From North to South

Grandma Zen Master

2011-07-24T14:33:00.000-08:00

We call my mom Grandma Zen Master because of her magic touch with our rowdy boys. In conversation you might say, "This summer Zippy and Oscar have been on the Grandma Zen Master Training Plan." If their much improved behavior in daily life isn't proof enough, check out this photo.

Springtime Mountain Biking Mecca

2011-07-03T21:59:00.001-08:00

(Amy Schenck's excursions column is published twice a month in the Jackson Hole News&Guide)

Sand snaked between my tires. I wobbled, took a deep breath and regained balance. Carefully, concentrated, I let my wheels pick up speed. A large, deep ditch – akin to a crevasse – crept up to my right. Rocks and gravel extended to my left.

Panic. Breaks. Hard.

Next thing I knew I was flipping over my handle bars into that dreaded crevasse, a terrified high pitched shriek piercing the air.

That was day one on my mountain bike.

I walked away with a half of dozen bruises, a banged up knee and a rattled confidence level – but no true damage.

Day one wasn’t supposed to go that way.

I was camping near Grand Gulch in Utah with my family and boyfriend. My boyfriend, an avid mountain biker, and I decided to go for a cruise along a flat gravel road. It would be a good way for me to get a feel for my new bike, we concluded. And along the way we could look for the various 700-year-old ruins tucked into cliffs.

But then I spied an interesting four wheeler road that split off from the main road and wound up the side of the canyon.

Why don’t we go up that? I suggested.

Let the record be clear: the reason I crashed on a steep, difficult, sandy road had nothing to with an overly amped boyfriend pushing his girlfriend beyond her capabilities. In fact, it was quite the opposite. It was me who urged every single challenge we took on that day.

A few days later, after weathering a May blizzard in Southern Colorado, my boyfriend and I were passing through Moab.

The plan was to hightail it home to the Tetons, but blue skis and 80 degree weather beckoned. Drinking coffee and basking in the summer-like conditions of Utah’s bustling adventure sports capital, we decided to stay for the night.

We stopped in to a bike shop to get some beta on where to ride. I made it a point to stress that I was beginner and was in search of something mellow.

We were pointed to two places: Dead Horse Point State Park and Klondike Bluffs.

Dead Horse Point State Park has two small loops and one large loop of mountain bike trails that are all connected: Intrepid Loop, Great Pyramid Loop and Big Chief Loop, respectively. The latter loop is rated a medium difficulty while the first two loops are rated easy.

The trails trace the rim of a spectacular layered canyon, a smaller looking version of the Grand Canyon. We got on the trails in early evening, as low angle sun cast magnificent shadows.

In terms of sheer beauty the ride is unparalleled.

We picked our way along the trails. There were many sections that tripped me up at first, but with a heaping dose of determination I was able to ride nearly all of them on my second, third or fourth attempts.

The technical section of the trails opened up into a long, flat, smooth, loopy ride. Following my boyfriend’s lead, I pedaled hard, picking up speed. We wove around trees and wildflowers in a sort of rhythmic dance.

And for the first time I got it … why mountain biking is so addicting.

For a long time, I was certain that mountain biking was too scary and difficult to even learn. So to feel that small measure of success was nothing short of invigorating.

The next morning, after camping on beautiful perch, we pedaled the Klondike Bluffs trail. The trail has a mixture of technical sandstone riding and easy dirt road riding. More difficult loops named Baby Steps swing out from the main trail.

In typical fashion, I suggested we ride up Baby Steps. I’d taken to uphill riding pretty well. A winter of relentless backcountry and skate skiing paid off in a solid level of cardiovascular fitness.

I powered up grippy rock slabs and on the downhill took to heart the lesson I learned from my first spectacular fall: Don’t be afraid to walk. It’s only day three.

Mtn bikin' Moab

2011-07-03T21:38:00.001-08:00

Cory and I finished up our May trip to Utah with a spontaneous stop in Moab. After days in the sain (that's combined rain and snow), we decided just to pick up shop and head home. We stopped for coffee and gas in Moab and discovered bluebird skies and pleasant 80 degree temperatures. We found ourselves wondering why we'd head back to dreary Idaho when we could be hitting the trails in Moab. We swung by a bike shop, got some beta, and spent two fabulous days mountain biking and camping (in our own private little nook complete with spectacular sunset views). Cory proved to be an endlessly patient mountain bike instructor. For more on my mountain biking trials and tribs see the excursions column I wrote on the topic (which I'll post right after I get these photos live).

-Amy

Mesa Verde

2011-06-12T13:20:00.001-08:00

With snow and rain hampering mountain biking and a pass good for free entrance to any national park in the country ... Cory and I decided to check out Mesa Verde. What a remarkable place! It's breathtaking. It reminds visitors that this land isn't as young as we think it is ... that civilization has been thriving here long before the creation of the United States.

Red rock, ruins and relaxation

2011-06-12T12:55:00.001-08:00

In May Cory and I - and our two intrepid dogs - traveled to southern Utah to meet up with my parents and spend a week camping, hiking and mountain biking. We had a fabulous time and got some much needed R&R. Here are some photos from our time camping and hiking near Grand Gulch. This area is covered in 700-year-old Indian ruins tucked into precarious sand stone cliffs. It was really amazing to see and experience the ruins - they're so well preserved!

Winter camping in April

2011-06-12T11:13:00.003-08:00

(Here's an April Excursions column from the Jackson Hole News&Guide. Enjoy).

By Amy Schenck

What: Winter camping

Where: Plummer Canyon, accessed from Moose Creek

Equipment: sleds rigged with PVC pipe, warm sleeping bags, down booties, a sturdy tent and the list goes on.

Resources: There are several good “how to” books on winter camping, including Allen and Mike’s Really Cool Backcountry Ski Book by Allen O’Bannon and Mike Clelland.

Come rain or shine – or both – Cory Hatch and I were determined to go winter camping. We’d already put the trip off three times: the first two times because we had too much going on to get ourselves ready, and the third time because of that dreaded rain.

This time, nothing short of an invitation for coffee with the President of the United States would derail us.

Since the President was preoccupied with staving off a government shutdown, by 11 a.m. on April 9 Cory and I were hauling a monstrous amount of gear over deep, sticky snow.

Everything from down booties and zero degree sleeping bags to stove fuel and the ingredients for quesadillas were packed into the green sleds trailing behind us.

Our plan was to start at Moose Creek and head up Plummer Canyon to a broad aspen-covered perch located in the Caribou-Targhee National Forest.

Early on, as we skied passed a sign announcing we were leaving Idaho and entering Wyoming, it had already become clear that our plan was ambitious, given the conditions.

Wet snow clung to our sleds and skis, adding a few unneeded pounds to our load, and granular ice crystals made for an abrasive sliding surface.

Before long, we landed on the banks of a churning stretch of open water.

A metal ladder stretched from one end of the river to the other. Rather than laying level, the ladder was tilted just enough make for a precarious crossing.

Cory unhooked from his sled and tiptoed across the ladder on his skis. Once on the other side, he unhooked from his skis, crawled back out on to the ladder and reached for the sled I was pushing toward him from the opposite bank. Miraculously, we managed to get two people, two dogs and two sleds across that river unscathed. (The dogs Zippy and Oscar splashed through the river).

We maneuvered through melting wetlands into the mouth of Plummer Canyon. As the afternoon sun hit the snow, and our route began to incline, our progress slowed to a crawl.

At one point Cory remarked, “I’ve come to welcome the adversity.”

With that, the trip stopped being about our intended destination, and became about the experience.

We found a flat, open clearing, tucked between the walls of Plummer Canyon, and decided to call it home.

We staked out our camp site by walking on skis in a rectangle. Then, we began construction. We dug out a flat platform for our tent. Below that platform we put in a deeper pit, allowing our feet to dangle out of our tent. To our snow palace we added seats, a kitchen counter and even a liquor cabinet. (Whisky and apple cider never tasted so good).

Once the tent was pitched, we headed out for a short ski tour. Quiet permeated the forest and peace poured into my being.

That evening we watched perfect stellar snowflakes land on Oscar’s black fur.

Periodically, the dogs would work themselves into an absolute frenzy. Something was out there, and Zippy and Oscar spared it no barks and howls.

While the disruption to the calm evening was less than pleasant, it felt reassuring to have the pooches taking their job as sentinels with the utmost seriousness.

When the sky grew dark, all four of us piled into my two-man tent. Zippy and Oscar managed to wedge themselves right between Cory and me, ensuring maximum pad space for themselves.

Like a pack of tired puppies, we slept deeply, soundly … and warmly. It was so cozy that I had my sleeping bag unzipped for the first part of the night.

Long after the boys got up in the morning, I stayed curled up in the layers of down and synthetic insulation, sleeping the sleep of a girl exhausted from a winter of relentless outdoor play.

It wasn’t until Cory had gone off with the dogs for a ski tour that I made my way out of the tent. I took my time melting snow to make coffee.

We didn’t have a watch, and it felt both refreshing and disconcerting to not know what time it was.

Sometime later in the day, Cory and I packed everything back onto those green sleds. We left our packed up camping gear behind while we climbed up the walls of Plummer canyon to get a look into Game Creek and the valleys beyond.

Then, we swooped up our camping gear and skied back to the truck, enjoying the ease of a downhill pre-set track on the return trip.

Amy Schenck is thrilled Cory turned his back on the many naysayers and took part in hatching out this trip. Her columns appear here every other week.

Crust crusin' in the Tetons

2011-06-12T10:54:00.001-08:00

(Here's a May Excursions column for the Jackson Hole News&Guide. Record snow falls this year meant we got to crust cruise into May, even after the Grand Teton National Park road opened.)

By Amy Schenck

What: Crust crusin’

Where: Grand Teton National Park

When: Springtime freeze thaw cycle

When: The earlier in the morning the better

Equipment: Skate skis and a sense of adventure

The trick to crust crusin’ is catchin’ it at the right time on the right day. Foil the timing and you’ll find yourself slogging through sun ripened snow. Find the sweet spot and you’ll glide effortlessly over countless hard packed miles.

So far I’m two for two. In other words, I’ve had nothing but good experiences crust crusin’.

Ever since I moved to Jackson I’ve had rumors of this springtime activity in Grand Teton National Park. Wait until temperatures warm up during the day, then freeze at night, friends told me. Grab your skate skis and head for the Taggart Lake parking lot. From there, the world is your oyster, or rather an endless blank canvass, perfectly groomed, for cruising just about wherever.

Until this year, I’d always encountered one small hang up: I didn’t know how to skate ski.

But after procuring used equipment, taking a lesson and skiing several laps in Teton Canyon, I’d managed to pick up my V2 alternate on both sides. (My V1 stride is still a work in progress).

Armed with my new found skills, I headed out to the park with two of my favorite companions in crime, err adventure.

Day 1 got off to a rough start. I wore too many layers on my legs, and in the process of trying to get off a pair of pants, I managed to get snow on the bottoms on not just one, but two socks.

Lucky for me, my companions in crime are extremely patient, forbearing individuals. I soon got into a groove, and my mood took a decided turn for the better.

We followed the bluff overlooking the Snake River, in area called Baseline Flat. We then cut “inland” and circled around Timbered Island.

A dusting of snow created a picturesque sheen on top the frozen crust, making it easy to sink in an edge to push off for a glide.

By the time we swooped in for a landing back at the parking lot I had become unabashedly addicted to this offbeat sport.

A week or so later I headed back out to go crust crusin’ with one of my afore mentioned companions in crime. We decided to mix it up, and straight lined it for Jenny Lake. This route involved hopping some half-buried fences, crossing plowed roads and navigating a tunnel-like clearing to accommodate a power line.

The conditions turned out to be even more “cruise-y” then before. It felt like turbo powered skate skiing, especially on Jenny Lake.

