Finishing my 48

We hunkered down behind some rocks at the summit of Mt. Jefferson. The wind was chilly for August 12 but the sun was still warm. Below us a dozen hikers were hanging out on Monticello’s Lawn, a grassy area at the intersection of Caps Ridge and Castle trails. A guy in shorts and a t-shirt was scrambling over the rocks at the summit nearby, talking to anybody who would listen.

“Wow, this is great,” he said. “This is my 48^th! I finished my 48!” People on the lawn below cheered for him.

I smiled at my partner, John, and we congratulated the guy. Then I took the man’s phone and snapped some photos of him, beaming and with his arms held high, Mt. Washington looming behind him.

It was my finish too, my last of the 48, 4,000-foot peaks in New Hampshire, a quest I began some 16 years before when I climbed Pierce and Jackson with three of my then-preteen daughters. At the time I thought it was ridiculous to jot the date down in the back pages of my White Mountain Guide because the list of 4,000 footers was long and I was in peak parenting mode, not peak bagging mode. There were soccer games and dance competitions to attend in 2007. I couldn’t imagine devoting time to the frivolous pursuit of hiking.

History of the 48 Footers

The idea of a list of 4,000 footers, and rules to govern their qualification (look up “prominence” to learn more) started in the 1930s, according to the Appalachian Mountain Club’s website. The list wasn’t refined and widely disseminated until the mid-1950s, when people had wider access to motor vehicles and more time off work. That’s when hiking took off, and the club has kept a list of finishers – as well as lists of other lists, such as those who finish all 48 in winter, or those who hike all 67 of New England’s 4,000 footers. Those who are interested can submit their completion dates for documentation and attend an annual dinner of the 4000 Footers Club held by the AMC each spring. They can also wear a patch designating them as members of the group, which in 2019 numbered over 14,000 (and 324 dogs!).

I never openly aspired to join that elite club. Over the years I’d rediscover the White Mountains guidebook among my hiking and camping gear and jot down another date next to the name of a significant peak. I was hiking about one a year. In 2014 I checked off the Bonds and Zealand while on an overnight with a big group, and the next year my sister-in-law and I climbed Franconia Ridge. The list of 48 was slowly whittling down but I still couldn’t envision the day that I’d fill in the last line on the list.

Hiking Madison and Adams alone in June 2019 was a big milestone. I made mistakes (forgot hiking socks, for one!), talked to myself a lot, got smoked by another female hiker, and could barely walk by the time I reached my car. But my kids were grown and I felt like hiking was something I could do – that I might actually finish that list of 48 someday. I had dates next to almost a dozen of the peaks by then, 12 years into my occasional quest for the 48.

Lessons Learned

Since meeting my partner John about 15 months ago the challenge to finish my 48 shifted into high gear. He’s an OG of the mountains who has almost completed the New England 67 Grid (that’s the 67 tallest in the region, summited in each month of the year, for over 800 total peaks) as well as other feats like the Colorado Trail and nearly all of that state’s 14,000 footers. Together we hiked all last fall, winter, and spring, knocking off dozens of the mountains remaining on my list of 48 and then some. As of this writing I’m a weekend away from finishing the New England 67 highest.

In the last year hiking became more than a quest to check off the list in the back of the guidebook. It cemented our relationship, developed my outdoors skills, made me fall in love with winter again, and reminded me that I’m not to old to learn a few things.

One thing I learned was that it’s not always the right time to summit. In February we attempted to climb Mt. Jefferson via the Jewel and Gulfside trails. Wind was roaring up through the Gulf between Mt. Washington and Mt. Clay, blowing us sideways, almost off our feet. Although the day was otherwise sunny and I was never uncomfortably cold, I couldn’t maintain the stamina needed to reach the peak. We were within sight of the top when I told John we had to turn around. I didn’t want to create a problem for myself or for him by pushing beyond my limits. The mountain would be there another day.

My layering game is totally on point now. Historically, I’d overdress or get blisters from doubling up socks but there’s nothing like a ton of practice to iron out the wrinkles, and comfort is of primary importance. Now I wear multiple thin layers of techwick-type tops according to the outside temperature. When it’s cold I’ll add an EMS ascent full-zip hooded fleece under a solid insulated polypro vest (also EMS) (for most hikes near or under 30 degrees). Keeping the same layers packed in my duffel makes hiking every weekend a breeze because the habit eliminates guesswork and decisions.

Nutrition on the trail has been nailed down and simplified. There’s nothing like a frozen PBJ in the shelter of a rock on a summit to make me feel like a real hiker. But that’s not all I pack, because I’ve learned through trial and error that I need plenty of replenishing electrolytes as well as gels to ingest a steady supply of calories, starting in the first hour of any outing. Skipping snacks results in poor performance on my part (and might have spiked my first attempt on Jefferson last winter).

Proper footwear continues to be my obsession. I’ve blogged about trying to find the right running shoes for many years, and the quest continues with hikers. I have bunions that can be painful if my boots are ill fitting, but I’ve finally settled (like Goldilocks) on a system of KT Tape and toe socks that alleviate much of that problem. Still, I have four pairs of hiking boots and shoes that provide varying levels of support and cushion, giving me plenty to fuss over before, during, and after each outing.

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Rosy Memories

It took me a long time to understand John’s compulsion to hike every weekend, but I think I have the answer. It’s not about memories of individual events like skiing down Sawyer River Road on rubbery legs after summiting Carrigain. It’s the addicting glory of witnessing the sun poking through the clouds on a summit, the feeling of accomplishment at the end, and the unspoken privilege of waking up and doing it again the next morning on sore legs and in wet boots because we can.

