The Best of the 2010 Whitney Excursion - the FOOD!

You know you're on an expedition when the stove says so.

Every expedition has at least one moment that stands out from the faded memories of the actual adventure with color enhanced clarity. It’s that point where a day later, you laugh, go “I can’t believe that happened/you did that/we survived/oh my god you wouldn’t believe”, and then when you think about the trip twenty years later, the same memory creeps into your mind. It’s that story you try to relate to your friends with the disclaimer of, “you had to have been there, but, let me tell you…”, and then when they don’t laugh at your story, you pause, and go lamely, “well, you had to have been there”. Then, even worse, when your friends make the mistake about asking about the main, exciting part of the trip – for example, where you summitted the peak in gale force winds in snow both ways and found the lost Ark of the Covenant; you brighten and, before telling the story about how you made the summit and lost your nose in the process, you say, “but first, let me tell you a side story about the frozen macaroni squirrel incident”, which causes them to roll their eyes, groan, and regret talking to you in the first place. At the same time though, the thing that no one realizes about these stories is that without the frozen macaroni squirrel incidents, climbs are by and large similar. After all, mountains are the same in many ways – they are made of rocks and they are tall. Some have snow. Some do not. Some have climbers on them, some do not. But what differs on each climb is the experience and the stories that follow from the experiences – whether people want to hear them or not.

There were so many things that happened on this last trip to Whitney that made the experience an epic adventure. In general, one would think that since it was my seventh time on the summit, I’d have some insightful observations about the peak, or the conditions, but I’ve covered that already. All that I’m left with is that Whitney is a big mountain. Really really big. Biggest in the lower forty-eight states, I’ve been told, and if Wikipedia says it, it must be true. Also, having been up it a fair few times, I can attest that it is large. There are so many little things from the planning, and the drama that entailed, and the bookkeeping that followed it. Roughly, I can count over 234 separate e-mails between myself, group members, and prospective group members about the trip.  In this respect, Whitney seemed less like an adventure, and more like bookkeeping. Or, I could talk about the training hikes, and using lots of mountaineering technique, while being told by group members, “I don’t know what I’m doing, but it just seems like we could go this way, with no problems, and not get lost whatsoever, but I don’t know what I’m talking about.” (Readers: note that “that way” was a random undefined direction. Also note that if someone tells you that you should go in a random undefined direction, contrary to what anyone tells you, you will get lost – at least for the short term. Long term, you might find your way back – eventually.)

Practically, I could also talk about the terror of watching people traverse in strange ways, or wondering at times where people were and what they were doing, or how they got lost when all they were supposed to be doing was following a silver car. Or I could cite to the numerous moments of comic relief, where people insisted on saying, “that’s what she said”, at every opportunity even though it wasn’t funny, and had never really been funny in the first place, and even though they weren’t drunk. But – and I say this with great difficulty (insert: “that’s what she said here” line to get a sampling of how it works), what really sticks out in my mind is the food.

That's right: food. I'm still eating cookies for breakfast, though!

That’s right, I said food. And not because it was bad. Too often on mountaineering, climbing, or any sort of expedition, the food is god-awful. It’s one of those things that ends up going by the wayside, in a, “I have too many things to do type of way, so I’ll just grab some nutrition bars”. Then, on mile thirty of the trip, you say to yourself, “for the love of all that is holy in the universe, why did I pack so many goddam nutrition bars!??!”. Placing aside Powerbars, Clif Bars, Luna Bars, Bar Bars, and whatever else comes in bar form, the other options aren’t usually good either. Although there’s been massive developments in freeze dried food technology in the last fifteen years (don’t ask me to name them), freeze dried food still tastes like, well, freeze dried food. Which is not good. It’ll keep you alive, but then again, so will paint chips, I hear – at least for the short term.