We skied across to the far end of Jenny Lake where we found cat-like tracks and bird feathers from an apparent scuffle.

Energy bars and a tight timeframe gave us extra juice on the way back. We arrived to our car in less than an hour. I was even more hooked then before.

With the right conditions, the possibilities for crust crusin’ are endless. Just ask Wilson resident Charlie Thomas.

Several years ago he set out with a friend to ski the entire length of the Grand Teton National Park. He just about made it. He started at the south entrance and got within a stone’s throw of the northern border – he got cut off by a river.

“It was just a matter of everything coming together and having these smooth conditions,” he said. “It was like ball bearings.”

Columnist Amy Schenck reaped a life lesson from this week’s excursion: when all else fails, just keep crusin’. Her columns can be found here every other week.

Play disc golf, shine or rain

2011-06-12T10:35:00.002-08:00

(Here's another Excursions column, published bi-weekly in the Jackson Hole News&Guide.)

By Amy Schenck

What: disc golf

Where: Fifth Street Park in Driggs, Idaho

Cost: Free

Equipment: at least one disc, but the serious players have a quiver

Time: about an hour

Tis the season … to scale back.

My weekend plans started out grandiose. My friend and I had put together what we deemed “the ultimate day in the Tetons.”

Start at 5 a.m. in Grand Teton National Park. Crust cruise out to The Potholes. Return to our car parked near Jenny Lake, and ditch the skate skis for backcountry skis. Tour up into Hanging Canyon. Time our descent so that early morning sun warms the top sheen of the snowpack, creating perfect corn. Return to the car, and replace the backcountry skis with bicycles. Bike on the Teton Park Road to Pacific Creek. Pre-stage a car and canoe at Pacific Creek for the final costume change. Paddle the Snake River to the takeout at Deadmans Bar, where warm clothes and a six-pack of beer would be waiting.

There was just one problem. The forecast predicted rain. Not just a drizzle or occasional squall, but a relentless downpour.

Somehow our ultimate day seemed less than ultimate without the springtime sun along for the ride.

So I switched gears.

Another friend and I decided we would drive to warmer climes to go mountain biking. I just got a new mountain bike, and I’m quite literally on the edge of my seat trying to figure out how to use it.

But there was a problem with Plan B too.

The forecast for Pocatello, Idaho, mirrored the forecast for Jackson.

I had to face up to it. A rain cloud would cover the area, extending for miles in every direction, and all I could do was accept it.

What fun can be had under a saturated sky, I asked myself half-heartedly.

The answer hit me: Frisbee golf.

I perked up at the thought of having an excuse for my disc golf skills, or lack thereof. If the disc sails the wrong direction, into a tree or over a barbed wire fence (all of which ended up happening), I could just blame it on the bad weather.

I found two hardy souls who agreed to don rain jackets and gloves for a game of Frisbee golf.

Since snow likely still covers the 10-hole disc golf course at Jackson Hole Mountain Resort and 18-hole course at Grand Targhee Resort, we headed for the nine-hole course in Driggs, Idaho. All three courses are free to play.

To get to the course, from the main intersection in Driggs, go east on Little Avenue, which turns into Ski Hill Road, as if headed toward Targhee. After a few blocks, take a right on 5^th Street. The course begins and ends in Fifth Street Park, just past a new skatepark.

Of the three of us playing disc golf, only one of us had half a clue how to accurately sling a disc – that one wasn’t me.

While Dr. Intrepid, as I’m calling the one who could actually play disc golf, either met par or scored a meager plus one at each hole, my other friend and I duked it out in the range of plus two, plus three and once even plus five. (That was with a generous share of mulligans).

I found that I had some ability with my “put and approach” disc, but turned into a complete disaster when my fingers wrapped around the “long range driver.”

By the game’s end, I had posted something in the vicinity of plus 20.

And it didn’t matter.

The beauty of disc golf is that it’s a fun activity for novice and pro, child and adult, and in rain or shine.

Columnist Amy Schenck’s brother got her a set of discs for her birthday. If your sibling isn’t quite as on top of it, you can pick up a disc or two at most outdoor stores.

Skiing the slide

2011-04-18T13:52:00.000-08:00

(Editor's note: this Excursions column appeared in the Jackson Hole News&Guide in March)

By Amy Schenck

What: Skiing the Gros Ventre Slide

Where: Off the Gros Ventre Road past Kelly

When: Late winter and early spring when there is a deep snowpack

What to take: Food, water, warm clothes, avalanche gear and a spirit of adventure

Elevation gain: About 2,000 feet

My alarm sounded obnoxious at 5:15 a.m. Didn’t it know I deserved at least a couple more hours of sleep?

Nonetheless, by 6:30 a.m. on Thursday, Karen Colclough and I were driving toward the Gros Ventre slide on a mission for some R&R (recreational reconnaissance).

Telemark skis and two overly amped dogs filled the backseat of Karen’s car. Pink hues reflected off overcast skies and the few inches of freshies that fell during the night.

On a scrap piece of yellow lined paper, I had written down directions obtained from a friend of a friend.

As we got our first good views of the slide from the car, I pulled out those directions, and Karen and I poured over them, trying to figure out the best route up – and down – the well-known landmark.

The directions, and our own logic, told us to hug the west side of the slide, following “fingers” or small gullies, and avoiding fields of car-sized boulders.

We had been warned: while the boulders themselves can be problematic, the hollows around the boulders are a big danger too.

The feature we were scheming up ways to ski is a geologic freak.

Information found on www.ultimatewyoming.com and attributed to the Forrest Service gives the following facts on the Gros Ventre slide:

On June 23, 1925, a slope on the north side of Sheep Mountain unraveled, sending 50 million cubic yards of rock and debris hurling down toward the Gros Ventre River. The slide rolled 300 feet up the opposite side of the valley, blocked the river and formed what today is known as Lower Slide Lake.

In 1927, part of the dam created by the slide collapsed, flooding Kelly and killing six people, along with hundreds of domestic animals. That disaster caused Kelly to lose the county seat; it went to Jackson instead.

Karen and I parked the car at a lookout point on Gros Ventre Road. The directions on the crumpled up yellow paper bid us to turn onto Taylor Ranch Road and park in a scrapped out area just before the bridge across the Gros Ventre River. But a plow hadn’t yet uncovered Taylor Ranch Road, and we decided we’d rather skin for an extra 15 minutes, rather than risk getting stuck.

We set out, totally unsure of how the day would unfold.

After a season of following established skin trails on Teton Pass and in Grand Teton National Park, it felt downright invigorating to find our own route.

We picked our way up a narrow gully at the mouth of the slide. The few inches of new snow made the going easy: enough to give us good grip, but not so much as to bog as down.

Dogs Zippy and Oscar had it a bit more “ruff.” Their paws sank until they were literally up to their ears in sugary snow. They swam through it, totally unfazed.

After about a half mile, the gully began to level out and split into threads.

We cut west. Then up. Then west.

For a couple of hours we continued this way, snaking through dense forests, avoiding boulders, and generally drifting west.

The slide rose up before us, like an amphitheater reverberating with a symphony of rocks, boulders, cliffs and young trees.

We paused, often, to take it in.

The slide had always felt impressive from a distance. But to be there, standing in it, struck us with a sort of giddy awe.

Eventually, we gained a ridge that leads to the top of the slide.

We would have liked to have followed that flank to the 1925 starting zone, but we were pressed for time. We pulled off our skins 30 minutes shy of the very top.

Throughout the day Karen and I had observed that ominous “whomphing” sound synonymous with avalanche danger. So we had no intention of putting our nose into the slide’s steepest sections. Instead we chose a relatively safe line that flirted between tight trees and open glades.

Unexpected light springy powder made our descent nothing short of a delight. We leapfrogged each other, pure elation in our smiles.

Toward the bottom, we did a good bit of ski shwacking (short for bushwacking). More than once, during the schwacking, I audibly thanked my helmet.

Ski schwacking may not sound like a lot of fun, but for some odd reason it was.

Before we knew it, the slide spit us out back at the Gros Ventre River … two happy people and two panting dogs, unscathed from a day in the giant.

A bird's eye view

2011-04-12T10:34:00.001-08:00

(Editor's note: I'm going to start posting the last several installments of my Excursions column, which appears every other week in the Jackson Hole News&Guide)

By Amy Schenck

What: tandem paragliding

Who: with Matt Combs of Jackson Hole Paragliding

Where: from the top of the gondola at Jackson Hole Mountain Resort

Cost: $225

As a ski instructor at Jackson Hole Mountain Resort, I’ve watched countless 6 year olds stare awe struck at paragliders circling overhead.

“Amy, look!” they shout, eyes glued to the ski and finger pointing overhead.

Truth be told, I feel my own wave of awe on each of these occasions. Something about a nylon wing skimming the horizon gives flight to the imagination in a way the cold, hard metal of an airplane never could.

Two weeks ago, more than just my imagination got to lift off the ground.

I was headed up the gondola for lunch when I got a call from Matt Combs, with Jackson Hole Paragliding.

The conditions are perfect, he said. Would I want to go on a tandem flight? Matt and I arranged to meet an hour later on top of the gondola.

Serendipitously, I happened to have everything I would need with me: a helmet, goggles, warm layers and even my camera. My skis stayed behind, a seemingly mundane mode of travel compared to what I was about to experience.

The pre-flight preparation went by in a flash. I signed away my life in several pages of paperwork. Matt unfurled the wing, clicked each of us into our harnesses and offered a few instructions for takeoff. Then, without hesitation, he gave the signal: “run.”

My ski boots dug into the snow, as I fought against the resistance of the wing inflating with chilled mountain air.

Within just a few moments I found myself kicking at the gap growing ever wider between the two of us and the slope below.

We soared out above the mountain. We veered right to get a bird’s eye view of Casper Bowl and the Craigs. Casper chairlift seemed to tickle my toes, appearing to be nothing more than a few stitches on a snowy white canvas.

Calm coursed through me. The quiet of the sky felt all the more palpable having launched from the spring break mayhem still carrying on below.

Matt and I talked about the type of lift paragliders use to gain altitude – thermal lift, convergence life and ridge lift.

A healthy dose of instability in the air made for strong thermal activity. We chased down the warm columns, catching them and then riding them upward by spinning in circles.

After playing with thermals for a while, we cruised out over Teton Village. Matt showed me how to slow down, speed up and turn the glider. He then let me take control of our overhead wing.

I piloted the glider in long looping circles, leaning hard in the direction I wanted to go while simultaneously tilting the wing.

Before taking off, Matt had asked me if I like roller coasters. I told him I did, but would surely get nauseous if we did too many acrobatics. So, we agreed to leave the “ride” for the end.

In the last two minutes before coming in for a landing, Matt sent us swinging, plunging, spinning and twirling. I let out a cry of part terror and part delight.

Just as I was beginning to wonder if my stomach could take it any longer, Matt swooped the glider down toward the resort’s cross-country ski track and we came in for a soft landing.

In the afternoon sun, I found myself absolutely grinning, from ear to ear.

Matt rolled up the wing with extraordinary efficiency – just one of the many signs that he’s been at this sport for several years.

We hopped back on the gondola. Matt was after another flight and I needed to retrieve my skis.

In addition to tandem flights, Jackson Hole Paragliding offers instruction. Classes begin May 1. The cost starts at $1,500 and goes up to $1,900 during peak season. The price includes a minimum of 25 flights using Jackson Hole Paragliding’s gear. During those flights students learn how to do high wind launches, low wind launches, 360 degree turns, figure eight turns and spot landings, among other skills. At the end, students earn their novice rating.

The novice rating can be earned in as little as two weeks, but most students take longer, because of work and weather conflicts, said Scott Harris, co-owner of Jackson Hole Paragliding.

Scott suggests interested students start with a tandem flight to figure out whether they’re interested in spending the time and money to pursue the sport.

