tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60718250423424031962024-03-08T04:33:27.058-07:00Nicki RehnGood gets betterNicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.comBlogger178125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-86584534193205648692023-07-14T08:55:00.003-06:002023-07-15T21:55:40.698-06:00Goodbye Bhutan<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN8M3IJFio4qbzAjgmbIo4KSRy6wyAZ2C7itlpVyN2rBY4VcmPB3pl-aqeGN6dwWYdmqz-klE0vi0OihJIsv0EZRURPYccYAVNo3VcYra0b6ps8GIqMD7APeJ-CbA_PhIb7vscHMQT5utFDxROVeX7CGCW4Ff_EvzXZ-liv2oAPZ7fatfmrR5I-s8D_S8/s2016/IMG_3724%20(1).jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN8M3IJFio4qbzAjgmbIo4KSRy6wyAZ2C7itlpVyN2rBY4VcmPB3pl-aqeGN6dwWYdmqz-klE0vi0OihJIsv0EZRURPYccYAVNo3VcYra0b6ps8GIqMD7APeJ-CbA_PhIb7vscHMQT5utFDxROVeX7CGCW4Ff_EvzXZ-liv2oAPZ7fatfmrR5I-s8D_S8/w320-h240/IMG_3724%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">There’s
this sweet dog at the Ugyen Guru monastery, just above campus, who greets me with intense bum-wiggling
every time I do my morning run up there. Last week, he decided to join me for an
epic, six-hour ridge traverse over to the next Dzongkhag (province). I tried to
explain that I wouldn’t be looping back, and that he’d end up stranded
on the high pass at the end of the ridge, miles from home, but he was unfazed
by the news and followed anyway. It was wonderful to have a canine companion on
such a big adventure, but as I loaded my pack into the taxi at the end of my trek, he
looked at me with desperate eyes - I think he knew he’d made an error of judgement.
It was freezing on the pass, the rain came down in sheets, and we were all shivering. Thankfully, there was a kind man up there who had lit a fire under a
tarp and was serving hot tea and rice porridge. The dog huddled
next to the heat as steam rose off his coat. I handed over a few
dollars to feed the dog, gave him a pat, and drove off feeling sad and
helpless. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">My friend,
Pema, explained that when a monk leaves the monastic life in Bhutan, they are
given the name, </span><i style="font-family: arial;">Getey.</i><span style="font-family: arial;"> To make myself feel better, I made up a story about how this dog was tired of life at the monastery and wanted to see
what the world had to offer. His destiny was for me to come along and show him
the way to freedom (we had that kind of cosmic connection). So, I named him Getey Dorji. In
the days that followed, I ran back up to Ugyen Guru a few times to see if he was there, but
he wasn’t, and my story held. But a week later, I went back one more time to check. Somehow,
miraculously, he had found his way home, and he was so happy to see me - it was like he wanted to tell me about all the adventures he’d had. I realized that I’m no different to Getey
Dorji. Like him, I love to leave the familiarity of home to explore the world, and like him, I always end up coming back. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I can’t
believe this is the end of almost 4 months in Bhutan. I’m ready to come home, but there is so much I’m going to miss about living here. For one, i</span><span style="font-family: arial;">t’ll be weird to return to a place where dogs are possessed by humans, generally at the end of a leash. Here, they just kind of belong to Bhutan. It’s like one giant dog library, where I can borrow a companion, or two, or three, whenever I want. Sometimes they just bound up for a pat, sometimes they follow me around campus, and sometimes </span><span style="font-family: arial;">I bring them home for cookies. To be honest, I'm a little worried about how much I'll miss the dogs. I'm also a fan of the cows, and the way they roam free. H</span><span style="font-family: arial;">orses too. Last week, I was sitting at my favourite café in