On this trip, the food was good because we had Chef Jaime and his miraculous grill. Miraculous is not too strong of a word in this respect. The grill took up a fair portion of the back of his truck, and had its own apparatus that you had to assemble to get it together, including its own supporting legs, side infrastructure, and propane tank. Someday, when I am old and wizened, I hope to have something as fancy as Jaime’s traveling grill installed in my house. It was that impressive. But, equipment is nothing without the right personnel to operate it (insert: “that’s what she said” again). Chef Jaime, for many reasons was an invaluable asset of the group, because he knew to bring and make the good food. On Saturday night, he brought fresh homemade salsa for the group for the carne asada, and then made fresh Pico de Gallo on the spot. (Honorable mention here to Rude Boy for trying to cook beans in a can over an open fire with nothing but a wooden spoon, but then rallying to make fresh guacamole that same night.)

Most people would take a break at that point – after all, we were camping and fresh salsa and fresh Pico de Gallo is hard to beat, but the next morning, Chef Jaime was back at it, brewing fresh coffee in his percolator, cooking free and non-free range eggs into omelets, cooking bacon, and grilling some champion non-cajun style flapjacks. As Pratt put it, “this is the one trip I’m going to gain weight on”. More than the fifty pounds we packed on before climbing the mountain, what I’ll remember about that trip to Whitney is that morning before at eight thousand feet, watching the sun rise, feeling full and content, and ready to take on the world, as I read lazily from the Kodiak Cakes Box to the group, while listening to the frequent “that’s what she said” comments. Even though my box reading skills are quite dramatic, none of that would have happened without the great food – so, thanks Chef Jaime, I’ll always remember that – and I’ll be dragging you along on whatever trips I can from now on. (“That’s what she said!”). 

Mt. Whitney, Portal to Summit, June 21, 2010, Part Three

Rush hour on the Mt. Whitney chute, June 21, 2010

This. This.Is.The.Greatest.Day.Ever. Rude Boy said, two feet upslope from me. I took a deep breath, steadied my right hand on my planted ice axe, checked my feet, swept my eyes past his form and paused everything that had been going in my head for the last months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, and seconds. I shut down the machinery of everyday life, the narrative of what I had left behind, and what waited in front of me. I turned down the volume of the survival narrative that lurked beneath every step on the snowy, icy, chute that I was traversing, and looked up. The world was white in front of me, glistening and pure. Up above the snow, the jagged teeth of the skyline of the Sierras waited, eternally calm. Just beyond that the roof of the world rested, a perfect shade of cerulean blue. And, somewhere just beyond that roof lurked the warmth of the blazing sun, bathing my body in rays of light that were not much more than eight minutes old. Rude Boy was right. It was a great day; and I was lucky to be there; and this was one of the reasons I climbed, to experience these perfect slices of time. I took another deep breath, closed my eyes, and felt the planet come to a stop as I focused solely on the moment.

After a minute, the planet re-started, and I joked with Rude Boy about his comments, checked with Cash to make sure he was doing alright, and even made out the form of Pratt charging hard up the slope in our wake. Then, I carefully did what I had been doing for the last half hour – checked my points, and again began to traverse the up the melting ice to Trail Crest. After our quick meal, marmot experience, and conversation with new climbing friends, I had led Rude Boy and Cash up the remainder of the trail from Trail Camp - a distance of about ten feet. From that point on, the switchbacks, the main trail, and the mountainside were all covered with a substantial amount of ice and snow. As the message boards and Rangers had said, there was no trail after Trail Camp. It wasn’t a big deal, however, since we could follow the line of climbers trickling up the ice chute. From the start of the snowfield just outside Trail Camp, the going was passable in boots alone – there was enough of a trail, and it was easy enough to kick in to the snow.

At the start of the chute, the terrain turned steeper, and icier. The snow there had that persistent late spring suncupped/cheese grater look, and was iced over in patches, which were melting out in the mid-morning sun. As my entire group had crampons, we stopped at a convenient boulder, and strapped them on before proceeding any further. From that point on, we joined the line of climbers from Trail Camp attempting the climb. Fortunately, we were in great shape, still had plenty of energy, and warmed up by the six mile hike we had already completed. As such, we found ourselves passed slower and less well equipped groups, some of which turned around, and startled some of the other climbing teams with Rude Boy’s reggae karaoke hour. After a brutal uphill slog in the morning sun, we ended up at Trail Crest. The combination of the steep uphill – if not almost vertical climb through the snow and ice combined with the high altitude and serious sun exposure did leave us a little gassed for a couple minutes, so we stopped to eat an early lunch at Trail Crest.

