Two weeks...

A short space of time. An eternity. Stillness allows realizations to grow, deepen, enter awareness in a way that takes root and flowers in the season of reflection. My last two adventures took me what felt like pretty far afield, beyond the pavement and the population of humanity that inhabits the valley. In no way do I regret doing them, but as I stared at maps plotting the next adventure a thought slowly dawned: this is going to get hard. How can I best, or at least equal the kind of distance, effort, and enjoyment that I have been getting out of these solitary pursuits? It isn't sustainable. The rest came like a waterfall:

I don't really enjoy riding the bike in and of itself anymore. I value the bicycle as a vehicle which can take me as far as I want to go. That said, it has been sitting against the wall for two weeks without carrying me much further than the grocery store. I've climbed almost 70,000 vertical feet over 1,000 miles of riding so far since February. I haven't quite reached my goal, and I'm exhausted. I'm almost sure I will make it, but I really need to find the drive that I started with... not, of course, the mad obsession that displaced all my reason in May and led to several injuries... but I need to look out at the mountains, up the creeks, down the valleys, and feel that they are beckoning me, inviting me. I haven't felt that at all... for two weeks.

Some of the best rides and the most remarkable time spent outside was with the kids. Now that Julian is getting so big (read: heavy) I really can't haul him up the mountains anymore. I physically just can't do it without getting hurt. We need to find (and are finding) other activities to do with the kids.

Its been an amazing year. We have done so much that the idea of small, casual, familiar events and activities have really lost their appeal to me. That one thing just screams "STOP!" My practice of Buddhism reminds me that this moment is the only place I can ever find happiness. Sometimes it is important to simply be in this moment without planning, without trying to blow it up into something epic.

I went for a barefoot run night before last. Probably a mile and half... or two miles... couldn't say. No GPS. No camera. No headlamp. No iPod. No shirt. No shoes. It was the most enjoyable period of solitary activity in weeks. I enjoyed it more than my trip to the lakes. Simple, short, uninterrupted. And we spent last weekend more or less at the river. Stumbling through the rocks, swimming in the current, laying on the beach, soaking up the dying breath of Summer.

It is naturally quite difficult to maintain a blog about activities like this, that simply don't get planned, documented, photographed, or otherwise measured... and these kinds of activities are becoming more frequent. It's okay. It's a progression. Time will tell if all these electronic gizmos, screens, and wires wind up in a pile in the closet or not... For now, I think I'll plan something epic for later this week and see if it sticks.

Otherwise...

Julian standing knee deep in the Clark Fork as a kayaker lines up for "The Wave."

Moments in the wilderness...

Escape. But not really. Yesterday's adventure was a time to reflect, a reminder of the truth of many things, a beautiful and rewarding, and also a frustrating and difficult experience. There's quite a bit of this inner experience transcribed here, so be patient with me.

Up before 6. Hot shower to wake up the legs. Pull all the gear together. Coffee. Breakfast. I'm going to ride up to the wilderness boundary and hike to the lakes deep in the Rattlesnake. I'm carrying my backpack, my fivefingers stuffed inside with a water filter and 2.5 liters of water. More water on the bike. Two Cliff bars and two packs of some new fruit flavored energy gel. Mentally prepared for about 8 hours outside.

Out the door into the cool morning. Motivation wanes as the reality of spinning my little gear on the road for miles sets in. I fire up the iPod and let Phutureprimitive carry me through the early sunlight. Once on the trail, dirt beneath the tires augments the music, and suddenly my mind is nearly split in two. I've noticed this effect before. One doesn't fully appreciate how much the sense of hearing is used while riding until it is occupied with something else. In fact, this caused me to experience a completely different trail, even though I had traveled this route many times. The sense of unfamiliarity and disconnectedness startled me fully awake, and the first of the day's meditations came:

In Buddhism, the Skandhas (aggregates) are essentially the world as perceived by the senses, filtered and unified by the consciousness. The premise is that reality, for all intents and purposes, IS simply the result of the aggregates. You make your reality through this process from moment to moment. By fundamentally altering one of these aggregates, one doesn't simply "experience it differently" but literally creates a completely different reality. I have ridden this trail so often I feel that I could navigate it in my sleep. But without hearing my tires on the gravel, judging speed by the wind in my ears, it is an alien landscape.

The iPod came off. Meditation point number one: don't make anything. "Quiet" in meditation means more than just silence. It means not actively trying to manipulate or change the experience. Let it happen.