Paro and a cow just walked down the main street, shortly followed by a stray horse. There seems to be very little divide between urban and agrarian, which is cool. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiasVjRzSek75HvGjvhCSBPkH_y1GwmcpSTrZ55yMg1Lc9TA6_qb_lfGsARJSTpBXZEvceyi0GkV72WS-yHenQFrpPrXFtpTCOtAc2As_6WcKiZM0ELYO2RvDHd2b_xnx5a8Ft_1akFWYPRS-hFCG-v_gJ14ubtB-GVY0GlGWzbIsQyTzHttmwlfiWXwac/s4032/HZVO0920.JPEG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiasVjRzSek75HvGjvhCSBPkH_y1GwmcpSTrZ55yMg1Lc9TA6_qb_lfGsARJSTpBXZEvceyi0GkV72WS-yHenQFrpPrXFtpTCOtAc2As_6WcKiZM0ELYO2RvDHd2b_xnx5a8Ft_1akFWYPRS-hFCG-v_gJ14ubtB-GVY0GlGWzbIsQyTzHttmwlfiWXwac/s320/HZVO0920.JPEG" width="320" /></a></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’m also going
to miss the monks. Everyone needs more monks in their lives. There are over ten thousand of the maroon-robed devotees in Bhutan and you see them
everywhere – sitting in cafés, congregating in the street, hiking in the
mountains, hitchhiking from A to B, and taking retreat in tiny temples high up on a
ridge. It requires more than a decade of study to become a monk, essentially earning them a doctorate in calm and bliss, which they then spread across the
land with their smiles and gentleness.</span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’m going
to miss the food too. There, I said it! This is a huge turn of events from how I
felt in the first month, which was mostly malnourished. Now, I devour cucumbers
that are inexplicably good, peaches so delicious that I’m unlikely to ever enjoy
peaches again, and a non-stop supply of all kinds of mushrooms. Fun fact – there
are 55 varieties of edible mushrooms in Bhutan, most of which show up in the
market at some point in the year. The eggs have ruined me too. There is no such
thing as an “egg industry” here – just happy chickens roaming the lush, green
Himalayan hills, hanging out with the cows, horses and dogs, drinking the clean air, and laying
the best eggs ever. I pay $5 for a flat of 30, which seems almost free. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I know my
gut will miss the unpasteurized curd that I buy for a few cents from that canteen
on the corner – it’s sold in rinsed-out, recycled water bottles, without labels
or used-by dates, but it’s creamy and sweet, and goes perfectly on those
peaches with the chia, flax, and pumpkin seed I buy in bulk. Also for pennies</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’ve been
enjoying a lot of Indian dosa and thali, and of course momos at every
opportunity. The food here is organic, nutritious, and cheap, and it’s going to
be very hard to go back to North American pricing and quality. The other day,
my mum noted that I talk a lot about food. It’s true, and not only because I’m
obsessed with eating, but because I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished in my
very basic kitchen with the things I've learned to procure. And also, because I feel so damn good for all the
freshness. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHi9IwRYT4qBCP33Na_twAWd0xJx_F4A8uz4VXooZ-Oy_PagX_HTg1JqBMsjRoWT2am2eO6CjODqK0eqBY4juzY4TGqwASqUBPEsUA8KD0UWIYG0o_Aucd-Mt4RzHmlxDLGckxjYrelnpsOKU3CKyNgxcNwecWPoEl4XFIDESrGiXz7-NEQtoEE9l0eVk/s2016/IMG_4004.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHi9IwRYT4qBCP33Na_twAWd0xJx_F4A8uz4VXooZ-Oy_PagX_HTg1JqBMsjRoWT2am2eO6CjODqK0eqBY4juzY4TGqwASqUBPEsUA8KD0UWIYG0o_Aucd-Mt4RzHmlxDLGckxjYrelnpsOKU3CKyNgxcNwecWPoEl4XFIDESrGiXz7-NEQtoEE9l0eVk/s320/IMG_4004.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFkbnUZFpImr6zk6PJyZno9t7kfhRRXd2fushirVkFHvGgFYv_SKS9SWmj1WTOY8QOhsErvLTyZ973dWWBMAHVeG4GGTXfQrxD9okWxIZ_3EnCMi8pccV8wUW36eNIJbnNMHI7q-ENvWsabxGDVQPAzFdisZud0YkUnPpohKeNFJPJlAL5_co62Bmq1VA/s2016/IMG_3437.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFkbnUZFpImr6zk6PJyZno9t7kfhRRXd2fushirVkFHvGgFYv_SKS9SWmj1WTOY8QOhsErvLTyZ973dWWBMAHVeG4GGTXfQrxD9okWxIZ_3EnCMi8pccV8wUW36eNIJbnNMHI7q-ENvWsabxGDVQPAzFdisZud0YkUnPpohKeNFJPJlAL5_co62Bmq1VA/s320/IMG_3437.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">All this, all organic, $5. <br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">One last thing
about food. I’ve had one guilty pleasure, which was only made possible by all the
running I did: Bhutanese cream horns. I don’t want to tell you how many I’ve had. There’s
just something about a puff pastry container of cream that I find irresistible, and the ones here are particularly good.
