Feb 25 2011

Falling

Trudging out into the black and white sheath of winters night, stepping, slipping, squinting through the fresh shower of snow, so cold and determined.

Futile acts of cleaning and clearing before pulling out and on to the road, a road vaguely familiar and most lost beneath the shrouded dim ghosts that haunt the measured road.

The way of it seems less clear as lights lose their luster upon reflections of deviant impermanence, this place and the trail ahead is no more a path home in as much as it is a battle of will to stay on a chosen aim.

Resistance persists against the tires, dragging the front end down for what seems like forever just to be released and floating aloft above the innocent snow, innocent snow, drifting this way and that until the tires find their purchase.

Innocent snow, such innocent snow how it slowly instills its dominance on the season, retribution for days of dry bone chilling madness. Resistance, a false sense of security, relying on the tires to push through the encroaching blankets of winters motivated arms.

Soft and tranquil, deceptive in its way, floating through the snow until the direction is altered and reality is turned on edge, pushing and shoving, the vehicle is guided by tracks beneath the snow, touches of previous white knuckled fools.

Each turn opens up to a road most foreign but one that has been traveled on for years, nothing is the same any longer, winter has seen to that. One must be conscious of what we dream of, love of a woman and the soft embrace of her full heart, snow lost early in season replaced suddenly and violently on the landscape of my world. A woman’s devotion, winters cold love all intertwined into one sense and one emotion of appreciation, devotion, affection for understanding and expectation and the unexpected.

A new turn and confusion swirls about the head while stealing a view through the veil of snow proliferating the way ahead. So lovely and gentle the snow falls and cascades in a timely fashion on the hills, fields and roads of my wondering mind. Each flake lands in a thud on my mind, on the place I thought deserved such treatment but non the less never committed any act that warranted so much intrusion by mother natures hand.

So gentle the snow falls, so gentle dreams cloud my mind and wistfully go the thoughts and wants of my desires, never saying they were mearly fanciful wants of a romantic lest these wants become the road ahead and snowfall so blinding that each flake becomes a reminder of a fools loss in love and life, so foolish to reflect on those things I wish I could change but will never alter my path. The snow will continue to fall, simple snow and a simpler understanding.

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Feb 24 2011

Upon More Thought

I’ve recently began to reflect on my experiences this winter, this past winter as it comes to a close for me. Yet there is still a couple of months left before anybody would begin to discuss break-up yet my winter will come to an abrupt end in just a few weeks. The why’s and how’s are not a point to be mentioned, what is of importance is the fact that I am going to be temporarily taken away from a land I love and a season that makes up a large portion of who I am.
I was breaking trail today on the Dunbar trail, in the trees there was a foot or more of fresh snow and in the exposed area’s the snow and trails were windswept and cleaned by wind with gusts of up to 40 mph. The trail itself was uneven and in a constant state of change, in the tree’s it was deep and flat so I spent my time powering through the powder at a slow melodic pace, but in the open the trail was windswept and bare accept wherever there was an obstruction and then the drifts would fill in the trail, it was beautiful.

