Pandemic Country Crossing with Bike Forays

Raised on writing letters and sustained penpalling, I often express myself best when writing to those that I love. This is a letter to my chosen / adopted grandmother:

Turned out that my mom and I spent Thanksgiving in and around Big Bend National Park, all on our own, gobbling down an impromptu picnic by the Rio Grande. After I rode 28 bike miles to get there. My mom joined me by driving my new / old truck that I purchased in GA just before the pandemic hit the fan. So now we are in the process of driving it across the country, with enjoyment along the way. Reed has joined me along the way. We are spending the week in the high country of southern New Mexico, so that we can both finish out our semesters of teaching and learning. I think of you daily. And am grateful for how you and Rich helped me get on this journey, of exploring, of living more fully. I want to assure you that we are being safe and responsible. I have had zero close contact with humans other than my family since I started on this traveling a month ago. I always wear my mask when buying gas / checking into motels, buying groceries. It's surprising how little human interaction is required in this day of credit cards and key pads for checking into lodging. We're planning to leave the truck at Reed's parents for the winter. We'll fly out of Seatac on Christmas. That's "all the news that's fit to print."

The Old South by Two Wheels

Images of the south, as I experienced a reflection on my childhood from the vantage point of being 39. It's almost like a postcard of what the south looks like. In movies, on postcards, in the sensation that I get when I smell the warming of an upland pine forest. This trip, I brought my bike, a partial suspension mountain bike, straight outta Alaska, with tender innertubes and gear to keep me warm. A readjustment was in order: puncture resistant innertubes and a shedding of nearly all extemporaneous clothing. Last week, I spent the day in Tallahassee biking a marathon distance around the FSU campus, Mission Park and then eventually ended up on the Piney Z plantation trails. These are words that are familiar to my ears, yet I saw more of the town than I had before, connecting the distinct areas in a way that both walking and biking provide. I rode into town with my mom, me driving my truck, her alongside in her nursing scrubs. We stopped at McDonald's for breakfast sandwiches and coffee and then dropped her at the hospital, and my truck to stay parked for the duration of her shift. Unload my bike, snap on my pannier and swing on my small backpack and I was ready to go. At first I rode aimlessly, in the general direction of the FSU campus, open to the route as it evolved. I was surprised by how hilly Tallahassee is, even with the highest hills only reaching 200 feet elevation. And yet, they add up. Much like the stairs in Los Angeles. I recall amassing 5k feet one day, walking the 20 mile "F" section of the Inman 300. The temperature meant that I sweated when pounding up the hills, but the breeze and shade allowed it to dissipate when I rested and soaked in the incredible comfort of a mild climate. Tallahassee has evolved it's bikeability since I left twenty years ago. Throughout the day, I was generally comfortable riding both roads and trails, and impressed at the number of connectors and fun bike loops tucked into greenspaces. I had brought along foods for the day, and at one point I sat on a bench alongside a connector trail, eating cold sausage scramble out of a glass jar. When I finished, the sun had reached the point of encouraging sunscreen application. A couple of walkers passed, keeping good COVID distance and even a fellow cyclist. This is not a bad life, I thought, as I saw the recreation opportunities involved right wihin a city that's based around automobiles. Right on time, my mom rolled into the Piney Z parking lot, driving my sweet red T-100 truck. We swooped up and headed out for oysters. My request. She doesn't eat raw food. Yet. And yes, I ate the whole dozen all by myself. There are a few privileges that I indulge when Reed's not around to share.

Will Walk for Tundra Blueberries

This pot contains two Cornish game hens, two small sweet potatoes, two carrots and one large onion, plus seasonings and molasses. Let me tell you the story of how it came to be. It is a snippet into the logistics and problem solving involved in crafting meals and bringing food to rural Alaska. 