I plan to leave my cream horn addiction behind, but I suspect it’ll be one of
those things I'll think about for years to come. It’ll be the trigger that floods
me with memories of this beautiful place where I once lived.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVwDTfypcTwyGCOIYpJPwRst9Uf60owKK5Paf2Wm-1ZxWJM3ryMFqwc6GWXM3hWBPeTL83V5_ft13v0dY6ECE0uMpXJGfRQUAXWsVR9WHYgI5dBJKXQ7E_e6MrQqnaCH6sEyTQWcsguIogK6iUi3jW0mStZo_6UQ9lRrlq9MviIYd1mzG2_nQfA_AjHEE/s2016/IMG_4005.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVwDTfypcTwyGCOIYpJPwRst9Uf60owKK5Paf2Wm-1ZxWJM3ryMFqwc6GWXM3hWBPeTL83V5_ft13v0dY6ECE0uMpXJGfRQUAXWsVR9WHYgI5dBJKXQ7E_e6MrQqnaCH6sEyTQWcsguIogK6iUi3jW0mStZo_6UQ9lRrlq9MviIYd1mzG2_nQfA_AjHEE/s320/IMG_4005.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Dogs, monks,
and pastries aside, it’s the people I’ll miss the most. Desperately, I suspect. The community here at the academy
is tight and intense (family-like), and there is no separation between work and play. I’ve
enjoyed spontaneous dinners, house parties, intra-mural basketball, shopping trips to Thimphu,
and a lot of singing. I love the power of a song to unite people across culture,
language, and age. Last September, Claire and I went to Everest Base Camp to acclimatize
for the Snowman Race. On the way down, we had a celebratory night in the village
of Namche Bizarre, where we closed the highest Irish Bar in the world with a
bunch of fellow trekkers and guides. When <i>Country Roads, Take me Home</i> began
playing, the entire bar erupted in a raucous unison. For three minutes, we were no
longer strangers; instead, we were connected by a melody and lyrics that are familiar
to all. The same thing has happened multiple times here in Bhutan, as the guitar almost always comes out after shared dinner and <i>Country Roads</i> reliably finds its way into the song line-up. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">I wonder if John Denver would have imagined his words belted out, high up on a mountain in an isolated corner of the world, by a bunch of teachers from Bhutan, India, and Canada.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="background: repeat white; color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I hear her voice in the mornin' hour, she calls me</span></span></i></div><i><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">The radio reminds me of my home far away</span></span></span></i></div><span style="color: #202124;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="background: repeat white;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">Drivin' down the road, I get a feelin'</span></span></i></div><span style="background: repeat white;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">That I should've been home yesterday, yes-ter-daaaaay</span></span></i><i style="background-color: transparent;">.</i></div></span></span></span></i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: arial;">Country roads….♫♪♫</span></i><span style="font-family: arial; text-align: left;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial; text-align: left;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial; text-align: left;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial; text-align: left;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIWwH7QOn9OH5dnWy1jZzk4sLMwGPrqvrf3avfrD5pVjFIaTs8wbAV-XGH0bnBvcttuNWcppwlbjDPxUrqpShHNdg4ITu5okN88bAHxk-N2uwmzad9M9mSI5zlfPr60utetAODVURezC7BHyGC50UX_XWW3hQW4_Ujo7rS_4CxqXDbpgXrshofhhJ5yWI/s1081/3f256dd7-f75c-400d-a45a-abe16e0e4b59.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="783" data-original-width="1081" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIWwH7QOn9OH5dnWy1jZzk4sLMwGPrqvrf3avfrD5pVjFIaTs8wbAV-XGH0bnBvcttuNWcppwlbjDPxUrqpShHNdg4ITu5okN88bAHxk-N2uwmzad9M9mSI5zlfPr60utetAODVURezC7BHyGC50UX_XWW3hQW4_Ujo7rS_4CxqXDbpgXrshofhhJ5yWI/s320/3f256dd7-f75c-400d-a45a-abe16e0e4b59.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Just a regular night of feasting and singing at the director's house. </span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I have now