Looking back at winter as if it was already in passing while it is still in full swing mixes my heart with a wide range of emotion. I’m not crazy, insane or losing it, but maybe a bit skeptical of the future yet I know my winter is ending at a very precise moment. I will be on the trail gliding along enjoying the smell and sound, the images that I pass by and the adventure of the day when, after a night’s rest and an evenings packing I will drive to a plane and be subsequently flown away from the land, world, and environment that has shaped me for nearly seven years without so much as a flinch. I’ve spent every waking moment either being in or thinking of Alaska’s wilderness since the fall of 2004 and for the next month to two months it is all coming to a rude end.
I’m on the verge of an anxiety attack with the thought of leaving this world and land that I love as much as I could love life. I leave with winter in full swing, heavy snow fall, brutal winds and bone numbing temperatures only to return to the precursor of spring. The shock of suddenly being thrust from a place I am so familiar and comfortable with seems a mirror image to birth only with myself possessing self-awareness and an infant possessing nothing.
Yet I exist in both worlds of an infant and an aware and experienced human being, that and in that I experience this existence for the first time and breathe the air of the knowledge of knowing. I witness so much around me and melt into the fabric of non acceptance, I pay bills and work in such a dry and unrewarding existence, but the other level is of nothing other than experiencing the land through awareness and first hand perception.
Now each day and moment is radically changing, even as I am experiencing a moment on the trail, at that precise moment of awareness I already look back on what is around me as a dream or as a fond memory, warm and close.
I’m not a true fatalist but I live very much by the moment, this can be seen in the way I write about the seasons and my life within them, no not a fatalist though I do see finality in many things and my leaving out of state for a month or two ends winter and begins spring the minute I step on the plane. With this thought I glide down on the trail with much more awareness and purpose.
As I think about what it will be like to spend so much time in Dallas I am conflicted. Why couldn’t this trip take place in September when there is really nothing going on for two months as the land carefully prepares and waits for the first snow and winters encroaching domination. I’ve never thought much about Dallas, or Texas for that matter, it was just a place with a diverse cultural population and an awesome town for music that being Austin.
I think the most terrifying feeling I’m experiencing is the separation I will have with my dog, he and I have never been apart for more than thirteen hours in the last six years. I’ll miss him as a father will miss his son, but how will he be affected by my absence and what will he go through waiting for my return.
I leave him in good hands with my friend who’ll be house sitting for me but all that time that will pass has got to have some sort of effect on him and that is what scares me. Aside for these little things such as the traumatic affect my dog will experience in my absence and the loss of the most cherished part of my year I think I’ll be all right as long as everything goes well and I get home safe and sound.
I know I might sound pathetic and whiny but I am connected to the land around me emotionally and spiritually, this is my place where I exist at my purest form and leaving it even for but a short time sucks life from my soul, air from my lungs, and strength from my limbs. Alaska will grow and step past me during my absence not waiting on me to return and continue my relationship with this land, like a jilted lover trying to forget the last relationship and move on away from the pain.
What I think most about is what it will be like to return, what differences have taken place and what I have missed. The trails are becoming empty for me, the animals stare at me now no longer accepting me as part of the natural terrain but as an anomaly and foreign. I will have a lot of making up to do to get back to the land I love and be accepted again,
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Feb 17 2011

Along The Trail

An obvious stillness encompasses my being as I stand in the middle of the trail staring down at the distinct tracks left behind by ski’s, dog sleds, and snow machines. Each track tells a story, some funny, others dry and expected such as the direct and predictable movement of snow machines. A skiers tracks seem casual, controlled, and practiced when a distinct disruption in the snow tells a humorous story of a skier falling and then tumbling to the snow, but a closer look tells a different story. The skier was on skate ski’s and was skijoring with an unknown count of pulling dogs, skiing along casually in the skate ski pattern when the skier caught an edge on something invisible and was flung to the snow on the side of the trail and then dragged along by the skiers dog’s for about thirty feet.

  

The silence around me is unnerving and I find myself stepping side to side to create some type of movement, nothing was moving and it was freaking me out even Equinox seemed transfixed in a statuesque pose, the pose labs make when they know a camera is pointed at them, legs are straight and staggered, tail hangs purposefully and he seems to stare off in the distance at an odd angle. He always makes this pose when I try to take a spontaneous picture of him, silly smart dog. 

 

So I stand there in the -26 degree air and waited silently until Equinox attention span would cause him to turn, move, shuffle, cough, something! Then he moved turning to a sound or smell that he could only hear or sense and then my picture was complete, but he would still win because there was some sort of frozen moisture on the lens of my trusty camera phone that I use when I ski and it ruined the moment for me a couple of hours later. 

As I turn in to the sun and begin skiing Equinox bolts down the trail happy that I finally began moving again so he could generate some body heat and thus sprint down the trail. Tracks abound on this trail, moose and what look like caribou or deer tracks or some other hoofed creature that I never see but they always leave these wonderful prints fresh and new every time I turn around. Arctic fox tracks are wonderful and more like dog tracks than fox so they track erratically down the trail stopping here and there to smell the scent left behind from the previous wanderers along this trail.

Crap! No really, crap is smeared all along the trail, sled dogs relieve themselves on the fly, no time to slow until the rest stop but here they were flying and the poop never lies. One dog has the runs, poor guy, another is apprehensive and his trail is a pattern of start and stop and start, they go when they go at the last possible moment and their mood can be seen in their “on the fly” release. 

