Grande on how we had both been in for the 2020 version of this but now we were doing it three years later. When I moved up to Anchorage, I met Grande and her husband Dusty on one of my first weekends in town. I joked that I paid for them to be my friends because I had signed up for a bike packing course that they taught and after that weekend we became good friends. When I was in the throws of it in January of 2021 we went on a walk and she reminded me that she knew me before I was dealing with COVID and in a relationship and assured me I would get my mojo back, I certainly didn’t believe her then but it was comforting to hear. Someone who knew me prior, it was like those who knew me prior knew I would return even when I had my doubts. I tell her this in snippets, half joking if it’s weird that her and Dusty are married since I think of them like older (wiser) siblings.
As we were about to start the real climb up onto the pass we ran into a biker coming the other way. Grande knew her so we stopped and chatted for a bit, they were doing the route backwards and had been bikepacking for a few days. After departing I said it would definitely be cool to come back and bikepack this and really take in the views.
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
As we were about to crest the pass I turned around to see Holly making her way towards us. I yell ahead to Grande to let her know and we both got off the trail to cheer her on. We briefly chatted about her skis (she had been debating which ones to take beforehand) and quickly started following behind her. She was able to pull ahead of us on descent as the firm snow turned into loose powder and we both had one foot out to steady us as we descended. Grande had mentioned that in previous years she actually had to walk up and down the pass because of snow conditions and I was just grateful that we weren’t having to do much hike-a-biking.
We got to the anticipated ice fields that would have the overflow but were pleasantly surprised at them actually being ice fields and no overflow. We picked our way through and seeing a clear path, I was in front when my wheels lost traction and I went down, sliding along with my bike. I got up and did a quick assessment, bike was okay, I was surprisingly okay, not even really being able to indict what the first impact was (don’t worry it was not my head) as I seemed to just disperse the impact on my left side. I got up and we continued on, I was a bit more tepid and followed Grande’s lead when she would get off and walk on the ice. The ice lakes had no overflow and while we walked some spots we were able to move quickly through the sections and before I knew it we were back into the forest and headed towards the third check-point. The views here proved unlike any that I had seen in Alaska with dramatic limestone cliffs jetting out from the drainage we were in. We approached Windy Gap Cabin and headed in.
We asked how far ahead Ana and Holly were and were both excited when we heard Ana was in the lead and Holly wasn’t too far in front of us. I took some rice and then in current state decided to put some tang powder on it– after a few bites I immediately regretted it. I felt sheepish about asking for new rice so ate some of it quickly and shoved the rest into the trash. I grabbed a handful of other treats and we took a few extra minutes at this station than we had previously done. I still had plenty of food that I had brought and had been supplementing ‘real’ food with sour patch kids every few minutes to keep my sugar and energy levels up. We left the cabin and stayed in the drainage weaving in and out of trees for the next 10 miles and hugging the limestone rock. We crossed the intersection to another cabin which wasn’t on the race route but someone had set up a chair and bike as if they were spectating but we didn’t actually see anyone. After a brief little climb and descent, the course felt more enclosed and some of the view points were obstructed by weaving in and out of the hills. We saw signs approaching the last checkpoint and parked our bikes at the bottom of the little hill to walk up to the cabin. A high school ski group was running it and we ran into Holly here — we talked more about the race as we independently grabbed food and filled water. Woohooo! Almost done, right! We took a few photos, thanked those who were out here and took off again. Grande and I headed back down to our bikes with Holly out in front of us.
We got back on the trail and remained in the drainage with a few more frozen creek crossings. We caught up to Holly and I was jealous of how easily she was able to navigate the slick creek crossings on skis. Watching people who are really good at their sport is always really inspiring, there is such beauty and grace in how their bodies and equipment flow together. Holly and Grande are both two prime examples of this. After the creek crossing we jumped back ahead of Holly as she stopped to make and adjustment. We climbed our way up towards the final trail shelter, there is no support here except some water and a duralog if you need it. Seeing it meant we were close to the end but the Wickersham Wall loomed in between us and the finish line.
We had been able to see the Wickersham Wall for the past few miles, raising 600 feet in just over a mile above the valley floor. The crest of it would take us back to the finish line. We started up it and after a few pedal strokes both got off to push our bikes up. We laughed because at one point Grande had told Holly that she would just be able to fast feet up it (moving her hands and making a noise to denote how quickly she’d be able to ascend). I joked that I wish I was able to do the same mechanics now. We got to the top and then took pictures of each other (like a proud mom moment). Over the past few years one of the sayings that Grande and I have passed back and forth to each other is, “You’re doing great sweetie” (it’s a references from the Kardashians when one of the daughters is crying during a shoot or something and her mom tells her that).
We started the descent and Grande took out her light, I waited to take mine out as with the summer sun coming back there would be few opportunities left to soak in the darkness. I followed her tracks and settled into the feeling, the flow of being at ease with the movements, the stillness that comes from knowing your own body and mechanics. This didn’t last long as I realized I would be real dumb if I crashed because I didn’t have a headlight and stopped to dig mine out. I caught back up to Grande after she waited for me and then she yielded the trail for the descent. I ran into a guy I knew from the area who was out running and who had done the bike and he was like, “oh we all thought you were on skis” and I was like, “absolutely not”. The tracker showed that I was on skis for the whole race and for not being a known skier everyone was terribly confused by this. The confusion cleared up when he saw that I was on a bike. We followed the trail back down into the parking lot that we had started from, crossing the line together. Ana met us having been done for a bit (she crushed it, winning the race, her second year in a row!) and had moved the U-Haul van closer for us to have easy access. I went into the warming station to grab some hot water and then immediately when back out when I hear more cheering and Holly crossing the finish line. Grande, Holly, and I all finished around 13 hours– much better than the 36 I had started to expect after the race meeting.
We all finished relatively close to one other and a brief rest in the U-Haul van we got packed up and headed back to the house. Ana and Grande had an early morning flight to catch with Holly and I leaving later on Monday evening.
By the time I woke up to start work the next morning at 5am, Grande and Ana were gone. I worked most of the day and then packed up my bike and did a short walk around the river with Holly. I shared with her some of the parts of the panic attack, the anxiety, the intrusive thoughts, the feelings of OCD, the demise of my sense of self and relationship. And also talked more about female athletes and the culture that exists today to operate in, she was reading Kara Goucher’s memoir so we talked a lot about the issues women still face today in the sport, from the elites to middle school level.
What came out of the bike pogies
The weekend was really fun and it had been a while since I had done a race with other people. People asked if Grande and I planned to ride together and we never talked about it prior it just so happens that after 20ish miles we seem to be the same pace and riding with someone else is always better than riding by yourself (at least for me). I spent a lot of time during the race dipping in and out of my mind and processing all that had existed during the past year.
Dad, if you’ve made it this far, feel free to stop reading here.