spent 133 days of my life in Bhutan. The silence, peace, and intensity of
green has improved the quality of my consciousness. I’ve always been pretty chilled-out,
but my mind has calmed down even more. <span style="background: repeat white; color: #1d2228;">It's been quite monastic, to be honest, as the campus is isolated from what is
already an isolated part of the world. Yoga and meditation are part of my daily
routine now. </span></span><span style="font-family: arial;">I’ve also,
unavoidably, learned how to run uphill, and I’ve made a lot of extra red blood
cells doing so. I’m looking forward to testing out my high-altitude lungs at
a couple of races as soon as I get back (World 24-hour Rogaine Championships in Tahoe, California, and Iron Legs Ultra in Bragg Creek). It’s wonderful to feel adapted and strong, even though the body will cleverly (and regrettably) return to normal within weeks. Hopefully,
the upgrades to my mind are more durable. Living here has reminded me of the importance
of community and gathering. I first learned this in Cameroon, almost twenty
years ago, and I think I’ve missed the expat life ever since. I’ve always been pretty social, but you can expect more
dinners at my house when I get home!!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I'm sad to leave this all behind, but I'll be back before too long. There's more work to do on this audacious education project, many trails still to discover, and people I've promised to see again. I've been very content here, but social media has caused me no end of FOMO for the Rockies and my friends. I can't wait to return to local mountain adventures, lake swims, orienteering, post-run tailgates, and patio sessions with friends. There's so much more to say about Bhutan (its history and culture, and its challenges for the future), but I'll save that for another time....preferably over a beverage. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Nicki out. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizGUzR-RGAmfpLkGYZzI8h9hOCCBus8YSGNcrg0a5sx9qqgqCggJWQL4jbUWvTzaxE0onRTN4rkh39jkYZHRlAbk7f7IvtdPhNwL0UuZlt5luMm8yuD7WFB0MFchfjqvrysIJ9FymQGnoEjLTT-uE5aFMCS3YbPnsu8g_g-mJQ6EItip0JuiJSNZxKIhM/s2016/IMG_3800.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizGUzR-RGAmfpLkGYZzI8h9hOCCBus8YSGNcrg0a5sx9qqgqCggJWQL4jbUWvTzaxE0onRTN4rkh39jkYZHRlAbk7f7IvtdPhNwL0UuZlt5luMm8yuD7WFB0MFchfjqvrysIJ9FymQGnoEjLTT-uE5aFMCS3YbPnsu8g_g-mJQ6EItip0JuiJSNZxKIhM/s320/IMG_3800.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Peace out</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background: repeat white; color: #1d2228;"></span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcqzVJ0WxXZN9JV354TIw-no_y13COVJgjOx73C2TVEyZo66Ub0lGwdtasousWf9jr48EQMszKgonO1yNwBmQbmZfZNnho94oGs8WELBwMYSa4rByNWDL6UnH_zzEiAuXrBVOPT9DkyngaRaJIqjZ_atQP6eRdfH7duosO2Qd44tv4N1QvZhgZ--dluqQ/s1852/gaia.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1370" data-original-width="1852" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcqzVJ0WxXZN9JV354TIw-no_y13COVJgjOx73C2TVEyZo66Ub0lGwdtasousWf9jr48EQMszKgonO1yNwBmQbmZfZNnho94oGs8WELBwMYSa4rByNWDL6UnH_zzEiAuXrBVOPT9DkyngaRaJIqjZ_atQP6eRdfH7duosO2Qd44tv4N1QvZhgZ--dluqQ/s320/gaia.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The routes I've run in this corner of Bhutan.</span> </td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background: repeat white; color: #1d2228;"><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></span><p></p>Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-89917632297863597522023-06-29T05:38:00.029-06:002023-07-03T10:45:07.413-06:00Life in the Kingdom of Bhutan - Part 4: Pie and Penises<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrI_twDqxpj1SxUA2IKGIOoLjOGdG2f4VF89wrrSUtVoZjVCG8pzke_ncP1UWsXEMV-Nd4oMukF0qw_94Tj-Tk0Jyj0igYmpI3ysyYrHXygWG2epchl-rKAdhNJTzoWZTDkY1fOj4Z0JLwqWxOosx-v9GbRYCDHU8uhRhdpN1CAwRVCnaBcfTXklsfi3c/s4032/IMG_3714.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrI_twDqxpj1SxUA2IKGIOoLjOGdG2f4VF89wrrSUtVoZjVCG8pzke_ncP1UWsXEMV-Nd4oMukF0qw_94Tj-Tk0Jyj0igYmpI3ysyYrHXygWG2epchl-rKAdhNJTzoWZTDkY1fOj4Z0JLwqWxOosx-v9GbRYCDHU8uhRhdpN1CAwRVCnaBcfTXklsfi3c/w200-h150/IMG_3714.jpg" width="200" /></a></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="text-align: left;">When I
