July 11th 2021: A story behind every beer.

I called my friend, Sam, today. I haven’t talked with him for too long, so telling him about some of the highlights from my summer opened my eyes to the fact that a lot of what I have been doing is fairly ratty, ridiculous, and funny. My Pastor also told me this morning that he likes that I don’t get sucked into doing what the mainstream tells me to do. He used the word “counter culture.” In some ways, I guess that fits, and I like it. I will catch up on some of the bigger highlights from this summer. They won’t be in order, but here is my story from today:

I have consumed more beer this weekend than I have so far this entire summer (and possibly this calendar year). 5 beers.

Beer 1: I was pretty checked out from building on Thursday, so I called a friend in Duluth. We decided to get a small crew together and go bike the Jackpot trail on the North Shore of Lake Superior. That was rad. (“Rad” is such an official mountain biking term, that the superlative “raddest” appeared on my NICA mountain bike coaching exam.) We rode around on two wheels for a while, and then we got hungry. I got to be part of my first sick edit (edit is a rad term for a video) and then we went back to the cars. I wasn’t going to make it home without charging my car, so I suggested a stop at Castle Danger in Two Harbors. I had a beer.

Beer 2: On Friday, I was able to rally part of the crew from the day before to come climbing. I think that climbing culture probably shares a lot of the same vocabulary as the mountain biking culture, so I would like to claim that the climbing we did was also rad. I was going to lead climb to set a top-rope at a place on the North Shore of Lake Superior. As I was tying in, my belayer asked me to remind him how to put on his belay device. Great. He was a champ and remembered things quickly. I guess it’s like riding a bike. Luckily, he didn’t have to catch me until a few climbs in. There were some new bolts and new routes at the crag we were climbing at, so that was fun! It is always a great day when you climb a route, turn around, and see nothing but water! We finished climbing, and when we returned to Duluth, we all had dinner with families and then reconvened at the bar for the evening. I only have one drink when I drive to a bar, because I like to drive home from the bar, and I’m not in college any more.

Beer 3: On Saturday, I moved rocks in the morning for my aunt. I can explain no further. There is probably a reason, but it is not clear to me. However, I will not shrink from my duty as a nephew to move rocks for my aunt.

Beer 4: My sister is moving to Tennessee (Boo! But also congrats!) She invited people to come to the bar to hang out with her before she disappears from the northland for the next few years. Since I make it a habit to steal all of her friends, I showed up and got to hang out with all the friends that I made because of her.

Beer 5: After celebrating the departure of my sister (or her new job, depending on your perspective), I went to another friends house. These are friends of hers that I stole lots of years ago (12?). It’s good to have the same friends. They hosted a bonfire, which is our city-kids name for a little campfire. Also, the fire danger is Duluth is only medium, instead of Very High at my house. So fire people, don’t worry—we weren’t idiots about fire. It was really fun to catch up with all of these people.

Part of my interest this weekend with consuming these cold beverages was that they were, in fact, cold beverages! Living a minimalist life this summer has been great—no cleaning to worry about, little trash, lots of outside time, but one thing that I didn’t think about until the second or third day out here was the lack of refrigerator. More on that later, but for now, the important part is that I really love when I get to eat or drink something that was frozen or refrigerated. Milk is a luxury this summer. I am savoring ice cream more than ever before. And if any of these refrigerated things are ever offered to me, most of the time, my MN nature goes out the window. I say a vehement “YES,” and stand up to help accelerate whatever cold item may be on its way to my stomach.

Prince Ea: “Hey, you! Why do you exist? Life is not meant to simply work, wait for the weekend, and pay rent. No, no, I don’t know much, but I know this: every person on this earth has a gift. And I apologize to the Black community, but Martin Luther King, he never had a dream—that dream had him!”

Hey, You! Why do you exist?

Prince Ea

https://youtu.be/ja-n5qUNRi8

I have listened to this spoken verse many times before, but it has never resonated in my core like it did today. The dream that chose me is taking me on the off-road trail. Of course that is something that I would look at from the trail-head and instantly agree to.

For me, grabbing the dream was easy. Starting things always is. It runs in the family. My dad has a thousand projects at home waiting to be finished. The house is in a perpetual state of construction, tyvek and finishing boards moving from place to place periodically. Following through, however, is the challenge for me.

The dream that chose me is a dream of environmental synergy. I aspire to be not just a guest on the planet, but rather a conscious steward of the earth. I know that I am going to create an impact on the earth and on the environment, but if I am careful, I will be able to not only minimize the impact that I make, but create a positive impact on the land that I occupy. For example, rather than building a house that is much larger than I need, I am building a tiny house where I will be directly involved in the entire process of the production of the building. I have created methods for sustainable electricity production, water conservation, up cycling the wasted gray water, reducing the amount of garbage through composting and reduced consumption, reducing the need for electricity, and latent water heating. These aren’t major changes, but making them reality is merely a matter of putting them a couple of notches higher on the priority list.