Up the long and winding road to Franklin Bridge. Golden sunlight just begins to filter down through the tops of trees. Twilight is still hiding among the rocks and the rushing waters of Rattlesnake Creek.

A dramatic contrast to the sun dappled fields of the south zone.

From the bridge, across the rockfall, and into the narrow canyon. Sunlight just beginning to reach the trail shortly before 10am. The melt and the rains have nourished the rocks, which now congregate in these populations of mile-long obstacle courses. The two-track all but vanishes in places. Just before the wilderness boundary, another bridge, another view of Rattlesnake creek.

Now I was ready for this phase of the journey to be over and get started with the next one. 20 miles by bike, and now it was time to walk. Change of footwear, change of pace, change of scenery.

Wilderness. No mountain bikes allowed.
Unfortunately, horsies are fine.
"Take only pictures, leave only footprints... and miles of horse poop and potholes"

Bike shorts aren't ideal for this kind of hiking,
but it isn't far to the lakes.

The trail looked like this much of the time.
Huge winter snows and spring rains mean lush, almost rainforest environments.

Not another plug for VFFs, I swear... I just though it was cool how this went
SQUISH underfoot. So soft and springy.

And this bring us to meditation number two for the day. I had heard about this particular hike as being "a true wilderness experience..." and I suppose that is a large part of why I was there.

Cross into the Rattlesnake Wilderness. Two-track disappears into the trees, becomes a stream, opens into a narrow ravine next to the rushing creek. Bear. On the trail. "Hi bear!" He moves off into the brush with a snort and I hear him stop. "Okay. I'm just gonna keep going this way. Okay?" Walking slowly past, nice and easy, bears don't really mind the presence of people, but they don't usually know how to react to people. We're the exotic wildlife in this context. Eagles screaming overhead, echoing off the rocks. Hunting. Midday approaches. I'm less than a mile in to this hike, and have bushwacked, stream walked, encountered bears, seen hunting eagles, and... I didn't get pictures of any of it.

At first this thought annoyed me. I should have had the camera at the ready, I should have been quicker. I did try once or twice, and then completely gave up. The wilderness was going to surprise me today, it was going to defy my efforts at capturing these moments... and I was going to let it.

Recently, I was explaining to a friend about the idea of "having only this moment." That no matter what you remember, or what you think will happen next, the only thing that is real, the only thing you can participate it, the only thing you can experience is right now. I used a photographic analogy. "See this picture? Maybe you can tell me 'what is happening' in this picture, but actually there is nothing 'happening.' It is a single moment, nothing is moving, nothing changing, only this. Your mind can make the 'before' and imagine the 'after' and make the 'happening', but none of that is really in the photograph." 

So now, as I stand here in the middle of the forest, in my own moment, I think about the irony of photography. How strange it is, in the attempt to preserve this moment on a sliver of film or a collection of pixels, I often fail to appreciate it fully as it is actually happening.


I put my camera away. One foot and then another. The wilds all around.

Not to worry though, there are still more pictures.

Log crossing over a stream.
There were more waterfalls than I could keep track of here,
mostly hidden behind dense walls of green foliage.

Focal length faux-pas. Still pretty, pale, and purple. 

Pink fuzzballs. 

Beargrass has this way of just springing up out of nowhere.
No fields of the stuff... just round the corner and there it is.
Kinda like bears. Hmmmm.

Spend some time looking at flowers. Going too hard, too fast is bad. Lessons learned. Poke around and appreciated the colors, the smells. "Suck the marrow out of life," or nectar, as the case may be... if you're a bee... plenty of those. Lots of insects. Swarms. Clouds. A midday promenade in the sun.

Good incentive to keep moving.
Stillness attracts the winged hordes.

Standing at the shore of Little Lake right about noon. Awestruck by its beauty, the peacefulness of the place. Feeling the heaviness of exertion, altitude, and sun begin to settle in. Keep moving.

Here's a beautiful alpine scene with my ugly mug provided for the sake of contrast.

Little Lake may be small in the context of this landscape
but it is still impressive enough to make you feel very small.

Alpine paradise. Glacial lakes, waterfalls, exposed granite cliffs.

Perspective. Its what you get when you stand in a place that makes you feel like you could be the only person on Earth. And then realize that Earth is swallowing you and 7 billion other people at the moment. Its being 25 miles outside of a city of 100,000 people, and witnessing the mind-altering dichotomy between this alpine wilderness and that urban wilderness.