Trail Crest, Sequoia National Park, Mt. Whitney Trail, June 21, 2010

While we waited, Pratt powered his way up the remaining distance, and joined us and another climbing team on the ridgeline. To the South, we could see the remnants of the actual trail peeking out of the snow, before snaking down to our rocky position. Down to the West, Sequoia National Park and Crabtree remained caught in the icy grip of winter – even though it was the first day of summer. After our brief break, we elected to gear down – and took off our crampons before proceeding along the ridgeline. The trail from Trail Crest was mostly clear of snow, and the few patches that remained along the route were easily traversable in boots.

As we approached the last final push up the backside of the summit, there was a snowfield that had not melted out, and had a single track of bootprints  leading up through its roughly knee high height. I briefly debated having the group put their crampons back on for this section, but after finding out that the snow was soft, and a minimal fall existed on the downhill side, we elected to traverse across by kicking in and utilizing our ice axes alone, which seemed to be the preferred method in any case. After that last snowfield, it was a straight – albeit uphill shot to the cabin, where Rude Boy, Pratt, and I joined the other climbers in celebrating. After a little bit, Cash joined us, and we took the requisite pictures and marked our names in the log. Although it was my seventh time on the summit, out of the ten times I had been, I still felt the euphoria of the others as we basked on the rocks.

Summit, Mt. Whitney, June 21, 2010

Sadly, my euphoria was short lived, as I could see a fair amount of clouds building over the mountains to the West. I waited about five minutes, and then gathered my team to turn them back down as a precautionary measure. As we came back down the backside, the skies turned from perfect blue to a dark grey, and the temperature dropped dramatically. Even worse, we ran into Tan a quarter mile out from the summit, and I had to turn him back around, based on the conditions, as I did not want him to get stuck at 14,500 feet in a storm.

By the time we reached the top of the chute, the sky was quite dark and foreboding, which made the descent a little more harrowing than it needed to be. At that point in the day, also, the chute had become quite slushy due to the warm conditions; which made either traversing or glissading equally tricky. Most of my team took the well plowed out and equally slick glissade, “ice luge” of death tunnel, which worked out, while I traversed my way down after taking a small wound on the ice in the early stages of glissading. Despite some close calls, everyone made it down, and by the time we reached Trail Camp, it had begun to snow lumpy icy chunks on us, which continued on until we dropped below 9500 feet. We made it back to the parking lot just before six thirty, and even though the group was tired, exhausted, and smelled, we had broad grins from the adventure that we had just experienced.

Mt. Whitney, Portal to Summit, June 21, 2010, Part Two

Slow down. I chided Rude Boy as he shot up the first section of the main Mt. Whitney Trail. We had just left the Portal fifteen minutes before, and he was rumbling along at a champion four to five mile per hour pace. Initially, I had told the group that I would let one of the slower members lead the initial miles, but after thinking about the conditions, namely the snow at higher elevations, I had decided to either start the hike in the lead, or let one of the faster members lead out, in order to get through the easier sections of the trail. While I wanted a brisk pace, I didn’t want anyone to tire themselves out early in the day, which is why I kept telling Rude Boy to slow down. We had already outpaced two thirds of the group; I could see them strung out on the initial switchbacks above the Portal, their headlamps shining like low flying stars.