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A former student of mine, Anders, created a podcast that raises an unpopular opinion, but one that deserves a much wider audience. He talks about the environmental ethics of LNT (Leave No Trace). LNT, which is colonial by its very nature, disregards the contributions by centuries of Native populations in the Americas. I find this to resonate with the dream that found me over the last ten years.

https://open.spotify.com/episode/48VBrgrC8CYDCuV2gUpPbz?si=4R1zziakR6u0PzGAk9rENg

Prince Ea: “See, people don’t choose dreams, dreams choose them. So the question I’m getting to is, do you have the courage to grab the dream that picked you, that befits you and grips you, or will you let it get away and slip through?“

Do you have the courage to grab the dream that picked you?

The question Prince Ea had was, “do you have the courage to grab the dream that chose you?” Yes, I grabbed that dream, but the question I’m asking myself is, “do you have the courage to hold onto that dream when it takes you into situations beyond your control and beyond your comfort?” The rest of the video was an important reminder:

Prince Ea: “Yeah, you will struggle, no way around it. You will fall many times, but who’s countin’? Just remember, there’s no such thing as a smooth mountain.”

I have been really struggling with staying energized. If I don’t make a list of things to do each day, or food to cook each evening, I arrive home every day so exhausted that I just lay on the floor until bed time. I look forward to the weekend, but I spend the whole weekend working on the house. This is a good reminder to myself to do things to surprise myself every once in a while, like swimming in Lake Superior in late March/early April. The mountain is not smooth, but there’s something special about looking out across the plains and valleys from atop a mountain.

Don’t forget the dream. The dream chose me, and I grabbed it. I talk about the environment and earth science with kids everyday and I get paid to do it. I get to work on building a low-impact tiny house every weekend. I live in a place where I can go backpacking from my doorstep, and never have to step foot in a car to get there. I am living the dream. It’s not easy. I have fallen more times than I can count, but who’s countin’?

I have found my mountain, and this is my call to take a short snack break to look around at the scenery behind me. What are all the beautiful things that I have seen in the last year? What are all the opportunities that I have taken? So many great things have happened, and even though the air is thin, and I am exhausted almost to the breaking point on this mountain, I am proud of where I am.

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One of the original reasons I started this blog was to share the photographs that I take. This started as a passion for visual imagery. Now I put more energy into uncovering the power of words. On my most recent adventure, I brought zero electronic devices. Not my phone, not my watch, not even a camera.

Before you read the rest of this article, close your eyes for a second and picture yourself doing something that you love. Do it again, this time a bit longer. Really immerse yourself in the sounds and the smells, the textures and colors that you experience while doing that thing. At the end of each each following sentence or paragraph, take a moment to do the same. Live through these words for a moment, maybe form them on your lips. Flex your imagination.

I started my trip by dropping my phone. I didn’t intend to leave it behind. I like to take pictures, but with a cracking screen, and miles of dark gray water laid out like a thick marker line before me, I figured I might as well leave all the electronics behind. I turned off my phone, took off my watch, and hid my camera behind the driver seat of my little red truck. Instead of taking a before picture, I tried to imprint the smells of the pines and the sound of the woodpeckers in my mind.

As I paddled, the gently rippling waters lapped at the side of the boat. The sounds of the whirlpools after every paddle stroke drifted on the gentle breeze in the cool late summer air. I made my way through a narrow channel flanked by spindly Jack pines and twisted cedar trunks. I was watching the water swirling around my paddle when I heard the humming of heavy wings above me. I looked up to see an eagle gliding down, feet stretched out like landing gears. As it approached the water, it gave two strong wingstrokes and flew off with a surprised bass in its talons. I watched it fly away, followed by another eagle past the next tree line.

Later that evening, I walked down to the water with my belly full of chicken flavored rice. Knorr pasta/rice sides are ideal camping meals. I walked through the cool air to the warm water of Newfound lake. While I was eating, a light sprinkle danced over the lake. I looked upwind to the sky and saw a break in the clouds. With my worries of a heavy rain quenched, I closed my eyes and felt the water gently tapping on my forehead. As it slowed, I walked towards the most brilliant rainbow I had ever seen. Four iterations of the seven brilliant colors glowed in a complete arc like the entrance to another world. I took off my clothes and stepped into the water. I swam slowly out into the open towards the brilliant colors, my decency protected by my isolation and the water. Upon returning to shore, I stood naked in the woods, feeling a prickling sensation as the water evaporated off of my skin. The cool breeze brought shivers to my body, so I crawled into my bivy and warmed myself under a down blanket. I was living luxury in its finest. A clear sky completed my stay in this thousand star hotel.

The next morning brought a much less peaceful struggle. I knew the day would be different when I woke to see the treetops swaying meters across above me. I fought the strong wind all day long. Sometimes, I saw gusts of wind coming across the lake at my boat. I would turn to the wind and paddle with renewed vigor, and then feel the frustration as I looked to the lichen covered rocks on the shore near by, moving past with somnolent indifference. I want the lake to notice my struggle. I want the wind to pity me and let up. But it doesn’t. I decide to befriend the wind, and force a laugh as it blows at me with renewed vigor. The forced laugh becomes authentic as the day goes on. The blisters on the insides of my thumbs still hurt though, and the portages, usually dreaded for their misery, are a welcome respite from the grinding progress up the lake.