teach fractions, I use the pie-per-kid approach: five eighths is just the answer to five pies divided between eight kids (62.5% of a pie, by the way). I like pie, and as a math teacher, I'm partial to this pi as well (I was even born on pi-day), and for the last few weeks, I’ve been talking a lot
about both. So much so, that I’m pretty sure the only thing my students will
remember about me and my math class was that I was the pie lady. So, I doubled down by
promising to bring pie for our last class. As it turns out, procuring
pie in Bhutan is not so easy. I don’t have an oven, no one else has an oven,
and I live way up on a mountain in the middle of nowhere. There is, however, a
cute little café down in Paro that often has pastries in it’s display case, so
I called down to see if they made pie. They did, and so I ordered three. I never asked the price
because food is so cheap here, and besides, I was now committed to this pie mission anyway. That was a mistake. Turns out, the owner of Brioche Café is an internationally trained
and much sought after pastry chef in Bhutan, and she came in specially on her day off
to bake me three giant fresh apple pies. I was stoked, until I got the bill -
$105 Canadian dollars. Just for reference, my entire grocery bill for the last
three months, is under $600. That’s right, I spent over one sixth of my 12-week
food budget on pie.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span>On the day
I bought the pies to class my students were all there waiting, positively
giddy with anticipation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They couldn’t believe their eyes
when they saw the huge bakery boxes I was carrying. For them, it was too good to
be true.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Ma’am
Nicki, you actually bought us pie? This is the best day ever!”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">As I was
cutting it up on the floor on my classroom (we have no desks), all twenty of them hovered around
me, trying to get as close as possible to the treasure. One of them said,</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I’ve heard
about pie, but I’ve never seen one. How does it taste?”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span>Never had
pie?? I stopped to ask how many others were pie virgins. Five of them! Suddenly, the $105 became the best money I’ve spent. To
see the delight and gratitude in their eyes as they received their very own slice of
appley, buttery goodness made for one of my best days too.</span></span><span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></span></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGEdDKt8FJUN90fhLYKexdKFFv1cmxFz-WlVjFZjftrwnEDVfVeQrEfVtdfmsnkSJ_uMRFgM68xWAxkZGx5AWgIkOxGJi5mQPFBfJEIuY1fA6UD7IZQW-JrrBKmXGfTVkyJ4ytTN_IGrc2If5fsvvKmquFB4QLUD2zbR8tEeH7e5WJIiVHTM_8FG79TAE/s4032/IMG_3552.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGEdDKt8FJUN90fhLYKexdKFFv1cmxFz-WlVjFZjftrwnEDVfVeQrEfVtdfmsnkSJ_uMRFgM68xWAxkZGx5AWgIkOxGJi5mQPFBfJEIuY1fA6UD7IZQW-JrrBKmXGfTVkyJ4ytTN_IGrc2If5fsvvKmquFB4QLUD2zbR8tEeH7e5WJIiVHTM_8FG79TAE/w320-h240/IMG_3552.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: left;">It’s
monsoon season now, and living on the side of a mountain, 3000 m to the sky,
means that most mornings I wake up in a cloud. While I can no longer see Mt.