It all started with the aforementioned 86 pound tote of food that I paid Alaska Airlines $100 to accept as my fourth piece of luggage on my flight from Anchorage to Nome last Monday. Reed and I drove up to Anchorage on Sunday afternoon, stopping by Fred Meyer on our way to the night's hotel stay. Sometimes I buy my food right before my flight, so that I can avoid the need for keeping my food cool in a hotel room. This time, I opted to buy the plentitude the night before. I gauged the outdoor temperature, 50 and overcast, and decided that my produce would be comfortable in the car overnight. But my meats ... the cured ones would weather just fine, but the overall fleet of foods would best be served by some frozen items during the 6+ hours between when we would leave the hotel in the morning, until I would be placing them in a fridge in Nome. I hate to waste poundage and space on ice, so I scanned the store for items that would maximize the space within the envelope-sized freezer of the hotel's mini-fridge. Cornish hens popped out at me. They are fun, somewhat exotic, tight packages that would freeze well and solid overnight. They would be the cold carriers to protect the rest of my meats. I added a few individually packaged pork chops to my cart for the same purpose. 

Now I'm living in a house with two other women, and one normal sized fridge with top-side freezer. It is blueberry season and I have spent some portion of the past 10 days harvesting them from the tundra. I spent my lunch break today behind the hospital picking into a gallon sized baggie and had to tear myself away from it to get back to work on time. These tundra blueberries are jewels of nutrients and flavor, and the window of opportunity for harvesting them will soon be over. Of course it was inevitable that I would run out of freezer space. So last night, when I struggled yet again to reorganize the cluttered, dangerous chaos of toe-crushing frozen foods, there was just no way that those hens were going back in. There were just too many slippery torpedoes in there. Out they came, and onto a plate in the fridge they went to defrost. 

Tonight, I readied them in a pot, surrounded them with veggies, seasonings and closed the oven for well over an hour, while I listened to Swinging Doors and took a luxurious epsom salt bath. Out of the bath, I added the blueberries, put on a lid and closed the single pot meal back in the 350 oven. Ten minutes, and one blueberry margarita later, it was complete. Logistical challenge met, advance me to the next level! 

 

Fading Summer on the Road System of Nome: Logistics

Blueberry season

Logistics are one of my fortes. It's how my brain works, figuring out how things work, how they fit together. In this instance, I am referencing making a temporary move to rural Alaska, to live in company-provided housing in the medical industry. Thanks to Alaska Airlines and their in state reward program, called "Club 49," I am granted three pieces of luggage (up to 50 lbs each) when I fly within the state. From a long distance hiker's point of view, 150 pounds is a ridiculous amount of weight, an impossible amount to carry. I learned to live off of 35 pounds for a week at a time, then resupply on food when I passed through town. However, when it comes to relocating to an unknown living situation, the requirements of work clothes and quarantine food necessities and the high price of food in rural Alaska, the 150 pounds must be allocated carefully. 

Norton Sound Hospital visible in far left corner

This time I decided to bring my bike, so that counted as one of my items. Reed carefully packed it into the bike box, tying the removed front wheel to the middle of the frame, placing the pedals and bike seat into rags and plastic bags alongside the frame. This was the fourth time it's been dismantled this summer, so we've both gotten practice. Reed figured a clever way to slide the box into our vehicle, standing up in the rear of the car, on top of the downturned back seat. The fitting the items into the vehicle is yet another piece to the puzzle of flying out to rural Alaska. First step is always to get from Seward to Anchorage, a 2-1/2 hour drive, and often, an overnight's stay in a hotel room before departing. 

Next up - work clothes, warm clothes, exercise clothes, berry picking and tundra strolling clothes, sneakers, xtra tuff boots, sleep wear, enough socks and underwear to go for 8 days to be prepared for an indeterminate laundry situation. In this same tote, I pack my toiletries, including medications for at least a month, creature comforts like epsom salt, my own washcloth and pillowcase, a small throw blanket, a few photos and cards, letter-writing materials, reading materials, my laptop, back-up battery and chargers. I knew that I was proceeding into a week's quarantine, during which I would need to keep myself engaged and learning.  