As I approach the end of the portage, I feel the lactic acid burning in my legs and shoulders. I step into the cool water and feel my shoes flood again with each step into the lake as I hoist my boat from my shoulders. If not for the ripples on the surface, the water would be hardly visible. The crystal clear water turns my boat from a chunk of floating aluminum into an airplane, gliding silently over the ground, laid out clearly below me in the sun. I didn’t see any frogs as the shadow of my vessel drifted across the moonscape below. It is nice to be in the lee of the trees on a windy day like this.

I finally get blown up on shore near an empty campsite. I pull my canoe out of the water and lay down on the rocks. After inflating my sleeping pad, I sat out in the sun and read a book about finding my soul. That’s not really what the book is about, but that is what I made it be about. The cool wind tried to give me the illusion that I was not getting sunburned, but I know better. I moved up to the woods and read leaning with my back against a white powdery birch tree. That worked well until I realized I couldn’t straighten my back. I hope this isn’t what getting old is like. After slowly easing my back muscles back into the land of the living, I set out to cook supper. More rice. Hopefully it won’t taste like carbony crip as much today.

I woke up once to greet the hundreds of stars I don’t get to see in town, and then woke again as the first hints of orange are creeping over the horizon. I spent the next half-hour eating breakfast and packing up camp. I lowered my canoe down into the glassy water. I flinched as the metal hull cracked against a rock like a cannon in the calm silent morning. Finally I was paddling through the sea smoke that rises from the lake on cool mornings. I could see my breath as I glided out into the middle of the lake. The sun began to burn the fog out where the trees couldn’t cast their shadows. I continued to the center of the lake until I too was bathed in the orange morning sunlight. I turned so the sun warmed my back and headed west to go home.

Back at the entry point, there was a group of six or seven boats. One college-aged kid was trying to contain his group and get the boats off the landing to create space for me. I found a different beach to land at and saved him some trouble. For the first time since I left, I remembered that there might be people who were trying to contact me. Well, they will have to wait until I get back to town. I load into my truck and set off, driving down the road extra slow since I am still living with the rhythm of the woods. After driving down the road for a minute or two, I turn off the radio. I am not ready for things like that yet. I listen to the hum of the engine, the whir of the wind through the windows and the cracks in the pavement.

Before getting to town, I pull off at a park and sit in the bed of the truck. This is where I bridge the gap between the real world and the rest of my life. I will be back to the real world before too long.

You are probably a lot cooler than you give yourself credit for. Mainstream consumerist america gives self deprication a terrible amount of value. I guess that is to make us want more, buy more, and spend more. Marketing at its finest. My goal is to tell you that you are awesome, and if you haven’t been feeling awesome, that’s okay. I haven’t been feeling awesome until recently. You still are awesome. Here is a story about discovering some excellence inside of myself last week.

Rather than traveling this summer, I have been building. I made a goal of building a tiny house before the end of the summer. That went up in flames when the trailer that was supposed to arrive late June never arrived (now it is late August). No foundation, no house.

I have spent my summer putsing around with half-finished projects like the wall frames that are in my garage, or the sheets of insulation that I am about to cut to shape. It has been a busy summer, but also frustrating because I have very little to show for the work that I have done.

A week ago, I drove through Duluth after having returned the keys to my old apartment in Hinckley. A couple of friends called to go biking, which I can’t say no to, so I hopped on my bike to meet them out on the trails.

We rode some new trails that had some really gnarly features. After surviving, of course we turned around and rode them again. We rode until we bonked. Luckily we were near the top of the hill, so it was mostly a traverse across the length of Duluth, rather than a climb to get home.

I spent the next 40 minutes continuously shoving food into my mouth. There have been few times since high school that I have worked myself to that point. I guess college is when I started bringing food with me more often. In an immediate sense, it is a miserable feeling—every bit of Nate was searching for any leftover glycogen that was still hiding out. In a more reflective sense, though, it is the most marvelous feeling on earth. I was so alive, the very functioning of my body was brought to the forefront of my consciousness.

Fast forward a few days, and I was at my new apartment in the north woods. I hopped on my bike to explore, and found myself cruising around on atv trails. I had originally avoided the gravel road because I didn’t want to ride all the way to the pavement, 15 miles away. I ended up at the pavement anyway, taking the long way there. With a couple of dead end discoveries, I rode 41 miles.

The next day I was back in Duluth. Logan and I went for another bike ride. This time, we were only out for 3 hours, instead the 5 hours last time. I am filled with the joy that I don’t have to drive to trailheads to bike, even when the trails I want to bike on are far away.

Continuing my recklessness in the world of endurance, I decided it would be cool to go for a long run. I’m still not sure what inspired this other than the temptation of that feeling I get when I return from a run worn down like a puppy after playing all afternoon. I loaded up my backpack, and hit the trail. I covered almost the same trails by foot in about 4 hours that I did yesterday on a bike in 3 hours.

I talked to my dad about this. I think it is so fascinating that I was able to do this without really preparing for it that much. It makes me wonder what things people can do that they just don’t realize are doable right now? I notice, especially working with people in their late teens but also with the adults I work with, that a lot of people sell themselves short to such an extent that it prevents them from being as awesome as they could be.

