the sea level blues.

Twice a year, I board a plane for Salt Lake City to attend the Outdoor Retailer trade show.  If you like backpacking, mountain biking, climbing, trail running, paddling, camping or just about any other activity in the great outdoors, each January and August, the Salt Palace serves up a head-spinning carnival of "what you'll have to have six months from now."

OR (pronounced oh-are), as it's known affectionately, also happens to be a great place to make and/or reconnect with like minded friends who've found ways to forge out a similar work/play hybrid career.  Each time I go, I've got more faces to look forward to seeing and more difficulty freeing up the time I'd like to catch up with everyone.

As a key component of a retail operation that works hard, hard, hard to continue carving out a place in the outdoor industry, I am often overwhelmed by how much actual work we cram into just a couple of days and I should be thrilled that we find anytime at all to socialize.  And we do.

For the past three or four years, while at OR I've run the Wasatch Wobble, a 5K put on by Montrail/Mountain Hardwear up in Red Butte Gardens above the city.  The event is a non-timed focused-on-fun event but at 5,000+ feet of elevation it's always been a good test for me too.  This year, though, I'd learned about the Jupiter Peak Steeplechase that takes place in Park City each August.  Beginning at 7,000 feet, stretching for 16 +/- miles and having a gain of over 3,000 feet, this race promised to be a big step up from the Wobble.

On the first day in town, I got up early to sneak in a run and breath the fresh air before sucking in the artificial air at the Salt Palace all day long.  I was also looking forward to seeing how my legs and lungs felt a few thousand feet higher than back home.

We were staying south of the city just a short drive to the foot of Big Cottonwood Canyon.  Unfamiliar with the area and starting before sun-up, I opted for a paved pedestrian trail until it conked out and left me climbing alongside the road toward the top of the canyon.  Not being on single track didn't dampen my spirits, as there were no cars on the road and the soft grit that ran parallel to the road felt great underfoot.  As the sun rose, I plodded steadily uphill as the sun began to peak over the Wasatch Mountains.

Not even the birds were stirring and the only sound was the creek crash, crash, crashing its way down the canyon.  My camera complained about the lack of light and an inept operator who couldn't find a mechanical compensation.  All the same, it did its best and captured a few memories.

I was on the verge of daydreaming my way up into the mountains and away for the day when I came to and realized I needed to get back to the car.  I tucked the camera into my waistband and quickened my pace.  I'd managed the climb nicely and was able to really push on the descent.  This made me hopeful for the race on Saturday morning even though I knew I'd be at twice the elevation.  I'd hiked above 10,000 feet but never run up that high.  It was safe to expect that I wouldn't manage the sub 7:30 miles I'd just logged, but, I was still encouraged by my effort that morning.

The next two days were a blur of backpacks, socks, tents, sleeping bags, trekking poles, waterproof/breathable jackets, headlamps, doodads, whizzywhats and shaboozles.  Business was talked, talked, talked, talked, talked.  Thankfully, there were also a healthy number of warm handshakes, hugs and laughter wedged in between all that talking.

The hours and days flew by and it was Saturday morning.  True to its calling, the alarm alarmed me that it was 5:45.  A little over an hour later, after dropping my boss off in downtown Salt Lake for a pre-business business-breakfast (talk, talk, talk, talk, talk), I coasted into the lower parking lot of the Park City Mountain Resort and stared past the windshield at the fittest bunch of pre-racers I can remember seeing.  A little gasping-for-air voice told me I was in my over my head, but my eyes followed the chairlifts upward and I wondered where out there was the top of Jupiter Peak.

I had to go see.

There was one last moment of trepidation when I realized that Lindsay's phone number was printed right on my bib.  So some kind passerby could give my wife a courtesy call upon stumbling on my corpse?  Yikes.

Clearly I was over thinking things and just needed to get my feet underneath me.  I wedged in with some 300 other runners as someone muttered inaudible instructions through a megaphone.  A signal of some sort, again unheard by me, sent the pack slowly shuffling up a steeply sloped service road before funneling us onto the start of endless (and glorious) single track that would wind its way all the way to the top of the mountain.