The $225 price of a tandem goes toward the price of lessons.

Scott said that paragliding in Jackson is unsurpassed by anywhere else in the country because of the amount of vertical and number of launch sites in the area’s vicinity.

“If you learn to fly here you can fly anywhere,” Scott said. “It’s kind of like of skiing, if you can ski Jackson, you can ski anywhere in the world.”

March montage

2011-04-01T10:15:00.001-08:00

Here's a snapshot of what I've been up to lately ... what a good life!

Heavenly powder

2011-03-28T17:48:00.000-08:00

Yesterday Cory I skied what we deemed to be our best powder day of the season. With stability predicted in the avalanche forecast (ie a "low" rating), we set out for long, steep, unrelenting north-facing chutes ... that I've eyed for quite some time, just waiting for the right day.

We thought conditions would be good, we had no idea that they would be over-the-top, remember-it-for-life amazing. We're talking thigh deep bliss! It was so good that we blew off the "pressing" responsibilities we had intended to attend to that day to skin back up the mountain for a few more turns of heaven. At the end of the day we had no regrets.

Beautiful Buenos Aires

2011-03-24T21:30:00.002-08:00

Mom, dad and I finished up our trip to Argentina and Chile with a vacation ... in Buenos Aires. We spent one day touring the fabulous European styled city on cheesy, but quite effective double decker tourist buses ... you could just hop off and get on at 14 major points throughout the city. Then we spent the second day chillaxing by the pool ... not even leaving our hotel until 7 p.m. at night when we left for the airport to fly home. I also caught up with my friend Agustina, who I met when I was an exchange student in Rosario. And mom, dad and I went to see a super well done Tango Show ... complete with Argentine-sized filets of beef and mouth watering red wine. Yum!

Sheer size, such ice

2011-03-24T21:00:00.000-08:00

And now ... to get entirely out of sequence ... here are photos from our very first day in Argentina ... when we went to visit the Perito Moreno Glacier near Calafate. The Perito Moreno is impressive ... both in sheer size and activity ... we saw some major calving while we were there ... a relatively common occurrence for that particular glacier.

The first photo below is a bit of an inside joke (with myself) because when I was an exchange student in Argentina (10 years ago when I was a junior in HS) a taxi driver cussed me out one day for shutting the door with too much force. In Argentina you're expected to swing the door gently in, and then give it a nudge to latch it. So I was a bit amused to see the sign on the door of the taxi that we took to the Perito Moreno that read: "close slowly." And the best part is, now, with my much improved Spanish, I know exactly what the sign directs me, the passenger, to do. No more awkward taxi encounters for me ... at least not in Spanish speaking countries!

Puerto Natales

2011-03-24T20:47:00.000-08:00

Puerto Natales, Chile, is the homely coastal town we stayed in before and after our trek in Torres Del Paine. Here's some images from the few days we spent there. We stayed in a comfortable lodge overlooking the water and town, and indulged in the delicious seafood.

Torres Del Paine

2011-03-24T20:26:00.001-08:00

Better late than never, right? Ever since we got back from Patagonia ... I've been going, going, going (those photos to come soon) ... so here, finally, at last ... are some of the photos from hiking the "Q" in Torres Del Paine National Park in southern Chile. We spent nine days "out there," staying in refugios that ranged from rustic to luxurious. The weather was nothing short of impeccable ... shedding beautiful rays of light on spectacular scenery ... day after day after day. We somehow managed to go the whole trek without any real rain ... a virtual miracle for Patagonia. For my mom and dad to take on this 80 mile hike after our 6 days on the ice cap shows a grit and determination found in few parents. The memories we shared will last a lifetime.

More than well

2011-02-09T10:37:00.000-09:00

So far, so amazing on the trek through Torres del Paine National Park in Chile. The scenary has been spectacular, the weather has been remarkable (still windy, but no rain and lots of sun!) and the people we've encountered have been fabulous. Right now my mom, dad and I are staying for two at a great lodge mid-trek ... complete with hot showers, full-course meals, big picture windows and, yep, even Internet access. We're reveling in a rest day, after many hours out on the trail. I'll post photos and many more details when we get back to civilization, but just wanted to let everyone know that all is more than well.

With love,

Amy

Chalten

2011-02-03T15:55:00.000-09:00

Taking the llamas for a walk in Chalten

Chalten is the dusty, windy, friendly little town we stayed in before and after our trip to the ice cap. Chalten has a quaint feel, even though it's built entirely off the tourism generated by the nearby mountains of Fitz Roy and Cerro Torro, among other peaks. Cell service has yet to come to the town, and Internet barely works, so there is very little of that modern-day hustle and bustle that's so ubiquitous in the US and Europe ... and for that matter, the rest of Argentina.

Photos: Part IV of the ice cap traverse

2011-02-03T13:44:00.003-09:00

Photos: Part III of the ice cap traverse

2011-02-03T12:39:00.000-09:00

Photos: Part II of the ice cap traverse

2011-02-03T12:35:00.001-09:00

Photos: Part I of the ice cap traverse

2011-02-01T11:26:00.001-09:00

Posting photos has become much more complicated than hoped ... it's what I like to refer to as the "Argentina factor." At one place the Internet is too slow to handle photos, at the next place there are no USB ports, etc., etc. "Asi es." Translated that means, "so it is."

Another great example of the "Argentina factor" is the fact that there has been no gasoline for cars available in El Chalten for two days, and now they're saying it will be at least another two days before any arrives. Our guide, Jorge, put my parents and I on a bus to get back to El Calafate, so that we can make our transfer to Puerto Natales ... but Jorge and Luciana (our other guide) are stuck in El Chalten unless they can find enough friends who can give them a few liters of diesel to get them to the closest town, 130 km away.

So here are the fruits of a few days worth of work ... five photos ... that I'm calling Part I of the ice cap traverse. With any luck, Part II will be up by tomorrow. Enjoy!

Day 2 of the ice cap traverse

2011-01-29T14:31:00.001-09:00

The mountain let out a ferocious roar. I looked up in time to see huge chunks of ice peel off a glacier to my left and tumble down the polished cliff face below. I felt awe, and an awful, ominous sense that a long, difficult journey lay before us.

We arrived at a steep snowfield, switchbacked up and then came to a rock face. The climbing on the rock face wasn't exceptionally difficult ... I'd certainly scrambled up more technical routes without a rope before ... but the exposure was serious. One wrong step and ... I shuddered at the thought.

The wind gusted fiercely, threatening to knock me off balance without notice. My pack toppled, top heavy, from side to side. My heart thudded, numb with fear. We moved carefully, methodically. The intensity of the situation showed in the terse way we talked to one another. "No" "Stand Up" "There" "Wait" "Go."

We eventually reached the top of the rock outcropping and I took a huge sigh of relief. That relief was short lived. The glacier-caked pass, named Macaroni, that opened into Patagonia's southern ice cap met us with a bulldozer of wind. Gusts came like a freight train, determined to plow everything in its path. At times, all we could do was dig our crampons and poles into the ice with as much force as we could muster, hunch over and pray for mercy. Little pieces of ice, caught by the wind, pelted us relentlessly. I grit my teeth, determined not to dwell on just how ridiculous, just how terrible the situation had become.

We only had 3 miles of fairly flat walking to go to get to a hut built by the Chilean government. There we would find refuge from the weather that tormented us, but our pace had slowed to a near crawl, and I knew we still had a long trudge ahead of us.

We roped up as a precaution for crevasses. Miraculously, the wind stopped just long enough for us to tie the rope to our harnesses. In a line, we continued toward the hut. One step, two step. I thought about Cory, Zippy and Oscar snuggled up at home, at the base of the Tetons. I thought about the last 13 grueling miles of the Leadville 100. I thought about the grit and perseverance my parents showed ... and wondered whether they'd ever again go along with one of my ideas for an expedition. I thought about the whole damn experience is a state of mind ... and I could either choose to hate it or choose to enjoy it. I could choose to focus on the wind, my fogged up sunglasses, the fact that I had to go to the bathroom but had a harness on ... or I could focus on the fact that I put on enough layers and felt warm, I still had strength enough to continue ... and here I was finally living my dream of going to Patagonia's ice cap.

I started to bonk. My stomach gurgled with hunger. I fought against the wind to get my mitten off. When I finally got it off, I clutched it tight with my armpit. With liner gloved providing measly protection against the weather, I moved quickly to unzip a pocket and pull of a package of sport jelly beans. At first I couldn't get the package open, but with sheer determination and my two front teeth, I finally pulled it apart. I gulped those sports beans down like my life depended on it ... and in some ways it did.

Still starved I began to think about the alfajor, an argentine chocolate and dulce de leche pastry, in my other pocket. Once the alfajor entered my mind, it wouldn't leave, until it was in my mouth. Clumsily I got to that alfajor and ate it in two bites ... all the while walking roped up, over a glacier, in driving winds and total whiteout conditions.

One of our guides, Luciana, caught up to me to ask me to put her water bottle away ... she got thirsty in the way that I got hungry. I suggested we get everyone's attention to take a quick food and water break. I was sure my parents needed calories as badly as I did. We stopped for two minutes. We huddled together in a feeble attempt to keep our gorp from flying right off the palm of our hands. We considered it a success that about half the gorp from the ziplock bag made it into our mouths.

One long, endless hour later we arrived at a heavenly place ... a metal structure perched on a dark moraine. There the ice that plastered our clothes and faces melted, and with it our nerves. Hot tea, laughter and rest were but a prelude to the perfectly sunny weather window that would allow us to traverse seamlessly across the ice cap in the days ahead.

Grit, glaciers and stunning landscapes

2011-01-29T04:56:00.002-09:00

Wow! What an adventure! It took us six spectacular and grueling days to complete the traverse on the Southern Ice Cap here in Patagonia. My parents are amazing ... the grit and determination they showed through demanding terrain and ferocious weather will be long remembered.

It´s hard to know where to even begin ...

Maybe with the highlights ... camping in the cirque, a spot on the ice cap where we had a spectacular view of the back of Cerro Torre and seemingly a thousand other glaciers and peaks, spilling down from 360 degrees ... waking up to a perfect weather window, sunny skies signaling us the go ahead of the traverse ... gaining the top of windy pass, without so much as a ripple on the surface of the alpine lakes, and looking back at the ice cap and the many miles we covered the two days prior ... seeing green and camping in a forrest after several days of surviving in the land of ice and polished rocks ... drinking home-brewed beer and eating fresh salad to celebrate our successful trip last night here in Chalten.

Then there were the high-lowlights, as we´ve coined the phrase ... crossing a waist deep glacial river ... so icy and roaring so fast that was all wanted to cry, or cuss, or both at the same time ... feeling a momentary sense of relief when we climbed off an exposed rock face onto the ice field, only to be greeted by 50 mph winds, total white out conditions, and ice pelting us as if 7,000 beebee guns were firing our direction (in that moment I definitely found myself thinking, "what the hell are we doing?" and "who had this hellish idea to make this trip? (for the record, it was my idea)) ... fortunately there was a hut built by the Chilean government on the ice cap where we were able to take refuge that night ... if that wasn´t there we certainly would have had to retreat. At the end of the two-day ice cap crossing came the morrain, loose rock, scree and boulders piled haphazardly in huge mounds ... for two days we scrambled our way across this terrain that took more of a toll than the ice itself.

Now, as I sit here in a warm, dry Internet cafe, while whipping wind and relentless rain lash the windows ... the whole experience feels a bit dreamlike. It's amazing that we actually walked ourselves into and out of that type of landscape. My parents showed such perservance and grit, and our guides, Jorge and Luciana, are amazing, selfless, knowledgeable, tough humanbeings who guided our way with deft determination and skill.

I hope to get as few photos up on this blog soon ... afterall, as the saying goes, a photo is worth a thousand words ... and in fact, some of the photos we have may be worth 100,000 words.