Time to go. One needn't linger in places like this. A few moments, clearly perceived,  forever burned into the consciousness are sufficient reward for the effort. Hike down. Run every other switchback. Flying, falling, stepping. Navigating the rivulets of snow melt, puddles, rocks piled high with mud and moss... dodging piles of horse excrement and narrowly avoiding twisted ankles in post holes with horseshoe prints at the bottom of them.

Rant: Wilderness areas are special. They are meant to preserve a pristine wilderness experience where people can go to experience what nature is like without the influence of man and his machines. For this reason, a ban on motorized transportation is in effect in wilderness areas. Unfortunately, with no clear support from the Wilderness Act, this has been made to include bicycles. Now when I ride my bike into the woods, the only thing I leave is... wait... nothing. Maybe a tire track analogous to the footprints that would be left by any hiker. What I don't understand is that horses ARE allowed in wilderness, they leave deep potholes on the trails, miles and miles of excrement, and transport non-native seeds into the local ecosystem as well. I'm pretty sure that takes away from my "pristine wilderness experience" in many obvious ways. Now I would be more than willing to just shut up and deal IF: 1) neither horses or bikes, or any other means than WALKING UNDER YOUR OWN POWER were permissable in wilderness or, 2) users of horses and bicycles were both welcomed with the understanding that responsible trail use does not include riding on soft trails and generally tearing things up. The double standard is particularly annoying.


Back to the wilderness boundary. Gear up, ride out. 4 miles down I realize: no sunglasses. No big deal, I thought, but then... where are they? In my helmet. Hanging from that tree. Shit. I seriously consider leaving them there. Then consider that isn't very responsible. Climb back up 4 miles of rocky two-track. Retrieve my helmet and sunglasses then start back down. Timetable for the ride is blown. Now its looking like close to 60 miles and over 10 hours. Ah well, it just wasn't going to be epic enough without this little extra 'adventure.' I remind myself to be more mindful. I remind myself that I WAS being mindful... mindful of being attacked by a swarm of a dozen different kinds of biting flies as I was changing shoes... what was hanging in the tree was pretty far from my mind.

Back down below Franklin Bridge. Fatigue really setting in hard. Steer around big pink rock, avoid dark colored snake slithering across the road, red butterfly passes right in front of my face. Minutes later... steer around big pink rock, avoid dark colored snake slithering across the road, red butterfly passes right in front of my face. WTF?

Onward. Out of Rattlesnake, hit the pavement and hang on the bike, grateful for the negative grade of the street. Hot in town. Busy. Cars swarm like the clouds of insects on the mountain. From one wilderness and into another one. What is different? Only me. In this moment I am not the same person that was standing on that lakeshore. That is the truth, and it makes me smile.

Ride finished.
10.5 hours.
58 miles.
4700 feet of climbing.
50 miles on the bike.
8 miles hiking.

Fugue...

Early morning. Before the sun peeks out from behind the peaks. Hydrate. Fuel. Out into the crisp, cool air. Ride out of town. Down the highway, turning onto country lanes.

Heading up Butler Creek Rd. my destination is visible in the distance.

The rolling hills, tall grasses, ranches and fields quickly gave way to forests. The road pointed skyward and the climbing absolutely did not let up at all for the next 10 miles.

Switching up the Point Six road.

I made a wrong turn and did an unnecessary but overall rewarding climb up to the top of TV Mountain (6,837 ft.). I was a little confused at this point because the road basically disappeared. I could see Point 6, but not how to get there. Then I realized I would have to go back down and take the turn I missed. That's cool, another 1000 feet of climbing for the day, and some really cool radio towers and dishes.

Radio installation on top of TV Mountain.

I zoomed back down to the Point Six turnoff and slowly climbed up to the top of Snowbowl. A quick stop at the A-frame for a bio break and a look around.

You can see clear across the eastern part of the valley in this picture, even with all the haze.
Grant, Woods and Rattlesnake, Sentinel/University Mountain, Dean Stone, Miller,
and even the Bitteroot in the far distance.

There's always time to stop and look at flowers.

After a little break, it was time to press on. I had my doubts about reaching the peak. It still looked like a lot of climbing. In the end, I made it to the ski area boundary, parked the bike, and started hiking.

Leaving my bike to make the final ascent on foot.

Good thing, too. This last bit was STEEP and loose.
Of course, I went up the talus two track and then realized there was a road.
Did I mention I was a little tired by this point?