Sometime in the next week, think of something awesome that you might be able to do. Maybe not, but maybe. Then give it a go. The worst that can happen is that you are not able to do something that you hadn’t even imagined until now.

Last fall, a guest speaker came to my school. Anton Treuer spoke about the importance of seeing and understanding the Native American experience. As a white male educator, I have spent a lot of time uncovering implicit biases of my own and taking steps to make sure they do not negatively impact my students experiences.

It seems that many times, these conversations focus on elimination. Eliminating bias, preventing prejudice, getting rid of old practices. Without diminishing the importance of leaving those things in the past, I find the work more invigorating to look at it from a different angle. This angle, which is often forgotten in the discomfort of leaving the ugly parts of myself in the past, is that I get to create a new self which is better than I have ever been before.

Professor Treuer mentioned the following quote during his presentation: “There are only two lasting things we can hope to give our children: one is roots; and the other is wings.” This opened the door for me to learn about myself, and I only have Ojibwe wisdom to thank for that. I doubt that Dr. Treuer was the first person to say these words (if you were, let me grovel at your feet in apology and admiration!), but the lens through which he explained it impacted me in a way that caused me to still be thinking about it 11 months later.

For reasons which could be explained better by someone with a degree in humanities, Euro-Americans tend to focus more on the wings. In my case, that has been almost exclusively the case. In the quest for the bigger and better, for reaching to the stars, I never stopped to look back to where I jumped from.

The only ancestors that I know about are my grandparents. I met one great-grandma in my operative memory, and one great-grandpa according to the photograph in my parents living room, but I don’t know anything about them. Over the past weeks, I have started to grow roots, small and fragile as they are.

It doesn’t seem very impressive when I write it down, but I have been talking with and spending time more with my Dad. We went on an incredible sail which seemed to kick things off. Since then, we have spent evenings sitting in lawn chairs in the driveway looking at the clouds as we talk. We have watched thunderstorms roll by, moved boats around the backyard, and watched movies together.

With my Mom, I was baptized into the process of harvesting peas. We woke up at the buttcrack of dawn to drive down to the farm in southern MN. We spent the rest of the morning in the field planted by my Aunt, picking peas before the combines came to collect them.

After returning to my grandparents house, we spent the afternoon pulling the peas out of their pods. Magic happens when families sit around a table. I find more value when menial tasks are involved. The monotony leads to long discussion, a rare commodity. In the passing down of that knowledge, I felt closer to my family than I have in ages.

Creating a new me, one with both wings and roots, is not easy. It doesn’t happen when I am complacent about it. But Dr. Treuer has made an impact, even if it wasn’t in exactly the way he expected. I suspect that this will help me to understand my students better when they miss school occasionally for hunting season, or harvesting, or for another gathering which I might not know of yet. I have also learned about myself by learning to understand the people that invented me.

As most adventures do, last Sunday started out with a half-baked plan, poor attention to details, and a little more confidence than warranted.

My friend Sasha and I decided to go for a sail. We checked the weather well in advance, and the only day that we had available with wind over 5kts was going to be Sunday. The forecast was calling for 14kts out of the west. As long as we could get to the lake side of Park Point, we should be in the clear for some excellent, semi-sheltered clear-water sailing in the shallows of Lake Superior.

Upon arriving to the harbor in Duluth, we walked over to the lake side. I wanted to see what the lake looked like. I don’t like to sail into the lake on a small sailboat unless I am pretty confident that the conditions will be doable. There were some whitecaps a ways out, but the area near the shore looked great! I didn’t notice that the wind was probably closer to a NW wind, which should have been red flag number one.

Back on the harbor side, we stepped up the mast and admired the size of the waves that were forming from within the harbor. This should have been red flag number 2.

We hoisted the sail, and cruised out into the tall waves. We were instantly wet. Sailing a Hobie Cat is not a sport for anybody who wishes to stay dry, but these waves were exceptionally prone to crashing over the hulls, over the trampoline, and onto the bottom section of the sail. After struggling to make our first tack, we finally got pointed across the wind. Red flag number three.

It was all down wind to the Superior canal. I usually like to start out sailing into the wind, mostly for the same reason that whenever I come to a fork on a new trail, I almost always take the trail that looks like a steeper uphill climb. If something goes amiss, I want to still make it home with minimal effort. We ignored this old wisdom and flew off downwind, moving our weight around the boat to prevent it from pitch-pulling. That essentially means that the wind pushes so hard on the top of the sail that it forces the bow under the surface of the water, causing the boat to stop and flip over forwards. Great for swimming, not great for sailing.

As we approached the Superior entrance, we made a sketchy jibe and shot straight through the canal into the Gitche Gumee. In my experience, the waves are always the worst in the canal because they bounce off the break walls and back into the chaos of the channel. It became apparent that I was mistaken as soon as we passed the end of the canal.

Superior is not particularly forgiving, and since the waves had switched to NNW, the wind was coming perfectly down the shore of Park Point. With a decent fetch, the waves were pushing 3 feet tall. Not too big of a deal in most boats designed for the lake, but on a 14 foot catamaran designed for flat water, we were not making much headway, and were getting tossed about like a rubber duck in the tub with a toddler having a tantrum.