The initial section of the main Whitney Trail was dry, and aside from the two stream crossings, which were running a little high, we had no difficulties as we ascended. At approximately two miles in, we began to pass other single day climbers who had left before us, and at three miles, just outside of Outpost Camp, the first rays of the summer solstice had crested the mountains to the East (Check out the photo here: http://www.lastadventurer.com/last-adventurers-fieldnotes/2010/6/24/mt-whitney-portal-to-summit-june-21-2010-part-one.html). Just prior to the three mile marker (delineated by faded blue paint on a weathered rock), we had passed several large snow drifts, although none of them blocked the trail. At Outpost Camp, we stopped for a short breather, and allowed the rest of the group to catch up as we watched the multi-day climbers begin to stir. At this point, my group of six had fallen naturally into two groups of three. After applying sunscreen, and gulping some water and food, I had Rude Boy lead us out again.

From Outpost Camp, the switchbacks were clear and free of snow to Mirror Lake, which glistened in the early morning sun. Directly above Mirror Lake, patchy snow began to appear on the trail in drifts and icy clumps. I didn’t feel like complaining, as the trail had been easy to follow and find for that first four miles, up to approximately 9600-9700 feet. Just past Trailside Meadows, the trail completely vanished in a large drift of snow. I wasn’t overly concerned – I could see the well worn footsteps of many climbers through the snow, and could see a couple of groups just a bit above us approaching the rise before trail camp. Off to the South, I could also see a well worn path going up the snowfield to the drainage at Consultation Lake.

There were a number of hikers and climbers clustered around this first, actual impediment, some wearing sneakers, and some that were geared out like my group. As I watched them put on crampons, I wondered how soft the snow actually was on the slope. I unclipped my ice axe, and took a cautious step or two. It wasn’t packed solid, nor iced over. It was perfectly easy to kick steps in to, so I led my group out. It was probably overkill, having my ice axe out, as a potential fall would only have been about thirty feet on a slope that was not that steep. However, I didn’t see the need to be careless, and it was good for my group to get a little extra practical ice axe warm-up usage. As we kicked in up the slope, the remainder of the hikers and climbers clumped in and followed our steps.

From the saddle approaching Trail Camp, the snow thinned out, and we could see a number of dry spots in between the rocks, where the overnight climbers had pitched camp and were beginning to stir. We walked through Trail Camp, and reached the outer (Western) most boundary, which was covered again in snow. From there we could see a daisy chain of climbers heading up the snowfield facing the mountain, and into the chute. At that point, the main trail was almost totally covered, if not completely covered with snow and or ice. I could see that from that point on, the climb was going to be difficult, so I told Rude Boy and Cash to take an extended break to drink some water, eat some food, and prepare for the section of the climb that would determine whether we would summit or turn around empty handed.  

Mt. Whitney, Portal to Summit, June 21, 2010, Part One

Checking down group gear at the Portal, June 20, 2010

I could hear low, repeated murmurs just a few feet away from my body. And, as I rolled over, I could see odd shadowy forms passing over the fabric of my bivy sack again and again. I waited for a second to see if they were just lost, like the midnight arrivals at Campsite Six, or if something was actually going on that I needed to address. After listening to several more minutes of shuffling and muttering, I realized that if it wasn’t my group, I should at the very least, find out what was going on. Before I unzipped my bivy sack, I looked at my watch. 3:23 a.m. At least it’s close to when everyone has to be up, I thought grumpily. A second later, I had my body outside, and shivered in the cool morning air of the Sierras. As I pulled on my boots, I saw one of my group walking by; and demanded to know what he was doing. “I’m getting ready early”, he replied, to my astonishment. At that point, I realized that I had somehow lucked into a great group of guys to follow me up Whitney again, and that I’d better get up so that I could lead them properly.

