Home(r) to Home(r) - Sea Kayak, Fat-Bike, Packraft Expedition

On the evening of summer solstice, 2016, Kim McNett and I launched our sea kayaks from our home in Homer and spent the next month exploring our "back yard". Our kayak route took us to Seward where we joined our bikes, backpacks, packrafts and three friends, and continued overland onto Cooper Landing, Kenai and finally back to Homer. 

Logistics, for Kim and I, were straight forward: drive the bikes to Seward, leave them and the rest of the overland gear with friends, drive home, cram as much food as possible into the kayaks and launch. With roughly three-weeks of provisions we planned to explore deep into the fjords, bays, and islands. The outer gulf coast, we predetermined, was not a place to rush past.

Our first full day of kayaking, and still within Kachemak Bay, we were beset upon by a pod of humpback whales. As two surfaced near me another swam under Kim and flicked her with its pectoral fin. From that moment the tone for the trip was set and every day thereafter was filled with wildlife, a healthy tinge of excitement and an abundance of rugged beauty. 

The coastline between Homer and Seward is arguably one of the best sea kayaking trips in North America. Sheer granite cliffs - some of which rise over one thousand feet straight from the water - strain your neck, and tidewater glaciers, intertidal lagoons, powerful tidal currents, tide rips, swell, rock gardens and surf beaches, plus astounding wildlife, all cram into this magical slice of Alaska. Over our three-week trip we counted fifty six species of birds, saw wolf, black bear, mountain goats, three species of whale, seals, sea lion and sea and river otters.  

A strong following sea surfed Kim and I the final miles into Seward and moments later we were whisked into my brothers van. His cover band, The Moosefits, were playing a show for a friends birthday later that evening. After three-weeks on the water we were ready for showers, beer, friends and a punk-rock show. Natural serenity and hard-core music are not disparate in my mind and yet it was clear that a new chapter of our summer trip had ended and we ramped up for the next. 

The following day we met our friends Ben and Amy at the Seward train depot and a few hours later our Homer friend Daniel Countiss drove into town. Under a warm sun in a friends front yard the five of us began packing gear, loading bikes and pouring over the map. 

We'd met Ben and Amy last fall at Salsa Cycles Ride Camp, in Wisconsin. Kim and I had been invited to the three-day event to give a presentation about wilderness adventure cycling in Alaska and over the long weekend we began loosely talking with Ben about doing a trip together. After months of emails and Skype conversations we were finally ready. 

Three distinct chapters marked our route from Seward back to Homer: the Resurrection River Trail to Cooper Landing, the Kenai watershed to the city of Kenai, and the long, uninterrupted beach - ideal for fat-biking - between Kenai and Homer. Over the next eight days we peddled, pushed and paddled our way through "Alaska's Playground". 

Each of these methods, or disciplines, of travel - the sea kayak, fat-bike, and packraft - require distinct skill sets but, for me, they all share a commonality: they are each modes of efficient human-powered transport over a wide range of terrain, and they allow the practitioner a wide breadth to make the traveling as fun as they wish. Over the course of this month-long trip we rarely over-concerned ourselves with daily mileage but rather sought out the most interesting lines and would often dally at the rock gardens, surf spots, log-rides, eddy lines, deep creek crossings and technical beach cobble on the bikes. Forward, always forward, but as fun as possible. 

One evening around the camp-fire someone asked, "Why do you do these kinds of trips?" For me, the answer is both simple and complex. The simple answer is, 'because someday I will die and I believe life is worth living.' But, the more complex answer has something to do with finding a niche in the world. When someone spends more than a little time in nature they typically can't help but see that each animal fills a gap and utilizes its time and space in a distinct way. The impact I leave on the landscape is minimal but the impact the landscape has on me in immeasurable. 

We rode the last cobbled stretch of beach back to our cabin almost a month to the day after leaving and proceeded to awkwardly high-five in a five-way cluster. Our skin chapped and burnt from the days of sun and cheeks sore from laughing; our batteries fully recharged. 

Ring of Fire: A Salsa Cycles Story-Site

Over the winter of 2015/16, Kim McNett and I worked with the talented and creative crew at Salsa Cycles on a 'story-site'. The central theme of the story-site is an aborted fat-bike and packraft expedition Kim and I attempted in the summer of 2015 - from Juneau to Homer. 