Signing off from Chalten, Argentina,

Amy

Empanadas and palabras

2011-01-20T15:04:00.000-09:00

We touched down in Buenos Aires this morning, arriving to inviting 77 degree summer weather. Coming from frozen Jackson Hole, the landscape felt remarkably green and lush. I basked in the life and vigor ... the buzz ... people parked in small grassy spots to hang out for the afternoon to drink mate ... families walking along the river ... children splashing in swimming pools ... ahh, beautiful summer.

A few hours and one taxi ride later, we were at the domestic airport in Buenos Aires, leaving the warm bluesky day for the overcast, exotic landscapes of southern Patagonia. As our plane circled in for a landing, I couldn't help but think that we were landing on a different planet. Deep aqua blue lakes and rivers punctuated an otherwise very brown and barren landscape. Low clouds obscured the jagged peaks and grinding glaciers tumbling out of the distance.

The trip went with out hitch ... suprising since it started out with a canceled flight, because of a blizzard that pummeled Jackson Hole the night before I left. Good people at United Airlines got me rebooked on new flights, put me upfront in exit row seats so that I could make my tight connections, and put a priority tag on my luggage ... so that everything showed up in Buenos Aires.

Four flights later ... and here I am ... not in a foriegn land, but a familiar land. From empanadas to palabras ... I innately get this country. That honorary Argentine citizenship my friends bestowed on me last time I was here never left the fibers of my being. At every turn I'm delighted ... to rediscover Toro, a grapefruit soda that I love ... to pass a museum in Buenos Aires where I saw a particularly memorable art showing ... to listen to the cadence and candor of Castellano, the Argentina version of Spanish.

Here I am, back in beautiful Argentina.

Signing off with happiness and love,

Amy

Into the great dark yonder

2011-01-13T21:41:00.000-09:00

(Here's the latest installment of my Excursions column, which runs every other week in the Jackson Hole News&Guide)

By Amy Schenck

For a fleeting moment as my car rumbled up Ski Hill Road toward Teton Canyon, I questioned my sanity.

It was two days after the winter solstice, the clock read 6:30 a.m., and not even a hint of morning sunshine lingered on the horizon.

Instead, snow wisped in front of my windshield, reminding me that it was indeed the middle of winter.

I had planned to go to a 6 a.m. cardio and strength class and then go running afterward, with the first light of day.

But the fitness class got canceled for lack of students and my run got bumped up an hour.

Coming from Alaska, running in the dark and snow doesn’t much faze me. Up north, when the sun rises at 10 a.m. and sets by 4 p.m. this time of year, often my wintertime option was to get out in the dark or not get out all.

Sometimes I would run at 5 p.m., sometimes at midnight, sometimes at 5 a.m. … the time didn’t really matter, the landscape in the beam of my headlamp remained unchanged.

But on this Dec. 23 day in Alta, Wyoming the big difference from my previous running forays is that I lacked a headlamp.

Hoping ambient light and good eyesight would be enough to get me by, I parked at the beginning of the road to Teton Canyon.

I decided that it would be a good idea to warm up on the half mile of plowed road before it dead ended in a parking lot. After that, I knew the going would get much tougher, as the slog continued over snowmobile tracks.

With dogs Zippy and Oscar, we set out in the dark. I ran right down the center of the road, feeling my way forward. Zippy and Oscar frolicked in the woods, thrilled by the fresh snow that fell overnight.

Several minutes later, the drivable portion of the road ended. Unable to make out the path through the snowbank circling the parking lot, I followed Zippy and Oscar step for step, using them as beacons to find my way.

Now, on the groomed portion of the trail, I zigzagged back and forth, seeking out firm ground under my feet.

I knew it would be easier to run over the path compacted by snowmobilers; I also knew it was good manners to avoid tracking up the skate ski path. But without vision, it took some trial and error to get on the right track.

I laughed thinking about the folks who would ski, walk and sled down Teton Canyon later in the day. Surely, they would think a drunk or a lunatic, or both, had made the footprints in the snow.

I plodded along, trying not to dwell on the soft, sand-like surface under my feet. Gradually, morning sunbeams lit up the snowscape around me.

Alone in this frozen world, a peace settled in me.

My body churned out heat, fighting off the ice crystals clinging to my cheeks.

A few times I thought about turning around before reaching the end of the 4-mile canyon, telling myself the conditions were just too slow going.

I reminded myself to be patient, to just put one foot in front of the other.

My mind wandered.

I rounded a corner.

Surprised, I found myself at the parking lot that services Table Mountain in the summer.

I looped around and began the plod back to my car.

On my way, I ran into a volunteer out grooming the trail.

We chatted for a few minutes, commenting on the beauty of the place and the morning. That groomer was the only person I encountered the whole two hours I was out.

The return trip went seemingly much faster. While the downhill grade and sunlight probably helped, I suspect this was mostly because I had settled into a rhythm, and was no longer counting each step.

Soon I was back at my car, and by 9 a.m. I was in Driggs, ordering at extra hot Irish cream latte and a raspberry cheesecake pastry, with the whole day still before me.

Columnist Amy Schenck is perplexed by the lack of winter trail runners in these parts. Finding a packed down path in the mountains more than a mile or two long is no small feat. Amy Schenck’s columns appear in the News&Guide every other week.

Double the Christmas

2011-01-13T21:29:00.000-09:00

Cory and I had a fantastic first Christmas together ... and to make it even better we got double the Christmas ... a full 48 hours.

Let me explain ... I was supposed to work at ski school on Christmas Day, so we bumped up all our holiday celebrations up by 24 hours ...

We celebrated Christmas eve on Dec. 23 by making a fantastic Indian pastry filled with potatoes, veggies and delicious spices (see photo #1 below).

On our first Christmas Day (Dec. 24) we opened up gifts, made eggs benedict, climbed Oliver Peak for a backcountry ski, and returned home to perfectly marinated, perfectly grilled elk steaks.

On real Christmas morning, I woke up early, drove to ski school, learned the big east coast snow storms with all their aviation hang-ups meant substantially less kids than anticipated and got sent home. It was a gorgeous bluebird day, and Cory and I headed to Teton Canyon to skate ski. We had such a good time that after finishing Teton Canyon's eight miles of groomed trails, we headed to the Alta Loop for an additional half hour of skate skiing. Some folks refer to this twofer as the "Altathon," named because both tracks are in the town of Alta. I'm now totally hooked on skate skiing ... all it took was finally experiencing the sport in the right conditions (see a few posts below).

Cory and I spent our second Christmas dinner with his friends ... enjoying a Thanksgiving type spread ... my third of the holiday season, since my friend hosted a Thanksgiving dinner on Halloween as well.

Cory got me a backcountry ski pack with an Avalung for Christmas ... one I've had my eye on for quite a while ... what a guy!

Skiing 25 Short

2011-01-13T20:51:00.000-09:00

In mid-December JB and I went out to ski some super light, springy, soft and downright fun snow in Grand Teton National Park. We climbed up and descended a mountain face called "25 Short," named for the fact that it's 25 feet short of 10,000 feet. We met super early, leaving up plenty of time to finish the day with a beer and pizza at Dornan's, a restaurant in the national park with amazing picture windows that look out over the whole of the Tetons. Here's a few images from the day.

JB cuts a skin track up the mountain

My new skis. I'm in love! I even told Cory he's lucky I'm sleeping with him and not my new skis. As a fellow skier, he took that comment as a compliment. They're the Icelantic Nomads with 22 Design Axl tele bindings.

We spent about an hour digging a pit to look at snow stability. There were a few questionable layers, but all in all this season as produced a fairly stable snow pack!

Tons of wind and snow on top ... not the type of weather you hang out in

The Grand Teton is behind me ... but obscured by the clouds

Yummy powder

25 short is that peak in the background

Thanksgiving photos

2011-01-13T20:27:00.001-09:00

Here's some photos from Thanksgiving. Cory, Zippy, Oscar and I drove to CO to visit my family. Brad and Meg flew in from Washington, so we had the whole crew. On Thanksgiving Day several more family and friends showed up at my parent's house for an all out feast. The long weekend was wonderful ... full of laughter, good food and a few fun forays into the mountains.

Note: I realize this post is sorely overdue, but better late than never right? My excuse for the total neglect of this blog is two fold: amazing early season snowfall (meaning amazing early season skiing) and falling in love. That's a demanding combination.

To download any of these photos or view them larger, click here.

Extreme skate skiing

2010-12-13T20:14:00.000-09:00

(Here's the latest installment of my Excursions column published in the Jackson Hole News&Guide)

By Amy Schenck

For quite some time I’ve had intentions of becoming a skate skier. Two years ago I even went so far as to pick up skis, boots and poles at a gear swap.

Shortly after obtaining the equipment I went out a few times on the trails behind the cabin where I lived in Alaska. The trails were well groomed, but far too narrow for skate skiing. My short jaunts soon became more about breathing fresh, crisp air under the full moon than actually learning how to skate ski.

Last year, now in Jackson, I again tried to go skate skiing … once, with my roommate, up Cache Creek, at 6 a.m., before work. The thermometer hovered somewhere around negative 15.

The temperatures made it so cold that I got a lot more stick than glide. Soon I was essentially classic skiing up Cache Creek as my much more skilled roommate disappeared around the bends in the trail.

So when Cory Hatch and I talked about going out skate skiing, I promptly informed him that this time I wanted a good experience. As I spoke these words, I was envisioning a 23-degree bluebird day, on freshly groomed corduroy, over Kansas-flat terrain.

How that translated into “skate skiing” through 8 inches of powder in a whiteout complete with wind gusts well over 50 miles per hour and snow dumping so thick that my braided pigtails turned into solid icicles I’m still not sure.

But it began with plans to head to Grand Targhee Resort for opening day Nov. 20. In addition to skate skiing, I wanted to test out the resort’s new beacon park … and write this column about that.

We arrived around lunchtime, just as the lifts were closing because of the ferocious weather.

I checked in with a ski patroller and Targhee hadn’t yet opened the beacon park. Its focus had been on getting the lifts cranking.

In blinding, slapping snow, Cory and I faced a decision: retreat to the warmth and comfort of home or buy a $10 ticket and venture out onto the Nordic trails. Itching for exercise, we chose the latter.

The ticket seller looked at us a little cross-eyed as we bought our tickets. The trails were groomed in the morning, she said, emphasizing morning and then glancing out from behind the booth at the snow piling up so fast that nearly an inch of snow had accumulated on our head and shoulders during the 33 seconds we stood there talking to her.

After Cory assured her he had been on the trails before and knew the routes, she handed over the tickets.

What Cory failed to mention before I agreed to this hair-brained plan was that to get to the easy terrain, we had to go up a blue and black rated slope.

So, although well-meaning, I found it far from reassuring when Cory turned to me as we were clicking into our skate skis and said something to the effect: “Don’t be too intimated by this first hill, it gets easier afterward.”

Less than a third the way up that first hill, my heart was pumping, my legs were throbbing, my core was overheating and I was totally out of breath.

I stopped to rest.

For a beginner that hill would have been brutal without the extreme weather.

Standing there, peeling layers, eating snow, I reveled in the absurdity of the situation. For some unexplainable reason, I was having fun.

With a good dose of persistence and encouragement from Cory, we eventually crested the hill into flattish open terrain.

There, we could feel our way along the groomed track. I mimicked Cory’s movements and started to figure out how to semi-effectively propel myself through the thick powder.

We occasionally veered off course, but knew immediately when we did, because the ground would give way into a fluffy abyss.

Three-plus hours later we had circled the green-rated Snowdrift Loop, pausing to cruise back and forth on the rare sections of trail that were somewhat flat and wind protected.