 

Dodging the frozen refuse is a dance I’ve grown accustomed to it is a part of the personality of the trail I am endeared to. Rhythm falls upon me as I speed past the evidence of humans passing, then the trees take their place again. The trees always force their authority upon me blending and melting, they become one great thing, until the sun breaks through and settles matters. Some trees filter the light differently than other trees, the scene begins to change and the personality of the woods shines through again. Flattened, torn up snow greet me, evenly spaced hallows of snow line the sides of the trail, a multitude of piss holes and stains and up turned snow and reeds are all signs of a dog sled teams rest spot. 

 

Like a thing alive the personality of the trail changes, no more snow machines, no more ski tracks, no more animal tracks, just dog sled tracks work the trail, the trees seem foreign, the woods seem victimized and I feel all at once like an intruder. The gliding is good and the snow is warm so I continue on, and on with the tracks of the sled before me trusting that whoever the driver was knew where they were headed and that they also knew this trail. The trail changes with the ground beneath it, adjusting and moving above the frozen soil, the give and go is a change I don’t really enjoy since I’m not allowed to get a rhythm started and any speed created. Slipping to the left, to the right just to be pushed to and fro by the whims of the trails altering wants.

Each moment that I am allowed to witness on the snow, blanketed by the trees creates moments that I reflect on for years after having experienced the event. Something special has occurred during that time on the trail, why else spend so much time contemplating the experience? Each moment that the trail allows me to witness is an experience to treasure and revel in, and the dog that travels with me in all his knowing knows more than I with knowing everything and yet knowing nothing he doesn’t think about the snow, the trees, the cold. He only enjoys the present, the experience in front of him. He takes nothing of the moment for granted, stopping to taste, smell, pee on, poop on, and burrow into in a glee that I feel rarely and treasure even more. 

  

  

 

 

 

 

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Feb 9 2011

The Cache Creek Trail

I had actually began a totally different article to post this week and in fact it is almost complete, but after today and the recent last week or so I thought I’d start over and refresh the brain as well as body. 

This recent time has been very difficult on me, as my job has consumed almost every waking moment of my time so much so my days off last week were everything more than time to relax and enjoy quality time away from that world. 

So much of that world had infiltrated my peace and tranquil existence to such a degree that even the thought of co-workers, being at work, or even getting a text or phone call from work would rattle me nearly into an anxiety attack. I hadn’t been able to escape for more than an hour here or there lately, even my favorite trail was devastated by thoughtless snowmachiners. 

My thought processes were slowed and my ability to type a single word of expressiveness was a torturous education in futility. Sometimes it’s better to thoroughly wash our hands of the whole mess and start over but I am way to impatient to wait out such a demanding task. I needed to get away and get away fast but then with the economy in such a state as it is for the time being I lack the funds and time to truly escape away from the events of the day to day crud that has been suffocating my ability to breathe. I’ve settled on escaping away on the local trails, fleeting moments of unimaginable pleasure bundled up in a compressed experience. 

Sometimes no matter what we do we become trapped in a maze of tired routine, lost with no light in sight we become blind to what drives us in the first place. I had not forgotten that writing is the second most important part of my life, and the outdoors is the top of the list. Finally today I was able to breathe again, work still tried to suck me in, a voice mail to call in but I ignored it with an anxious beat of the heart and moved on to find my sight again. 

For some reason lately I have been keeping my travels on the trails shorter in distance for sake of time constraints and a busy work life. The fear of not getting enough done in two days, the house chores, paying the bills, all the little things that drive our lives like the small business all of our households are. 

I’ve thought a lot about the desert I moved away from in 2004, thoughts of seemingly barren landscapes, windswept limestone ridgelines, and root beer brown varnished walls of Aztec sandstone that seem to reach into space. I miss the simplicity of the desert, running the unimaginable trails that wind through the sandstone canyons, brushing the needles and branches of the bristle cone pines. I miss the smell of the desert, the soft sand and the deplorable heat. I miss driving an hour away and being completely isolated, alone and totally exposed for the world to see. 

What I missed most was an experience. 

For the last couple of weeks I have been going through the paces, it happens every winter. Ski this trail, ski that trail, have an amusing experience here and there, slipping and sliding along to a point where all these trails become normal and expected. 

Normalcy is my worse fear. 

As I had said work has been beating away at me with a pick axe and slowly tearing me down and I needed a moment of awareness. 

I got it. 