Even so, I have favorite memories of hiking the 48, like hand feeding the grayjays on the Hancocks, powerwalking the last few miles of the 14-mile roundtrip to Owl’s Head so we’d average two miles an hour; the bluest of blue skies above the snowy and challenging summit of Whiteface in winter, and the wild feather-shaped rime ice formations on the summit of Garfield on a freeze-your-nose January day.

August 12 was the day of my 48^th, but it wasn’t my final mountain. We’re still hiking because it’s now our lifestyle, not just a short-term goal.

Winter hiking: Why wasn’t I cold?

We were struggling up Mt. Jefferson, a 5,712-foot peak on the Presidential Range in New Hampshire. It’s the third-highest peak in the state and spitting distance to Mt. Washington, which is the tallest at 6,288 ft. I had to take a break, again. John leaned in and said, “If you can’t do it, there’s no shame. I’ve turned around before. The mountain will be there another day.”

The struggle we faced was not the elevation of the trails we chose, which were long but not particularly steep. There was ice, but it was spotty. One of the major issues was the wind. It was trying to relocate us to Vermont, I believe, if not Albany. Each step forward required more strength than usual, even when equipped with spikes and hiking poles. The wind pushed and twisted my body, redirecting my feet involuntarily to places I didn’t want to go. Sometimes it threatened to lay me flat.

According to the Mt Washington Observatory, we were dealing with winds around 40 mph with gusts as high as 52. It felt like 75 mph but after a certain point you just deal with each step rather than trying to classify the pressure on your body in relation to previous gusts.

I was fascinated by the way the gusts roared up from the Great Gulf, a giant hole between Washington and Jefferson (and Clay, also on the same ridge). Of course it made me think about sailing and what decision I’d make about facing that kind of wind on the sea. Once when the trail turned and the wind shifted, coming behind us, John said, “get the spinnaker out!”

Other times the wind was terrifying. I thought about my flagging energy level, which was the second major issue on this hike. My legs felt heavy and lacked bounce. I was even light-headed at times. The more I focused on the difficulty I was having putting one foot in front of the other the worse I felt. The bare summit stood before us, up a boulder-strewn slope that seemed insurmountable. I wondered if I had the energy to turn around and make it back to the parking lot. I really, really wished I had found time to purchase some Gu, or energy gels, which usually make a tough hike achievable for me. Even after all these years (decades?) of half marathons, trail runs, cycling, and life, I’m still learning about managing my energy levels.

Mountain hiking of the sort John and I have done since September is one of the most physically demanding pursuits I’ve encountered. We’ve reached the summits of 19 of New Hampshire’s 4,000 foot peaks, three of Vermont’s 4,000 foot peaks, and four of Maine’s since early September. Twenty six (26!!) significant peaks in five months is not just remarkable for me, it’s been life-changing (rounding, that’s over 160 miles at approx 2 mph, so we’ve spent something like 80 hours hiking).

But darnit, Jefferson would not be inked in the back of my White Mountains Guidebook when we got back to my apartment. We turned around.

My rationalization was that I’m not a real four-season hiker until I’ve tasted defeat. Am I right? It’s also about being responsible and in control, acknowledging that it could be dangerous to me and others to continue when I felt the way I did. The sting is that we were only about a mile from the summit and could see it. And I should have found a place to buy some gels that might have kept me going.

So, what does all this have to do with the title?? I wasn’t cold the whole time (with the exception of my fingertips). With those wind speeds and air temps around freezing, the wind chill was at about zero degrees all day. We saw a couple of other people zipped up to their noses and clad in windproof shells. At least one group we encountered turned around when they got above treeline and felt the wind.

My outermost layers were an EMS Ascent fleece hoodie (full zip) and an EMS poly vest. It made no sense to either of us that I wasn’t cold. Layered under the Ascent hoodie and vest were two EMS techwick “sweatshirts” (quarter zip) — one that’s at least 14 years old and very well worn — and beneath those, a lightweight techwick long sleeve t-shirt. On the bottom I wore my really old Nike winter running tights and (yes, EMS again!) EMS Endo pants (a favorite for cross country skiing), then knee-high gaiters, Hoka boots and Hillsounds spikes.

That’s a total of five breathable layers (plus a cute Patagonia beanie in complimentary colors). The Ascent hoodie has some wind blocking properties, and of course the nylon/poly vest does as well, but they’re not a puffy jacket under a hard shell, which is just what I’d recommend to people contemplating the hike in similar conditions.

I’m mystified. I certainly don’t run hot regularly. My reason for layering this way is actually to be able to vent when necessary. It’s hard for me to follow the dictum to “go out cold” and adjust layers as needed. My primary concern is being able to unzip and breathe when I’m climbing, and I typically unzip most of the layers during our ascents. Getting my insulated Camelbak drinking tube inside one or more layer to keep it thawed is another concern. Yesterday all I had was Nuun tablets in my hydration pack to supply the energy I needed to make it up the mountain and it clearly wasn’t enough.

So, the 9-mile hike with 3600-foot ascent wasn’t a total flop. Maybe Jefferson will be my final 4,000 footer sometime in the spring, just to put the frustrating episode behind me. And now I really do practice what I preach when it comes to self-preservation.

You can’t throw caution to the wind in the high peaks.

Solo sailing and leveling up

I gathered a bunch of snacks by the companionway door, put a bottle of water and a couple of store-bought iced teas with them … and a pee cup. I was off on my first solo coastal sailing trip, from New Bedford MA to Newport RI, not nervous as much as wary that I had likely overlooked a few details. Like having my handheld VHF nearby. At least I had my PFD on (for the first time on my 10 day boat-based vacation).

Sure, this isn’t the solo around-the-world voyage of Joshua Slocum (pre-1900) but it’s an important first step for me. I bought the sailboat last summer and have learned a LOT. It challenges my decision to seek experiences that expand my world and test my skills. The first step was deciding not to wait for someone to have a day off to sail with me.