Jomolhari or that blinding Himalayan blue sky, rainy season has its own charm.
Visibility has been replaced with an
overdose of other sensory goodness. Here, green is a smell. Early this morning I ran
up to the monastery in between rain showers and the entire mountain was
shrouded in mist. Everything was drippy and lush, and with the monsoon having chased
away the winds, the stillness was profound. The only thing punctuating the silence was the sound of Tibetan horns being played and monks chanting, both of which tumbled down from the monastery above. It was haunting and otherworldly, and entirely delightful.</div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYhehqCPTEGWOSmCcXkj8hfnTeTXldKREqmogsfm46QNTTZUgIhlrMuwO9CBHJ2dAykSqMhz6Gt-n9FslY5j1QUG31KtkgFL_KyYyTn59H78hf0BHRp0BzUONfT1uY-aYONV2UYeyBL3UBe2tQHHBbkOT9OoDKj-kQMK2KdEytcFpH3Y6olGS6NSV3G7I/s675/hbg-title-9781444926514-59.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="440" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYhehqCPTEGWOSmCcXkj8hfnTeTXldKREqmogsfm46QNTTZUgIhlrMuwO9CBHJ2dAykSqMhz6Gt-n9FslY5j1QUG31KtkgFL_KyYyTn59H78hf0BHRp0BzUONfT1uY-aYONV2UYeyBL3UBe2tQHHBbkOT9OoDKj-kQMK2KdEytcFpH3Y6olGS6NSV3G7I/w131-h200/hbg-title-9781444926514-59.webp" width="131" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;">The first
chapter book I ever read was from a series called <i>The Faraway Tree. </i>I was probably no more than six or seven years old,
but Enid Blyton’s story made a huge impression by igniting an imagination
and love for adventure that has never been extinguished. Books do that,
don’t they? In <i>The Faraway Tree</i> three children explore the enchanted
forest behind their new house to find a massive tree that stretches to the sky
and disappears into the clouds. One day they climb the tree and discover a ladder at the very top leading to
a magical land in those clouds. But the land hidden above constantly changes, moved on with
the wind to be replaced with another land to explore. So, the children keep returning to the tree to see what’s waiting for them next. Here in Bhutan, I feel like
I am living in the faraway tree. Every time I climb up into the clouds, I find
different magic: there has been the Land-of-Wild-Strawberries, the
Land-of-Monastery-Dogs, and most recently, the Land-of-Rhododendron-Flower.
Sometimes there are views of white pointy peaks, sometimes not; sometimes it
pours with rain, sometimes the Himalayan sun scorches; there is never enough
oxygen, but always the purest air. So yeah, I’m basically living in a
fairytale.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3sn_Dbp8-TG_XeMZY-76ZCmsznaJEbeXUlts50_753gJNln1th0dt51izDOFyM9JcU60RZtLd_M5ny68orxwmu-k3nPHx5HQeb7lZ0IbRHib45sxn0WtH7LkxlbRTThT9a4g9oY_gu2OlJQJs-cvN1ORghygjtJV8TImRU3oa2aPY75e5EAPErjLNTPs/s2016/IMG_3538.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3sn_Dbp8-TG_XeMZY-76ZCmsznaJEbeXUlts50_753gJNln1th0dt51izDOFyM9JcU60RZtLd_M5ny68orxwmu-k3nPHx5HQeb7lZ0IbRHib45sxn0WtH7LkxlbRTThT9a4g9oY_gu2OlJQJs-cvN1ORghygjtJV8TImRU3oa2aPY75e5EAPErjLNTPs/w320-h240/IMG_3538.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">The Land-of-Wild-Strawberries</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p></div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC3TvwkmM2ub19BCKMKn9u-3ZQK_MpI4XDJCzF7je4OUkAI7HQIhei_eDSUfxbf0Gn0UxyMKj3hXVaJbu5uo3U6MpEDQpOwGcTWB3323hdIgzyeQum4XAp7P6BktJurcQyMuEg8qtv66klnuQC97Ge1vRES9DMtDf8oLRVhhneRY3yPi1ojBx0Wf9HG2w/s4032/IMG_3537.