The only problem about leading people properly is that at 3:23 a.m., is that one’s brain doesn’t work immediately. For a period of time, it seemed surreal to me that we were even on Whitney, because it had just seemed like a number of days since the last training hikes on San Jacinto and Iron Mountain, and a number of minutes since we had been at Mahogany Flat and Rodger’s Peak acclimatizing. For that matter, it seemed a lot like a dream that I was back to lead yet another group, or that I was back on the mountain for the tenth time. But as I watched my group scurry around the campsite, breaking down tents and checking down their gear, my adrenaline kicked in and woke me up. It was a cold summer solistice, and no one wanted to stand around long under the trees at the Portal. Unlike the groups that had come down the mountain the day before from seven o’clock on, my group was prepared for the morning chill in long pants and jackets. For the five weeks prior to the climb, I had been monitoring the conditions on Whitney, by speaking to friends of mine in the climbing community, and checking the internet for trail reports and mountain conditions. In this respect, the largest asset I had was the forums at the Whitney Portal Store (http://www.whitneyportalstore.com/forum/ubbthreads.php/ubb/cfrm), which had always provided me with reliable information in the past.

Based on the information I had reviewed, I had repeatedly told my group that the climb was going to be grueling as there was still a substantial amount of snow and ice along the route, and that they were going to need ice axes and crampons. I had spent a great deal of time talking to them about the proper use of such equipment, and had even been able to give some people practical lessons on San Jacinto several weeks earlier. (http://last-adventurer.squarespace.com/last-adventurers-fieldnotes/2010/6/6/san-jacinto-tram-to-summit-may-31-2010.html). Additionally, I had talked to them about the dangers of hypothermia, heatstroke, exhaustion, sunstroke, altitude sickness, and had gone over routes, gear, and conditioning. Fortunately, they had soaked up my advice like sponges, which left me optimistic about our chances to summit. However, the best news I received about our summit bid had been the day before, when I had picked up our permits at the Eastern Sierra Interagency Visitor Center. The forecast called for little to no wind, sun, and highs in the low forties at the summit. It looked like we would have a great day for climbing.Sunrise, Summer Solstice, Mt. Whitney Main Trail, June 21, 2010

The night before, I had called one last meeting by the fire, and gone over some minor basics, before concluding by telling each of them that they had the potential to reach the summit if they had the mental fortitude to withstand the rigors of the climb. It wasn’t something I was just telling them; it was something I believed; placing aside the unpredictable and unquantifiable risks that could crop up on the climb. As I watched them making their final preparations, I felt even better about our chances, until people began to dawdle over breakfast. At that point it was time to lead, so, I exercised some gruff early morning persuasion, and soon had everyone standing at the foot of the trail at 4:20 a.m., in a slightly tired nervous state, hoping to reach the summit. I didn’t waste any words, but merely said, “let’s go”, and with that, we set out.

San Jacinto Tram to Summit, May 31, 2010

Syrio and RB debate water treatment options in Round ValleyDown in the valley, I could see the desert smog-haze smoking in the mid-day sun. Around us, I saw people looking at our gear with quizzical expressions. Five feet away from us, I saw the third shuttle heading up to the tram station. Behind me, I could hear Rude Boy (“RB”) cursing at his shoe. I smiled. It wouldn’t be an expedition without problems. I turned around, and saw that RB was actually cursing at his shoelaces, which were now lying in several unraveled pieces, rather than his shoes. Calmly, I put my pack back down in the parking lot next to Syrio and Jaime, and quipped to RB, “You know, when I said I’d teach you the ways of the ninja mountaineer, this wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”

It was Memorial Day, and the four of us were at the parking lot just below the Palm Springs tram shuttle. We had made it there by overcoming our holiday weekend inertia, a leaky ceiling, crappy traffic on the I-215, and a slew of preparatory e-mails. We had come to Palm Springs not to ride the incredible spinning tram with everyone else, but to hopefully bag the peak. Really, bagging the peak was the secondary objective in my mind; the primary objective was to see how half of the group handled snow, ice, and other mountaineering challenges prior to climbing Whitney. That’s right. Whitney. I was going back to lead another group. Clearly, either there was some unfinished business there, or I was a slow learner, or maybe the mountain had some sort of subliminal subconscious pull in my mind. In 2007, I had led my second group up Whitney in October, the “First and Last Pizza Port Mountaineering Expedition”, and had placed five out of six people on the summit. (http://last-adventurer.squarespace.com/last-adventurers-fieldnotes/2008/1/2/the-first-and-last-pizza-port-mountaineering-expedition-day.html)