When I told my yacht club’s salty commodore that I planned to sail to Martha’s Vineyard, he said, “That’s more sailing than most people in this club ever do!” But why own a boat if you don’t use it to go to the places you love? So with John’s help and support Esmeralda made it to the Vineyard in a casual, three-day trip punctuated by a moment of horror when in Wood’s Hole a megayacht’s wake broke over the cabin top. But that was soon forgotten as we had an amazing vacation: going to concerts, skinnydipping, stargazing on the deck, and biking around the island all week.

When he and Grace had to go back to work on Monday I took a deep breath and stepped up. I wasn’t going to wait for someone to meet me in New Bedford. I’d done this leg along the coast several times and it was pretty straightforward (just once with Grace on Esmeralda but many times in the past with my ex-husband on our Catalina 36, Ceilidh). In fact it was probably the best opportunity for a solo trip. And I have to thank all of those who participate in the Women Who Sail social media page that boosted my confidence.

Leaving New Bedford went like clockwork. I got my fenders and docklines stowed like I’d done this all before. I got through the hurricane barrier as the incoming tide slackened. I knew my route. I reassured myself this was just like sailing with Grace or John or Terry because I was still calling the shots. Of course I know how to sail it by myself. And nobody argued with me.

After turning into the wind and raising my mainsail, I pointed Esmeralda, my Catalina 25, down the channel toward the west end of Buzzard’s Bay. I had put a lot of thought into my route given that the NE wind that blew us into New Bedford the day before had clocked around to SW, directly on the nose. There’s nothing that can be done about the wind but to plan accordingly. I hoped to cross the bay with the wind on a starboard reach, then turn west and keep it just to port.

It was a Monday, so boat traffic was light. In fact I saw no commercial ships to speak of, just a few large pleasure craft (sailing and powering). As I neared the Elizabeth Islands I considered going through Robinson’s Hole, the gap between two of them, to get south of Cuttyhunk and make Newport more of a straight shot west. I still wish I had. Instead I stayed north of Cuttyhunk and got a bit hung up on the Hens and Chickens rocks outside of the Westport River. I just couldn’t steer southwest enough – into the wind – to clear them, so I had to tack close to Cuttyhunk to get around them. That took a bite out of my allotted travel time.

Traveling alone was pretty boring. There wasn’t much to distract me, and the coastal milestones crept by at a glacial pace. I’d avoid looking to the north as much as possible so I didn’t have to see that the same town was still in approximately the same place I’d seen it 15 minutes before. I had to remind myself that I was making progress.

The wind wasn’t as strong as I’d hoped but the waves were small. I had steered through some gusty stuff getting the boat up to 7 whole knots a few times (woohoo!), and wanted more of that to make the passage quicker. I knew the tradeoff would be more stress but once the hours started to mount I worried about getting to Newport while there was light enough to navigate. All of the currents were with me but my rig just isn’t tall enough to push my boat very fast when there’s less than 10 or 12 knots of consistent wind. I was averaging about 3.5 kts. The trip would be just about 40 nautical miles. And I was relying on my phone for the entirety of my electronic navigation.

I hated to do so but cranked up the engine before I reached the Sakonnet River, east of Newport. It was nearly 5 p.m., I’d been out there about 7 hours, and I knew I still had some distance to travel. The push from the engine, in addition to the sails, put me at or over 5 kts. I got to the east entrance to Newport around 7 p.m. with a big tanker looming over my left shoulder. It was dusk. So of course this is when my phone froze and I had to dive below to turn on my running lights. That way I’d be legal in the eyes of the Coast Guard even if I got crushed by the massive ship bearing down on me.

Then I had to find and secure my mooring in the dark. So. Much. Fun.

In the middle of the channel between Jamestown and Newport I looked up and saw a sliver of moon over the fading colors of the sunset. I had to grab a photo to remember that night. It turned out beautifully.

My daughter Paige and granddaughter Alice met me in Jamestown for a sleepover on the boat. Rowing them out to the mooring distracted me from the feeling that I still wanted to vomit from the stress of the trip.

As we rocked to sleep my headache dissipated, my shoulders relaxed, and my arms stopped aching from the day-long death grip on the tiller. I laid there feeling full – of happiness or pride or something else I’m unfamiliar with — knowing I’d done it.

Life After Fitbit

I was leaning over the back of my boat, trying to start the outboard when my watch popped off and dove in. Within seconds it had slipped beneath the coffee-colored water and disappeared.

Thus began Life After Fitbit.

When the watch was gone I felt badly but not too badly. One of my daughters was right next to me – she’d arranged it as a group gift for someone (me) who doesn’t want anything but can’t get enough of fitness gizmos and data. That’s the part that made me feel bad.

On the other hand, literally, it was a relief of sorts to lose the watch. I write about data brokers hoovering up personal info online so I know that extensive amounts of biometric data collected by the maker of Fitbit is a goldmine. In fact, the company probably was interested in collecting personal data when they dreamed up this watch. I can just imagine the marketing meeting:

“We make a watch that monitors the wearer’s heart rate and calorie burn, and people will give us all of their personal information just to use it. And they’ll pay us, too!”

“Nah, no way. Nobody’s that dumb.”

Well surprise, surprise, Google saw the potential in Fitbit and paid more than $2 billion for the company. They’re not in the business of just helping folks trim their waistlines through data.

Honestly the watch was a bit of a pain to use. Yes, it tracked my calorie burn, the number of hours I slept, my location, and a lot about my activities. Getting it to start tracking and stop tracking when I was biking was a pain – and only worked correctly about half the time. Still, that was comparable to my Garmin watch and chest strap heart rate monitor, which frequently left gaps in my tracking data due to a poor fit (sorry, I was breathing at the time).