I'd decided on a modest goal of 4 miles an hour on the ascent, expecting that the severity of the grade and the altitude were likely to make my usual pace impossible to achieve.  If I could top out in 2 hours and have legs left beneath me, I hoped to let gravity whisk me the full 8 miles down to the bottom at a much faster pace.

I fell in stride with a number of runners who seemed to be of equal ability and condition

Somewhere soon after mile 5 the grade steepened and I could sense unfamiliar physiological demands.  I was struggling to pull enough oxygen out of the air and my legs reported corresponding heaviness.  Feeling a little lightheaded, I decided it was time to peek at the GPS and learned that we'd now climbed over 9,000 feet.  There were less than 3 miles left to the top but another 1200+ feet of elevation to be gained.  Needless to say, I was no longer running 12 minute miles when I looked up to see the ridge just below Jupiter.

To give some scale to the photo, note the "runner" at the very lower right and keep in mind that the tufts at the top of the ridge are full grown trees.  I couldn't help but notice that not a single person ahead of me was actually running.  In fact, some of them were on all fours or at least appeared to be.  Loose rock added to the challenge and I was relieved to find that the stubborn grass growing on the ridge held my weight as I clutched at it.

Topping out, I glanced at my Garmin and was surprised to see that I'd only covered 7 miles.  I vaguely remembered hearing that there was more work to be done after Jupiter's Peak and after a quick two hundred yards of downhill, the track led upward again to the top of Tri-County Peak.  At last the climbing was done and the smooth winding downhill single track led off into the distance.

It was right around mile 10, probably while my mind wandered off into another patch of aspens, that I fell and fell hard.  I took the brunt of the fall on my right knee which was now bleeding but also banged my right side just above the hip and dragged my right forearm and elbow.  A couple of runners hopped over me, offered words of genuine encouragement and then disappeared down the trail.  It took me a moment or two to get back on my feet and I was, admittedly, shook up.  I traversed the next few miles very tentatively and did anything but barrel down the mountain.

Eventually I shook off the fall and got back to running but I never work up to the pace I'd hoped for on the return to 7000 feet.  My head, however, did begin to clear with the downward progression and I reached the bottom feeling good.  Good and tired.

I can't speak for any of the preceding 18 years, but my GPS confirmed that this year's course was a full mile short of 16.  My exhausted lungs and legs didn't seem the least bit disappointed.  Those 15 miles had taken me just over 3 hours (more than an hour behind the winners), but, coming from a home elevation of 400 feet, I'm holding my head up high...and looking forward to next year.

little birdie rides.

I can't remember a time when I wasn't in love with birds.  Their varied plumage, the trilling melodies and seemingly effortless flight have forever fascinated me.

To my delight, both of my children are equally captivated.

Lily, like it or not, spent a good many of her earliest days riding on my back as I traipsed along wooded paths and stomped through creeks.  I can still recall vividly the first time her arm reached over my shoulder as her tiny finger pointed out an Eastern Bluebird that I'd have missed without her spotting it.  Her little eyes shined in wonder and I suspect mine did too.

A couple of weeks ago at Long's Park, Piper and Lily were mimicking a pair of mallards when they noticed some of the downy feathers left floating on the surface of the pond in the wake of the ducks.  They spent a good half hour on their knees at the miniature pier watching the "fluffy boats" vanishing beneath the planks before reemerging bobbingly moments later.

I could've watched for hours.

That same afternoon, I glanced up from the lower level of one of the wooden playground structures to find both girls peeking down at me from above.  Lil determined immediately that I was a hungry baby bird and announced that she and Pipe had returned to the nest to feed me juicy grubs.

With collected sticks and hand-picked fabrics sewn into perching songbirds, Lindsay built a delightful mobile that has hung above Piper's crib since the day she first arrived home from the hospital.  Not surprisingly, "bird" was one of her first decipherable words.

Each night after I've turned out the lights but before I've closed her bedroom door, Lily sleepily demands to know what I plan to dream about that night.  Sometimes she'll skip past my response to tell me of her expected visions.  Tonight she informed me that she was going to dream of being small enough to take "little birdie rides" on the backs of the sparrows that come to our feeders.  I find this idea so much more thrilling than my own less creative childhood daydreams of simply being able to fly.