As we returned to the truck, I decided that extreme skate skiing isn’t nearly as miserable as it sounds. Sure, I still would like to experience that elusive bluebird, fresh corduroy day. But, in the meantime, I have yet to take out a classified ad to sell my skate skiing equipment, so I must have had a good enough time to want to give it another go.

Columnist Amy Schenck has a flair for offbeat adventures, and for befriending folks with a similar mindset.

Heaven in November

2010-11-23T09:57:00.002-09:00

Cory and I went skiing in West Mail on Teton Pass Sunday. What unbelievable conditions for November! The powder was fluffy, soft, sweet, light, forgiving, springy and oh so fun! I'm not sure whether Cory and I or Zippy and Oscar had more fun ... we're all powder hounds.

A lesson in winter

2010-11-23T09:41:00.001-09:00

Here's the next installment of my Excursions column ...

When Karen Colcough and I go out for a day in the mountains, we don’t go skiing, biking or hiking – we go adventuring.
Perhaps it’s a sign that friends no longer send us off with wishes for a fun day.
Instead, as we set off for Sleeping Indian Thursday, we got: “Good luck,” from one friend, and “when do I call the cavalry?” from yet another.
I’ve never been up the iconic mountain before, but decided I wanted to go sometime during fall – when the days were long, the skies were blue and the ground still sprouted green.
As each weekend came and then went, filled by activities other than ascending Sleeping Indian, the days shortened, the skies greyed and snow drifted over the ground.
But since Karen and I were adventuring, and not hiking, the change in weather hardly seemed relevant as we rumbled down the Elk Refuge road toward what we hoped would be a trailhead.
Karen maneuvered her Subaru over a road built for high-clearance trucks until we reached a steep, unmanageable hill and were forced on to our feet.
Only a few minutes after we began walking, we came to a fork in the road. The map seemed to indicate one way, but Karen – who had been up the mountain once before – seemed to remember going the other way.
“I’m OK with going this way, even if the mountain is over there,” she said, pointing the opposite direction toward the peak.
I laughed at the absurdity of the statement, and then willingly followed her lead – after all, that’s what adventuring is all about.
We wound over paths stomped down by hunters that eventually turned into elk trails.
After about an hour, it was evident we had altogether missed the real trail leading up the south side of Sleeping Indian. But studying the map revealed that if we continued to climb up, we would eventually crest the mountain’s broad shoulder.
We linked our way through the woods and around rocky precipices, climbing toward the peak we periodically glimpsed through gray and grimacing clouds.
A few hours later, post holing in knee-deep snow, breathing damp air, we broke free from tree line.
“I hope we get some more wind,” Karen commented.
I had a kite strapped to the side of my backpack that we wanted to fly in the mountain’s gently sloping, wide-open flanks.
Little did we know…
As we pressed on, late-fall conditions turned to a mid-January type of blizzard. Whipping wind and thick snow battered my nose and cheeks. My fingers went numb as I pulled on all five layers I had brought with me.
Karen and I convened on an exposed ridge and I adamantly voiced my opinion: time to turn around.
Karen was suffering from mild hypothermia herself, and I didn’t have to do much convincing.
We retreated swiftly and carefully. The cloud ceiling had lowered, leaving us in a void of soft white, and the wind had nearly covered the tracks we made just a few minutes prior. Using a rock outcropping to keep our bearings, we found our way back to tree line.
Crouching on a foam pad in a thicket of trees, I shoveled cold spaghetti into my mouth while, while Karen put on extra layers and got out her expeditions mittens for me to wear.
A few minutes without moving and were chilled to the core. My hands were rendered useless, so much so that I couldn’t buckle my backpack.
We gathered up, got hiking, and armed with the expedition mittens, my fingers began to tingle the satisfying and painful way fingers tingle were they unthaw from a deep freeze.
Soon I had enough movement in my hands to unwrap a chocolate bar.
“How many people can say they literally need chocolate?” I said to Karen jokingly, as we savagely devoured the hazelnut milk chocolate.
We retraced our footsteps over hills.
Fortunately, Karen was hiking with poles, and in the fading evening light, we used her pole plants to distinguish our trail from elk trails. We had also, wisely, drawn arrows in the snow at indecipherable forks to point our way.
Soon the last light of day disappeared and our vision narrowed into the beam from our headlamps. Stars sprinkled overhead and an orange crescent moon drifted in and out of clouds.
Spurred on by gravity and cold, we found our way down, arriving to the car and an ice-cold beer at 7:30 p.m.
After successfully four-wheeling our way back to the graded and flat elk refuge road, we called our skeptics, er, friends, to let them know that another Karen and Amy adventure had drawn to a safe and happy conclusion.

Five years of ramblings

2010-11-16T10:31:00.010-09:00

Happy fifth birthday blog! Wow! Hard to believe that this site ... started on a total whim ... is still chugging along, churning out strange black and white characters (I'm referring to the alphabet) that tell the stories of strange colorful characters ... who live in the high mountains or far flung lands ... splattered by photos that have frozen memorable moments ... the moments that have linked my way on this journey to find out ...

In honor of five years, here is my very first blog post, dated Nov. 14, 2005.

It's not that I'm scared to go, I'm scared of what I'll leave behind

Here I am sitting at my desk in Anchorage, Alaska with the cold winter air pressing through the windows. This week I am planning to go to the new Warren Miller film with a bunch of friends, a tradition that has always marked the coming of winter. Thus it is strange to realize that in a little less than two months I will be stepping on a plane that will take me south... take me off to new adventures, places and people...take me to Guatemala.

I stopped today and asked myself why exactly I am leaving this place that is my home. This place that has wide open bowls for backcountry skiing, full moons over the Chugach mountains and the dazzling northern lights.

The answer is simple. To learn and grow.

When I think of the challenges ahead I feel both scared and excited. It's like this breathless emotion that makes my lips smile and my heart sink simultaneously.

So far I have done a fairly good job of keeping the fear at bay. It helps that I have been to Central America before and that I spent three months as an exchange student in Argentina in high school. This time I know what I'm getting into. This time I know that I am going to place where I will know no one and not feel completely at ease communicating even the basics.

And yet I am still choosing to go.

At this juncture in my ramblings I am struck by this idea: it's not that I'm scared to go, I'm scared of what I'll leave behind. In addition to my beloved Alaskan winters, I will also be leaving so many amazing people- people that make my days wonderful. That's hard to reconcile!

I can't help but wonder how this experience will change my thinking? I highly doubt that it will change the core of who I am but I am almost certain that it will change some of the ways I think about and approach the world. But how? I guess that is why I'm going... to find out how.

To life's beauty and goodness,

Amy

'Tis the season

2010-11-15T22:11:00.000-09:00

Rather than procrastinating (my usual habit), Cory and I spent Saturday "concrastinating" (my new word for the opposite of procrastinating) ... and went out to the forest in search of a Christmas tree. Gently falling snow and finding the perfect tree - robust but with a hint of Charlie Brown - made for a fabulous day. Saturday evening, after hanging a few ornaments and threading a string of lights through the branches of our tree, we really got into the season's spirit by watching A Christmas Story. 'Tis a happy, happy time of year.

You know you're an Alaskan if ...

2010-11-12T09:38:00.001-09:00

I recently spent a full two days organizing and moving into my new room here in Jackson - great digs, with great room mates. In the process I came across a scrap piece of paper where I had been jotting down all the things that make Alaskans unique. So here it is, my top five list for:

You know you're an Alaskan if:

1) You're on a bike path and a passerby tells you, "There's a mom and a baby" - and you know that, of course, they're referring to a mom and baby moose.

2) You buy your dipnett at a drive thru on the Kenai Peninsula.

3) Your daily commute takes you past a road sign that points the way to a correctional center, a landfill and a campground - three adjacent facilities (the Hiland Road exit).

4) You're more fascinated by state politics than sports, because after all Alaska politics are practically a sport.

5) You don't bat an eye at the Bed, Bath and Beyond customer service sign that has "bush orders" next to "wedding gift registry."

Cruisin' along the Tetons

2010-11-07T08:01:00.000-09:00

Yesterday Cory and I took the bikes for a cruise through Grand Teton National Park. This time of year the inner loop road is closed to all but foot, bicycle, roller blade and horse traffic, and locals flock out to enjoy the serene setting and spectacular scenery - without the summer tourism mayhem.

99 percent stoked

2010-11-07T07:46:00.002-09:00

(Editor's note: this is the latest installment of my Excursions column, written for the Jackson Hole News&Guide)

Face shots or core shots? That was the question running through my head as I unearthed skis and skins, beacon and boots, and probe and shovel.
It was 10 p.m. at night and I was trying to decide if the idea of skiing the pass after this year’s first snowfall was just plain ridiculous, or ridiculously wonderful.
Always the optimist, and one who never says no to a good adventure, I decided to run with the latter.
Plus, I’d already told my friend Martha Williamson that I would meet her at 6:30 a.m. for a pre-work dawn patrol, so I was what one might call committed.
I found fresh triple-A batteries in the bottom of my gear bin, loaded them into my beacon, flipped it on and felt a surge of excitement as the screen displayed 99 percent — like my beacon batteries I was 99 percent stoked to start a new ski season.
Miraculously, from ski fever, I woke up the next morning 10 minutes before my alarm went off at 6 a.m., and practically jumped out of bed.
Zippy, my pup, and I rendezvoused with Martha. In my 15-year-old sturdy, sometimes surly Subaru, we chugged up Teton Pass, headed for Edelweiss bowl on the south side of the pass.
To our surprise, we found a jam packed parking lot at the top of the pass, and just barely managed to squeeze in. As we got ourselves ready — taking longer than normal, rusty from the summer months — Zippy wriggled with excitement.
“C’mon guys, what’s taking you so long, don’t you know it’s ski season again ...” he urged with every inch of his body, nose to tail.
Finally, we were off, skinning for a short distance, before making the first drop of the season — over a patch of grass into an oh-so-buttery glade. Knee-deep powder made for hero turns.
As I floated on the delightfully soft snow, dropping my knees into tele turns, every inch of my body said, “hell yeah, this is what life is all about.”
Martha put that feeling into words, when on the next skin up, to the top of Edelweiss, she said, “Work is always better after a morning of skiing.”
Dense fog and crystal clear sunshine danced with each other on top of Edelweiss. Zippy floundered in the deep powder, gaining little traction in his lanky legs, but nonetheless grinning floppy ear to floppy ear. Martha and I spied our lines, and one at a time, jumped into the bowl below, literally shouting for joy at the apex of each turn.
We took a bet and won — we got a few face shots and not a single core shot, or for that matter even scratch to the bases of our skis.
Down the gut of Edelweiss, we cruised, our legs amazingly strong despite the summer ski lull.
We almost got away with a remarkably fall-less, flawless first day on skis ...
But while setting a skin track back to the parking lot, my skins totally detached from my skis. Snow had gummed onto the bottom of them, rendering what little stickiness they had left useless.
I tried twice to reattach my skins to my skis, with the idea of proceeding gingerly, before I conceded to boot packing.
Thankfully, we only had a couple hundred feet more to climb ... because boot packing in fresh powder ain’t no easy task. I was panting as loud as Zippy by the time we topped out on an established trail that would take us back to the parking lot.
(Note to self: reapply glue to skins before next outing.)
By 10 a.m. we were back at my car, delighted by our morning.
Not bad for a first day, and not bad for October, we thought in chorus.
A few words of wisdom: while Martha and I avoided core shots, the early season snowpack is extremely variable. Hidden rocks, logs and other obstacles abound, so proceed carefully. Also, backcountry skiing has many hazards, most significantly the hazard of avalanches. If you ride the pass, make sure to take with you the proper equipment and know-how.

Welcome winter

2010-10-25T21:34:00.002-08:00

Cory and I cruised up Josie's Ridge after work tonight ... in a blizzard! Zippy and Cory's dog Oscar loved the pow pow. Time to get out the skis ...