It’s hard to find the words of what transpired over the past year(s), but the feelings certainly were there. I thought a lot about coming into the White Mountains with very little bike training, but I knew my body and my history enough to know what to anticipate for 100 miles and could be prepared for it. I think about the Tatanka 100 a lot—it was the worst race I ever had (in a lot of metrics). I loosely thought I’d be going for the course record and then everything went sideways, I got lost, I bonked, I had to hike-a-bike over so many boulders, I laid on a cardboard slab for an hour, I thought of pulling the plug so many times and I cried and I cried and I cried. I hated that course so much when I was done—it took me to the darkest places I have ever gone bike racing.
Because of that race I know so much more of what I’m capable of—if I have to hike for 50 miles during a race, I’ll survive, if I get lost, I’ll survive, if I spend 4 hours crying, I’ll survive. In a way it’s given me the confidence to be more sure of what I can sign up for and attempt. I think about this a lot now in terms of life—the trauma of the past few years—the perfect storm—thinking back to being asked “what will happen if you [I] have another panic attack”. That question no longer startles me with the potential tizzy it would send my life into. But instead, this place of acceptance of having some confidence that if I do go to those dark places again, there will be a trail of a light that I can follow to get myself out. Maybe that’s why I’ve written about it so much in my blog in case I need to find my way home again.
With the Tatanka 100, I realized that so much hurt came from this place of expectations versus what actually happened—the outcome that I was attached to. In life, this chasm exists the expectations of how things will unfold, how people will show up (or not). The timeline I had for healing the expectation that one more meditation, journal entry, yoga class, would be what healed me. But we never actually get to this place of arrival of enlightenment, we are constantly growing (or not). But I think that’s what keeps drawing me back to the various trails, they hold no expectation for you—they meet you where you are.
I heard someone say recently that they couldn’t tell a story until there was a happy ending—and I don’t think there is ever really this happy ending but this place of acceptance, of fulfillment –of learning to not get attached to the outcomes, the expectations, the behaviors of others and myself. I always found it strange when people would say that their goal is to be happy, happiness is a fleeting emotion, it’s not realistic. We’re all happy humans and none of us are happy humans and we get to experience it all, this full range, this joy of being human, of dancing with the darkness and re-finding the light again and again and again.
I was reminded of this while out skiing in New Hampshire recently, someone asked us if we were having a good adventure and Alexi replied that if you’re looking for adventure you can find it anywhere. I think for me in the past I was clinging so tight to what I thought this life and adventure should look like that I didn’t realize how much was beyond the walls I had built around myself. But isn’t part of being human learning to no longer seek out the homes that do not (cannot) hold us.
I had to do this exercise in therapy where I listed all the ways I have grown in the last year (from post-traumatic stress comes post-traumatic growth) and I told her that every day (if not multiple times a day) I have a realization of wow, I can do this thing and there is no problem and all the freedom that has come with it in deciding how to show up. In this exercise I went back to the writings from that time, reminding myself of what I used to carry in me. The writings from that time don’t fit anymore- they feel panic, urgent, chaotic, but they fit who I was then, this comet on her way to dissolving upon reaching the atmosphere, the fleeting feelings of almost arriving, of almost being whole, of almost being enough. That narrative doesn’t fit me anymore because I don’t fit in that tiny box anymore- the uncertainly still exists, as it always has but it’s more tempered, at ease, at realizing that burning up the mess of restrictions allows for reclamation– of my talents, my energy, my priorities, my values. They say you can’t heal in the same environment that made you sick— I remember writing that in my notes at his house, realizing the end would be coming soon, new soil would be tilled, different seeds would be planted, and I’d be allowed to bloom in conditions that were conducive to my growth and creativity.
Who knew this would be such fertile soil for me to bloom on
I sat on this post for a while and went through multiple iterations, sending a draft to Jane, talking about it with others, deciding how to share. In the end I edited a lot because those that know me probably have heard more than enough at this point and as a friend reminded me those that know me know what I’ve been carrying – so in a lot of ways it’s like looking at a result sheet and only seeing the time but no idea the story of how one got there (like obviously contact me if you want the tea and the dark places my brain went—I’m an external processor and always happy to share). Narratives don’t form in vacuums and in being able to talk about what happened during COVID has allowed it to be molded in the world outside of me—and the pain becomes something outside of me allowing new things to grow in what was holding space for the trauma. I think of it similar to the Tatanka 100, where it was just a perfect storm of having the rug pulled out from me and everything going sideways at once—and it’s hard to parse out what was what and what caused the foundation to crack—but it doesn’t really matter as they say the only benefit of looking behind you is to see how far you’ve come. Just like the Tatanka 100 when I got to the end, Barb greeted me with a big smile and congratulations and held space for me to tell her all about my adventures from the day. The tears dried quickly and was replaced with more of a “I cannnnnot believe this happened” and turning it into a hilarious bit of the worst race of my life. I was able to move to a place of acceptance rather quickly, put that race behind, and carry the lessons I learned from it forward. Grateful for all of those who have held space for me to process everything that has transpired– I think societally we have a larger reckoning with what happened during COVID, all that took place, things that emerged, how we’ve arrived after. And just like the White Mountains 100 it’s sure fun to be surrounded by a great crew to get you to the starting line and meeting you at the finish line of some of life’s biggest trials [trails].
Anyyyyyyways, I could probably write a book on all the ways the healing process is like an endurance race but will stop here because I’m sure my dad stopped reading paragraphs ago- ha. The White Mountains was fun and realized that it was the last time I rode my bike but headed to Iceland in about a month for a race so training looks little different this year.
If you have it made it this far, thanks for sticking with, I realize this post is a bit all over but welcome to my brain.
The gear scattered is similar to my brain scatter sometimes
In a way I’ve been completely unprepared for my life to return after trauma but thankfully my friends were prepared enough for me. I thought this the past weekend when I cancelled my therapy appointment because there was a weather window for one of the ski objectives Charlotte and I had this year. It’s been a year since I started working with my trauma therapist. I thought back to that first session– it was almost 3 months after my panic attack and the dark abyss I had been lost in was a lot. My therapist had her work cut out as this wasn’t a narrative I had ever envisioned having to navigate. The faulty narrative I was carrying around was holding me back, in that period I had no flexibility around the story and couldn’t see anyway it would ever be reframed. Now I figured a long day out in the mountains would do as much good as a 1 hour therapy session– plus the weather window. And if anything over the past few years Charlotte has seen me in most emotional and physical states of being.