In 2008 I first traveled the Cache Creek Trail, awed by the idea of a long day skiing into the unknown, after all I had just began cross-country skiing. I didn’t know about the Cache Creek Loop or even the Fire Plug Trail both trail heads are most dominating during their passing. 

I ski’d as far as the creek itself but being in March the creek was melted out and access across was impossible. It was a magical time of exploration and all these trails below my cabin were still new or even completely unknown. I passed by overflow ice that stretched for hundreds of yards, witnessed leftover reminders of pioneer’s passed, subsistence existence in the way of signs notifying passerby’s of line traps that can string out for miles and injure or even kill your dog if it’s running free. 

I never returned until today, it is a long day and understanding the commitment this trail requires since one never knows just how far they are going to travel until they reach the point that is enough.

Fast snow and warm temperatures provided me with a swift ski out past the Cache Creek loop trail head, and in passing Saulich and the Fire Plug trail two miles later was but a blur. A mile later I speed past the exit point of the Cache Creek Loop and begin the long climb up to Old Saulich and the remains of the sole settler who failed to make it as a lumber man and eventually died in futility.

Now I’ve gone back in time skiing along a trail I haven’t seen in three years easily forgetting everything but three things, an old rusted 50 gallon barrel on a flat area out in the middle of nowhere, the brutal overflow ice that stretches out on the trail for a hundred yards or more, and the awkward Cache Creek itself.

Today the overflow ice was buried under an inch or two of snow and Cache Creek was but a whimper of it’s former self. Passing the creek was a bit of a graduation for me in that I had not been beyond this point before and the juices of exploration were truly flowing in my veins.

After passing through a region of Alder choked woods we came out upon a wondrous world of old growth spruce trees and a wonderful winding trail that rivals the magical Fire Plug Trail. Having crossed what I have deemed the Cache Creek Basin, a fanned out valley that drifts out of the hills below the distant Murphy Dome I finally came upon that place that I would return from. I arrive at a four way intersection at the far side of the valley known as Left Creek. The intersection seems out of place to me as I stepped from my ski’s, take off my skijor tow line and removed my pack. Finally looking around I was amazed by the beauty of the hills in the distance and the magical forest of spruce trees that encompassed me.

Late as it was I drank some water from my pack and walked around to look at the area. Fresh sled tracks on the trail tell me that I’m not too far from some sort of civilization but sometimes the unknown is best left a mystery. After a few pictures Equinox and I were off for the return and the realization that this was a day of days that has been far and few as of late and one that should be cherished, but as the time wore on the next leg of the journey was infiltrating my world, exhaustion.

After a mile I put Equinox on the line and we skijored for the time being, tiring him as little as possible I only have him pull for a couple of miles at a time as I kick and pole as much as possible to speed up our travel. 

Back at Old Saulich I let Equinox rest after having pulled for the last three miles. Ten minutes later we were off skiing the twisting, climbing, descending ride of the trail for the next mile and coming to rest at the exit trailhead of the Cache Creek Loop, six miles to go. I hook Equinox back up and we take off heading for Saulich down trail and swift is the way of it noodle arms and jellied legs in tow. 

Resting in Saulich Equinox tumbles in the snow, burrowing his belly in the snow to cool down, a native Alaskan couple pass by gently on their snow machine with a portage sled in tow, we wave and all are smiles. 

The pleasure of the day is becoming lost in the rhythmic cycle of getting home before my legs and arms completely fail, everything way too apparent to me and I hook Equinox back up and we travel on now just going through the motions. A glimpse here and there of the shy sun that shelters itself behind ever encroaching clouds from the west. 

We reach the trailhead for the Cache Creek Loop trail and rest again, well the dog beast that is Equinox rests. Each stop causes me to sweat more thus cooling me down more as I have already changed out my hat I neglected to include a second pair of gloves in my pack so now my hands are slowly going numb. Funny enough this is the norm’ and not really a reason for complaint or whining. 

After a couple more miles we hit Martin, the last stop before the last mile and a half leg on the trail before getting home. This is the regular rest area for the dog, for the next half mile I cross stream beds and over flow ice until the last mile where I have the dog hooked back up and Equinox pulled like a whimpering champ but he pulled through good enough. 

Days like today are rare and far, days mixed with familiarity, labor, the expected exhaustion and the satisfaction of completing something you can be proud of. This trail goes on for as far as the imagination lets it and as far as I am concerned my imagination is left wanting…… 

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