Reverberations

2010-10-24T22:42:00.000-08:00

After the Grand Canyon, mom and I spent a night in Zion National Park. We sort of just tacked on the excursion, and little did I know what spectacular country we were headed for.

The day we arrived, we hiked, aka waded, through The Narrows ... a river that winds for miles on end through a narrow canyon. The river is a marked route, and some, like us, make the journey in old tennis shoes and shorts, while others come more prepared - with wet suits and even dry suits. We arrived on a baking hot sunny day, making our methodology for The Narrows fairly manageable, although I was a bit chilled by the time we exited back on to dry ground.

After a night in the luxurious and cozy lodge in Zion National Park, we woke early to hike up to the Emerald Pools. We had the place to ourselves and reveled in its beauty and powerful energy. After a quick breakfast, we set back out on the road, headed first to Salt Lake City, to drop mom off at the airport, then back to Jackson, to be back at work Monday.

All in all, it was an epic, rejuvenating, spectacular mini-vaca to canyon country.

North to south .... to north

2010-10-24T11:59:00.001-08:00

A sign on the Bright Angel trail of the Grand Canyon warns that trying to hike to the river and back in a day is hazardous and should not be attempted ... good thing we didn't do that.

Instead Karen Williams and I ran from the north rim to the south rim and back to the north rim of the Grand Canyon in a spectacular - and sometimes grueling - 17 hours. The round-trip distance closed in on 50 miles and the elevation gain and loss was too intimidating to even calculate.

On the north rim 16 of us Alaskans, former Alaskans and friends of Alaskans congregated for an epically fun couple of days. Everyone went their own speed: there were rim to rimmers, rimer to river to rimers, and the rim to rim to rimmmers.(Of note, my mom and Karen's husband Kent hiked nearly 30 miles, going from the north rim to the river and back!)

We ran/ hiked on Thursday (10/14) and then all hung out and celebrated together on Friday. I spent the better part of Friday sitting on a veranda perched on the north rim, drinking coffee, reading and generally refusing to move. (I let out more than a few grumbles about the idea of walking 0.6 miles to a lookout for sunset, but in the end was lulled into the idea ... and it turned out to be worth the effort).

The highlights were many: reconnecting with friends and meeting new ones; descending in the dark with headlamps; listening to all the off-the-wall comments people made about our endeavor, especially when going back down the south rim and passing the same people we passed on the way up; gorging on a milkshake, hamburger, fries and coffee on the south rim; jumping into the water with all of our clothes on to cool down; crossing the bridge over the river in the bottom of the canyon; sitting with our backs against a sheer cliff admiring the stars overhead and the moonlit canyon below us; and mildly hallucinating, with the sound of water washing over me, reverberating off the canyon walls and then engulfing in me in a peaceful calm.

Our mantra for the day, and for ultrarunning in general, was in the forefront of our thoughts: there's no place I'd rather be than right here, right now, right at this point on the trail.

Let the wind take my troubles away

2010-10-09T07:59:00.001-08:00

The crisp morning air poured through the rolled down window of my car as I snaked toward Teton Canyon outside of Driggs, Idaho.
Out my window poured the song “Windfall” by Son Volt.
“Both feet on the floor, two hands on the wheel, may the wind take your troubles away.”
With each passing mile my “troubles” i.e. the cares and stresses of the week dissolved, replaced by a penetrating inner peace.
Just me and my dog. Just me and my dog headed to the mountains. Just me and my dog headed to the mountains on a dazzling autumn day.
I relished the feeling of having a whole day to follow my creative whims.
The night before I poured over the map and came up with a circular traverse full of possibility. The topographic lines promised passable terrain and the location – a ridge directly to the west of the Grand Teton – hinted at stunning views.
I planned to go up Table Mountain – a hike that’s been on my to do list for some time – but, at the top, rather than retrace my steps, with the Sunday afternoon swarms, I hoped to traverse across to Hurricane Pass and descend via the Alaska Basin Trail.
I’d never been on any of these trails – or lack of trails as was the case for one section of my planned route – and with the extra edge of doing it by myself, the anticipation made me feel alive and free.
I pulled up to the parking lot at the end of Teton Canyon at 11 a.m. It was later in the day than I would have liked, but since I planned to half-hike half-run the route, I still had plenty of time to complete the guesstimated 17 miles before sunset.
There’s two ways to get up Table Mountain: the short and steep route or longer and semi-steep route. I was aiming for the short and steep route, but since only the trailhead for the longer and semi-steep route is marked, that’s where I found myself.
No matter. It followed a river, giving Zippy, my dog plenty of opportunity to hydrate.
(Scroll down to keep reading the day's narrative)

We jogged through aspens groves, bursting with circus colors, winding our way toward a plateau at the end of a basin.
For a long time – due to our late start – Zippy and I had the trail entirely to ourselves; but as we approached the summit of Table, the five-mile single track took on overtones of a highway.
The final section arcs across a sweeping ridge, and people dotted it as far as the eye could see.
Crawling carefully over loose gravel, Zippy and I crested the summit of Table Mountain, elevation 11,106 feet.

If you’ve never sat on Table Mountain on a clear day, you should.
It feels like you can reach your pointer finger out and caress the Grand’s rough, jagged, rock-strewn sides. You feel like a queen on a throne and an ant on a sandcastle – at the exact same time.
We sat up there, under the warmth of early October’s afternoon sun, eating lunch for nearly an hour – I shared some of my almond butter and jelly sandwich with my brown eyed, floppy eared pup, who chowed appreciatively.
Stomachs and spirits full, it was time for the real adventure to begin.

From Table Mountain I had a clear view to Hurricane Pass, and picked out a route and way markers: a snowfield shaped like a V, a grassy knoll and a scree field full of volcanic rocks.
With one last glance at the Grand, I was off. I tiptoed up to the edge of a bluff. Using a steep gully filled with dead grass and a scattering of loose boulders, I picked my way down.
Arriving at the bottom, I knew there was no turning back.
I then set out cross-country, hugging the shade of a few small trees as long as I could, before being funneled into a field of black, abrasive boulders.
As the sun beat down and the rocks baked from below, I began to wish I’d worn sunscreen. Instead I periodically gave Zippy a few gingerly sips of water from my Camelbak.
I then had to make my way up through a rock band that wrapped around most of the mountain side, like a ribbon on a gift.
I found a ravine that looked passable and started scrambling up it, faithful pup in toe. About half way up, loose rock began to drain out from underneath my feet.
Keeping my cool, but admittedly a bit unnerved, I was relieved when both Zippy and I reached semi-horizontal, grass-stabilized ground. (Note: if you attempt this route, there’s a much simpler way to get up, as I later discovered, directly below Hurricane Pass).
A short while later, traversing south, I made my way to Hurricane Pass. My total off-trail time was between one to two hours – I wasn’t keeping close track. The distance covered was a bit more than a mile.
In its own way, Hurricane Pass is every bit as spectacular as Table Mountain. An aqua green glacial lake sits like a gum drop directly below the pass, while the Grand towers above.
As I laced up my shoes, I felt a quiver of excitement. Before me, 10 gentle downhill miles twisted next to North Fork Darby Creek.

I easily found a running rhythm, a rhythm that got interrupted occasionally by a rock formation or waterfall so striking that I had to stop and gawk.
Zippy trotted behind me, his rhythm matching mine … through fields of crackling yellow leaves, past a merry marmot and into a refreshing alpine lake. (I didn’t actually go into the lake despite Zippy’s cajoling and assurances that nothing would feel better).
The sun hovered on the horizon, casting long shadows and soft magical light.

For 9.5 miles I saw no living creature, save that merry marmot.
It was just mom and dog in the mountains on a dazzling autumn day.
By the time we closed in on the last half mile, when we had a few sightings of other human beings, the wind had taken my troubles away, and filled my lungs. I was running faster than I would in a flat 5K.
I took that pace right to the parking lot and into a nearby a river – Zippy’s cajoling at work.

Scrambling toward the summit

2010-10-03T21:28:00.004-08:00

Last weekend Mark, Jennifer and I made it nearly to the top of Teewinot, located on the northern flank of the Grand Teton. We got a late start, and didn't want to get caught downclimbing in the dark, and create an epic for ourselves, so we turned around about 25 minutes from the summit. We made it back to the parking lot just as the light was shimmering into sunset. I'm super excited to try again for the summit, but not making the summit had little to do with the outcome of the day, which by all accounts was extraordinarily satisfying. The view from the rocky perches we scaled of the vast, yellow and orange covered valley below were striking. And the company ... great!

A beautiful morning view

Mark making the climb up

Jennifer

Me on the way up

Our turnaround point

Checking out the final pitch, for next time

We went straight up the gut ... it looks scarier than it turned out to be

Jennifer lovin' the fall colors

On our way out with the Teewinot in the background

An extraordinary sunset

The view of Teewinot from the parking lot

Feelin' a little buggy

2010-10-02T22:35:00.000-08:00

Photos from some recent excursions ...

A reMarkable day

2010-10-02T22:28:00.000-08:00

Last Saturday Captain Mark, or reMarkable, as he later became known, graciously took my mom, our friend from Australia Jane and me down the Snake River Canyon in an oar boat. It was Jane's first time on a raft, and we went into the trip planning to avoid all the rapids, but then Mark jokingly asked if we wanted to hit the meat of the Big Kahuna ... and the rest was whitewater. The fall colors in the canyon were busting as big as the smiles on all of our faces. We saw bald eagles and even a black bear cub ... a first for Mark in the 10 years he's been guiding that section of the river. A truly reMarkable day!

At the end of the trip, we had to push the boat back out into the water to get around some rocks so we could load the boat ... Mark pulled is best Huck Finn.

Not quite steel-toed boots ...

2010-10-02T21:16:00.000-08:00

A couple of weekends ago Zippy and I cruised out of town to hike Mount Taylor. When I got to the trail head, I realized, with an ugh, that I had left my shoes at home. Unwilling to return to the hustle and bustle of town, I examined my options and realized I had only one ... make the 10-mile, several thousand foot hike in flip flops ... so that's what I did. Somehow I managed to keep my battle wounds limited to blisters on the balls of my feet.

There may be something to barefoot hiking and running ... certainly a day out in flip flops worked different muscles than I'm used to using.

Ahhh-tum

2010-10-02T20:33:00.001-08:00

Our local watering hole: The Sand Bar

2010-09-18T20:54:00.001-08:00

Last weekend Karen, Becky and I floated from Pacific Creed to Dead Man on the Snake River ... right at the base of the Tetons. Becky and I shared a canoe, while Karen paddled a kayak. We made the trip around dusk ... with hopes of soft evening colors and active animals. We heard lots of elk bugles and saw a golden eagle. We also visited the local "bar" ... a sand bar in the middle of the Snake River where we savored Becky's fabulous picnic of fig dressing and goat cheese sandwiches, homemade french fries, fresh-baked cookies and ... yes ... red wine - did I mention the stunning early evening views of the Tetons? It was one of those "pinch me" moments ... one of those moments when you think "Do I really live here? Can I really just skirt out of town on a Saturday afternoon and wind up here?" ... one of those moments when you stop to soak in just how amazing this life can be and what great people I get to share it with. And the best part: red wine and all, Becky I made it through the semi-technical sections mostly dry and completely upright. "Just keep paddling," I'd shout as our canoe bounded over rocks and waves.

The tremendous trudge

2010-09-18T20:05:00.000-08:00

Here's some photos from pacing Mike Weston at the Grand Teton 100 miler ... I wrote a little bit about it in the blog post below ... but in essence I got to witness a brand new meaning for perseverance ... in spectacular country surrounded by spectacular people!