Charlotte and I discussed the logistics for the day, we’d leave town at 7am and I decided to bring my heavy/wider skis. I’m still waiting on a replacement part for my race skis but also with the variable snow conditions that we’d potentially run into figured that would be a better bet. We headed out with our (Charlotte’s) Gaia track following the trail up to Gold Mint Hut. It was a mild grade and we chatted along the way and also making note of potential routes up and slide paths. I had never been back in the area in the winter and only once in the summer. The summer trip was in July 2020 when I was in the throws of it, I remember being out there overnight and sobbing in the tent because of how much uncertainty I felt– every time I went into the backcountry at that point I was always worried about what I would be coming back into when I gained service. The silence and solitude did not provide comfort then, instead only amplified how much noise I was missing out on. And then I cried harder for ruining the trip for others. That’s what I was bringing into this space.
We traversed the mild slope before reaching a point to start climbing up towards the Mint Hut. We talked about the different routes, opting to cut more to the left and to try and avoid extra time under a slide path and headed up. The line we took was a little icy and the side hilling didn’t provide for great traction. We kept space between us just incase something released. I was navigating up first when I saw a hole in the snow and looked in, some animal waste was by the opening– my mind thought to a bear den, is it too early, hopefully it doesn’t cave in and I wake whatever might be sleeping below me.
I know those of you outside of Alaska reading that are probably thinking what an irrational fear (like riding over a snake and having it get caught in my rear wheel and flung up on me) but this actually happened where a skier disrupted a bear den and the bear attacked him. I moved past the hole and waited on the shoulder for Charlotte to come up. We weaved our way up towards the hut and then stopped before we started our approach of backdoor gap to get some food and make some gear adjustments.
We kept our skins on and headed up but it soon became apparent that it was too steep and icy to skin so we’d have to switch to boot packing. I had been waiting for Charlotte to traverse so stayed put while Charlotte transitioned. Our plan was that only one of us would be exposed to a potential avalanche at a time while the other stayed out of the slide zone underneath some rocks. Charlotte started the first leg of the boot pack and I stood watch not wanting to transition too early in case something happened. She crested and was tucking back into the rock section when I had started to transition and looked up and didn’t see her– is that avalanche debris new or old, surely I would have heard something if it released. I transitioned quicker and called to her on the radio. No response. I got my skis on my back and crampons on my boots and looked up, she had popped back over the zone I couldn’t see her and was perched below a rock. I took a breath and started making my way up. Because she had put the bootpack in, my ascent was a bit faster and less laborious. I got to the top and we diagnosed the issues with our radios and got them working. I stepped out and navigated a route up towards another rock outcropping to take shelter in. I’m not great at boot packing and deployed all the tricks I had been working on, heel down, knees forward, push up, disperse weight over the polls. As I got near when I said I would stop, Charlotte radioed to see if I was still going, “yeah, almost to the spot.” I got up and radioed down to let her know it was clear. She came up and met me and we kept working towards the top with only one of us moving at a time.
We crested the top and looked at the other side, a nice little cornice. We talked about the boot pack and the choices we made and then talked about the next section. I offered to drop in first, telling Charlotte the line I would be taking to another meet up point on the slope.
I pushed off after finding a small opening that didn’t seem like it was right on top of the cornice and cut left before turning right while trying to get out from underneath the potential area of snow fall fast enough. We regrouped and then party skied down the more mellow slope finding some nice snow and turns. We headed down but the slope was gradual and we tried to keep as much speed as possible to make it to the valley floor. It mostly worked with some awkward side stepping to get over humps but we made it down and then put our skins back on to head up to snowbird glacier.
The skin up was pretty uneventful, we had a track from someone who did it last year and just made sure that we were climbing towards the right ridge. We got onto the glacier no problem and traversed up to the ridge line to drop down. After transitioning we talked about lines and started skiing.
The snow was anything but powder and cutting through it proved cumbersome for turning. The views were incredible but hard to take in with all the survival skiing going on. We looked at the slope of what we’d need to go down and realized all the avy runs we’d have to cross. Fortunately, they had released at that point but the avy debris we had to cross made me realize how fatigued my legs were.
Going across the avalanche debris made me grateful that I had taken my wider skis, having to navigate around chaotic masses of snow, ice, and whatever else had been picked up during the slide. I always think about this when I’m out in the backcountry, if one releases (again, Mom, I’m never in those areas) and the turmoil of getting carried only to then potentially be buried under this massive weight (compacted avalanche debris will weigh in excess of 500 kg per cubic metre). It’s like the snow just settles and immediately becomes like concrete, something like 60% of avalanche victims who died whilst buried show something on the surface but it can take a large effort to extract them– and that’s if they survive the potential trauma. So at least there was some reassurance that they had already slid, until we reached a gully that had only had small tracks of avy debris in it. We stopped and talked about how quickly we could get across and which line. I went first and skied in and popped out as fast as I could hitting ice on the other side and traversing down the hill side to the next debris field where I turned and watched Charlotte. There is always a moment in these situations where you run through worse case scenario, if something slid. But worst case scenario didn’t happen and Charlotte popped up the gully and traversed down to where I was.
We both agreed that being in a gully in Hatcher is the worst thing and have deep reverence for the whims of mother natures. After that we linked up with Archangel road and mostly skated back to the car. We did it in about 11 hours, I ate 6 donuts among other treats. We talked about how we probably wouldn’t have gone too much faster on different skis and we were both really happy with the day and our set up. We debriefed on the spots that were worrisome and how we could have done things differently but some times you’re just responding and figuring out how to best move forward with the information you have.
A long day in the mountains did help and also when you’re out there for 11 hours lots of time to think about things—especially a stark contrast to the last time I was out there. In some ways I feel like my awareness has never been sharper and taking that to the mountains allows me to be fully present. I think about the COVID times and often think of it as my life was on pause—a friend recently corrected me saying it wasn’t on pause and showing up in that space how I did was just as authentic as I am being now. But in some ways I felt like my life was on pause because it didn’t feel like I was growing or able to. How I showed on that summer trek of the Bomber is how I was assumed to keep showing up– all these negatives assumptions piled up against me until I started to believe them too. I sat with that for a while because I think of how I show up now versus then and how different it feels, in all aspects. But that girl during COVID while in some ways felt like a shell of who I can be was still me—it’s like going out into the mountains and not having a blue bird day but still appreciating just being out there—or enjoying the darkness without having to contrast it to the light. And all this duality can exist and growth can happen, someone’s best day in the mountains can be your worst—I can hate a trail and then love it– I can be a shell of a human and still have light in me—someone can be a not great partner and still exist as a good friend– I can be upset that I had a panic attack and also so grateful for it shaking me into being. This growth exists in the mountains and in a way it’s easier to hold space for –the days that fall short of the objectives, leaning into the progression, the changes, the trails that I’ve come to love that once destroyed me—the spaces I inhabit that no longer scare me—the solitude that no longer comes at the expense of peace. And I’m able to hold all these dimensions together–I don’t assume a trail I’ve once taken will remain the same and instead meeting it each time where it’s at.