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC3TvwkmM2ub19BCKMKn9u-3ZQK_MpI4XDJCzF7je4OUkAI7HQIhei_eDSUfxbf0Gn0UxyMKj3hXVaJbu5uo3U6MpEDQpOwGcTWB3323hdIgzyeQum4XAp7P6BktJurcQyMuEg8qtv66klnuQC97Ge1vRES9DMtDf8oLRVhhneRY3yPi1ojBx0Wf9HG2w/w240-h320/IMG_3537.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">The Land-of-Monastery-Dogs</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMdCKmrKW9CKSyjGaUi1SXA9WznycBLbIWmxlMSAnLgyJh9Ht5J1KyHq4maV4D6h7Sw_urxGJZxHEjXVt80_1_QJRyi_6MFw9wzq5-HVOqn3teP2Mj_BABAsFYnNgmQccf1izOTaetBFoitCAwq2RbzGduEr2TdtKWbIV9fF214RZfxtx8elz-D4roLWE/s1440/IMG_3519.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMdCKmrKW9CKSyjGaUi1SXA9WznycBLbIWmxlMSAnLgyJh9Ht5J1KyHq4maV4D6h7Sw_urxGJZxHEjXVt80_1_QJRyi_6MFw9wzq5-HVOqn3teP2Mj_BABAsFYnNgmQccf1izOTaetBFoitCAwq2RbzGduEr2TdtKWbIV9fF214RZfxtx8elz-D4roLWE/w320-h240/IMG_3519.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">The Land-of-Rhododendron-Flower</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs4vBXj-Lfz7ZBbD0DZQCBtfM6i7PO2d3QtBNQsDfbtxU-VwcUu8b1UCySPKcm1eIjwdJHH38ZOcU5zu4W_hnUzF1Exba_t7IV7CW7pOo5WA3vmT1Rjcx8fwU-jOB-L4LdMABL1OwRzjDJzAyai2acFtxJlSOfOnusAPuI-gFjpoRrhv40YdRBVc9poNo/s4032/IMG_3611.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs4vBXj-Lfz7ZBbD0DZQCBtfM6i7PO2d3QtBNQsDfbtxU-VwcUu8b1UCySPKcm1eIjwdJHH38ZOcU5zu4W_hnUzF1Exba_t7IV7CW7pOo5WA3vmT1Rjcx8fwU-jOB-L4LdMABL1OwRzjDJzAyai2acFtxJlSOfOnusAPuI-gFjpoRrhv40YdRBVc9poNo/s320/IMG_3611.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Tashi and I caught in a moment of awestruck. </span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Over the
last few weeks, I have ratchetted up the adventures. This is influenced largely by my snowman race friend,
Tashi, who finished up her guiding season and is now available to join me. With two we can venture into more remote and wild places, which we are doing in spades. And then a mutual friend
introduced us to an Austrian ex-pat who loves a long day in the
mountains too. We’ve knocked off a couple of famous (and very high) multi-day treks in
less than 11 hours each, connected the high point above my house to the highest
road pass in Bhutan via an epic ridge, and explored lakes and valleys only
seen by a handful of yak herders and ancient Buddhist pilgrims. I’ve also been
working on this little project since I got here to create a 25 km loop that
connected my trails above campus with the ones below. After many outings over
many weeks, I finally solved the puzzle by finding the last link - a secret
goat trail through thick forest that dropped off the mountain to the village
below. That was another "best day ever".</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Now that I’ve
started getting out and about more, I’m realizing just how tiny a country Bhutan is. Yet despite its size, it is jam-packed with ridges and valleys, tucked-away villages, and isolated temples. Back home, Claire always has
this monkey-see, monkey-do approach to mountain exploration, but here the
monkey-see options are endless, and I feel like I am just starting to get a
taste of what’s possible (and what's not possible). With only two weeks left, I have entered “frenzy
mode”, which basically means “hit-the-hills-at-every-free-moment”. From any
high point in the country, you can see all the others, and I am drawn to want
to visit every one. But, getting from this mountain to that one is unfeasible at
best. For example, if I climb Buddha Point, directly above Thimphu, I can see Gangkar
Pueusem on the Tibetan border (the tallest peak in Bhutan). It's seemingly
right there but it would take two days of driving plus five days of hiking to reach.