High above Nome, where musk oxen and the wind live

Final tote: foods that travel well. As it turned out, I ended up packing two of these. I just could not get all my other needed items into one tote, so they spilled over and didn't leave enough room for all the foods that I would be needing. I did some figuring, called the grocery store in Nome to price out a few items, recalled the price of foods when I had briefly visited their AC Grocery back in March and chose to pay the $100 for one over weight item. This allowed me to go big at the grocery store, and buy 2 weeks worth of food for ~ $240, plus the $100 shipping cost. In rural Alaska, produce is especially valuable, so I remembered to focus on bringing these items with me. I packed hard squash, sweet and white potatoes, onions, celery, carrots, cheeses, cured meats and pantry items into an 86 pound dark blue tote as both an investment and an insurance policy.

Now that I'm out here in Nome, I only wish that I had brought more. The dealing with luggage items gets overwhelming. The necessity of actually physically moving them around means there are real limits, even with luggage carts, a car, and Reed's help. I have now been here ten days, have eaten well and still have frozen meats and a drawer of produce, so I did ok. I've been able to clothe myself appropriately for 120 miles of bike riding, berry picking on the tundra, work days, sleeping warm and being comfortable during quarantine. I've had ample reading and writing material, and thanks to internet in our company housing, I've been able to use my laptop to do insanity workouts, write, read articles and do research. It's a glorious place out here. The weather is already quickly turning to autumn colors and the temperatures are falling into the 40s. I have learned much about preparing for various situations, maxing out advantages of what to bring vs what to go without. And still, the most crucial thing has been flexibility, openness and the ability to self-motivate and take advantage of what is available in each place. 

The density of the tundra plant life amazes me

All The Way to Safety

A glorious bridge crosses over the outflow of fresh and brackish water into the Bering Sea

This is the year of lemonade and loss, and of somehow reemerging in new states every month of the year. I was counting last week, and this year I've done 7 lifestyles thus far. And it's August. Now I'm in Nome, at the tail end of my week long quarantine to start a job at Norton Sound Hospital. 

The Bering Sea waterfront near Safety Sound

Yes, quarantine means being away from other human beings, and yes, I am a social being. So there is hardship. But even more, this week has been an opportunity to explore the outdoor world and grandeur of this terribly interesting place. Fortunately, Reed helped me pack my bike into a box, Alaska airlines let me bring it with me as one of my three allowed luggage items and the quarantine rules allow for long bike rides away from other humans. 

I went twenty miles out along the Nome-Council Highway. My hospital-provided housing has a hiding place under the entryway stairs, so I grabbed my bike, suited up and set out. What glory to be in a place with a road system, but that isn't connected to the main Alaska road system. The places that meet that description really are the best places to have a mountain bike with a front wheel suspension. 

Highway gravel tread and huge vistas along the Council Highway

I had two picnics, of foods that I brought along, stopped to pick blueberries in a marshy tundra section, and lay on the dry tundra adjacent to a lake, listening to ducks and geese belting out sounds that I hadn't heard before. There is much land to lie upon, many plants to smell and observe. This is the best lemonade of multiple job losses. How fortunate am I to be here! 

An unexpected and joyous find in rural Alaska

Last night I watched "The Prize Winner of Defiance." The mother in the film characterized so many of the qualities that my own mother embodies. I wrote the following email to my mom, after my tears had run their course.  

Hey Mom ~ 

Just got done watching this movie, entitled "The Prize Winner of Defiance Ohio." 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GpMwZ0JULx8

The main character, played by Julianne Moore reminds me of you. Her cheery optimism, her focus on the now, on the enjoyment of the moment, in spite of the bigger picture of struggle. She fights so hard for her family. She perseveres in the midst of constant struggle and undermining by her husband. She is a realist and also a constant source of joy, perspective and uplift for her children. Those are all things that are true about you. We are fortunate to have you. 

Love, Kelley ~ 

And that is all I have to say on this Sunday evening, the night before I start my new job. 