Starting out around 7 p.m. up Fred's Mountain ... didn't seem so steep my first time up, but by the second time up it was practically vertical

The sunset on Saturday

I enjoyed this sign ... since there was barely 20 of us out on the course in the middle of the night

In the vicinity of 5 a.m. on Sunday and still smiling

The sunrise at the top of Fred's

One of the most spectacular sights I've seen in a long time ... sunrise on the Tetons!

Just amazing!

Loved the early morning sunlight

At around noon on Sunday I desperately needed an hour of sleep, so I asked Mike's wife, Connie, if she would pace Mike for a three-mile uphill road portion of the course, and I caught a ride to the next aid station for a quick snooze. I literally collapsed in the woods - a stone's throw from the aid station - and was in dreamland within seconds. When I woke up an hour later I felt like a new person ... refreshed and ready to keep on movin'.

Mike's inspiring finish ... 35 hours, 50 seconds ... 10 minutes before the 36-hour cutoff time. What incredible perseverance!

A kiss from Mike's wife Connie

A hug from race director Lisa

Sunday early evening ... basking in Mike's sweet success

Toughness and tenacity

2010-09-13T07:31:00.000-08:00

Last weekend I paced Mike Weston for the last half of the Grand Teton 100 miler ... he showed amazing toughness and tenacity ... finishing in 35 hours, 50 minutes ... 10 minutes before the 36 hour cutoff time ... it literally brought tears to my eyes (and others) to watch him cross the finish line! To view photos of my 20-plus hours out on the trail with him click here.

More on life soon ... and I still haven't forgot about the Leadville race report ... just busy, busy, busy now that I'm back in Jackson Hole ... moving into a new place and working full-time at the newspaper.

- Amy

Sticks, streams and shrunken snowfields

2010-08-26T19:55:00.001-08:00

The Wednesday before Leadville Mom and I went with the pups, Zippy and Ruby, up to Jones Pass for a loop ridge hike (all off trail). A gorgeous day by all accounts, and our furry four-legged friends couldn't have been more delighted with their surroundings ... in fact, the area has sort of become Zippy's stomping grounds this summer, and he showed mom (me) all his favorite sticks, streams and spots ... and was only a bit dismayed to discover his favorite snowfield had significantly shrunk since his last visit, 2 weeks prior.

Leadville: a shudder for the shutter

2010-08-25T07:58:00.001-08:00

The photos of the Leadville 100 that Jeff Best took are live and ready to view. Click here to view all 141 of the photos. Here's a sampling of a few of my favorites!

Breaking the Tape - 100 miles

2010-08-23T11:55:00.004-08:00

Photo by Jeff Best

The Leadville 100: Time of 28 hours, 30 minutes. Third place among women 20-29 years, 28th female finish, 225th finisher out of more than 650 people who started the race!

I'm letting the memories flirt with my mind to conjure up the words to describe the race ... hope to post a detailed description soon. In the meantime you can scan through some of the photos from my mom's camera here. Our good friend, Jeff Best, also came out to help crew and photograph. I'm really looking forward to seeing - and posting - some of the images he captured ... should paint the highs and lows in vivid color. Right now I'm feeling so much at once: loopy, giddy, exhausted, overjoyed, alive!

I received so much support from so many people for this endeavor - there's no way to possibly thank each and every person enough.

It's no understatement to say I couldn't have done it without my crew and pacers. My mom aka "Crew Chief" showed exceptional skill and deft organization. When I showed up at aid stations everything I needed was laid out and ready to go ... and every need was attended to ... including taking off my sweaty gross socks and replacing them with crisp, clean, dry ones. I got in and out of almost every aid station, except for the last one when I needed to regroup, in short order. Dad was master chef, chauffeur and entertainer, as well as the crew chief's sidekick, helping her help me. Jeff, as previously mentioned, took the photographs, helped shuttle vehicles, provided endless words of encouragement and tied up any remaining loose ends. All three of them stayed up ALL NIGHT waiting for me at aid stations.

Rusty saw me through the two toughest sections of the course - my second climbs over Hope and Sugarloaf passes. When my mind started to dwell on how sickeningly tired I was and how sourly painful my feet felt and how many long miles I still had before me and how much I hated gu shots at that moment but couldn't stomach anything solid, he made me think about all that I had to be grateful for: the full moon, my amazing crew, the tools to dig deep ... and he told me one story after another to keep me engaged ... stories of daredevil surfing, harmless youthful antics and healing.

Kevin joined me for a long, beautiful stretch along the Colorado Trail at the base of Mount Elbert and the even longer (mentally) 13 final miles to the finish line. Those last 13 miles were excruciating, and yet also wonderful. At one point I felt so sick it seemed like I would buckle over at any moment, and at the pace I was moving it would have taken decades to go a mile, what alone 13 miles. (I was still putting one foot in front of the other, but just barely). Like a true pro, Kevin got e-caps, food and fluids in me and said just the right things to keep me mentally buoyant. Seemingly miraculously, my body snapped back to life and we were able to break into a steady power hike all the way to the finish. The grace and poise Kevin brought to those last 13 miles will not be forgotten.

Mark and Pam Macy also get major kudos - and a little bit of the blame for this whole thing. Back in 1988 Mark Macy ran the Leadville 100 for his first time (he's done it many times since) and my parents paced him. One of my earliest memories is being at Leadville, watching flashlights bounce through the night, and my mom explaining to me that those people had been running all day and all night long. Part of my motivation for signing up for Leadville was definitely nostalgic - my mom actually gave me her Leadville race shirt from 1988 (see post-race photos ... I'm wearing it!). Beyond being the initial inspiration, Mark also spent a couple of hours with me before the race giving me tips and tricks for how to get to the finish line, AND he cared for my blistered, sweaty feet in the middle of the night. (Mark and Pam were at Leadville this year crewing for someone else).

A tremendous thank you also goes to all of my Alaska ultra friends. There's no way I would have had the courage to put my toe on the starting line, what alone cross the finish line without you all. From that first blistering cold winter night on Bear Mountain when I came out for a Monday night run to every trail mile since, you all have been nothing but supportive, inspirational and fun. You all made training for Leadville an exceptionally wonderful experience.

To everyone who called, texted, e-mailed, Facebooked ... wow! WOW! I think I'm going to forget about my birthday altogether, and instead run 100 miles every year. I so enjoyed all the little notes, thoughts, conversations, prayers and words of encouragement. I got reconnect with folks I haven't talked to in a long time - and touch base with those I see more frequently. The feeling of being supported was through the roof.

Like I said at the beginning, I'll get a race report up just as soon as I process the experience myself.

With love,

Amy

A good day is ...

2010-08-22T20:10:00.003-08:00

crossing the finish line at the Leadville 100. What a feeling! Loopy, giddy, exhausted, overjoyed, alive! More to come soon. Sleep beckons.

Granite walls and falls

2010-08-16T19:30:00.001-08:00

Last week Jeff and I headed out for a few days of climbing at Independence Pass. The weather didn't totally cooperate, but we still got some good time on crags (my new learned word of the week!) and camped next to this totally cool waterfall that sculpted all of these amazing granite rock formations. Plus, it was nice to just have some total down time ... much needed time for reflection as this amazing whirlwind of a summer wraps up and the next chapter (aka autumn) inches open.

Sweet altitude

2010-08-16T18:54:00.001-08:00

Upon my return to Colorado at the beginning of August, Zippy and I took a five-day mini running vacation in Leadville ... learning the lay of the land for the race (this weekend!) and altitude-izing. Leadville is at 10,000 feet and sits at the base of a couple of Colorado's highest peaks ... Mount Elbert and Mount Massive ... both of which Zippy and I did loop runs on ... up one side to the peak, down the other, and then around the base back to the start. We also checked out Hope Pass and Sugarloaf Pass ... the high points on the race course and did an afternoon run along Turquoise Lake.

On top of the time soaring through Colorado's high peaks ... I enjoyed hanging out in the hostel ... the majority of guests were in town training, like me, either for the mountain bike race or the running race ... so the comrarderie was through the roof. We all spent our days training and our evenings talking racing strategy ... who knew you could analyze the minutia to such a degree? I actually had to remind myself: "It's just running." And the way I look at the race: "How cool ... I get to run all day long." That's that.

On a random note ... I stopped into the outdoor store in Leadville to pick up a few things, and behind the cash register was none other than Christine, a former fellow Alaska Pacific University student. It took us a couple of seconds to place each other - it was that unexpected and out of context. She invited me over for an excellent dinner with some friends, and about half way through Tiffany shows up ... also a former fellow APU student. She just moved to Leadville from NYC two weeks ago. We had a really fun time talking and catching up. Sometimes life is so random and wonderful.

50 relatives in 5 days

2010-08-16T17:14:00.001-08:00

At the end of August I had a chance to reconnect with relatives from both my dad's and mom's side - first the Hammerson family reunion in State College, PA in honor of my Great Uncle Milt's 100th birthday, then on to the Pittsburgh area for the Scopel family reunion and time with my mom's side of the family. I loved seeing everyone, even if I did manage to slip and stumble over words every time someone asked me where I live ... hmmm ... this whole happily homeless thing ... not the easiest to explain. But, hey, in two weeks I'll be back to paying rent ... in Jackson Hole (for the record) ... and the glory days will be gone ... for now (but not forever) ... still plenty of that free spirit in me to keep on sailin' for a long time to come.

Click here for photos of the Hammerson family reunion

Click here for photos of the Scopel family reunion

(P.S. a big shout out to my cousin Susie who claims to be my most avid blog reader ... checks it daily she says ... sometimes even before getting the latest gossip on the big celebs ... I'm truly honored).

Chugiak's Colorfully Clad Clan

2010-08-14T19:39:00.000-08:00

(Note: this article appeared in the Aug. 5, 2010, edition of the Alaska Star ... and I had a hellah a good time with it)

STORY AND PHOTOS BY AMY SCHENCK
Alaska Star

The second Monday of every month, vibrant elderly ladies gather at the Chugiak-Eagle River Senior Center.
They eat, they laugh, they talk – and they don red-brimmed hats, billowing purple blouses, showy costume jewelry and downright regal feathers.
Despite all appearances, this isn't a chapter of the Red Hat Society, the national organization devoted to "greeting middle age with verve, humor and élan."
True to this group's rebellious nature, these are the Red Hat Renegades.
"We like being the Renegades," Sarah Mitchell said.
"We're an unruly bunch," Lola Norris chimed in.
"Plus, we're just fun," noted Mary Linda Pryor.
When you catch these ladies in a more matter-of-fact moment, they'll explain that the underlying reason for not being official Red Hats is that there's not enough bang for the buck. Living in Alaska, they don't have access to the promotions and other benefits offered to Lower 48'ers.
Many locals may know the Renegades from their numerous appearances in Chugiak's Fourth of July Parade. The colorfully clad gals ride down the Old Glenn Highway sitting on hay bales in the back of a horse-drawn wagon. They've won many awards for this parade entry, all of which hang proudly on the wall of the sunlit room in the Denali View building where the Renegades meet.
But this year the ladies decided not to participate in the parade.
"We decided to give someone else a chance," Sybelle Wilson said.
And then the real reason came out. It was just too difficult for many of the ladies to climb up into the wagon.
The Renegades don't beat around the bush about the fact they're getting up there in years. And sometimes their age is even the subject of some jest.
Early in the meeting, the ladies discussed the idea of buying water jugs.
"What we want to do is tell people to drink water so they don't get dehydrated," Wilson explained.
As Mitchell noted that she's better about drinking her eight glasses of water a day if she has a bottle right next to her, Marie Kirchner leaned over and whispered:
"If we're not old enough now to know to drink water ..." she said, trailing off with a laugh.
Each lady brings at least $1 to every meeting to put in the Renegade's coffers. The funds go to various projects – everything from buying socks for Covenant House and making donations to the Food Bank to renting the wagon for the parade. As of July 12, the Renegades had collected $212.20, as reported during their short business session at the beginning of their gathering.
After going through business items and eating a snack, the Renegades spend the remainder of their gatherings listening to a speaker or engaging in some sort of activity. At their last meeting Susan Scheunemann, visiting from Alabama, brought Mardi Gras beads to lead a craft project.
Using scissors, the Renegades cut up some of the necklaces and attached the pieces to the main necklace to create a dazzling accessory that somehow matched all of their outfits, perfectly.
As they crafted, they chatted. They talked about their collections – key chains, angels, frogs and snowmen – and their farm-girl days.
"I'm a hillbilly – born and bred hillbilly," Mitchell announced.
She recalled her first encounter with the Renegades.
"When I first moved in, I heard these people having the best time for a couple of hours. And I said, 'I've got to find out what's going on. Is there a bar or something?'" she said. "It was the Red Hats."
Cathy Platel, president of the group, commented that one of the best aspects of the Renegades is that it gives the ladies something to look forward to. Life at the senior center – where many of the Renegades are residents – can be very much the same day after day, she said.
"It makes us stretch ourselves," she said. "That's awfully important in a place like this, it really is," she said.
Eventually another meeting of the Red Hat Renegades drew to a close, and was pronounced a success.
"Well girls, this was lovely meeting. Scrumptious food," Pryor said.