What we created is a bit of a rabbit-hole. There are several articles, a couple videos, hand-drawn illustrations, photography, and a unique interactivity with animation and audio effects. 

Visit the story by clicking here.

Landslide Generated Tsunami in Icy Bay

In October of 2015 a massive landslide occurred in a remote area of coastal Alaska. Seismologists, who usually pick-up and decipher earthquakes, noted a unique low-frequency wave pattern on their instruments – the pattern looked like a landslide, and a big one. They sent the information along to a tsunami expert and within days it was determined that the event had occurred in Taan Fjord – an arm of Icy Bay.

Over the winter experts from around the world began reaching out to each other and eventually it was decided to put together an expedition funded by a National Science Foundation (NSF) grant. The goal was to get as many disciplines from the related fields of study into the field and uncover the mysteries of this fantastic event as soon as possible, before erosion, glacial retreat and other processes sullied the evidence.

I joined the team, as videographer and documentarian, with sedimentologists, tsunami modelers, surveyors, landslide specialists, engineers, and other earth researchers. Like the good burglar Bilbo Bagbins I was the lucky 14th member.

Better understanding of geo-hazards, landslides, and tsunamis leads to better public policy, city planning, engineering and other human-related developments. In this time of rapid de-glaciation and climate change it is very likely we’ll be seeing more of these types of landslides in coastal Alaska and other glacial regions around the world.

Many of the researchers on this expedition have studied earthquake-generated tsunamis in Indonesia, Japan and other places where loss of life and property was profound. To study a landslide generated tsunami in a remote fjord is not without challenges but it also provides a fantastic natural laboratory, where no loss of human life occurred.

Over the next few years, data generated from this expedition and another in August of this year will be crunched and models will be created. This tsunami was the largest (600 feet) anyone has yet to study so soon after the event and the instruments used are state of the art. It seems likely that what was uncovered from this expedition will be useful around the world for many decades to come. 

Photo credit: Bjørn Olson, Ground Truth Trekking, and the National Park Service

Over the Divide

Kim and I pushed our bikes out of the Koyuk school into a ground blizzard. In 2014, we traveled the overland trail from Koyuk to Buckland, over the Seward Peninsula, on a near perfect trail. This time we had a bigger challenge. 

The first day of our traverse was almost surreal: the wind was in our face and the light snow swirled all around us. Several hours into our “ride” two hunters on snow-goes stopped and were beside themselves. “Are…you okay?” Translation = Are you insane?? Despite it all we could see our trail and the markers and for the most part we could ride, albeit in low gear with low tire pressure. 

The following day dawned clear and without a breath of wind. A stark contrast. We’d intended to divert off the straight trail near Haycock and head up to Granite hot springs but the primary trail was hard to find, as it had been obliterated by wind driven snow and we worried that if we left it we may have a hard time reconnecting. Sadly, we made the call to continue north and miss the rejuvenating soak. 

All day as we pushed and rode over the continental divide we were like blood hounds sniffing out the trail - finding it, riding it, losing it, and sniffing it out again. Typically, the snow-go track offers a contrast to the all white world - some ripple shadows against the sea of sameness but on this day there was nothing. We pushed on into sundown over the divide and into a small patch of willows that we could burn in our stove and shelter behind if the north wind returned. 

In the morning we had two cups of coffee, pushed over the last biggish hill and onto Bear Creek Cabin and decided to rest. The wind had returned and we knew that very little wood existed for us between there and Buckland. Bear Creek is the last sliver of northern taiga forest and we took advantage of its heat calories. The afternoon was spent cleaning the shelter and harvesting wood. The rule with shelter cabins is to leave it better than when you found it. In this instance Kim and I went several steps beyond. Hopefully the next users will feel the vibe and begin to treat that little sanctuary better. 

Another long day put us within striking distance of Buckland Village. The trail was more visible but sastrugi snow covered much of the trail. The riding was technical and bumpy - fun and entertaining but not fast. Again, we found a small patch of willow. When it came time to set up the shelter we both commented on the cold. We have of course gotten used to the cold and wind in our faces but this felt different - more cold. As the stove came to life and began to roar inside the shelter the frost continued to creep in, up and all around. We slept in our down clothing and bundled up with everything we had. Not until we reached Buckland the next day did we find out that it had dipped to -30º. 