I think of the growth that has happened– the lens that I view things in and those that view me. For most of COVID I felt like my internal and external value systems were out of sync, what I valued internally wasn’t perceived externally. That’s been hard to stomach, like a coworker that told me she was startled when she heard me laugh for the first time (we had worked together for over a year before that happened)– or another unprovoked telling me how much happier I seem now– but harder to stomach is the conversations with friends, where things felt one sided, where I showed up with good intentions but my actions still caused pain. The negative assumptions that were held against me– if I hated this trail I will always hate this trail– if I didn’t enjoy something one day I would always feel that way– this growth that was paused, no new information was allowed. Realizing the friends that have extended grace to me in this period, those that allowed me to exist without ever knowing or suggesting I would return to my old (new) self– the darkness they invested in without knowing if there would be an endless summer to come. Now, figuring out how I can extend the same grace to others that fall short of my expectations or assumptions– I cannot anticipate the harm I will cause, we will cause, or that will be brought onto me, even with good intentions we have no idea what we are bringing into a space, what they are bringing into the space. Here’s the thing, you can show up in someone else’s story as the hero or the villain for the exact same behavior. We are neither the hero nor the villain in our own story but instead the narrator– and it’s our story to tell and rewrite, and edit, as we learn and grow and acquire new information. It’s like being on a long slog (more on those later) where you end up in a spot you didn’t anticipate and you can’t go back but only move forward, make the best decision for you in that time with the information you have but being flexible and adaptable as you make your way down the trail. At the end you look back and think wow, what a crazy story that is, but in the midst of the trail you can’t conceive how it will all unfold– and only when you get to the end do you finally feel like you can make sense of all the chaos in the midst. Anyways, thanks for staying with me on this one and for embracing the weird, chaotic amazingness that comes with being human– it’s my first time being alive (that I remember- haha!)
In January of 2020, I took a class at the museum that focused on editing vs. censorship, it looked at it through the lens of reductionism poetry and it has stuck with me. The thought is that you take a piece of writing and heavily edit it to give it entirely new meaning. During COVID I would edit, mince, and reduce my words because something wasn’t worth it in terms of engaging. It was like having an editor that took my words and slowly over time changed them, contorted them, that by the end it wasn’t even worth speaking because it wasn’t my words.
My parents have often edited my papers but for the better, making sure that sentences were complete (remember those early days, mom?) and even now I’ll send sections of my blog to my mom to make sure it’s okay or the paper I sent to my dad recently that he said was hilarious and then sent back with 127 edits. But never existing in the form of reducing my voice or my meaning. I’ve noticed that while I had many stories during COVID, I didn’t have the language to tell them —but in getting that language back I’m more forthcoming with the stories.
Last week I did Arctic Entries, which is modeled after The Moth by This American Life, each storyteller has 7 minutes to tell a story with no notes on stage. Language is a powerful tool, and influences how humans behave, how I behave. I thought about this especially going into Arctic Entries, how to tell the story. I think about this with writing but with writing I have so many chances to revise, revisit, and rethink. With speaking it’s a one-and-done kind of show.
I had submitted a story back in September, debating between two stories, one about Alvin, and the other about Chris (#IYKYK). And settled on the one about Alvin, I wrote a brief synopsis: How I lost my dog and found a community. They were intrigued so I met with them in October to tell them the story in detail, and they loved it. The timing didn’t work out for the October or the January show which meant at least more time in theory to practice. I went through another round of practice in mid-February and then finally had the date locked in for the March show. After that I started tweaking the dialogue. How to fit everything I wanted to say in 7 minutes. I started editing, the small details I remembered but didn’t move the plot along.
I was picky in who I would share with in the early stages which only really meant sharing with Tom, who would get on a zoom with me most nights to work through it. I would tell the story, he would sit there showing no emotion, and then provide feedback. It was almost comical because he would say things like, “make sure you pause after you deliver that line, it’ll be killer and they will laugh” without him ever laughing. Based on his feedback I reworked a few key things. Thankfully, Tom’s job is focused on interpretation (for a National Park) so if anyone was going to help me it was him, plus it’s debatable which one of us knows Alvin better at this point and since it was about Alvin figured he’d want to make sure I did Alvin justice too.
I felt like I had finally perfected it but back to the editor in my mind, there was one or two lines that I was worried about, how would they be received, would I get pushback. I spent most of my therapy and private yoga instruction on how to navigate this, both of them telling me not to change my story, do not diminish my experience or what I want to say, just say it. But still in all my preparation for speaking in front of 1,000 people I was more anxious about getting a message or statement of criticism from an individual. Because this was the space I had been in for 2 years, worried about how my words might come out and be twisted. The misunderstandings, only hearing what was wanted to be heard. It’s a lot when your voice gets weaponized against you in learning how to reclaim it. But I feel like that’s what I’ve been doing all these months, figuring out how to reclaim my story and my narrative, in that validating my experiences.
As the show got closer, I told the tale to a few others, even incorporating the suggestion that Brianna said I should let people know I named Alvin that because I didn’t want to waste a good dog name since I was only going to be fostering him. The day before I had yoga where we talked through a few things and did a chakra visualization, at the end we sat there and felt where the energy went and what color was associated with it all. I saw a deep hue of blue, with the energy resting in my throat and the feeling of being choked catching me off guard. As I sat up and digested this with her I told her of how often over the past few years I felt like I was being suffocated, my narrative having gotten cut off. She thought Arctic Entries would be a great platform to share my story and experience. After that I went to Vailferee’s (my old babysitter) and practiced with her and caught up on life in general. As always, she proved to be like a big sister showing up with words that helped to express my experience. Then one of the better surprises happened when two college friends were in town visiting one’s sister and I was able to spend time at the brewery with them, the last time Cady was in Alaska was January 2020 so we joked about that and hopefully they move up to Alaska soon…
The day of the show was pretty low-key. Jane, as always sent me money to go get a manicure (it seems to alternate between book money and nail money) and I went for a run before practicing once more with Tom. He left me with the ever-inspiring words of “don’t mess up” and then the only laugh he’s given me during any rehearsals. I went to the show and talked with the other performers beforehand, we’ve all had a glimpse into each other’s lives with the rehearsals. I found out I’d be going third, which was enough time to hopefully not forget my story. I sat through the first two, a four-day blind date that ended up in a marriage, and an incredible story about aging out of the foster system. I saw Vailferee in the front row before the lights went down and stepped into the spotlight, only being able to hear the audience. I started, “I have a background in pandemic preparedness and response, so I was a little stressed in March 2020…” instead of writing the entire story out, I’m going to wait until the recording is available to post it because writing probably won’t do it justice.
I finished and had an outrageous amount of fun being up on the stage sharing my story. It’s only the second time since my brain injury that I’ve presented without notes. After my brain injury, I had my speech impacted which has made me a bit more self-conscious of how I talk—and while I often present without referring too much to my notes, they serve as a nice safety blanket.