Uncomfortable with the situation, we would have liked to have turned around and headed right back into the harbor, but we were not confident enough to make that maneuver without capsizing. We headed into the wind, and then turned in to get to the shore. It was when sailing across the waves that I realized how much we were getting tossed about.

Safely on the beach, we took a break and ate the food we brought with. I checked my phone. The wind had been upgraded to 17kts gusting to 26kts. Not great Hobie Cat conditions. I hoped to sail up the shore and get closer to people so that if something went wrong, we could at least signal for help, but even with staying close to shore, the wind was gusty enough that it was no easy task to sail the boat anywhere.

After calling for help, we decided to meet my parents at the beach house and reassess from there. The options were to leave the boat on the beach overnight or try to carry it over the sand dune. We stowed the sail and walked the boat in shallow water the 2 miles on the beach to the beach house. This article will not give justice to how long and frustrating of a process that was.

My mom and dad came walking over the hill and before long, my dad provided a third option. “Nate, you and I are both experienced sailors, I think we can sail it back.” Classic dad. “It’s wavier out there than you think,” I told him. “At least lets head straight out from shore a ways so you can see what it is like in deeper water, and then if that’s something you want to get yourself into, we can buzz the shore and give them a thumbs-up to let them know that we are going to try it.”

We left Sasha and mom on the shore with skeptical faces, and headed straight out into the tall waves. With dad at the tiller, he gave me some tips for how to position the sail differently. With his sailing wisdom, and both of our experience sailing in bigger waves, the situation suddenly seemed less scary. Here I was, sailing with my dad, something I have always wished to do more often, no less in some very adrenaline-inducing conditions. We made a clumsy tack back to shore, gave them a thumbs-up, and then shot off down wind towards the superior entrance again.

We covered the distance in incredible time. The distance which Sasha and I had walked during the last 2 hours was whisked away in about 8 minutes. We were both hanging off the back of the boat to help keep the bows of the catamaran from stuffing into a wave and capsizing. We were mostly successful at this, although we did have to whip the boat around one time. We were hanging off the back of a boat several feet above the water looking down at the bows submerged about a foot and a half in the lake when Dad finally pulled the tillers around to level the boat. I probably wouldn’t try that maneuver again, but I’m glad I got to do it once with my dad!

After recovering from that we continued the surf the growing waves back to the canal. By the time we turned into the harbor, it felt as if the waves were pushing 4 feet. We made it through the canal, once again hoping for smaller waves in the harbor. They were probably a little smaller, but still formidable. In the murky harbor water, I would frequently lose sight of the bows as they plunged into the steep walls of the oncoming waves.

To add to our uncertainty, the boat started handling slowly and really struggled to get around the tacks. We had one successful tack, but mostly we spent a bit of time in reverse every time we tried to change direction. It was only upon pulling up to the dock, that we realized just how much water the boat had taken on!

This was the first time I have seen my dad sailing in poor conditions. It was exhilarating to be in a place where we were both being challenged, and were ready to meet the challenge. Somehow, perhaps through all the discussions about sailing growing up, I became a sailer, parallel to Dad. I learned a lot from him, but usually from shore. It was thrilling to finally bring our experiences together, like a master and apprentice.

I live alone.

I’ve been doing this for the last 2 years, and it’s not really been a big deal. I saw my family every weekend. I went to the cities to visit friends or sometimes they would even swing by my house on their way between the cities and Duluth. They used to.

Since the Stay at Home advisory in Minnesota 2 weeks ago, I haven’t gone anywhere. I’m really doing the small town living thing. It’s alright, but it would definitely be better with a few more people to do it with.

Over the last couple of years, I became skilled at differentiating “alone” from “lonely.” When I was living at college, I would jump at any chance to leave campus for a weekend and go somewhere away from the crowds of 19 year-olds. I was searching for “me-time” all the time. Once I moved to Hinckley, there was a lot more “me-time” to be had, and I took it.

I got used to biking solo, running solo, but I still cooked for a crowd so that I could eat leftovers for the rest of the week. Hardly ever did this feel lonely.

Now, with nothing but quarantines on the news and stay-at-home orders, and self isolation, the line between alone and lonely has become much less defined. I was able to keep that line clear with weekly visits to my family, and a chance to get out of my house and change my landscape for a while. I have realized that I still have to do that to avoid being lonely.

With limited travel, these things become more difficult. They aren’t hard to do , but I do have to be deliberate about doing them. Visiting with mom and dad doesn’t look like a trip to Duluth anymore. Instead, I call them on the phone. I have actually talked to quite a few people that I haven’t heard from in ages.

Changing my landscape is a little more tricky. Duluth provides access to some of the most premiere outdoorsy trails in the country, but Pine county offers many things that I didn’t recognize before. One of these is the ability to drive for 10 minutes, and then park on a dirt road and not see another person for hours. I have do this a couple times, and it allows my mind to be stimulated by the sounds of frogs and sandhill cranes while still keeping the wind at bay so I am not distracted by the cold or having to chase down my papers.

At this point, I have spend a lot of time prefecting the outdoor office in my Prius. Since the battery crapped out on that a while ago, I have since replaced it with a small truck. Even in a tiny truck, have have been astounded at the amount of space in the bed. This is good since I plan to use it for moving materials as I build my tiny house this summer.

