I missed you. I wish I could find a happy medium between the spells where I feel like I have nothing interesting to say with all the time to say it and so much to tell you, but I can't even get to the computer. Lately I have been on the latter swing.
I've been coordinating the elements for a Backcountry Snow Race. The racers can snowshoe or ski the course. The first day is almost 11 miles, and the second day is about 6 miles. People are going to camp overnight at the Ft. Wilkins organizational campground. I'm pretty pumped about this event. The winter trails are so majestic, that they need to be showcased.
A few days ago, I snowshoed up Paul's Plunge, up East Vein Rd. and down the Kamikaze Loop (all parts of the race course). That trek was about 5 miles. It was quite exhilarating... when I started. But after breaking trail for the last half of the hike, I began to get quite antsy for home. I would look to the North (please let that be North. I think that's North) in hopes of seeing Lake Fanny Hooe. Not just because she's a leading lady in my life, but because that meant I could get off the trail, cross the lake and walk the highway home. Mmmm, solid ground.
There it was. Right down there. I see trees close, and trees far, so the lake must be in the middle. I've got to be there by now. So I ducked and goosed my way through the trees and more snow to the ridge line that would take me down. When I got there, however, the way down was was a much different angle. By the lake, the landscape angles down steeply to the water. But I was too far East, I realized, when I only saw the creek that was be between Lake Fanny Hooe and Mud Lake. The way down was a cliff. I decided not to plunge to my death, turned back around and, with the help of Duce, found my way to the never-ending Kamikaze trail.
At least North was where I thought it was. I found myself doubting, well, myself, almost half the time I was walking down the trail. And since it's on a ridge that drops down to the lake, I had it set in my mind that I could not possibly get lost. I wasn't really lost on land, but I sure was in my head, and that makes the journey seem that much longer.
I wanted to lay in the snow and take a nap. Why was I doing this to myself without another human being? The last time I snowshoed Kamikaze with another lady in town, Nancy, and we did it the opposite direction. The horrible, grueling, uphill for 3/4 of the way direction. We were in a blizzard, and the water in my bottle was turning to ice. That day, I wanted to give up so bad, and I was sure we were lost. That Nancy, though, she just kept keeping on, and lead me to safety.
When I think back to my past adventures, I am amazed at how the land up here has changed my mind and body. Each year I can see myself progress on many levels. And I know it's because I am here, in this wilderness that never ceases to amaze me and kick my butt. I am grateful for every moment we share.