They say there is power in sharing your story, it is healing in some form. But it was validating to not mince my words, to not feel muted, to have no criticism or judgment from the editor. I wrote this shortly after, “Can I breathe now, is this how it feels when the breath finally expands through your chest, casting the dust off the previously constricted places, you are free to move, the claws have finally come out, the hand is off your throat, the day has come where you can fly, fly back to yourself, back home.”
In telling my story I realized I can be as honest as possible to my experience but people will only see the truth if it’s close enough to their reality — so reminding myself that my lived experience is mine alone and my humor is not for everyone (among other things). My experience doesn’t invalidate others and theirs does not invalidate mine but holding space for complex narratives that weave into a tangled web.
There is the cliché where you don’t rescue your dog, they rescue you. I never really thought that until now. In the process of prepping for this in October, I looked at my writing from when I first got Alvin (mostly unpublished). Shortly before I had gotten Alvin I starting dating my ex. In that writing were the words that my ex would not have dated me if I had Alvin when I met him, oof. That was about three weeks into the relationship, so sometimes I thought things would be different if I hadn’t gotten Alvin but then I realized all the times that I had used reductionist language on myself, if I hadn’t taken that job, if I had been able to race bikes, if I wasn’t working on COVID, if I loved Alaska more, if I was faster, if I didn’t eat chips so late, if I never wanted to leave the state, if I didn’t have to travel, if I had healed faster, if I didn’t maintain certain friendships, if I was happier, if I didn’t say certain things, if I didn’t burn my eggs, if I hadn’t had the panic attack. And then it hit me, we would have worked out perfectly if I had reduced who I was. Again, language is a pretty powerful tool. By focusing on my narrative now, not having to edit or censor, I can show up more authentically for the relationships in my life (like all of them). This isn’t to put this on him, it’s me working to not dim my light, my therapist reminds me that I was willing to be molded and contorted, to be adaptable. It was certainly a lot easier to see all of it staring back in writing at me like that. I realize that relationships certainly come with their fair share of compromise but at the end of the day they should contribute to your flame, not diminish it. And as I’ve said before it was kind of the perfect storm with COVID and work and everything else that put my light out. But in telling my story with Alvin, I realize how much Alvin has saved me over the past few years and now has helped to give me my voice back.
Anyways, I finished my story by saying that “when the border opened up and I thought I would be moving to DC but I couldn’t do it, just like Alvin and I both being forest feral creatures it turns out that just like when Alvin got lost and this community showed up to help find him, when I got lost and lost my way and sense of self, this community showed up to help bring me back home.” In a way I feel like my Arctic Entries was a love letter to this community, to the friends who showed up when Alvin was gone and who have continued to show up when I was missing parts of myself.
After the show I quickly grabbed a drink with a few friends and then caught a red eye back to DC to teach once more and moderate an event. I’m back in Alaska already and the whirlwind world tour is done for a bit. I have a few big ski objectives that I’m hoping to get in this spring and headed to Fairbanks in 2 weeks for my first 100 mile fatbike race (was suppose to do it in 2020). Team Couch is set to do it but unlike Ana and Grande my form will be truly off the couch with this one.
In somewhat slightly related news, I just finished a book on cults and realized I would be a prime candidate to end up in one so take that as you will– don’t worry Jane, didn’t use your book money on that book. Grateful to the family and friends who remain vigilant around me and help me get by with little street smarts.
Who knew that one week would bring so many new experiences. Grateful to be back in Alaska and all that comes with it.
After Colorado I headed back to Alaska. I landed late Friday night and the next day made plans to get out with Charlotte and Lang. Lang asked what we were feeling and I said something that wouldn’t require skate skiing as during the race the side of my foot had ended up with a nasty blister. We opted for a tour in the front range because of conditions and we wanted to check out a line for later. We met early and caught up on the adventures they had had over the past month. Charlotte showed off her sweet new ski poles that she got in France and I showed her my bibs I got when all my stuff got lost in Canada. We headed onto the trail and talked about what we were feeling, anywhere from 11-15 miles. With the wind expectations we opted for the 11 miles to have a bit more coverage. We skinned for a while, talking about future lines. The slope was gradual until just the last bit, which had a steeper angle (but not really anything over 25 degrees if that). It was icy enough though that we joked we should have brought ski crampons and made our way to what looked like softer snow to grip our skins. We got to the top and the wind was raging. We took our skis off so we could get behind some rocks to check out a line- we questioned if our skis would actually stay with the wind.
I put mine up next to some rocks so if they moved they maybe wouldn’t get blown off the cliff. We tucked in the rocks which gave us only a little more protection and looked at the line. We talked about the best approach and what it would look like. While this was happening I was putting on all my layers, while not actively snowing the wind was whipping the snow up and accumulation was starting to build on my pack.
We decided to get down and then we’d stop to drink and eat something. Transitioning was challenging as the wind kept whipping my skins around as I tried to wrangle them to protect and fold them away. We headed down, I headed skiers left as it seemed the easiest line for me to traverse down. Lang and Charlotte went right and I immediately regretted the split. It’s not a habit I want to get into but I had eyes on them the whole time and I watched my slope to cut it at a low angle. We met up down below on more of the flat surface and talked about how terrible the snow conditions were — it was like we had forgotten how to ski. Because of the low angle slope we mostly shuffled/double poled for a while. We did get to a spot that allowed us to get some turns before crossing the river and putting our skins back on to get out.
On Sunday I met a friend to cross country ski (never too early to start training for the Gothic- ha). We ended up catching up for a while and I had therapy at 12 so squeezed in about a 30 minute ski but it was nice to at least get some movement. I then disregarded unpacking and went and caught up with more friends, promising that I would do more later that evening. Instead I got a text from an old co-worker letting me know the northern lights were going to be out (he knew it was on my list to see them this year). I met up with him around 7pm and we headed out of town with blankets and extra layers.
As we were driving we started to see some dancing, we found an empty pull off away from the highway and started to watch. The lights ebb and flow in their intensity. Sometimes dancing across the sky and at other times, retreating until there is only a glimpse to the naked eye. I sat in complete wonder and awe and stared. This is incredible, I took it all in.
Eric had brought a tripod so was able to take some good photos, I didn’t even try. I thought back to the Maah Daah Hey and had a similar feeling, is this mine to keep forever. We sat out for a few hours and then realizing the 5am wake up call I’d have headed back to town but pulled over once again when they came back out.
The lights were good enough that people saw them from Anchorage without much trouble. I woke up early again and thought of heading outside but still felt satisfied from the night before so instead turned on my sun lamp and started my work day.
I met Charlotte later that day for a little after work ski on the local trails. I used my race boots and still felt some aggravation from my race blister.
I headed up to Fairbanks early Wednesday morning for an all day meeting. I thought about taking my ski stuff but returning Thursday afternoon felt like it would have been a lot to pack in. I did shove in my yoga clothes just in case.