Before the storm

After some last minute baking yesterday afternoon, I hopped in my car to go to school because I couldn’t find my own kick wax. I grabbed a couple cold temps from my office and proceeded to drive to St Croix State Park. I arrived at the check-in at exactly 3:00.

The gear check-in started at 3:00, so I hardly had to wait at all before going in to show the race officials that I had all my required gear. After checking in, I had almost 2 hours to wait until the pre-race meeting. I skied around on the trail a little to see what the snow was like. It was super solid–basically like a groomed ski trail! I killed the rest of the time sitting by the fire talking to a few strangers who also signed up for 40 cold miles of self-destruction.

From the few times that I did go outside, I acquired some anxiety about how cold it was. Just grabbing something from my bag sent me into shivers for 5 or 10 minutes after returning inside. In my nervousness, I ate almost all of the macaroni and cheese that I packed into an empty resealable m&ms bag. I got some curious looks.

Finally time to start.

In this race, there are skills checks at the beginning and halfway through. To start the race, you have to be able to boil water. I fired up my stove which sputtered in the cold weather, but eventually lived up to its namesake, The Pocket Rocket. At one point, I checked to make sure all the flames were coming from the top of the stove and that the fuel canister was not at risk of exploding. Those stoves roar once you open them up!

After I got the ok-go from a volunteer, I poured the boiling water into a partially emptied thermos, packed up my equipment (the stove cooled off almost instantly in the 5 degrees and light breeze), and slid out of the staging area. I was not the first person out of the gate, by my skis carried me much faster than the feet of the runners pulling their gear in pulk sleds.

After about 5 minutes, I was skiing past one last runner and noticed the darkness in front of me. There was nobody else up there. For the next hour, I alternated between 1st and 3rd place with a couple of runners. I would pass them on the downhills, and they passed me on the climbs. Eventually, I came upon a long, winding descent. That was the last time I saw another person for the next 15 miles.

The solitude and monotony of a winter ultra can be oppressive. Usually I like to keep my ears open and listen to the sounds of the woods, but by this time, the wind had died down completely, and the only sounds in the dark woods were my skis, my poles, and my breathing. I don’t like listening to those for hours and hours, so I put in one headphone and listened to some songs for a while. First Aid Kit was my favorite thing that I listened to, although I did laugh a few times when some really epic sounding songs came on. The irony of doing something kind of badass but also really boring while listening to epic music was delightful.

The moon began to rise just as I left the start line. The full moon was two days ago, and the sky was completely and perfectly clear. Training for the last week has been similar. I kept my headlamp on, but only on the dimmest setting possible, and then I pointed it up in front of me rather than at the ground. The headlamp was mostly unnecessary because the moon was so bright. I frequently jumped to the side of the trail because I thought I noticed the snow glowing in the headlight of a snowmobile, only to realize I had skied through a clearing and the moon was shining more strongly on the snow.

The first half of the race was mostly in the woods, but the last couple miles sent me through a wide open area where all the oak stands were blown down in straight-line winds 9 years ago. I was hungry, but I could see the lights of the checkpoint, so I decided to wait until I got there to eat. I skied on, and on, and on… Light travels a long way, and foot isn’t a fast way to travel in the winter. Finally I reached the checkpoint.

At this checkpoint, there was boiling water. Most races I have competed in before give out cookies or juice etc. Here, they just gave out boiling water, but that was somewhat of a surprise to me. I thought they were basically just going to be checking gear.

The second gear test was to get in your sleeping bag and bivy. They timed us for 30 seconds and then we could pack up and continue. As I was packing up, the first and second runners made it to the checkpoint. It took me a long time to pack up my bag because my fingers were numb from handling the cold gear. I left the checkpoint first, but not by much.

The five layers of kick wax that I corked into my skis was completely after the first 5 miles. As such, I spent the last 35 miles double-poling or skate skiing in classic skis and boots. This worked well for the long flat section ahead of me. I skied across the whole Great Plains I think. Long, flat, treeless terrain stretched out forever, all lit up brilliantly by the moon. By this point, my eyes were acting strange (freezing?) and when I looked up at the moon, it was surrounded by a rainbow. I thought it might be real, except that I could see it much more clearly with my right eye than with my left eye. Well shit. Hopefully I don’t go blind, I have heard of temporary blindness happening in ultras before, but they weren’t in deathly cold weather either.

Partway through the second half, I started really struggling to move. My arms felt tired, but fine. I realized that I probably was worse off than I thought when I completed a small loop in the course. I thought I was going uphill the entire time but you can’t climb for 1-2 miles and end up at the same elevation. Hmmm. That’s going to be a problem.

I stopped to eat some more food. I stopped 5 or 6 times to eat and drink during the event. Each time, I took off my gloves to get the ziplock bags open to access the wonderful cookie dough and summer sausage. After closing my backpack, it usually took 5-10 minutes before I could feel my fingers again. That made it tempting to just push through, but I know from experience in warm weather, that skimping on food never ends well, and I don’t care to find out the implications of doing that at 0 degrees.