Last summer I had to step back and wonder WTH I was doing when I left on an average weeknight ride with a Fitbit on my wrist, a heart rate monitor on my chest, and a similarly aggravating Garmin Edge mounted on my handle bars (I’ll have to write about the latter cluster sometime – don’t buy an Edge until you read it). Really, how much personal tracking data is really necessary, and is there a point when the ride or run or hike becomes more about the numbers than the enjoyment?

Over time I completely stopped trying to track my activities on the Fitbit and just used it for overall calorie burn and general activity levels. Under these conditions I decided it had benefits. I learned that my sedentary days resulted in only about 1,600 calories burned, but if I biked 8 miles it easily shot above 2,000 calories. And when I was skiing hard last winter I saw my heart rate top out at 182 bpm without passing out or bursting my aorta, which was kind of cool.

As a woman of the 80s for whom dieting was a complete lifestyle, I’m here to say that a fitness tracker isn’t the only tool you need to lose weight if that’s your objective. I actually gained weight while skiing my arse off last winter, watching my daily calorie burn soar above 2,200. That’s because I came home and shoveled pasta in my mouth — although I was eating fewer calories than I burned it was the wrong food at the wrong time. I’m not sure there’s a tracker that will jump between the fork and your mouth to prevent dumb decisions like that.

Still, $10 a month for monitoring is a lot to spend to have a machine tell me “get up and keep moving” and I have unanswered questions about how it recorded 11,000 steps one day aboard a sailboat. Seriously.

Now that my wrist tan has filled in and I’ve been a couple weeks without my tracker I wonder how many calories my Fitbit is burning on its swim? Bon voyage.

Best Hikes in Alaska — Part III

I don’t want to start typing this blog post because it means I have to move on from my Alaskan adventure and find new material when in fact I just want to relive most of that trip again and again. Alaska is a spectacularly beautiful place. My nearly 3 week trip barely scratched the surface of things to do, and we managed 50 miles of hiking, catching fresh salmon, tangling with a porcupine, my first float plane flights, giggling our way through a Salvation Army store, lots of laundramat time, dancing in the rain at a three-day music festival… whew!

So, if you love hiking and want to see the gorgeous Alaskan scenery, you can go just about anywhere in the state to find trails. Literally. We were sitting at the bar in a Mexican restaurant in Anchorage one day when a woman suggested we hike Flattop Mountain, very close by. It was a short evening hike but, again, just amazing as the city skyline played peek-a-boo through the clouds.

That said, if I go back (and I will) I have two hiking destinations on my radar: Kachemak Bay State Park, across the sound from the Homer Spit, and the Seward area. Here’s why:

1. Kachemak Bay State Park was nearby but remote enough to be an adventure. It required booking a ride on a small ferry across the bay to the trailhead, on a rocky beach. When the boat left we felt like the last three people on earth. It was wonderful. We did several miles across a floodplain to a river, where there was a fun self-propelled trolley to try out. Then we proceeded to a lake with actual icebergs floating in it, thanks to a nearby glacier. After freezing on the lake shore (the breeze coming over the icebergs was truly COLD!) we went over the “saddle” to an inlet deeper in the bay, which felt absolutely tropical. In all the 7-mile, 3-hour hike was a combination of all of the best things about Alaska, from cellphone-free conversations with my daughters, spectacular scenery, a “just right” distance, and a feeling of accomplishment for venturing out into the Alaskan “wilderness.”

If you venture across Kachemak Bay, just remember to make sure your ferry captain sets a time and place to pick you up at the end of the hike! We were on the other side of the peninsula at the end of the hike and got a little nervous waiting for the pick-up (but he showed up, whew!).

2. Upper Kenai near Seward: this area was so stunningly beautiful that it alone is the reason I’m already planning to go back to Alaska. No joke. I found out about the Primrose Trail by evesdropping on a family chatting on the Denali bus. Because I’m a nosey journalist I have permission to ask people questions about anything, and I do. I heard one of the adult daughters talking about Seward and asked her about the best hikes in that area. She tole me about Primrose and I’ll forever be glad I spoke up. What a hike.

By the time we were heading back to Anchorage there were only two of us: myself and my youngest, Andrea. We found a roadside state park campsite on the way to Coopers Landing after about three hours driving north from Homer, cooked the rest of Evan’s salmon and slept in the truck. It was close enough to the Primrose trailhead to make the hike happen (the campground at the trailhead was small and already full). Primrose is not the most difficult hike but we did a 14 mile out-and-back that was plenty. The scenery, flora, and distant glaciers in surrounding mountains were almost too much to absorb. I’ll let the photos do the talking.

Are you ready to start planning your trip yet?

Rinse and repeat

When I got out of the water at my dock I looked back across the pond. There was the yellow hull of my sailboat, bottom-up, rocking gently in the wind-driven waves. It wasn’t going anywhere because the mast was stuck in the mud on the bottom.

So, now what do I do? I thought. I’d tried to right it, but the wind was strong and I wasn’t heavy enough to get the mast up. No need to freak out. Sunfish are made tough, so leaving it there wouldn’t harm anything. I was glad I’d worn my wetsuit because the water was still pretty chilly and the swim home was easier with its buoyancy.

I texted my neighbor, who promised to help right after he got home from work. Then I watched a YouTube video that said I should stand on the centerboard to pull the topside of the boat over. In theory I was aware of the technique but hadn’t experienced capsizing in a long time as I’m usually on much bigger boats.

Soon I saw another neighbor, from the far end of the pond, as he approached the overturned boat and started to circle it with his powerboat.