I just couldn't get over how perfect and inviting this incredibly
steep road lined with purple wildflowers was at the time.
Exertion and altitude make everything much more interesting.

Looking back towards Snowbowl over the rocks and wildflowers.

This is the enclosure for the weather radar.
Looks like a giant soccer ball.

Murphy Peak in the foreground,
the Mission Mountains (still heavily snowcapped in July) at the horizon. 

Looking the other direction, into Rattlesnake Wilderness.
Talus cirques, glacial lakes, my kind of country.

I made my way back down to the bike and picked my way over toward Snowbowl. The idea was to find the Beargrass Highway (a singletrack mountain bike trail that runs from the top to the parking area at the base) but I didn't know exactly where to find it. In my exhaustion and confusion, I had a great idea... I was at a ski area! I'll just hop on one of the ski runs and follow it until I hit the trail!

Nice. The first part was a bit of bike portage down the side of the mountain and over rocks and logs. Not fun, but just another part of the adventure, right? I began regretting this decision, but ended up having some of the best riding of the day because of it. I reached an intersection where Paradise meets Centennial which traversed across the slope. It was a mild rock garden with plenty of techy maneuvering.

Mmmm... I like rocks.

I like to ride on them.

Even better if they are camouflaged in grass for that surprise factor.
Just flow.

Really, given the lack of anything other than baby-butt smooth singletrack around here, completing a rocky, grassy, obstacle strew bushwack across a ski run was pretty awesome. And at the end, I found:

Yup... Beargrass Highway. A trail. A supremely awesome trail.

Words really cannot do this kind of singletrack-heaven justice.

Smooth and flowy without being boring,
a long descent that can keep my interest is very good.

All the way to the bottom of Snowbowl.

From the long climb, to the steep hike, to portaging and scrambling, then techy biking in the rocks, and a long flowy singletrack... the dirt road to the parking lot was a major downer. 

Dry, hot, dusty, and still a long way to go.

Then miles more of dusty high speed descending along more dirt road. And finally back to the pavement. 

And across Grant Creek, back in the valley.

I stopped taking pictures at this point. By the time I reached home: 42 miles. 6000 feet of climbing. Summits made of TV Mountain (6817 ft.) and Point Six (7929 ft.). A little less than 8 hours elapsed time.

In other news, Julian wanted to go for a bike ride when I got home. I told him "No way, dude." And Rene is coming home from a week at camp tomorrow. So I guess I really did sneak this experience in... barely. Now, back to the present... focus, man. I think I left part of my mind on that mountain.

Prelude...

In music composition it is good to introduce themes slowly, develop them, building to the main material. One doesn't simply rush in and deliver the musical climax immediately...

After a few days hiding out around the house, it was time to get back outside. I was planning something semi-epic for Thursday, but definitely wanted to warm up a little first. My body reminded me gently that the musical metaphor was definitely applicable here, and there would be protesting without a gentle prelude to ease into things. Fine by me. Julian and I made a date with the Rattlesnake and took off for one of our semi-regular picnic lunches. We hit up the trail along the creek, and then did a quick loop in Spring Creek. That was just about enough riding before lunch, so we stopped up around the Wallman TH for some PB&J.

A good spot for some PB&J.
Then again, what isn't?

A leisurely stroll. He did just fine over our 1.5 mile loop.

More lovely flowers as the season goes on.

Julian really liked these, and kept pointing them out along the trail.

Overall, about 20 miles on the bike and a mile and a half or so on foot. We took our time and had one of those great long summer afternoons outside.

Summit...

The word holds a kind of alluring gravity. As a noun it refers to the highest point of a known geographical prominence. It is, however, as a verb that the power of this word holds the susceptible in its hypnotism. We speak of "summit-ing" this, that, or the other peak... quite nonchalant, but those in the know realize just how much experience can be packed into this efficient language.

So today was setting up to be a life changing experience for my youngest son, Julian. We completely spontaneously raced out the door with a singular purpose. Climb. Up the mountain. To the top. His idea, really, but it didn't take too much persuading for me to start making preparations. I wanted to take advantage of the coolness of the morning, the intermittent cloud cover. And I wanted to avoid the building afternoon thunderstorms. We would ride quickly, climb until within striking distance of the top, and then hike the rest and let him finish under his own power.

It worked out well.

A suitable spot to leave the bikes.

And change into footwear more suitable for hiking.

Julian found a tree to climb.

I think we were heading down by this point,
but its the only picture I got of the kids actually hiking.

Purple and green.