Just outside the village we spotted a herd of musk-ox and we walked off the trail to get a better view. They are a local herd that winters in the area. We’d seen wolverine tracks, including wolverine with a kit, moose, ptarmigan, fox sign, ravens, and a few other mustelid tracks on our traverse but only two people since leaving the Koyuk side of the divide. The landscape is so massive and lonely but incredible beyond description. Once again, we have been granted the luck and opportunity to traverse this prehistoric land. 

Our hope from here has always been to detour to Selawik and Norvik villages before heading to Kotzebue but there is a new storm on the horizon. In this land a couple inches of snow turns into incredible drifts and travel by bicycle becomes fantastically difficult. We may opt for the direct path across the sea ice to the Baldwin Peninsula. As I write this we are still weighing our options. 

Most likely we’ll post again from Kotzebue - anywhere from 3 to 6 days from now. 

Regardless of our trail, we will be crossing into and above the arctic - awesome!

Fat-Bike Northwest Alaska: Post 1

No matter how many times I set out for a winter fat-bike trip I can never fully quell the pre-trip jitters. As we flew to Nome I couldn't help but imagine all the potential worse case scenarios - frostbite, overflow, deep snow, lost or forgotten gear, etc, etc. Once we landed and began to assemble our bikes outside the airport, in the warm sun, with glove-free hands, my uneasiness subsided and the excitement began. 

Not ten minutes down the trail out of Nome we ran into Bob Jones, from Kettle Falls, and his partner Josh. We played leapfrog with the two of them in 2014 as we biked the Iditarod north and they snow-machined. Bob has followed the trail north, during the race, for many years and is something of a legend. In Nome we'd seen Monica Zapa and both these encounters brought us right back to this place - the Iditarod. 

Our trail has been beautiful, if windy, which, is to say it has been damn beautiful. We've had plenty of calm too, but punctuated with intense and fantastic wind. Riding for hours on end with every inch of skin covered, looking at the world through rose colored goggles, for me, creates a calm state of mind. While the world around me screams and shouts I find an inner peace and clear focus. 

In no time, Kim and I have fallen back into our rhythm of being on the trail. When the wind howls we communicate with quick hand signals - thumbs up or thumbs down. Camp chores switch each night from cookie to wood getter and the variety keeps us fresh. We cook, we eat, we sleep, and we ride. Sometimes we stop to chat with fellow travelers, share trail information and hear and tell stories, but mostly we ride our bikes.

Our bikes are the perfect bikes for this kind of trip - big tires with studs and the ability to carry the gear we need. Our shelter is the perfect shelter: it has a stovepipe hole and within it a small wood burning stove. Our clothing and sleeping gear is warm and our food is both delicious and nutritious. 

We are now in Koyuk. Tomorrow we will leave the Iditarod trail and head north over the Seward Peninsula. Arriving in Koyuk is significant in that Kim has now traveled the entire Iditarod Trail under her own power. She has joined a small sorority of women who have accomplished this fantastic undertaking and I am incredibly proud of her. As far as I know, no women have done what we are setting out to do next, at least in modern times. 

We are still on the winter side of spring but I imagine we'll soon be riding into spring-spring and maybe on into summer-spring. The days are getting longer and when the wind is down the temperatures are lovely. 

If all goes well, we'll post again from the other side of the peninsula. 

Fat-Bike to the Arctic - 360º Article

Wind-crusted snow obliterated our faint trail and my 12cm wide fat-bike tires ground to a halt again. I dismounted the bike, brushed the hoar ice off the fur rough that shrouded my face and breathed in the cold, late March sun. My gaze scanned ahead and behind, then paused to marvel at the seemingly drunken path my bicycle tires had carved into the snow.

 The rosy-orange sunlight was still above the mountainous horizon but my girlfriend Kim and I were exhausted from our strenuous day of pedaling and pushing our bikes over the fickle snow trail. It was time, we agreed, to push off the faint path through the cold, crunchy snow, work our way to the closest stand of willows and make camp.

 We had been cycling north from Anchorage, Alaska’s largest city, for three weeks. Our expedition began in late February on a 2 meter wide, wilderness snow trail, that we hoped would lead us 1,700km, to the arctic community of Kotzebue, on an untested route. Our success depended on good snow and weather but winter snow trails can be as ephemeral as smoke and clouds. After 1,300km we began to wonder if our luck was about to run out.

 Kim and I live in Homer, a small, coastal, fishing and summer tourist community in South Central Alaska. Our lifestyle is simple. We live in a small cabin by the seashore, we work and we save, and we do human-powered trips through Alaska.