It took a minute for me to realize he was not just checking it out. And he wasn’t trying to be helpful in righting it either. WTF? He continued to circle. I waved, sure that he’d swing by my dock to make sure I was okay, but he didn’t. I waved more, jumping up and down. He didn’t see me. He still circled the boat.

It wasn’t the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, for goodness sake.

Seriously? I got on my paddle board and crossed the pond toward the motor boat.

“Hey, everything is okay, no need to call the Coast Guard,” I joked.

“Too late,” the guy said. “I already did.”

You’re kidding, right? Who would do that? You didn’t see me turn it over and swim home? I asked.

“I’ve been jumping up and down on my dock trying to signal you,” I said. “Lots of people saw me turn the boat over and swim away.”

But his ego was too bruised to laugh off the situation. His opportunity to be a hero had been deflated.

“Would you be able to sleep at night thinking someone was under this boat?” he huffed.

I looked at the meager Sunfish hull and laughed. “That tiny boat?”

It wasn’t necessary to point out that a real hero might have gotten his ass out of his power boat and dived on the “wreck” to make sure there were no bodies floating around. He motored away. His wife looked at me from the back of the boat, saying nothing.

OK, I can’t blame him for trying to be a helpful hero but his extreme action bugged me. Was it such a big deal to flip a sailboat? If I let his anxiety bother me it will become an obstacle to taking the boat out again and that will hinder building my sailing skills. I had to get past that.

When they showed up to help my neighbors gave me a good natured ration of crap for capsizing. “I thought you knew how to sail??” one asked as he positioned his pontoon boat to make the rescue. The wind was still sending waves across the surface, slapping me in the face as I tried to tie a rope around the mast so we could haul it over. In the end, it took a 200 lb guy a bit of effort to right the boat.

Honestly I wasn’t crazy about climbing back in, sheeting in the sail and trying to get it home. Half of me wanted them to tow it behind the pontoon boat, back to shallow water. I was nervous, not wanting to flip the boat again in the unpredictable, gusty winds. Rather than round up and point its bow into the wind like the big boats I usually sail, this little boat wanted to flop over on its side. I struggled and fought with it, not wanting to sail it any further than necessary.

I realized I had a lot to learn about this sunfish, and would have to make my mistakes here in public, with dozens of homes surrounding my theater of absurd sailing goof ups. After that day I let the boat sit on its mooring for a while. I’d practice in lighter winds and build my skills slowly, I reasoned. In fact I was more than a little skittish about screwing up again.

The subconscious voice in my head that gives me all the wrong feedback needs to STFU. It’s the sort of voice that tells me that I’ll never learn, and that I should just quit. “Get it right the first time” has been drilled into my head, and it is a terrible way to think. Sure, it makes sense in life-or-death situations but it’s not how people learn. There’s far too much of that in our society, too much adulation for overnight successes and those who are “natural talents,” who excel and achieve beyond what is expected of them.

The importance of practicing, the rinse-and-repeat cycle, is under rated and should be celebrated instead. Perseverance should be valued more than luck. Think of the “10,000 hours of practice” rule popularized by author Malcolm Gladwell. He claims that the most accomplished people generally put in that much time to become the best in their fields. Being the best doesn’t matter to me, I just want to sail across the pond without a Coast Guard Jayhawk watching over me.

Just learning and relearning this lesson about learning has taken me 10,000 hours. I need to celebrate my own stubbornness and slow skill building and not listen to the critics.

Yesterday I went out and found a new trail on my mountain bike. While it’s usually thrilling to test my nerve and reactions against objects, terrain, and conditions that change every few seconds, this trail was a slog. It was full of rocks and roots, hills and sharp turns. It made me work for every foot of forward progress. It recalled for me how challenging it had been when I was starting to ride trails. Every trail used to feel this way, but over time I learned and developed my skills.

Bridges used to freak me out. I walked a ton of them before I could glide across something like this.

That learning took place a long time ago. I’d get my kids off to school and sneak in an hour or so on the trails not far from my house, then go to my office. I was just a mom looking for some fresh air and exercise away from busy roads. I was an awful, unskilled rider but obstinate and desperate for some adrenaline in my suburban life.

I loved the joy of new trails and the lush greenery all around me. That’s what kept me going back.

Screwing up on a mountain bike has earned me lots of scrapes and bruises over the years. My legs are rarely anything to look at but they sure get me places. I’ve enjoyed nearly all of my rides despite spills, frustration, and dead ends. Each of the moments I’ve spent on the trails have been for my own enjoyment, without spectators or competition for prizes. Everyone needs a pursuit like that, full of opportunities to mess up and do it over again.

It’s a good lesson for me about the learning process.

Long-awaited summits: Madison & Adams

New Hampshire’s White Mountains are criss-crossed by hundreds of scenic hiking trails that offer beautiful vistas. So why did I spend hours one weekend crawling like Spiderman up slopes covered in boulders, mostly looking down at tiny circles of green lichen on their rough granite surfaces?

The list made me do it, I guess. There are only 48 mountains in New Hampshire over 4,000 feet, and many people use the list to summit each in turn. While I’m trying not to “keep score” and rush through the list to bag peaks, my rationale has been that the list offers focus, motivation, and purpose. Maybe I’ll get it done in this lifetime and have something to tell my grandchildren rather than whiling away my precious weekends on lesser summits.

In June I found time to drive to Gorham, New Hampshire and take another crack at one that eluded me in the past: Mount Madison, at 5,367 feet. It had been about 18 months since my daughter Grace and I tried it but were pushed back by a combination of poor weather at the summit and hypothermia. The weekend I was there I had a decent forecast so of course I had to overreach and add Mt. Adams (5700 ft) to the day because why not? I was gonna be sore, why not go all the way??

