The Art of Winter Trail Running

The white Dodge Ram creaks and rumbles into the snow packed parking lot before the morning sun reveals itself from a long night's slumber.  It's often difficult to summon the will power to leave the confines of the artificially heated vehicle and break the barrier separating humanity from nature.  Sometimes I sit and let the truck idle while I mentally prepare myself for the rush I will experience when the locks click up and the handle of the door is lifted.  The radio plays at an inaudible level while some dreary graveyard DJ signs off.  Despite the constriction of the driver's seat I power on my headlamp and begin to move my limbs.  By the time the first rays of sun breach the horizon I am committed to what lies ahead.  In the swiftest of motions I pop open the door and when my feet touch the frozen platform I'm already moving.

 

The first three steps are the hardest, after that there's no turning back.  Delicate foot placements are precisely located as I navigate the slippery surface.  Once I make it to the trees the snow will soften and I can open my stride a little more.  Inhalation is a forced effort that also requires a cautious start.  If your first breath is too deep you will choke on the harshness of the frosty air as it desiccates the alveoli of your lungs.  Gradual progression is a requirement despite the desire to quicken your movement to keep pace with the cold.  The crisp breaking of the snow's surface is like crunching into an apple that is at the peak of ripeness.  A newspaper is ruffled with each step.  My breath is heavy with the weight of the air and the characteristic inclines prevalent at the start of many of Summit County's trailheads.  This trail leads out of the parking lot and up a winding mountainside.  The solitary line of a hard packed trail cuts through the fresh snow and I follow the prints formed by a parade of snowshoers as they floated over the clouds that are inaccessible to the man on foot.

 

The sun is rising now as the grapefruit colored peaks stretch throughout the daylight world.  The sun is felt immediately through the fibers of my dark clothing.  This warmth is a hug from Mother Nature thanking me for spending the morning with her.  This feeling originates in my heart and radiates throughout my body.  I'm in the trees and moving swiftly now.  Light flashes intermittently through the gaps and shadows formed by the barren aspen trees.  Daybreak is my favorite part of Earth's rotation from West to East.  The snow softens as the sun soars into the sky and replaces the pink and purple on the snow laden peaks with a golden welcome to a new day.  Inevitably mountains will transition back to the pristine white that will remain until the sun bids this part of the world goodnight.

 

At a certain elevation the trail has seen fewer travelers and the snow is deeper.  Despite gentle steps there exists a point in every winter run between 10,000 and 11,000 feet where there is no respite for the foot traveler.  A soft footfall or balancing attempts between patches of firm snow may buy me some time. Eventually I will end up post holing if I am lucky or swimming through the mixture of air and water if I am unfortunate.  The turnaround point is usually reached when the ratio from running to swimming changes from 1:1 to 1:3.  I usually end up flopping out of my snow hole like a beached marine mammal in the wrong environment.  I always end up laughing as I try to catch my breath and pondering how ridiculous it is for me to attempt some of these trails in the heart of winter.

 

On a stable patch of snow I let the sun take over my thermoregulation as shake off the snow and smile while looking over the isolated patch of Earth I have found myself on.  Sparkles of light reflecting off of the snow crystals  perform a ballet in a virgin meadow untouched except for the paws of an elk.  I stare into the trees where they are most dense and I wonder what stares back.  Brief moments of nirvana are what push me to wake up early in the morning and find the warmth to run.

When you can't go further physically it's a great time to see where you can go mentally as you let your thoughts drift over the snow and up the mountains.  Heading down the trail I am able to notice the things I missed due to the darkness and exertion on the way up.  The shadows of trees fall over the snow in a thick tangle and, a trickle of water reveals itself through the snow.

 

 

 

I reach the car and come across the next crop of skiers strapping up to lay their tracks on top of mine.  Snow is so beautiful because it can preserves a footprint meticulously while holding the ability to erase the image within a matter of hours.  The transient nature of human impact is where I find beauty on these winter trails.

 

I strip down in the truck, toss my damp clothes on the dirtbag dryer, and I think to myself, "Man  I've earned this morning's cup of coffee."