 Alaska is my native home and since my teenage years I have had a passion for exploring her hidden secrets and deepening my understanding of this “last frontier”.

 Most archeologists place the first inhabitants of Alaska sometime around 8,000BCE. The first peoples migrated over the Bering Land Bridge from Asia – some settled these cold northern lands while others continued south and east to colonize the rest of the hemisphere.

 Not until the 1700s did Westerners first make their presence known. Again, it was from the west that they came – Russians driven by the lure of easy money in the form of sea otter pelts. By 1867 the otter were nearly extinct, much of coastal Alaska had been forcibly subdued and Christianized, and laissez faire capitalism had been introduced.  Alaska had experienced its first big economic boom and bust.

 Much to the chagrin of the rest of the nation, U.S. Interior Secretary, William Seward, under President Lincoln, proposed to buy Alaska from the Russians for $7million – roughly equivalent to one U.S. dollar per acre. “Seward’s Ice Box” and “Seward’s Folly” were the derisive terms of the day - that is until gold was discovered and a new crop of acquisitive pioneers marched north to the future.  

 Fossil fuels are Alaska’s current primary economic driver and the latest boom in our sad saga of peaks and valleys which tend to enrich a few while leaving devastated communities and despoiled landscapes behind.  

 Alaska is on the front lines of climate change and nowhere is this more apparent than in rural Alaska where people still depend on snow and ice to travel in winter months to harvest the wild game that sustains them.  

 Beyond adventure, Kim and I wanted to travel south to north across Alaska and into the arctic to experience these changes. Ground Truth Trekking is a small nonprofit we work for which is based on the idea that by traveling at human speed through vast landscapes we can enrich our understanding of some of these complex issues, then share our insights with others.

 Preparing for long winter expeditions requires months of training, planning and foresight. Kim and I have many long, winter fat-bike trips under our belts but our proposed ‘Fat-Bike to the Arctic’ expedition was our most ambitious. We took all our years of experience and laid them on the line. But experience, physical health, and preparedness can easily be subdued by early thaws, persistent storms and other meteorological phenomena that are becoming harder and harder to predict.

The evening we pushed our bikes through the wind-crusted snow to the stand of willows we each unloaded our camping kit and together we set up our floor-less, pyramid shelter. Each evening of our expedition Kim and I switched chores. That night was my turn to cut firewood while Kim assembled our lightweight titanium wood stove inside the shelter.

 The wood stove was our only means of cooking but we’d finally traveled far enough north that the warmth it provided was truly necessary. For the entire first week of our expedition Kim and I pedaled and pushed our bikes in unseasonably warm temperatures. The snow melted and long stretches of open water threatened to prematurely end our expedition.

 Our route followed the famous Iditarod Sled Dog Race Trail for 1,200km, to the frozen Bering Sea, then broke off and continued north over land and sea above the arctic circle to the north western community of Kotzebue.

 A warm and snowless winter continued right up to the week before the Iditarod Sled Dog Race, which threatened cancelation or a re-start further north in Fairbanks. At the eleventh hour race officials decided that despite the lack of snow the route would suffice.  

 On the far side of the Alaska Range, Kim and I took a layover to let the dog teams catch up and pass us.  A gravel runway and a small Bureau of Land Management cabin is the entire infrastructure that makes up the abandoned community of Rohn. During the race, however, the dormant cabin and lonely airstrip comes alive as a race checkpoint – full of veterinarians, dog handlers, race marshals and media. Kim and I were quickly enlisted to help with chores and handling weary dog teams as they entered the checkpoint.

 As the bruised, broken and wide-eyed mushers began to pull into Rohn, Kim and I finally got a glimpse of what the trail must have been like for the mushers and their dogs. For us, on bikes, the descent from The Alaska Range had been bliss. The trail from the summit of the pass had been on snowless dirt and rock, with little off angle patches of ice and hastily assembled bridges that crossed open stretches of water. For the mushers it had been hell. Controlling 12 to 14 powerful sled dogs on long, tight descents is difficult with plenty of snow. Without snow it was a recipe for disaster. In the end, over 15% of the teams would scratch out of the race from this checkpoint.

 Our first cold snap came while we traversed the long and lonely stretch of trail between the Kuskokwim and Yukon Rivers. This region is affectionately known as the Inland Empire but to our eyes it was a hungry and sparse land that we hoped to quickly cover before the wind and snow erased our trail.