I knew the Valley Way trail was a moderate hike in the trees, alongside a lovely brook with waterfalls. Just below the AMC’s Madison hut the trail emerges from a forest of stunted evergreens to an even, treeless alpine valley, or col,offering hikers the option to proceed to Adams, to the west, or Madison, to the east.

 

Our previous attempt to summit was fresh in my mind: Grace and I were well-equipped with hats, gloves, insulating and windproof layers, and snacks, but struggled when we reached the hut that occupies the col. The seasonal “crue” was breaking down the hut and closing it for the season that day, so they’d let the wood stove go cold. Wind from the west was pelting us with tiny bullets of sleet.

Although we were hot from the 2 hour climb up Valley Way, we knew to don more layers at the hut before we exposed ourselves to the wind at the summit but chills overtook us as we rested and changed. The hut crue provided hot water for tea which we hoped would chase the goosebumps away but they only increased. Grace had ample experience working on AMC trail crews and backpacking sections of the AT in the Whites to recognize hypothermia so she advised against taking even the short climb to the Madison summit. Staying in the cold hut was no better than venturing back out into the wind. We snapped a few photos and descended, disappointed but happy with our day out.

In June it would be a different story. I hiked alone, and the weather was significantly better, but there were still concerns: looking northwest, I could see clouds dropping rain on other green peaks, and they were moving toward the Presidentials. The wind was also picking up and expected to reach 70 mph gusts by afternoon.

This time when I approached Madison hut I had a plan to change from shorts to full-length tights, add a windproof layer, and keep going. I’d hit Adams first, because the higher and more difficult summit might be impossible when the winds increased.

There was one more piece of business to attend to at the hut, too. Socks. I’d packed in haste and forgotten my thick hiking socks, even after making a special stop at Mike’s house to find my blister-stopping sock liners. I knew I’d had my hands on hiking socks more than once in the previous two days but haste and distraction combined made me leave them behind. I guessed (correctly) that the hut would have socks for sale and forked over $18 for a pair when I arrived. It was a good investment. I knew I couldn’t gamble on sock liners being my only foot covering or I’d end up making my final descent barefoot and limping.

Leaving the hut I passed picturesque Star Lake and approached Adams via the Star Lake trail, which is less of a trail than a summit approach covered in refrigerator-sized boulders. There was a couple ahead of me and I could hear them chatting. They’d crossed the first section of the boulder field and were obscured in a small section of evergreens, which only served as a temporary break before the trail crossed an even larger boulder field. They were a perfect target that I’d eventually overtake, making me feeling pretty good about my infrequent climbing adventures.

My job on the boulder field was to find trustworthy hand- and foot-holds, allowing me to scramble like Spiderman to the next rock. Every now and then I looked around for some indication of the trail’s direction, whether a painted marker or cairn of rocks. It didn’t seem to matter a lot, but the trail slanted to the south, gradually snaking its way up to the top of Adams, around larger erratics, occasionally revealing a cluster of bright pink mountain flowers.

Once when I was creeping along, feeling pretty good about my progress and personal safety, a woman approached over my left shoulder and quickly passed me on her way up. Our eyes locked for a moment and I said something like, “wow, you’re flying!” while mentally noting that she was my age or older. I don’t remember her response. She had a smaller pack on and was moving at twice my pace. My mind reeled for a while in her wake. I wish I could have interviewed her, to find out how often she climbed, to delve into her fitness regime, to find out her age so, of course, so I could compare myself. It took a while to quell the competitive voices in my head and accept that I was doing fine, pacing myself, and might, some day, be as fit as she was, if I prioritized it and worked at it. Nah, I decided, I’m okay with climbing when I can, but would try a smaller pack load next time and see if that helped.

The wind gusts were building impressively by the time I reached the top of the ridge to the summit of Adams. There were maybe two or three other people there, and none were the woman who passed me. She was probably topping out on Washington by now, I thought. There was a sour-looking Canadian couple mumbling to one another near the marker. I squeezed in and snapped a photo or two, smiling over my accomplishment, while they looked pained and unhappy.

I put the wind at my back and faced northeast, over tiny Madison hut, toward Mount Madison, while I choked down a granola bar for energy. The rain clouds were still sweeping perilously close and the wind was so strong I could barely hold my phone for casual-looking selfies. Soon I was headed down a another boulder slope that was exposed to the wind, moving much more quickly, toward the hut. While I was well grounded by the weight of my pack and boots the wind pushed my torso to-and-fro, making me frequently grab for handholds on the rocks. It was challenging to stay upright.

Instead of using this westerly wind to my advantage when approaching Madison’s summit I made a mistake that has become common for me. I chose a less-traveled and indirect route that was just stupid. The Appalachian Trail leads from the Madison hut directly to the summit of Madison in a steep but not impossible half-mile. For some idiotic reason that challenges Darwin’s theory I took a sidelong approach, skirting Madison’s summit on the north side, then turning south and climbing rocks to hit the peak. It was nothing but a brainless decision and absolutely indicates I’m an injury risk when solo climbing.

Although the roundabout trail was easier for the first, brief 15 minutes, it opened from a short stroll through a meadow to an extensive boulder

field that skirted the north face of Madison. Clearly only an idiot would choose this route if offered the more direct option. I proved that I am that idiot. Rather than turn back and accept the better, more direct climb to the top I stubbornly clung to the boulders, extending my Spiderman-like crawl for another hour or more. While doing so I realized that if I were to get hurt here I’d die within a mile of the busy hut because nobody else would be dumb enough to take this route during this calendar year. So I was cautious, but not cautious enough to turn around and take the more rational AT to the top of Madison. This is the same stupid attitude that kept me married for a decade longer than I should have been, but I obviously haven’t learned a thing in 50-plus years.