The kids near the top, looking down over Mt. Jumbo and East Missoula.

Tree statues.

Still plenty of color up high.

Julian standing at the highest point of Mt. Sentinel (5,185 ft).

His very first summit.

Now it bears saying that Mt. Sentinel is a sort of local hike that everyone takes their kids on. Some will hike up from the "M" and others from the Crazy Canyon TH. It isn't remote, or even very high. But I think it is all a matter of perspective. When you are three and a half years old, this counts as an epic adventure, and must be just like - in his own words - "climbing into the sky."

Resistance...

Resistance has been the theme for July. There can be good resistance, the kind that pushes you to work harder, get stronger, and overcome. There can also be bad resistance, of a sort that the universe just sort of dishes out in the form of inertia, frustration, and lack. Of course, I don't believe that is true, and I'll get to why in a moment... suffice it to say for now that it has been a good time to reflect on this theme.

It isn't that we haven't been riding. Quite to the contrary. We've been on easy local loops, up and down roads, and even slogging up steep secondary trails into bushwacking territory. Several rides, several runs, some hiking around in the woods, and no pictures. It has been hot. Things aren't as photogenic as they were just a couple weeks ago. The changing of seasons in our new locale is rapid and highly visible.

I've been running late at night to take advantage of the cool air and solitude. Now running fairly consistent (and painless) sub-10 minute miles in the fivefingers, in my usual endurance mode of finding pacing that allows constant forward motion, even if it is slow.

The kids have expressed a measure of preference not to go on certain adventures with Dad. I totally get it, the kids want to do "normal kid things." So we go to the park, read stories, play with toys... that makes Julian happy... and of course Rene is turning 12, with all the attitude that goes with approaching teenage years, and riding bikes with Dad just really isn't a very high priority. Lately, I see him three times a day - oddly enough coinciding with meals - and then he's off doing whatever it is kids do these days.

Also, Julian is increasing his mass to something approaching that of stellar core material, something I am feeling with every pedal stroke as he cannot be convinced to help pedal.

I foresee more solo outings in my future.

In the hottest part of the day I caught myself sneaking a glance at the skis taking up space in the closet. Winter brings a much different aspect to the outdoors, adventuring, and life in general. There seems to be much less resistance. The season is harsh, and the body practically begs me to go hard in order to keep warm. That thought of skinning up snowy slopes and sliding across frozen meadows is deadly poison when I am climbing up singletrack in 90 degree heat. Every brain cell in my head just screaming "WHY?!?!?"

Ancient Chinese philosophy espouses the concept of Wu-wei, or "non-action" as being the way of the Tao, the way of the enlightened. It carries with it this connotation of "doing without forcing" and finding a natural path of least resistance... being like a river which merely follows its natural course, but becomes a nearly unstoppable force in doing so. The modern world has attached various words - however inappropriately - like "flow" and "zen" and "zone" to the experience of this nearly unstoppable feeling when acting in this manner.

So the question remains: if you can find your "zone" several miles into an epic climb and flatten any mountain standing in your way, can you also do this everywhere else? Where does this state of mind go when not cycling, running, or otherwise pushing this body to its limits? In this moment, where is my natural path? How can I be "in the zone" while doing the dishes or typing my blog? The practice of mindfulness certainly points in this direction, and if I am only in this moment with every fiber of my being, then that resistance I was talking about lessens. It diminishes without being subdued, is removed without being forced.

In the end, the only thing pushing back against me..... is me. Attachment, expectation, desire. None of these things are real in the moment, only in the projections of the mind. These are the weights that burden us, that provide that "resistance" to things. "Put it all down," the master instructs. Moment to moment you can accomplish amazing things without carrying all that stuff around.

Okay... simple idea, way too many words. Time for sleeping.

Alchemy...

You must collect all the right ingredients, in just the right amounts, cook thoroughly with a huge effort and expose to the light of day... to produce a fantastic ride.

Wildlife.
Deer on the road seem to know how to react to car pretty well.
When they saw us, they were like "WTF?"

Climbing.
Rene demonstrating how to get it done.

Huge switchbacks.

Huge views.

Wildflowers aplenty.

And Julian playing in them.
Beep.

Rocky, jungle-like descents.

Plenty of sunshine.

Stream crossings.
Or, at least it was a stream last week.

Trains.
Can't forget the trains.
(dude, hold my bike...)

22.46 miles. 2058 vertical feet of climbing.
Hours and hours of smiles. Happy kids. Happy dad.