 The Athabascan village of Ruby and a resupply of food awaited us on the shores of the Yukon River but when we rolled into the village the place seemed abandoned. Despite the brilliantly sunlit evening no one was out. After making several circuits around town, two well-dressed women on a paddle-track snow-machine, the ubiquitous vehicle of roadless Alaska, stopped to greet us. They informed us that a local elder had recently passed away and that everyone was attending a potlatch * in his honor at the school. They insisted that we attend. With empty stomachs we graciously accepted.

 Inside the school gymnasium we were made to feel comfortable as heaping plates of food were handed to us. Over the next hour many people came to sit next to us on the bleachers. They wanted to inquire about our adventure but they also wanted us to know that the man they were honoring was a man of the trail. A man who’d known the pangs of hunger and in turns how to share his bounty with fellow travelers. “He would have been the first to welcome you and the first to see that you were in need of company and nourishment,” they all said.  

 After our second week out we finally reached the Bearing Sea and the frozen Norton Sound. This was Kim’s first experience with sea ice but both of us were equally elated and awestruck as we smoothly biked over a vast sea of frozen water.

 As we rode over the sea ice in predawn light one morning my emotions caught me off guard and I broke down. The pink and orange sunrise was spectacular beyond description and I was filled with the first intuition that our trip may actually be successful. I felt my mother’s presence who we’d delayed the trip a year for while we cared for her with a terminal brain tumor. Under my goggles, cold tears streamed down my cheeks. I felt an overwhelming sense of love, life and appreciation for this place and my parent’s wise decision to bring me into the world in a land as spectacular and mysterious as Alaska.

 Space is often hard to judge in low-lying, arctic landscapes where the white of the snow below matches the hue of the sky above and very few landmarks provide contrast for your eyes. In the distance we could see the wind turbines of Kotzebue but as the hours passed and the kilometers rolled under our tires the gently whirling landmarks appeared to grow no larger or closer. 

 Near the end of the day we entered the outskirts of the community and it was Kim’s turn to be moved to tears. After years of meditation and 36 days on the move we’d finally reached our goal.

 For thousands of year’s winter has been the time of travel and migration. We are eternally grateful to have sneaked through and caught a glimpse of this vast landscape and its people before the uncertainty of winter replaces the tradition of frozen adventure.

 * Potlatch: traditional Alaskan Native ceremonial feast. In modern times all attendees bring a food dish to share with the assembly.

CRIMSON GEYSERS AND GIVE-A-DAMNS: HOMER TO HOPE

"Every few minutes I’d anxiously walk out to the point and look toward the middle of the arm. White caps began to appear, but for a time I thought we still stood a chance. Eventually, however, I saw “liquid smoke,” which occurs when the wind gusts 50 miles per hour or more. The strong wind sheared the tops of the waves and sent a vertical wall of droplets at fast moving right angles to the surface of the sea. Our window had closed. It was time to head to high ground."

Read more here: Salsa Cycles Blog

Packrafting for Cyclists

"Alaska is full of many campfire stories that have been handed down through the generations. Few are as lasting and retold as the first Alaska Mountain Wilderness Classic Race in 1982. A group of racers stood on the bank of a big river wondering how to circumvent the torrent when the grizzled sage Dick Griffith walked up, donned his fuzzy Viking hat, inflated a surplus, one-man raft and bid ado to the terrestrial bound adventurers."

Read more here: Bikepackers Magazine

Salsa Beargrease: First Impressions

Beargrease meets bear 

A turning point, in the not too distant past, was crossed without my fully noticing it. My life as a cyclist has been largely one of cobbling parts together from one old beater to the next, with the occasional splurge on a fancy component. Now I find myself riding a 23-pound carbon fiber Salsa fat-bike.

The first thing I noticed about the Salsa Beargrease, once I assembled it and took it for the first spin, was the how light it felt underneath me. My immediate playground is the beach below my cabin, which is comprised of technical slabs of shale, seams of coal, loose gravel, big boulders and sand. I love riding this stretch of beach because it requires attention and focus to navigate and no two rides through are ever the same.  Upon the Beargrease, it was a whole new experience of delicate maneuverability.

A lightweight fat-bike feels unstoppable on rough terrain.