Even after 36+ years of those daydreams, I've not managed to take wing myself but have settled for birdie rides of my own on commercial planes.  I seemed to enjoy those flights a lot more before they resulted in me being far from my wife and children.  Lily has told me before that when she looks up and sees "airplane tracks" while I am away, she wonders if they lead to wherever it is I've been transported.  That concept makes me smile but also makes me a little sad, imagining those tracks thinning, fading and all too soon blending in with the other clouds in the sky, a dead-end trail.

I look forward to boarding planes again in coming months to run trails framed by landscapes more sprawling and at higher elevations than Pennsylvania offers, but I do not look forward to more short term goodbyes.

When I'm gone it's hard not to think about hopping the next available birdie back home to more playground adventures, enthusiastic backyard chases, and the stories and songs that precede bedtime.

Last night at a minor league baseball stadium, I watched Lily and Piper giggling laps up and down the bleachers, screaming "charge" at the loudspeaker's prompting and gasping wide-eyed at the post game fireworks.

At times like those, I wouldn't want for wings to take me anywhere.

some like it hoth.

The original plan was to take a day off from work, pack light, drive to western PA, run several miles in on the Laurel Highlands Trail and then spend the night in a trail shelter before running back out the next day. That, of course, was before the coldest weather in recent memory parked itself over the entire country and working up a sweat before attempting to survive a night in the cold seemed especially suicidal. A tight budget at home and a busy schedule at work also silently campaigned for me to stay home.

Rather than stay home, I retooled the plan to make the target a closer one, saving toll money and a tank and a half of gas. Nothing to be done about the temperature, but the perspiration-guaranteed running could be replaced by hiking. The Appalachian Trail is just a half-hour drive north of Manheim and a bit of Google-ing unearthed a shelter that could be reached by a 4-mile hike. Now that I’d shelved the run part of the adventure, it felt more likely that I could rustle up some companions. Perhaps foolishly, Jefferson and Taylor took me up on the offer.

In a want to steal as little time from home as necessary, we agreed to meet at 2:00, grab a bite at a diner situated along the way (just in case, as was likely, the fuel canisters on our stoves wouldn’t cooperate in the sub-freezing temperatures) and hit the trailhead in the late afternoon. With the trusty white blazes of the AT and the beams of our headlamps, we were sure to find the shelter sometime soon after dark. Right?

Our plan was almost derailed by my discovering during an otherwise routine ATM transaction, that my checking account had a negative balance and the savings account that supported it was down to fumes. It should come as no surprise to anyone that knows me that there isn’t much that normally lives in either of those accounts, BUT neither one of them should’ve been anywhere near empty at the present time. A quick call to my bank revealed that one of the she-means-well tellers at my local branch had inadvertently routed my last sizable (for me) paycheck to a third account (thankfully, also in my name) that is normally not accessed. I had a mess on my hands that pale in comparison to what I thought initially was the theft of my identity, a theft from a fiscal payoff standpoint that would have hardly been worth the effort.

Derailment avoided, we were still on track.

After a satisfying meal at the diner (if I do say so myself—and I can’t help but notice that I was in fact the only one to say so), we ended up rolling to a stop at the Route 501/Appalachian Trail parking lot sometime shortly before dusk. As we were pulling on extra layers and making final adjustments to our packs, a large white pick-up truck almost passed by, thought better of it and pulled into the lot alongside us. A “gentleman” in a long white beard and a tree-bark-camouflage wardrobe climbed from the cab of the truck and ambled over to eyeball our car and make a really poor stab at small talk before telling us about how many cars along this stretch end up with their windows smashed in by the locals. I, for one, found little solace in his claim that it’d had been awhile since he’d seen an occurrence and that the teenage offenders were probably long since “dead or in jail”. Realizing that, per our plan, this was where the car was going to remain parked, with or without the threat of break-in, we bid our adieus and hit the trail.

The next few hours were fairly uneventful, as we made good pace and, hugging the ridgeline, didn’t find the temperature to be too daunting. Night did end up descending upon us long before we got where we were going, but the combination of a cloudless night, snow on the ground and headlamps made for good visibility.