My second summit of the day was a happy moment. I crouched in the lee of a big boulder to enjoy it after grabbing a pic of myself at the marker. I think I texted my daughter that I was done climbing and would be headed down soon. Looking south I could see a long trail snaking toward Washington and thought how nice it would be to take that, hopefully a boulder-free route, to bag more peaks some day. It was an irrational thought for someone who still had upwards of 2.5 hours to hike out that day. I exited Madison via the direct AT that took me to the back door of the hut in a brief half hour, kicking myself the whole way for having scrambled unnecessarily over boulders for half the afternoon. Descending into the deep embrace of the trail home was a relief as I no longer had to fear the approach of higher winds and rain showers.

By the time I hit nearly flat ground close to the bottom of Valley Way my hips, knees, and ankles were squeaking in painful protest. The long tendons attaching my quads to my femurs were on fire. I was using hiking poles defensively, to keep myself at just the right angle of declination to keep moving without falling forward onto my face. Mosquitoes swarmed on me if I slowed even a tiny amount, so I plodded relentlessly toward my car, pushing the pain out of my thoughts.

Just before I reached the car on the shoulder of Route 2, I checked my watch: 9 hours, 12 miles. My GPS track showed a bowtie-like route up Valley Way, taking a circular route over Adams, then looping the Madison summit similarly and exiting via Valley Way. When I got to the car I untied my boots and tore off my $18 socks. No blisters! That was great but the pain in my legs would only increase over the next several days.

The other people staying at Rattle River Lodge were not curious about my hike and I didn’t particularly want to chat about it. Twelve miles and two summits were significant to me but most of them were Appalachian Trail through-hikers finishing 1,700-mile treks. One pleasant, older (70 yrs approx) woman hobbled around on a sore knee. I felt badly for her and her husband and daughter, because their hike was ruined by a jammed knee. Then she told me that they were in the last 300 miles of a section hike of the trail .. and that she’d ridden a tandem bike with her husband some 10,000 miles around the perimeter of the country the year before .. while suffering from shingles. I should have offered to wash her feet. My little day hike was big for me but miniscule in the scheme of things.

The blue “bowtie” route is an image from my Gaia GPS (highly recommended!).

Rules for Ragnar and other relays

chugging along Lake Ontario

The smell hit me and nearly made my eyes tear up: it was something acrid, like a solvent. Great, I thought, it’s impossible to hold my breath and run at the same time. Maybe the chemical in the air will kill me before some ax murderer steps out of the bushes and grabs me. (It happens, read this.)

This sort of fatalistic thinking is not normal for me, but nothing was normal that day. I was in the midst of a 36-hour relay race with people I didn’t know, in an unfamiliar place, it was nearing midnight and I was on a dark, desolate stretch of industrial road between factories with no one else in sight.

Compounding my growing panic was the following calculation: I was probably on the wrong road, headed in the wrong direction (what race director would send runners down an isolated, unlighted industrial road on the fringes of a city?). The course was sparsely marked and it would have been easy for someone to move the relay race’s last directional arrow, sending me to my death. Even better, I realized —  if I got lost in Toronto at midnight and couldn’t find my team of near-strangers, I wasn’t carrying any identification or money or a working cell phone (mine stopped functioning at the border). Great.

Doesn’t this sound like fun?

Believe it or not, I paid for this experience. I was doing one in a series of popular “Ragnar” relay races that each covers 180 miles (or so). They’re all over, this one being along the shore of Lake Ontario in Canada, ending at Niagara Falls. Six of us decided we could take turns running 4-9 mile portions, each covering a total of about 30 miles in 36 hours. Other teams had 12 people in 2 vans, each covering approx. 15 miles.

Obviously I survived being on this side of Toronto.

However… in the 6 years since I ran my first Ragnar (Greenwich Conn. to Boston) the emphasis has apparently shifted from running to a silly group bonding exercise on wheels. It’s a trap. My observation is that lots of people get sucked in by the party atmosphere, the option of wearing silly costumes like tutus and viking hats, decorating their vans, as well as buying all sorts of Ragnar branded crap to show that they’ve done one of these expensive weekends … and the running is secondary.

That’s not the way it works.

Viking hats, how original.

Oftentimes the “bonding” experience flops when people are tired, cranky, and wishing they hadn’t bought into this trip. The fun part of spending two days in a van with 5 other people lasts for about the first 4 hours, and after that you need to focus on running. Sadly, lots of people are not prepared to deal with the less-fun parts of completing their portion.

Here are some suggestions to make your decision to run a long relay race go smoothly:

No smelly food in the van: it’s one thing to share the aroma of your favorite dish with those around you, it’s something else entirely when the smell is amplified by your moist breath when you fall asleep. Nix the jalapeno chips and garlic chicken in favor of bland, energy-rich food like bananas. Please.

Control your mess: before the race I saw a great article about giving each person a bin for clothes and shoes to limit the piles of cast-off gear that others had to climb over between seats. Whether that might work in practice is still unknown to me, because our van devolved from orderly to chaotic, leaving us crawling across seats layered in clothing and others unhappy about people falling asleep on our stuff..

Van management and navigation should be required courses.

Train the driver: Part of the issue with my team was the isolation of running an hour through unfamiliar territory with the same misgivings I described above. There were several desolate stretches on this race. However if your van actually stopped midway on each leg or otherwise accompanied the runner when possible, thoughts of axe murderers might be alleviated.

Stop: Part of getting cranky and uncomfortable was the lack of facilities. Filthy port-a-potties were easy to find, but running water and actual soap was elusive. With a little planning and flexibility, everyone would be happier using a Dunkin Donuts/Tim Horton’s bathroom (and getting hot coffee) once in a while. We didn’t do this often enough.