The idea, as I understand it, is that fat-bikes should float. In terrain where traditional mountain bikes would wallow and sink, a fat-bike comes to life. It stands to reason that a lighter fat-bike will perform better in soft riding conditions and so far this is proving to be true.

The core of my interest and motivation is expeditions – long wilderness routes where self-reliance, adaptability, and creativity are required. I love technical riding for the confidence it builds. I love micro-adventures for the habituation and preparedness it heightens. I love commuting for the daily dose of lactic acid and the feeling of wellbeing that comes from hauling myself around under my own steam. However, in the back of my mind these excursions are all mental and physical exercises for next big trip.

Tucked in for the night.

Last week my partner Kim and I spent 5 days bikepacking with the new bikes. Our goal was to mimic the conditions we expect to encounter on our upcoming six to eight-week wilderness expedition. We wanted soft, technical terrain with a water component and occasional bikewacking/hauling. We found what we were looking for, and in both our estimations the Beargrease gets an A+.

It is often stated that steel is the best choice for road touring. One of the reasons is because if anything should crack on the frame it is the easiest material to repair. I don’t foresee myself carrying a welder anytime soon but I can envision carrying sandpaper, rubbing alcohol, two-part epoxy and carbon fiber patch material. My hunch is, this repair kit will remain unused and at the bottom of the pack but there is no other frame material I am aware of that someone in the middle of nowhere can field repair as readily as carbon fiber.

Ready for assembly after a short trip in the packraft.

In and out of the packraft with the bike takes a minute no matter how efficient you are. Through axles are not only stiff and secure, they also shave time during the wheel on and off transitions that occur regularly on summer bike/raft trips.  Leaving the axle in the fork with the wheel off also seems more secure and sturdy during transport.

Another feature, which I approve of, is the lack of attachment points on the bike. There are no water bottle cage or rack mounts and in this instance I think this is a good thing. Our plan is to use two or three Relevate Designs bags on the bikes while underway this summer but we will also be carrying large Mountain Laurel backpacks. We intend to take all gear off the bike when we are bushwacking or are otherwise unable to ride. When conditions become favorable we’ll strap the bags and packraft back on. Holes in the frame in this instance will just be places for water to get in which would add unwanted weight and corrode moving parts.

Kim crosses a shallow creek.

One five day trip and several weeks of riding around on the Beargrease have led me to believe that I’ll be comfortable for the long haul. Now that all the micro-adjustments to the bike have been made, the tires have been kicked and several coats of mud have been applied, it feels like it’s mine, and it feels ready for adventure.   

Simple and elegant. 

Tustumena

A good criminal knows better than to return to the scene, but like a moth to the flame the lucidity to resist is often overpowered and morbid fascination takes ahold. Some years ago I saw my life, and the lives of my companions, flash before my eyes near Tustumena Glacier as a fully developed brown bear sow barreled down on us with the strength and force of the most potent childhood nightmare. Last week Kim and I decided to return.

In preparation for our upcoming expedition from Juneau to Homer Kim and I craved a five-day wilderness fat-bike and packraft ‘shakedown’ trip. We wanted to test out new gear and try new systems but mostly we wanted to be outside.

Springtime on the Kenai Peninsula is heart achingly beautiful. Migratory birds arrive each day and bring with them their distinct song. The air is alive with music, the forest sprouts fresh buds and water is released from its icy bondage and is allowed to flow again. Even the freshly scorched earth, from last year’s forest fire, speaks of renewal and life.

Our path along the shore was fleeting and only exists when the water level is low. We, however, are not the only ones to have observed this temporary causeway. Tracks of moose, coyote, wolf, river otter, crane and most obvious of all, bear – big bear with cubs had been coming and going before us and left their mark in the sand.

Each day we’d shot put our excrement into the depths of the lake upon heavy stones. The animals there are wild and are as of yet unaware of the tasty morsels we humans carry. Mostly they are hunted animals and they prefer to keep their distance, but we do our part as best we can.

From sand to cobble, to shingle to pebbles no two miles were ever the same. No mundane rhythm ever set in as the shoreline rolled passed. Both out and back on the same course is something I try to avoid but in this case it was the most logical course of action and the variety of conditions stole my attention and focused it on the micro path two pedal strokes ahead. 

Tustumena Lake is big but the sky is even bigger. Each day we’d look to the other end and see gloomy thunderclouds but above our heads would be sky and sun. Not until our last hour did we experience rain and by then it was time to go.