Except for a bit of confusion at the spot where the spur trail for the shelter crossed the main trail, we found the shelter without a hitch. From the moment I’d hatched the idea for the trip, I half-imagined reaching the shelter and, because of the frigid cold, simply crawling inside our sleeping bags and hoping to make it to morning. Thankfully, this wasn’t the case.

The William Penn Shelter is a sturdily-built two-level shelter perched on an eastward-facing ridge at about 1300 feet above sea level. Though this is obviously a hill at best by mountaineering standards, this elevation put us high above the farming valleys below. We were surprised by the blanket of twinkling distant lights that reminded us that the AT really is just a narrow tunnel through the highly populated eastern seaboard. Two steps led to the lower level of the shelter which was enclosed on three sides but completely open on the front side. Two ladders led to an upper loft that nestled beneath the eaves at the front of the shelter and provided far better protection from the elements.

As a group, we seemed to be managing the cold pretty well and with the loft to escape to, each of us settled into preparing food and/or hot drinks.  I was thrilled that my Jetboil fired up without a hitch. Taylor, always prepared, had a liquid-fuel stove that was sure to have us covered, but I still really wanted to rely on my own gear. Jefferson too found his stove responsive and soon we were all enjoying hot meals. I did my best to snap photos and was pleased with the odd photographic effects of our limited lighting.

The temperature was certainly dropping, but we appeared to have been spared the winds that were expected. The forecast had called for a low of 9 degrees Fahrenheit, but we had no way of knowing how close to that low we may have gotten. The loft was definitely warmer (maybe I should have said “less cold”) than the lower level, but it was still cold. We donned what extra layers we had and settled in for the night.

Several hours later, I was torn from sleep by a couple of shouted “hellos!” from down below. Though I didn’t fully rouse and only heard the full story in the morning, two hikers who had nearly decided to try and survive the night out on the trail after pooping out a few miles from the shelter had come to the realization that that would’ve been a very foolish idea and had pushed on, stumbling at last upon the shelter shortly after midnight. They had a thermometer with them and by 10:00 had watched the mercury dip below 0 degrees. Supposedly, an additional check of the thermometer in the pre-dawn hours of the morning revealed a temperature of -6 degrees F.

Jefferson reported the existence of a taun-taun (apologies to any reader who doesn’t know his or her The Empire Strikes Back references) sleeping bag and it reminded me of a comment I’d seen posted on a friend’s Facebook page: “Some like it Hoth”. Turns out, we were amongst the “some”.

There were certainly some cold moments during the night and my always unreliable back was being uncooperative, but all-in-all it wasn’t a bad night’s sleep. At some point just before finally deciding to crawl from my bag and face the cold, I recognized a throbbing head that greets me when I’ve failed to stay hydrated. It seemed like the least of my worries when I discovered just how cold it had gotten.

As we packed up our gear and listened to our new neighbors tell us of their close call from the night before, we did our damndest to warm our fingers and toes while fueling up on oatmeal. My headache did what it tends to due and brought on nausea that resulted in my emptying the contents of my stomach. Just what I needed to help fight off the cold and prep for a chilly 4-mile hike back out to the car. I shook off the effects as best I could and we wished the other two hikers well before striking out on the trail.

Again we made good time, soon crossing over Route 645 that marked the halfway point. By then, I’d heaved up whatever else remained in my stomach, so I was traveling light as could be. Jefferson and Taylor did a great job leading the way and setting a strong pace, so we covered the last 2 miles in no time and found the car still sporting all of its windows. We’d survived the night and except for having to chip some ice off of the drinking tubes on our hydration systems, we’d gotten off pretty easy.

It wasn’t until getting into the car that I really felt the cold in my extremities. It ended up taking most of the afternoon for the chill to finally leave my bones. I played with the girls all afternoon, snacking on toast and sipping on water until my head and stomach seemed to stabilize. Lily and Piper Bea didn’t seem to mind that I was huddled beneath a blanket during most of our playtime.

I knew I was feeling better when my normal cold-weather hankering for ice cream became too much to bear. A pint of Turkey Hill Choco Mint Chip later and I’m back to my old self.

Go figure.