I arrived in Fairbanks and it reminded me of the Black Hills, with small rolling hills and heavy trees, oh this is nice. I had meeting all day and then the friend I was staying with was teaching yoga so caught a ride and met her at the studio, then we stayed for another yoga class and cooked dinner and did a lot of debriefing of our lives.
The next morning I spent mostly prepping for my presentation. I went to the meetings, the focus being on the international perspective of things. One of the early speakers, Deenaalii, talked about grounding, they posed two questions to the audience, what are you bringing to this meeting and how do you embrace change. How do I embrace change I thought and we had to discuss to a person we didn’t know. I thought about this and probably overshared with this stranger giving a lot more detail but the just was but that I was embracing change in a way I did prior to COVID-19. After the talk I went up to Deenaalii, knowing them, and chatted for a bit talking about my answer they gave me the wisdom to say don’t get addicted to the feeling of things changing constantly and to seek grounding. Woof.
I gave my presentation which I won’t bore you with the details but I’m incredibly grateful that I get to work on the things that I feel such drive and passion for– I know a lot of people who don’t feel that in their jobs and I wake up everyday saying a statement of gratitude that I get to have a job I love and live in a place I love. After that I had just enough time to squeeze in a trip to the Museum of the North before my flight.
Back in Anchorage I started unpacking and joked with my roommate that I felt like I was finally ready to emerge from my cocoon that I had created in my room (more like forest ferrel creature) after all the sideways things that have happened over the past few months (again book material, not blog material). I went skiing with Hailey, who gave me pointers on skate skiing form and we got back to the car to find my window was smashed in. This is a very common occurrence in Anchorage. Unfortunately, they only took Hailey’s things and left all of mine. The biggest inconvenience was having to vacuum up all the glass but now The Truc is ghetto fabulous for the next few weeks. I thought about passing on skiing the next day but woke up early enough to take care of all the insurance things and Lang offered to drive so we could be a bit warmer.
We headed out to Hatcher’s with a plan to try and ski a couloir. When telling someone that I was going couloir hunting, he joked that I didn’t really annunciate well and thought I was going ‘cooler hunting’ for the Yeti’s that had washed up on shore previously this year. I assured him that I have a terrible time with the spoken word as everyone thinks Alvin’s name is actually Elvin when they hear it from me.
We headed out and decided to go towards Lost Couiloir since it seemed the safest bet in the conditions– figuring it would be tracked out but thinking that was a better bet in case we had to bail and ski something else.
We headed up and skinned our way to the bottom and looked up, no one had been here. How is this possible? We skinned up until we were at a good spot and dug a pit to see what the snow pack looked like.
We both felt good with what we had seen and headed up to the point where we had to stop skinning and start boot packing. My boot packing skills are quite comical as I would basically just sink further deeper into the snow. Lang gave me some tips, like heels down, knee in, drop your butt, all the things to disperse weight over the surface, and we made it to the top, maybe an hour after we had started. Mind you it was only about 400-500 yards.
We still couldn’t believe that no one had been up here. Lang offered to go first, even though we felt good about the potential avy risk (it was very low, mom) he would get some of the sluff out that was on the top layer.
He went down first and I waited at the top, watching his line to see how the snow was cutting. I waited until he got to our discussed meet up point and then flipped my boots into ski mode. At some point I realized I would have to go down, which I know what you’re thinking, isn’t that the point, yes obviously, mostly. But I also really enjoy ascending so sometimes I get to the top and then I’m like oh yeah how do I get down.
I pushed off, trying to make sure I did not tumble and lose a ski right away like I had done the weekend before. I cut into the slope and the snow felt amazing. I cut back and started following a similar line of Lang’s down. I kept cutting down, anticipating hitting terrible snow at some point but it never came and I started to relax into the turns, plant poll, and turn, I kept repeating as I kept turning. I made it down to the bottom and my quads were on fire, it was probably the steepest and longest run that I’ve done this season and coming off close to a month of no skiing I certainly felt it. I met up with Lang and we debriefed quickly about our respective runs. We started heading out and then decided to head up towards a small pitch to get a faster track back to the car.
We skinned up and then quickly transitioned talking about which aspect to go down both settling on a cardinal direction that was not prone to avalanches (I’m terrible at naming cardinal directions and am mostly like it’s this direction and the other one was that direction). I went first and pushed off, trying to make longer and steeper turns. I was feeling overly confident when my ski looped a bit too far around and I tumbled, I got up laughing, of course. Both skis were still attached so I pushed back off again and made my way down to the skin track. Meeting up with Lang he asked if I had hit a rock, and I said no, just my large ego. He said he definitely thought I had hit a rock and I was like we’ll just go with that.
It was my first time skiing a couloir and was really grateful that Lang was game to take me. I feel like I’m becoming more confident in my skiing abilities and was telling Lang that I’m grateful for partners this year who take me out and keep giving me pointers. We’re rapidly approaching spring skiing season in Alaska and I’m very excited for what’s on the horizon.
In another first, this week I’ll be telling a story at Arctic Entires. It’ll be the second time since my brain injury that I will present without notes (I don’t typically use notes when I present but they serve as a nice safety blanket). After that I got to DC for two days and then I’ll back in Anchorage for a good chunk.
Mom and Dad with the carempackage for Arctic Entries- ha!
I joke that sometimes when I have a new experience I call them Fisher Price Moments, like bebe’s first experience. Grateful, again for all the new experiences that keep coming my way. Okay, now back to finishing unpacking so I can repack.
I’ve gained weight, I don’t know how much or really where but it’s palpable. At first I thought maybe it was because of the chips I was eating, or the absorption issues getting better (more on that later). But then I realized that my body finally feels like it’s safe. Let me explain, from an evolutionary standpoint when we’re hunted by a predator, we try to get small, like really small as if that will keep us safe. Our bodies and minds haven’t exactly caught up to the modern world so the fight or flight persists to manifest in maladaptive forms. Anyways, when I did a skimo race last year, my friend asked how she could get so skinny, I half joked, have a panic attack. But it was true, I remember some days getting to the end of the day and realizing I hadn’t eaten anything and then would eat chips to try and compensate. This later became an issue when someone mentioned how odd it was that I ate chips so late at night, I realized that they didn’t realize that sometimes it was the only thing I had eaten. Anyways, it was a foreign place to be, I had always seen food as fuel, something that could sustain me on the long endurance races. A necessity, when I was in grad school I weighed myself every day to make sure I wasn’t loosing weight. I thought about this recently as I lined up for the Gothic Mountain Traverse. A race I had signed up for last year but didn’t make it to the starting line, last year I felt too weak, too fragile, too small. Instead I spent that weekend not racing hanging out with Allison and Kati while pouring out the contents of my brain. But it was a much needed weekend with them.