 

Summit County Sunrise

This morning I awoke and my spirit was low. I stepped outside with a simmering cup of coffee and watched the vapors being plucked from the cup by the bitter cold. On the horizon the gentle alpenglow painted the peaks in the Gore Range. A breath of cold air forced its way into my lungs and drew the warmth out of my chest. I was coerced to cough on my first taste of the morning. There I stood overlooking the hills in the one spot where I had desired to stand for so long. ...Contemplation of the decisions I have made and the risks I have taken in the past few months filled my mind. As the rising sun nudged the soft orange from the peaks, and my body and mind warmed to their external environment, I began to realize that my choices and sacrifices have been invaluable in revealing a place of great inner peace. My journey is just beginning. Already I have begun to illuminate what my soul has been searching for all this time. In my world there's no problem that fresh snow, a cup of Joe, and a beautiful Summit County sunrise can't remedy.

Coffee Means More

I love the essence of the small coffee shop. A place where a few funky paintings furnish the walls and the decadent aroma of unblemished grounds waft about powered by an oscillating Robbins and Myers fan. A couple glance seductively at one another in the corner, most likely they are on a first date, while an old man flashes a peek over his reading material at the newcommer who just set the bell above the door into their harmony. A lazy looking barista, on his tenth espresso of the day, assists me with my routine selection of coffee and I wander to a cozy looking armchair to open my book. The first sip is magnificient the last sip can be depressing as the light brown stains around the edges of the cup remind you that your time in this cozy local are coming to an end.

I don't have the luxury of supporting the little shops as I whisk through one town and then another in the darkness of night before the early rays of sunshine pierce the horizon.  My life on the road tends to be a blur between convenience stations and Starbucks coffee shops. Normally I'm not a huge fan of supporting Starbucks but lately their wifi connections seem to be the most reliable source of my connection with the digital world. These days I become quite disconnected if I am unplugged for too long. In my attempts at poaching the elusive wifi signal I have come into cofrontations with the autocratic Starbucks manager and lurked in the back of my truck at night continuously adjusting the angle of my computer to eek a little more signal from the airwaves.

In my repeated visits to these cloned locations I have begun to notice the nuances that make each gas station or franchised Starbucks a little different. Sometimes it is the friendliest clerk in a gas station in the middle of nowhere who tells you her story and wants to hear yours. An exchange where the currency is a human presence willing to listen. Other times I have noticed the sneers from the underpaid coffee representatives when I require the simplicity of a black coffee. I have learned that the secret with Starbucks is to bring in your own mug and ask for a refill. Technically you are supposed to have a purchased a coffee earlier that day but they rarely question you and you can save over $1! The Starbucks in the City Market in Moab, Utah is not the place to try this technique. With the constant stream of dirtbags attempting this trick they are well informed of this practice.

A lady I know, who appeared a purist when it came to nutrition, suprised me on a roadtrip outside of Yuma, Arizona when she informed me that she was a coniseour of crappy gas station coffee. We proceeded immediately to the counter in the gas station and I was treated to one of the most acidic cups of coffee I had ever experienced, it actually made my cheeks pucker. This cup of coffee provided the necessary strength to wheel back to San Diego at 4 am after a hard day of climbing.

Since this first run in with the gas station brew I have found myself stumbling into gas stations between Monticello and Pagosa waving my cup sanctimoniously through the air. I peer into the glass a symbolic orange ring encircles the top of the molten black liquid. The glass is always sitting modestly on the counter and may have been left unattended for days. I glance to my left and catch the sublime, open mouthed, stare of a man in a cowboy hat and I can read in his expressions, "Is he really going to drink that?" Given the fact that this ritual usually occurs many days between showers when I am wearing an impenetrable coat of dirt from a few focused days of climbing I try my best to flash my smile. Considering it's the only thing I have not fully choked with desert sand I find it to be one of my most disarming features in these civilized places. Unabashedly, yet carefully, I refill my cup knowing from experience that this ultra hot beverage will burn my flesh if it escapes. I have found that gas station coffee almost always tastes better if you pay for it in change. Perhaps I feel better about not having sold my sole for a $5 latte but the truth is I feel glorified by having put my change to use. I even feel like a serious environmentalist letting my body filter the coffee instead of having the clerk pour it down the drain where it will eventually escape to the ocean and alter the mating rituals of the South African Kosi Rock Skipper.

Every coffee provides me with a novel experience and a few minutes out of the cold. Next time you visit a gas station with your eyelids dragging your entire spirit down and hundreds of miles of road ahead before your next climb I recommend the High Octane blend from your middle of nowhere gas station. Chances are that Walter White spiked this concoction with a little blue but if you don't have a serious heart condition it will get you where you want to be.