I complain about the temperature a lot, but it really made the event beautiful. The humidity in the air attached itself to the trees as the temperature dropped through the night. Everything sparkled in the light of the moon and my headlamp. When I took off my backpack, the entire bag was covered in frost from my breath. It looked so fragile. My eyes and eyelids were as cold as they could be without being frostbit I think. The bridge of my nose started to go numb, so I pulled up my neck warmer over my face. Before long, that was frozen to my beard. My right glove thumb had a quarter inch of frozen snot from wiping drips off my nose. My headphones froze with about 10 miles left in the race. I didn’t want to take off my glove to pull them out of my ears, so I left them in. All this is something to think about in the long cold night.

My gps watch said that I had been skiing for 33.5 miles. I checked a trail map which said that I was very close to the staging area. I was wondering how they were going to loop me around for another 7 miles. It was really tempting to just go straight to the staging area. I moved through the intersection and continued following the reflective arrows marking the trail. There was a light on up ahead. I would have checked my map, except that requires reaching into my pocket, which requires taking off a glove, leading to another 5 minutes of numb fingers. I will just keep following the signs.

The finale

As I get closer, people start yelling. Do they think I am done? Am I done? I skied into the finish in a daze–I thought I had so far still to ski!? As they wrote down my time and checked my number, I try to formulate a question that gets at the fact that I thought I still had a long way left to ski, but it doesn’t come out right and they seem to think that I am finished, and I guess I did follow the reflective signs here.

Just 4 minutes in front of the first runner, I completed my first winter ultra, and won a race for the first time in my life! I got my gear checked again to make sure that I didn’t drop anything out on the trail, I changed into some warm base layers, and stood next to the fire place.

I finished 38.5ish miles in just under 6.5 hours, sliding into the warming hut at about 12:35. Since I had some time to kill before breakfast was served at 3am, I set up my bivy and sleeping bag and took a nap. It was the best nap I have had in a long time. Now it’s time to start thinking about the next one.

In the fall, I signed up for the St Croix Winter Ultra. It’s a 40 mile party (probably mostly solo) through the state park that starts at 6pm. There were a couple of things about this even that convinced me to register for it the day that I saw the website for the event.

1. It’s my backyard. The race organizer is from the cities. When I check the hometown of the finishers from last year, it looked like most people drove at least an hour to get there. Also, with my growing energy and excitement about ultras, here is one that is in my hometown! I ran there to train for other races in the past!

2. It’s winter. The biggest curse of winter is that people don’t go outside as much. It’s dark, which makes me tired and less motivated to explore, but the more I think about that logic, the more I realize the logic pattern is outdated irrelevant. I don’t like dark because it’s…scary? It’s scary because things might eat me. That feels like something that was addressed by my ancestors probably a few thousand years ago. Also, there’s nothing in MN in the winter that will eat me unless I make a long series of very poor choices.

3. It’s within the realm of possibility. Other races, like the arrowhead 135 or the Tuscobia 9999999999999 or however-the-hell long that race is, are cool, but not very welcoming for a newcomer. At least 40 miles is a distance I have ran and skied before. I haven’t traveled that far by foot often, but I trust my feet to take me that far.

Training Preparation:

n/a

Actually I sort of trained a little bit. I have skied probably 5 or 6 times with my packed backpack on, which is good because that really throws the stabilizer muscles for a loop. I discovered that the Munger trail snowmobile trail is actually a decent place to ski, which is cool because the race will also take place on snowmobile trails.

Race day:

Something I didn’t anticipate about a night race, is that I have to sit at my house all day and find something menial to do like grading papers or making cookies while I sit and stew on the fact that I am about to go try to ski for 8 or 10 hours (assuming everything goes well) starting at supper-time, just after the sun sets. I finally started fine-tuning my food plan today. My last-minute grocery list for the race today includes butter, cream cheese, and bacon. It’s going to be a good night!

I am going to try making eggless cookies since I am now allergic to eggs. And for good measure, I will put some extra butter in the cookies, and then put a chunk in my thermos of hot chocolate. Mmmmmm.

Wish me luck. I will probably write something soon to reflect on my bacon-filled escapade through the woods of East Central MN. Until then, I will likely be either baking madly at the last second or marveling at the shadows cast by the nearly full moon in the middle of the night.

I would like to try to show you what my blizzard world was like. Although I struggle at creating emotions in writing, I do like to tell stories. The following are some snippets of stories and images that were taken during the blizzard in Duluth at the end of November.

Friday Morning: Yesterday was Thanksgiving. I woke up this morning at grandma and grandpa’s house. The forecasters have been making it sound like this storm will be a big deal. Bull shit. They always do that. I don’t get my hopes up about blizzards, because if there were as many blizzards as are predicted, I would have moved in with the abominable snowman years ago. Even though I’m not convinced about the blizzard and snowfall predictions, I do realize that even a small amount of ice on the roads can be bad. I don’t want to be driving through that, so I will head back to Duluth today, and hopefully get there before it’s dark.

Friday Evening: I am driving to Duluth. There aren’t a ton of people on the roads, but the world feels urgent like there is something on the horizon that we can’t quite see yet. It’s dark, and I am nearly blinded by the oncoming traffic every time another car goes by in the opposite direction. The snow was supposed to start a while ago, but there’s nothing. Not surprised, but not arguing until I get to my sister’s house.