A little sickly looking here Less sickly looking here
Fast forward to this year and I signed up for the race knowing that it would coincide with teaching in DC. Because I had left Alaska five weeks earlier I opted to not bring my race boots so I could just use the same boots for the Canada trip and this race (they required different skis, remember no skimo skis on the Canada trip). But by not bringing two pairs of boots I had more room in my suitcase to bring back Trader Joe’s to Alaska.
Texted a friend I had forgotten how big a medium was at Dunkin’
I took the bus to Boulder to get a car and pick up my skis (thanks again Dave and Neil for bringing them back after Canada). I finished up some work and stopped at Costco for the Crested Butte crew before picking Alexei up at the airport and heading to CB. We got in a bit late but Sam and Claudia (the cat) greeted us.
On Saturday morning, Zach made us crepes and we talked about a plan for the day. I told Sam I was down for whatever tour, as while I was there for a race wasn’t exactly prioritizing the race like I used to do. We headed out, only stopping to buy batteries as I had left my avy beacon on since leaving Canada and it was very dead. We headed up Snodgrass which I had only been on in the summer. Part of the skin track was on the race course so I just kept saying it was like a course preview.
We got up to the top and poked over the ledge in a few places to see the best line down, we backtracked a bit and then transitioned. I took my skins off and then decided to go pee, which was quite hilarious when I went to squat, started peeing, and started sliding on my skis. Fortunately I was able to somehow not end up with any pee on me and stop the slide before I got too far but lesson learned.
We decided I would go first because I didn’t have a radio, I told Sam my line and then pushed off. Except then I quickly tumbled and lost a ski, I heard Sam say, “what the fuck Kate” and reminded him I hadn’t skied in like a month. Alexei grabbed my ski as I had slid down and I put it back on— woof! Round 2! I pushed off again and immediately realized how much I had missed this in the past month. I cut down into the trees and weaved to a good stopping point. Alexei followed soon and then we cut over to meet Sam. Wow, this is nice, I might move to CB! The bottom half was even better with open glades for the taking. We got down to the end of the road and debating doing another lap, we realized where we had gone down didn’t exactly set us up for another lap and with a bib pick up cut off time decided to skin out.
I got my bib with no problem, running into friends from Alaska and friends from Boulder. We went to the store to grab things for dinner and last minute race provisions. No such luck on the sour patch kids though. We stopped at the gas station where we were informed “they have the best candy section in town, maybe the valley” and they did. I had actually only been able to get some flavors in different countries and thought they were specific to those countries. So we bought 4 bags to be safe of different varieties.
We got back to the house, made dinner, Sam adjusted my bindings for my boots and I prepped my stuff for the next day. There was a lot of discussion about going to karaoke but I was unsure with karaoke not starting until 9pm.
It didn’t take much to convince me to join karaoke and figured I would go for an hour and then come back and go to bed. I changed and then changed again when it became clear everyone was wearing costumes and dawned a banana outfit— any house that has a costume closet is my jam. I drove so I wouldn’t be tempted to stay out too late. It was well worth it, with the CB crew really showing off their voices and dance moves. One of the friends had a skinsuit as her costume, she asked if I wanted to borrow it for the next day, “it’s a kid’s x-large, I found it at a thrift store.” Ohhh maybe, that could be fun”, but was concerned about the weather and if it would actually keep me warm. By the end of the evening I was convinced I would wear it if I could fit my layers underneath it. I stayed out a bit later than I had planned but got a skinsuit and a top 10 at karaoke.
The morning of the race came early, the race started at 6 so I got up around 4:30, made coffee, ate breakfast, and toiled around a bit. I put on wool baselayers and then pulled the skinsuit over, oh wow, this is amazing.
I shoved the rest of my layers into my bag anticipating having to put them on at the start line as previous years it had been -20. I had almost left the house when I realized I needed my skis. I grabbed them and got in the car, leaving the house a little later than I had planned but fortunately everything is close. I looked at the temperature in the car, 20 degrees. That can’t be right. I got to the school, put some last minute things in my bag, my helmet and headlight on and headed to the start. In talking to people the night before it seemed like the start tactic would be to go without skins and skate. I’m not a fan of skate skiing but figured they knew best. I slotted into the start and made conversation with the girl next to me, it was also her first time. She said she thought I was very serious because of my skinsuit, I told her I borrowed it from a lady at the bar last night so not that serious.
We started and I started, pushing off to skate, okay this isn’t too bad, definitely faster than on skins, I can do this, I was kicking and gliding when something got tangled and I starfished face first onto the track, oh my gosh please don’t hit me. I scampered up, well at least I got that out of the way and was relatively unscathed, and because it was dark no one could see my bruised ego. I followed the headlights in front of me feeling the divide between the skaters and the skinners opening up. I got to the spot to transition and put on my skins and stepped back onto the course. The next section zigged and zagged over the Nordic trails, but we remained mostly in a congo line going up the single track. I wondered if those in front had to break trail and thanked myself for not being that fast.
I got to the first descent, transitioned and set off, convinced that I’d be able to make up time on the descents. I think of it similarly to mountain biking where I feel confident taking the B line to make up time (I’m sure my friends who have seen me ski are like, “plz Kate don’t ever take the B line, your mountain bike skills are non-transferrable). I was going down the groomer and feeling pretty fresh, I saw a little jump and took it which fed into the next transition area. I unlocked my heels to put my skins back on but one of my heels was already released, oh maybe I didn’t actually step in properly. Then I looked, oh that’s not right and the heel attachment was gone but the tower was still there. I looked behind me as if it would be there. I thought about bailing, I mean I was only 3 miles into the race but realized I didn’t really need a heel piece.
I decided I would keep going, there would be one more descent before Snodgrass and if it was sketchy I could bail and walk back to Zach and Mary’s. I sent a text to the boys with a photo and kept going. I thought of how it could have happened but it didn’t really matter and just hoped I could warranty it.
We climbed on the resort trails until reaching the first cut off point where it was another transition point. The guy behind me told me that was a tough time cut-off but we were in good shape. I had no idea and asked if he had done it before, a few times he said. I ripped my skins and locked my one boot in and took off. The descent felt pretty normal so I decided I would be fine without a heel piece (granted this was on groomers). I transitioned again and then headed up the Snodgrass track that we had taken the day before. The Alaska friends passed by me on this section, one having raced it the year before said they were just here to mostly tour and have fun. I felt similar even though I was in a pretty fancy skinsuit. I followed them for a bit until I fell off and settled into my pace. I made sure to occasionally grab a handful of sour patch kids. I got to the top of the next transition, the guy behind me was like “Oh wow, you’re missing your heel piece” And I was like “oh yeah, but now my ski is lighter!” The guy doing the checks asked if I wanted a ski strap and I said I had one but also like absolutely not was I going to strap my boot to my ski. I figured this would be the real test, as it was a little more powder and no groomers. I reminded myself that my right ski was stronger so to rely on that if I needed to. I started the descent and went skiers right looking for the flagging to tell me I was going the right way. I stopped as I couldn’t see the flagging anymore, I figured either way would end up on the road but waited till I could see another skier through the trees to my left and headed in that direction.