Change: dry clothes make a huge difference in a runner’s attitude and comfort. Strip off the wet layers when you’re sitting in the van waiting for your next running leg. Bring warm layers even if you don’t think you’ll need them (our weather turned cold and rainy).

Plan for priorities: Costumes and markers and group t-shirts are not even secondary to logging training miles. Things like appropriate food, access to your stuff, and small comforts (like coffee) become far more important once the race starts. These are the important things to plan for, as well as having a fallback if someone gets hurt and can’t run.

Van necessities: Get a vehicle with separate controls for heat and ventilation from front to back. We had a van with lots of room (for lots of crap) but temperature was controlled on the dash only, and windows only opened at the far ends (front and back). Discomfort and noxious smells resulted in further unhappiness.

 

Resist the urge to succumb to Ragnar’s increased commercialism. Do you really need to pull out your credit card at a (lousy) transition area and buy a hat, sweatshirt, or souvenir with the Ragnar logo on it? Really? Why not withhold that additional cash until the race director(s) supply decent (clean) facilities, frequent and reliable route markers, or, God forbid, a snack for runners along the way. That way, when you get to the finish line and find that they don’t give you so much as a freaking free beer and burrito you don’t feel like so much of a chump for buying their brand along the way.

There were no “extras” for the runners — no hot coffee, power bars, and not even a free beer at the end — but they’d take your money for branded crap even at a transition area in the middle of the race.

Be honest: are you in it to push your physical limits, to test yourself, or are you in it for the silly costumes and party atmosphere? Think about it. If it’s the latter, do a 5k. Don’t screw up another person’s budget and training just so you can wear Ragnar gear and say you were part of a team.

Mom needs a kayak

Yup, you read that correctly: it’s your answer for the annual Mother’s Day conundrum — and you still have two whole days to shop (or procrastinate).

Freedom. Power. Shopping. Those are the reasons why you’ll buy Mom (or your wife or significant other — or yourself or your daughter!) a kayak this year. Let me explain (note: this is one of those kayak-endorphin inspired musings that revealed itself to me as I plied the windy waters of the St. Lucie River, which will make more sense as the explanation unfolds):

Freedom: The realization that she can’t do anything she wants and she can’t do everything the boys do is something that slowly and insidiously seeps into a young girl’s consciousness. The result is often a home-bound woman frustrated by her limited choices and afraid to step outside the boundaries that society and the media have created. Those boundaries tell her she’s too old or too weak or it’s dangerous for her to do something like kayaking.

Of course the first problem with kayaking is “I can’t lift one of those onto my car.” But this video (link below) shows plenty of ways to get around that issue, even for a small woman. Where there’s a will …

Think about this: As we age and grow, true freedom evaporates for girls. We’re in the kitchen cleaning up after parties and dinners while the guys continue drinking and watching the football game. There’s little choice in the matter. We’re constrained by expectations of appearance in dress and manner, further eliminating choices and options. By adulthood, because we’re working and nurturing others or doing free work at schools and libraries many women are too pressed for time to do anything for ourselves. We’re too concerned about smelling bad or looking disheveled to participate in anything athletic, so we turn to finding cute outfits and cooking or keeping house as our outlets.

But eventually the beast emerges, hungry for freedom and choices that aren’t satisfied by retail therapy. A woman who’s been saddled with raising children, toiling under an ungrateful boss, and frustrated by time passing will inevitably implode.

Unless she has a kayak and freedom.

A kayak is a vehicle that doesn’t need roads and signs; it carves its own path to adventure and happiness. Travel quickly or meander aimlessly, the kayak doesn’t care. She may look for fish, for birds, for signs of spring or fall colors — or nothing but peace and quiet.

  Freedom. Serenity. Power.

Power:  Women are generally discouraged from building or using muscle. “Let me do that for you” is a frequent phrase we hear for everything from lifting groceries to moving furniture. Call the handyman when a job requires lifting. Get a man to do that. Well, I’m calling BS — start with a kayak and pretty soon she’ll be doing pushups like Ahhhnold.

The sore muscles are a badge of honor after a long paddle. They remind you that you did it yourself, you propelled a watercraft and succeeded. You tamed the wind and were challenged by the tides, but you survived. Pretty soon the desire to tackle more physical challenges takes hold and the sky is the limit: a 5K run? climb a mountain? anything is possible.

Shopping: This is the gateway, it’s one of the ways a woman’s mind works when her options are limited. Bear with me: If Mom/wife/daughter is used to handling the family shopping, she will love a kayak because it opens a new world of choices and decisions. Cruise through a scenic harbor and she’ll begin to imagine herself aboard a variety of yachts or looking down from the balcony of a chic townhouse (whether as a Bond Girl or maritime skipper, that’s up to her). Glide by some cute seaside shacks and she’ll consider the scenario of running away from responsibilities to make a new life without the SUV and 9-to-5. She may be immersed in the suburban lifestyle now while raising a family but things will change eventually and unless she’s got some inkling of her next step (through “shopping”) the transition could be rocky.

It’s liberating to enjoy sights and sounds and sensations that aren’t loading up the car, getting kids to school, or the same old power walk around the neighborhood. You might have let the genie out of the bottle, but that’s OK because she will escape one way or the other.

Note to readers: if you’ve read this far, I have one small item of advice — DO NOT buy a tandem/2 person kayak. If she’s timid of the water then start on a quiet, windless day on a small pond in separate kayaks. Tandems simply accelerate the implosion that I warned you about.

Also, don’t buy a crappy $300 kayak. Spend the $1400 and get something above 12 feet with a bit of a keel. If she’s nervous about controlling it, get a rudder installed. Mom is worth it.