Friday Night: Laying in bed. Can’t sleep. Checking the window for snow. Not much happening tonight.

Saturday Morning: I lay in my bed and debate if I should look out the window. I really want the world to be covered in snow. I checked. There’s maybe 4 inches. Cool storm guys.

Saturday afternoon: It is apparent from the forecasts that the storm is going to start soon. Last night was a wing of the cyclone that found us before the bulk of the low-pressure system.
I walked to the lake in the late morning because it is small-business Saturday, and the wind is building some impressive waves on the lake. I bought snowshoes from a second-hand store. I am hopeful about using them tomorrow.

I am trying to start a ski program, and DJ is going to give me a bunch of skis, so I drove to his house. I was almost too late–there is already an extra 3 inches of snow on the ground, and some drifts are more than a foot deep. That’s a lot for my Prius to handle, but I go for it anyway. I get the skis and barely make it back to the block at my sister’s house, punching through the drifts as I go. I can only see forward about 200 feet through the blowing snow, and can’t see out my back window at all. The sides of my car are plastered with snow and ice.

Saturday Night: Still can’t sleep. This time though, it’s because I hear snowmobiles driving through the streets. The wind is howling through the houses like a mournful loon looking for its partner. I stay up reading my book for a while, and then settle down and eventually drift off.

Sunday Morning:

Time stopped.

I get up and go outside. I wade through snow as deep as my thighs in the middle of the street to get to my car. I can walk without worrying about looking around. I am the first person to cross the street. I identify the pile of snow that my car has become, laugh, and then brush the snow off the trunk so I can get a pair of skis.

The world has become like a post-apocalyptic heaven. The neighbors are all out. People are in high spirits because nobody in this neighborhood can get anywhere. No work, nowhere to go, nothing to do but walk around, explore, and shovel.

I pull out a pair of skis and ski through the streets. Zach and I go to investigate the waves again. It was very windy last night. The northeast wind takes no prisoners. The lake walk is destroyed once again. This is the 3rd winter in a row. How many years did I use the lake walk as a child without it changing? Now it is an annual event. Silly that people deny the instability of climate when there are weather patterns like this that are impacting the direction of their tax dollars, the success of their crops, the length of their commutes, and their safety.

The power of the lake is astonishing. Waves tumble over the jetty as easily as a car drives over a speed bump. Underestimating Gitchee Gumee today is a fatal mistake. Boulders the size of my head have been tossed more than 50 feet from their original resting places. Parking lots are flooded. The Ice House stands watch as it has for years, with its peg leg holding out for yet another storm.

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Sunday Afternoon: There are packed walking and skiing paths developing on all the roads not yet plowed. That is every road except for 9th street and 10th avenue. People say hi as they pass by on skis and snowshoes. I encounter three nurses walking to work because there is no other way to get anywhere. These little encounters are special. I have conversations with people I will not see until the next blizzard. It brings me joy that so many people are happy to be out walking and exploring this new world.
I am hopeful that the plows will be here soon. I want to be able to get to my home in Hinckley tonight. I know most of the roads are in tough shape, but the peace of my own house and comforts is calling.

Monday Morning: I had to call the school for a sub today. I am completely at the mercy of the city plow service. I am reminded of the snap from the Avengers. In one moment, half of the city has lost their ability to travel anywhere except for on foot. I write sub plans and grade assignments until I am crazy from sitting inside. Then I grab my snowshoes and go to the heaven waiting outside my door.

The woods have a special kind of quiet. The woods covered with a thick blanket of snow, coupled with the absence of anybody not living in the immediate vicinity, makes a silence more complete than anything I have heard before. I keep walking through the sparkly snow just to make some sounds with my snowshoes. It is a subtle sound, something that blends in well with the occasional rustle of snow falling off a precarious branch. I sink in about 4 inches with each step, until my snowshoe came off. I fell up to my waist in the snow when my boot met the snow with only its own surface area to resist my weight.

Monday Afternoon: I have dug out my car. My back is sore from shoveling. My legs are tired from walking everywhere. I want to be able to drive home. I call this place heaven on my Instagram, but I am worrying about other parts of my life. If I worked in Duluth where everybody had the day off still because of the snow, I would be more calm, but I don’t want to miss more days with my students. I don’t want to have to make more sub plans. I want to dig my driveway out in Hinckley before it gets cold and frozen solid. I am getting stir crazy. I hope a plow comes by soon so I can go home.

 

Tuesday Morning: It is dark. I snowshoe to the nearest road to get picked up by a co-worker who had better snow moving tools than I do. We drive through the shitty narrow roads, pulling into parking spaces to let people drive by in the one-lane arteries of Duluth. The city is making a valiant effort to catch up to the snow, but I am done waiting. I have left my keys with my sister so she can move the car across the street when the street gets plowed. I am not going back until she calls me with good news.
Now I wait.

For the first time in my life, I have experienced a saturating exhaustion and fear at the hands of a blizzard. Trying to live in multiple cities doesn’t work too well when you get trapped in one. Even so, make sure to get out and play in the snow! After all, what else can you do on a day like this?