After that expedition, a myriad of things happened, and I could spend a million words discussing each of them, but for now, the pertinent information is that I was going back to Whitney, this time in the summer of 2010 with a new group of eight, in the “Who Dares Wins” expedition. I was going to make sure the group was as ready as they could be. This is why I was at San Jacinto, on a perfect blue sky holiday Monday. If you’ve never been, the Palm Springs Tram leaves the desert valley floor at 2500 feet, and heads up to the station at 8500 feet near the San Jacinto summit. It’s probably the easiest way to climb 6000 feet I’ve ever experienced; and according to the promotional material, it is the largest rotating aerial tramway in the world. (http://www.pstramway.com/).

Since the sun was rolling across the sky, I sized up the shoelace situation, and applied some master ninja mountaineering powers to the problem. Since mountaineering boots come with standard extra long laces, I cut off the surplus, and knotted them together into one new super-lace with which RB was able to use to tie his shoe. With that crisis solved, we were able to catch the tram and hit the trail at the top. The San Jacinto summit trail curves in a giant “U” from the tram station, through Long Valley, and then up into Round Valley, switchbacks, and then the summit. We acquired our permit from the Ranger Station (free), and began the ascent with lots of energy. As we headed up the trail, I was surprised to see that the upper reaches of the slopes were partially covered with large drifts of snow.

The amount of snow was surprising, because several years back, I had climbed Jacinto a week before Memorial Day, and entirety of the hike had been bone dry. I wasn’t going to complain, however, since I wanted the group to get some snow and ice experience. By the time we had reached Round Valley, they had definitely obtained a fair amount of experience, as the conditions had gone from partial coverage of two-foot drifts, to total coverage. I ski Jacinto yearly in the dead of winter, so I wasn’t concerned about getting lost, however, for a short period of time coming into Round Valley, the trail had disappeared under the snow, causing me to orienteer a route to the Ranger Station at Round Valley.

Summit, 5/31/10

After taking a short break, we continued up toward the peak, only to lose the trail completely at around 9200 feet. Based on my recollection, and my compass skills, we cut across the now completely snow covered terrain to the base of the final summit ascent, where we picked up the trail on again on the switchbacks. The switchbacks were partially melted out, and by that time of the day, the snow was quite slushy, and we post-holed in numerous spots where the drifts still existed. Shortly before the hut, the trail was completely obscured by snow, but we powered on to the summit. On the decent, as it was quite late in the day, there was a fair amount of melting going on, and more post-holing, but as a bonus, we were able to pick up the main trail and follow it back completely, rather than following the route we had marked. It took us a little over seven hours, roundtrip, and by the end of the day, everyone had gained a substantial amount of experience. Overall, it was a great time, and I thought the group did a great job dealing with the adversity that we faced that day. Also, if anyone’s heading to Jacinto in the next couple of weeks, be aware that winter conditions still exist, even though it is now mid-June. See you on the trail!

Lots of snow for the end of May, 2010!

Xterra Mission Gorge 5/15K Trail Run, May 30, 2010

Mission Trails - looking green still!I could hear the birds starting to sing as the sun rose early Sunday morning. I turned over, and went back to sleep. When the alarm went off at seven, I was almost ready to get up. It was a welcome change from the previous two races I had ran, in Vegas (http://last-adventurer.squarespace.com/last-adventurers-fieldnotes/2010/4/29/viva-las-henderson-lake-las-vegas-xterra-trail-run-april-24.html), and Malibu (http://last-adventurer.squarespace.com/last-adventurers-fieldnotes/2010/5/12/xterra-malibu-creek-challenge-trail-run-may-8-2010.html) where I had to get up before the sun just to make it to the courses on time. Compared to those mornings, this Sunday was leisurely. Moreover, the conditions were finally great; it was a warm, clear summer-like day. It was a welcome contrast to the conditions that had postponed the race twice before, where seven consecutive weekends of rain had soaked San Diego.