I got down to the road and debated putting my skins back on, some were skating so I decided to skate for a bit until it wasn’t worth it. The skate didn’t last long and soon I was putting on my skins, chatting with others on the way. I was familiar with the Gothic Road from the summers I spent riding in CB up to the 401 trail but the ski route went up the 403 trail. After skinning the road for a bit we turned off to start the climb– a guy near me told me that it was just 2,000 feet up and then you’re mostly done with climbing. With that encouragement I settled in and adjusted my pace. And up I went, a bit slow at times, some movements felt more laborious than others. I thought of my roommate Hailey’s instagram post from early that week, she talked about giving 100% of what you had in that moment and not just a blanket 100% (she definitely articulated it much better than I just did). I kept going up, and eating, and drinking. My mind kept wandering over the past year, the ridges and grooves that brought me back to myself– the absurdity of having gotten so lost in the first place. I got near the top and stopped to put on my shell and my warmer mittens. The wind had picked up and was blowing snow. I got to the top, called Top of the World, and took in the view, or what would have been the view if it wasn’t socked in, oh well next year. I ripped my skins and headed down. Someone told me that it was a straight line down to the next point and the last descent was the most technical. This was mostly true and while I didn’t exactly straight line, I did get down pretty quick. I stopped to transition again, I had my puffy gloves on and in the midst of it all it got caught in my jacket zipper and ripped, exposing all the feathers. They floated around and kept coming out, I don’t know how they fit so many feathers into such a small patch because a few miles later I still had feathers circulating around me.
I got to the final transition for the last descent. Another volunteer was directing where the line was. I looked down and while tracked out it didn’t seem like any powder at this point. I stood there for a moment and a guy came up behind me. “You’re the girl without the heel piece right?” I looked at him and said that was me, he told me to be careful on this descent. Sometimes I get annoyed when that happens but he had genuine concern in his voice as if he realized how easy it might be for me fumble this one. I let him take the first line so I could follow. I started going down and it was definitely a bit of survival skiing. I followed the tracks but the snow had gotten a bit more harder packed, I leaned onto my right leg to cut the turns. My legs were a little tired at this point and the hill down was pretty long, I stopped to release my legs and straighten them out. I noticed the guy in front of me would occasionally glance back, as if to make sure I was still okay in my descent. With a few more stops (it was a long descent) I made it to the bottom and the final check-in. They said there was an angry moose so a bit of a course reroute. But still about 6 miles from the finish but overall a net loss. In talking to people it also seemed like the best approach was to skate ski until you couldn’t and then put skins on. In all my winter skiing this year, I had done about 30 minutes of skate skiing total.
I started skating and I have terrible form but still managed to move faster than those around me with skins. Kick, glide, kick, glide, trying to channel all my physical therapy tools to keep my hips forward, upper body up, and channel my two roommates who actually grew up skate skiing. I got to the bottom of a big uphill, net loss my ass. The guy next to me took his skis off to boot pack. I opted for the same approach, realizing that transitioning twice would take longer and because I mostly penguin walk up hills figure it would be the same amount of time but just different muscles. I got to the top, put my skis back on and started back with the skating. I had no idea how much further I had to go, I opted to not race with my watch but did have the mileage on my phone but it wasn’t exactly easily accessible. I made sure to keep eating and drinking.
I was skating along when a snowmachine pulled up with Zach and Sam on it. I stopped and we chatted for a bit, offering them my sour patch kids, they told me I was close to the finish. I told them about the day and they told me where they were headed to ski. Sam said his machine had broken down about 100 yards from the finish so when I saw it I would know I was close. I thanked them and headed back on my way. It was around here that I thought about switching skis, my right leg had been attached to the heel piece for all of skating but my left leg was stronger so thought by switching maybe I would get a little further each time. I stopped and switched skis with my right heel being free now. I went to push off and it was like my brain stopped working, I could not go forward with any grace. I started laughing, how is this happening. I switched my skis back and wondered if anyone just saw the calamity. I started skating again and saw the course deviate a bit, I took my glove off to grab some sour patch kids and when I went to put it back on I couldn’t find it. I looked behind me and some lady said she would grab it, I stopped and waited offering her candy in exchange for my glove which she took some candy. I got up a short pitch and a woman on a fatbike rode by saying the finish was just around the corner and all downhill from there. I was skeptical but then I saw Sam’s snowmachine.
I got through the finish and that was that. I saw the friends from Alaska and chatted with them about the course waiting for the shuttle. I got on the shuttle and recognized the guy who had warned me about descending, I asked if that was him and he was like yeah I was worried you were going to blow a knee, I thanked him for his vigilance. Especially because blowing a knee had never actually crossed my mind.
I got back to the car and was feeling so fresh I thought I might go meet Alexei at the resort for a lap or two but decided to go home and shower first so I didn’t get cold. After the shower the exhaustion hit me and instead I laid on the couch catching up with Mary and waiting for everyone else to arrive and talk about their near-misses of the day. We all opted for an early bed that night.
On Monday, Alexei and I headed out to tour before heading back to the front range. We opted for a more mellow tour both being unfamiliar with the terrain but we found great little laps and the sun even making a few appearances exposing the valley, which would have been cool to see during the race, oh well, next year!
I spent the rest of the week in Boulder with Dave, Allison, and Ruby, catching up with other friends over dinner, going to Banff Film Festival, and getting an early morning lap in (where I forgot my skins but kind of made do).
I’m back in Alaska but for a work conference in Fairbanks and next week back in DC for a bit more work but then will be back in Alaska for a good chunk. Arriving back in Alaska no longer brings a sense of uncertainty with it and instead this immense gratitude for all that has grown around me. The past few weeks with traveling and reconnecting with friends has made me examine my value system, the standards I have for myself and how I show up in relationships and the expectations that I have for others. It made me think of the race because during it one guy made a comment to me “skimo skis aren’t great for skiing, huh?” and I was like why are you telling that to me, of course I know they aren’t great for skiing but like I’m not here to ski well, obvi. But realizing he was probably going through some shit and was projecting whatever onto me. Instead I try to think of all those around me during the race who were cordial, gracious, and vigilant towards me. This is somewhat related to my personal life as I had a very abrupt rupture happen recently and trying not to dwelling too much on that point of inflection, instead remind myself of all the others that continue to surround and inspire me with their actions and words. Don’t worry the story is bonkers and it’ll be in the book but I no longer feel like I have to become small because of others (cue eating all the Trader Joe snacks I brought back).
Kate Farrell Ginsbach 