Nuttin' like New York

2010-08-09T17:34:00.001-08:00

In July I went to visit my very dear Joanna who lives in New York City. Joanna and I met at summer camp in 7th grade and have been soul sisters ever since. We try to get together at least once a year. Last year she joined me on a couple of epic and breathtaking backcountry adventures in Alaska, so this year it was my turn to visit the Big Apple. As I'd already made the trek to NYC once before to visit Joanna, we'd already toured the "main attractions." So this time it was all about just being in the city. We ate all sorts of exotic food, got our hair cut, went to see Stomp, ran along the Hudson River and through Central Park, and yes even shopped. We also stayed up until 5 a.m. one "night" talking, talking, talking ... and then decided that since it was starting to get light out, it would be a perfect time to go for a 2 1/2 hour run ... deliriously laughing the whole time at our sheer ridiculousness!

New York, New York

My first night in NYC Joanna and I went to a free dance performance in Central Park. It was absolutely amazing until ...

the heavens let loose on us. Although, in many ways, watching New Yorkers get drenched is even more entertaining than watching an incredibly talented dance company. It was chaos ... people screaming, rain pounding, lightening striking, wind howling and more people screaming.

Joanna and I, on the other hand, delighted in the downpour.

Let me translate: community classes on how to get rid of rats. Sounds like hoot! (Note: this was posted on the door of Joanna's apartment).

Truly a waste of water, but also a quintessential NY scene

A typical summer gathering on the block in Harlem where Joanna lives

Gelato in the Chelsea Market ... Yum!

Joanna and mango lasses

We ate at this totally authentic and a little bit eccentric Indian restaurant known for its ceiling covered in chili pepper and Christmas lights

Joanna, how do you feel about being stuck for an hour on a broken down subway?

Holy freakin' cow ... it was humid, and hot ... this place has marketing figured out

Vietnamese sandwiches and bubble tea ... Delicious!!!

The Brooklyn Bridge

Looking good girl ... on this day we took the subway to Brooklyn to see what will soon be Joanna's new apartment and then walked the Brooklyn Bridge back to Manhattan

Cool view

A mountain chica in the city

The statue of liberty in the distance

Night time in NY

Oh geez ... we must be sisters in spirit ... we have the same shirt ... which we both proceeded to whip out in the overly A/Ced Ethiopian restaurant

Tundra, textured peaks and a truly divine 45-mile day

2010-07-22T09:07:00.001-08:00

Sunday was just one of those days - one of those days that imprints vividly in your mind, and 10 years from now you'll still be talking about it.

On Sunday morning I showed up at Darren's house bright and early. We had narrowed down our plans for the day to 10-12 hours in the Talkeetnas - but exactly where or what to do in the Talkeetnas was a matter of some debate. We had eyeballed a few routes, and in that groggy early morning hour were also painfully aware of the rain pouring outside.

After fumbling for too long with computer mapping programs and an Alaska Atlas we settled on Chitna Pass, entering via Hicks Creek and exiting via Boulder Creek. We liked this route because: 1) about half of it was on four-wheeler trails, avoiding a lot of wet bushwacking and poor-visibility route finding and 2) it looked to be about 40 miles - perfect for the type of training I wanted to do.

By the time it was all said and done, the GPS clocked 46 miles and the watch read 13 1/2 hours.

We met Abby at the trailhead on the Glenn Highway, and after setting a shuttle took off. According to some sort of deranged logic that to me made quite a bit of practical sense, I decided I wanted to do the trip on tired legs. Good training for 100 miles, right? So the day prior I ran the fairly arduous 24 miles of Crow Pass, and three days prior completed a 20-mile loop on the Kenai Peninsula.

Darren and Abby - avid adventure racers - started out the morning at a brisk pace, chatting, talking and generally enjoying their fresh legs. I trotted a few steps behind, half cursing my "bright idea" - but trying to dwell on the spectacular scenery rather than aching thighs.

We soon cleared brushy lowlands, climbing up into endlessly wide-open caribou-filled tundra. We followed a muddy half-flooded four-wheeler trail. Not five miles in, my tired legs slipped out from underneath me and I landed with a splat in a thick mud puddle. From that point on I gave up any pretense of trying to stay clean - and besides with the 20-plus river crossings we completed by day's end, there would be plenty of opportunity to rinse off.

We cruised along the tundra until coming upon the banks of Caribou Creek. At the braided blue river we took a hard left, and began the trek upstream. For awhile the trail was easy to follow - but then it started to branch out and peter out, simultaneously. And so started the somewhat unexpected route finding. The next several miles proved to be a mix of following caribou trails, river sandbars, old mining roads, and yes even a bit of shwacking. At one point we made a poor route choice, costing us an estimated 45 minutes, but we took comfort in the fact that we didn't have to backtrack - and still found our way up toward Chitna Pass.

Chitna Pass is referred to as the poor man's Brooks Range. And while I haven't seen the Brooks Range - I can attest the reputation is more than deserved. It is breathtakingly spectacular, made more so by low-angle sun. It's a place that flirts with your imagination, conjuring up fairy tales and romance and the type of happiness that pierces right down to the soul. It's a place you would go to die, a place to be born, and most definitely a place to feel alive. Running up there made me want to run like a little kid - totally free of everything but the now-ness of it all. I wanted to reach out with my pointer finger and feel the rough, red texture of the high peaks and the soft, enticing green of the grass. And as our feet soared down a strikingly narrow moraine, leading us - like a grand stairway - away from this piece of heaven, I stole glances back, hanging on as long as I possibly could.

We popped out onto Boulder Creek's expansive braids. Afternoon was giving way to evening, and we still had a good 20 miles of ground to cover. We broke into a fragmented trot on the river's pebble-strewn sand bars. Each time the river rounded a bend, we had to cross swift and icy water. Shivers were starting to wash over my body, and yet I didn't altogether mind these regular ice baths - they soothed the wretchedly tired muscles in my legs.

As we pounded out mile after mile along the river, Darren seemed to catch his second wind (Or maybe it was his third or fourth wind?). He cruised along effortlessly, telling stories and jokes, and even stopping to chat with a group of campers we encountered - telling Abby and I he'd catch up. I followed him like a beacon - a beacon of endless energy that somehow kept me jogging forward.

When Darren, Abby and I set out on this adventure, we had guesstimated it would take us 10 hours. As the 10-hour mark came and then quickly went, we took stock of our food. Between the three of us we had enough to keep from totally bonking, but not so much as to be indulgent. Four or five miles before the end we took our one and only stop for the day. Huddling together, we each pulled out our last prized piece of food: a string cheese, a Nutrigrain bar and best of all a Ziploc of smashed salt and vinegar Pringles. We split everything into thirds. Then we devoured the food, somehow still managing to savor every crystal of salt and ounce of fat.

(Note: we kept two Gu shots in case of emergency).

At about this time, as the light took on dusk-ish tones, I began to see - for fleeting moments - a Pegasus running through the woods, a Buddha on a mountaintop and a dragon flying out of a tree. I let my mind ride with it, enjoying the shape-shifting world around me.

Also, about this time, we decided to play a memory game - one of those games where you have to repeat what the people before you said, and then add something of your own. "I went to Grandma's house and on her table was ..." Of course, at this point in the day, it would be a food-centered memory game. The list started off: "Apple, bear scatt, cheese cake ... " We went through three full rounds before it dawned on me - and I blurted out: "Oh, is this an alphabet game?" Somehow, unwittingly, I had managed to choose "cheese cake" for the letter "C" and "french fries" for the letter "F" with absolutely no consciousness of what I was doing ... I was just saying what sounded tasty to me in that moment. Needless to say, we got a good giggle over that one.

EVENTUALLY, at around midnight, as the last glow of day departed, we popped out onto the Glenn Highway. (Although, it's somewhat humorous to note - in retrospect - that even though there's only one highway that runs through that area, we weren't totally convinced it was the Glenn). We were unsure of which direction we needed to go to get to our car - but knew we had to be close. We flagged someone down for directions - who graciously offered to drive us to the car. As we collapsed in the back of his truck, we each let out a little mumble about how divine it felt to sit down.

When we got to our car - a mile or two away - the toughest part of the day was just beginning. All three of us had to be to work the following morning - Abby at 7 a.m. - and a two-hour drive stared us in the face. I tried to stay awake to keep Abby company, but didn't truly succeed until after Palmer - when we stopped at a 24-hour grocery store for dinner. I ended up with truly delicious cold chicken strips, a bag of chips and a banana. By the time I showered, my head didn't hit the pillow until 3 a.m., but I slept the sleep of a deeply exhausted, deeply contented being.

(Click to enlarge)

Lovely lupine, and so much more

2010-07-21T21:01:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago I hiked with Matt and his amazing 4-year-old son Jack up Ram Valley. Jack is a trooper - he covered some mileage. And Matt is a photographer - he took some great photos of the evening ... here's two of my favorites. Whether traversing mountains slow or fast, there's always so much to explore and take in.

Clocking the miles on Crow

2010-07-21T20:45:00.000-08:00

Saturday a group of us ladies ran Crow Pass. For a couple of the ladies it was their first time traversing the 24-mile trail - and like the rest of us - immediately fell in love with the glacier-caked peaks, wide braided river crossing, lush tundra and in some weird way even the long stretch of overgrown devil's club and cow parsnip.

I'm a bit bummed to be missing the Crow Pass Crossing race this year. It was initially scheduled for last weekend, but then they bumped the date back a week - and I flew out of Alaska last night. So it goes ... Should be a good race this year. Some pretty fierce competitors are signed up.

The elements

2010-07-16T17:10:00.003-08:00

Last weekend Scott and I ran from the Glenn Alps trailhead up Flat Top, along the ridge to Ptarmigan peak, dropped down to Rabbit Lake and ran out to Potter Marsh. Super fun loop - but could have done without being lambasted by wind, rain and snow (reminded me of weather in Patagonia). The upshot was the cool cloud formations - that I felt possessed to mimic!

Tails and trails

2010-07-16T16:41:00.002-08:00

Yesterday Brad and I, and four pups - Tana, Roxy, August and Lady - headed up Summit Pass, dropped onto the Resurrection Pass trail, and looped back to the highway via Devil's Pass. Another truly great day out on the trail!

This is why ...

2010-07-11T22:48:00.001-08:00

I've been known on more than one occasion to affectionately refer to my pup as "Goofball." My mom and dad - who are taking care of Zippy while I'm in Alaska - just sent me this photo. He's snoozing while lying (if you can call it that) in the captain seats of my parent's van on the way home from a hike.