As I warmed up for the race, I was a little nostalgic – after all, this was the race last year that had brought me back to racing. I had started off that race fast, but then had to tough it out to merely finish. That race had been particularly frustrating because I had lost my prime position in the third mile on one of the last straightaways. As my knee had shot out flames of pain, I watched competitors who I had previously passed dart by me. I had used that memory as motivation as I worked my way back. While there was still a lot of room for improvement, I felt great about where I had come back from. 

Mixed in with the memories of the last year, however, was a bit of mental fatigue. I had run eight races since March. While it wasn’t the mental burden of a race a weekend, it was close. There was little time for adjustments in between races, and almost no time to take off from training. I was a little mentally drained from constantly having to find motivation, and constantly having to find my edge to pass people while sprinting hard for the finish. Back when I was climbing mountains for my non-profit, I had come to a simple epiphany – that completing any challenging event was accomplished first in the mind, then in the body. I had been the most successful on climbs where my mental focus was sharp, as opposed to the ascents that had come after days upon days of straight climbing. Of course, solid physical conditioning was always a huge asset to my mental state.

As I stretched, I realized that being overly focused on the competitive aspects of the last seven races had made racing less fun. I was ready for a break, and I knew that after this race, I’d have a little over a month off before the next series of races began. I knew that by then, I’d be excited and ready to race again. As I finished stretching, I knew that I should have fun with this last race and enjoy the moment. With that in mind, I turned up the music and shook out the tension in my arms. I looked around at the other runners, some with grim, competitive faces, some with nervous eyes, and some with apathetic expressions. I grinned, put on my best devil-may-care smile and stepped toward the start line.

With my relaxed attitude, the race turned out to be a blast. Like last year, the course was well laid out, stretching through fields of native spring growth slowly turning from green to brown, before arcing into a single track section along a seasonal creek, before slowing curving back around to the old Mission Dam and over the bridges and back toward the finish line. As I ran, I let go of the frustrations of earlier races – being sick, being stuck behind slower people in single track areas, and the nagging complaints of aches and small flaws. In the end, it wasn’t my best finish, and my pace was a little off what I had ran competitively in earlier races, but I didn’t care. I felt good about ending the race on a relaxed note, and the series on a high note – I had competed well, met a lot of great people, and had a great time, so that, in the end was what mattered to me. And of course, I’ll be back in these races next year with a drive to improve even further. But until then, I’ll see you all on the trail or road in a month or so, after I climb some mountains and have some other adventures.

Red Tide II, San Diego, May 27, 2010 and on…

I’ll take a quick break from stories about adventuring around the desert to share with my readers something I noticed yesterday – the return of the red tide here locally. Yes, that’s right – it’s baaaaaack – and with a vengeance! As I was doing my tune up run for the Xterra 5/15K at Mission Gorge (http://www.trailrace.com/missiongorge.html) yesterday at Torrey Pines, I noticed that the water near the shore was that distinctive muddy brown color of the red tide. I also could not help but notice the distinctive red tide smell of decay. So, after my run, and after the sun set, and running a few errands, I went back at nighttime, and watched the sea seethe and glow yet again. In my humble opinion, this red tide is much stronger than the one a couple weeks ago, but still not quite at the champion “I make the sand and surf glow” level of late summer.

With the Memorial Weekend coming up, this is a great chance to get in some prime viewing of the red tide at night. Again, I recommend Torrey Pines State Park – it’s a long stretch of beach, with few lights (aside from any cars that may be coming and going along the 101). And, in terms of water quality for beach-goers during the day, the water appears safe, if you don’t mind the smell (http://www.co.san-diego.ca.us/deh/water/pdf/BBcurrent.pdf), but it’s always a good idea to touch base with the local lifeguards. If you’re interested in more information about the red tide, you can check this out: http://www.lastadventurer.com/last-adventurers-fieldnotes/2010/5/11/red-tide-red-tide.html, and hopefully everyone gets out there and has a great weekend seeing the eerie glow, racing, or doing something equally fun. See you out there!