'Backcountry' Camping at White Sands Under the Moon

Earlier this week, we spent a night beneath the waxing moon at White Sands National Monument. The park provides 10 walk-in spots set amongst the gypsum sand dunes, spaced around a 2 mile loop. At 4pm, the wind was howling through the dunes at 25 mph. We waited in our rental car, listening to the Trail Show. As the afternoon faded, the winds slowed. At 5:30 we began our ~ 1 mile walk across white sand piled tightly into dunes. Aside from the wind, which was still blowing at 10-15mph, the walking was easy. By 6pm, we had arrived at the #5 pole, which marked our spot. We struggled against the powerful wind to set up our tent, taking turns lying atop the fabrics while we drove the stakes into the dense sand. By the time we got the rain fly onto the tent, the inside floor contained a cup of fine white sand. It reminded me of camping at Cape San Blas State Park in Florida during my childhood. "There are buckets of sand in this tent," my mom used to say.

The night started off chilly. The thermometer at the start of the trail had read 48 degrees Fahrenheit. As the night proceeded, the winds subsided, the temperature dropped below freezing and the moon rose large overhead. Well after dark, we came back to life, exiting the tent to walk around beneath the Moon's glow. It was glorious, the moonlight gleaming against the white dunes, small twinkling frost glistening on the sand, thanks to a light rain shower earlier in the evening. Like kids, we climbed the dunes & jumped, scooted and propelled ourselves back down them, the sand quickly filling our shoes to overflowing. My heart beat rapidly, my body warm from the exertion of dragging heavy feet up the slippery slopes.

Those are the moments, the experiences & memories that make the discomfort worth it. I didn't get a solid night's sleep. It was too cold, I was agitated & itchy from the sand and I just couldn't sleep soundly. But the next morning we woke to a glittering ceiling of frost and a world surrounded by open white sand.

At Silver City: Mile 160 Unlocked on the CDT

At the Continental Divide along highway 180

We made it to Silver City yesterday afternoon after hiking 13+ miles along highway 180, in addition to the dirt road miles that came before. The temperatures have been cooler than we expected, with our water bottles transforming to slushy ice during the nights. The miles have been beautiful, and surprisingly tough. The elevation profiles suggested that it would be smooth sailing. Instead, the incessant wind, 40 degree days & repeated ups & downs challenged our bodies to adapt. I did still love the hiking, but I thought that I would feel strong & robust by now. Instead, my face is Ruddy from wind burn & my whole body aches with muscle growth(I hope!) And soreness.

We've hiked 161 miles of the southern New Mexico Continental Divide Trail, over the course of 10 days. It's looking like this may be the end of our hike for this month. We'd like to hike farther, but the weather conditions & logistics of getting back to Albuquerque in time for our flight would make it difficult. I wish we had more time!

View to the north from a ridge near Burro Mountain

In the desert coming out of Lordsburg, we hiked along behind a herd of antelope for two miles. At the time, I was suffering with a migraine & its strange visual effects. Following the antelope created a sense of wonder that allowed me to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Later, we saw our first coyote, after hearing their yelps & yaps each of the previous days. It was amazing how quickly it could recede from visibility when not moving. That same day, we saw hundreds of javelina prints, but never did get to see the live animals.

This trail is tough, in a different way than the Arizona Trail (AZT). The trail tread is rougher and less defined, meaning that for many of the wide open desert miles, we progressed from one sign to the next, each spaces 400 yards to 1/2 mile apart. There wasn't an obvious trail between the signs. Other times, no signs we're visible, so we proceeded in the general direction until one became visible. The other major difference is the number of trail users. In Arizona, there were other long distance hikers, as well as day users. In these 160 miles, we have encountered zero other users on the trail. The posh amenities that appeared at intervals on the AZT, such as Trailhead pit toilets & trash cans do not exist here. Even flowing water is far more rare. Cattle tanks are spaced farther apart, meaning water carries are longer. Writing these differences helps me understand why we're wore out & feel like less of a weakling.

It's been glorious to be out here. All the difficulties & all of the beauties, I love you. Many thanks to Reed, who has become a competent long distance hiker & an excellent trail companion.