That's because Bhutanese topography is kind of like the topography of your brain
- small volume, enormous surface area. As with your brain, every fold contains
enormous amounts of terrain, but in this case the forest is impenetrable
(bushwhacking is never an option), the road access limited or non-existent, and
the vertical relief mind-boggling. </span><span><span style="font-family: arial;">If only I
could fly. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhadxfri8rzKLqLgMM6vUbUxLqWkhZ-J8llVZ6ca3OAhl26wgqFSKxTHTyYhntEfbI8gyOD_R5ok6ctixw9mN7cyWAqXVKw9WbhLKolV-EprSNBK6E82kvzsOxr3XhKJnKPcoGim9je2y_6Qqo_tuF4RFR94Qd_qAu26L2U_DxFbBDLJF0r1JIRI5iODfM/s4032/IMG_3244.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhadxfri8rzKLqLgMM6vUbUxLqWkhZ-J8llVZ6ca3OAhl26wgqFSKxTHTyYhntEfbI8gyOD_R5ok6ctixw9mN7cyWAqXVKw9WbhLKolV-EprSNBK6E82kvzsOxr3XhKJnKPcoGim9je2y_6Qqo_tuF4RFR94Qd_qAu26L2U_DxFbBDLJF0r1JIRI5iODfM/w400-h300/IMG_3244.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Thimphu City below, Tibet border right there. So close, yet so far.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The geography of Bhutan is one of the reasons it’s never been
conquered or developed. But I often wonder if it’s also why so many of its myths and stories involve airborne tigers, thunder dragons, wind horses, sacred
ravens, and long-distance arrows. As an aside, the latter is the reason for all
the penises in Bhutan. In the fifth century, an eccentric lama (Drukpa Kinley)
shot an arrow from Tibet, believing it would direct him to his destiny, which
turned out to be another man’s wife hundreds of kilometers away in Bhutan. He
followed the arrow along its path and established himself in the village of
Punakha where he subdued demons with his penis, gave fertility blessings to
women by whacking them on the head with a big wooden phallus, and had sex with
everyone. This launched Bhutan’s obsession with penises and archery. In most countries, this weird and raunchy legacy would be silenced and made to be forgotten - brushed under the blankets, so to speak - but instead the Divine Madman, as he is commonly known, is celebrated in festivals and by adorning buildings with paintings of penises. They named his member the Thunderbolt of Divine Wisdom and even today, you can still be blessed on the forehead with a wooden replica of it. You can’t make this shit up. Fortunately, having been here for over three months, I don’t even notice the penis paintings on the</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> buildings or the
phallus ornaments in the trinket shops anymore, but they're there. Everywhere. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Bhutan is, at times, a strange and whimsical place.</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4GBgKl1gYQHDOKXe85YsDP8CCv7-2OdUSxOmXHUa1Tt0DONedTmGUUs5Vy55_dvSlwSmJag1IvY1Y73RkIx95sJjZcGSZ6DBrb0pvtixIhE6cow4zeCk95oYLLBMucgytYNa9H3O9YDomMRBbb8Qk8-sN7inG7iFBXfqAkh5coaOvUiWEZvK_DZTn5VE/s4032/IMG_3575.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4GBgKl1gYQHDOKXe85YsDP8CCv7-2OdUSxOmXHUa1Tt0DONedTmGUUs5Vy55_dvSlwSmJag1IvY1Y73RkIx95sJjZcGSZ6DBrb0pvtixIhE6cow4zeCk95oYLLBMucgytYNa9H3O9YDomMRBbb8Qk8-sN7inG7iFBXfqAkh5coaOvUiWEZvK_DZTn5VE/s320/IMG_3575.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Most buildings are adorned with penises and tigers</span><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQxJrY0_-mZuQjh6i5Egq9i3W-lgO21ViTx0gp_2fQ-N5QfJM0TypolY6C5SBfiLfa9Bb_zUHCkr3I5KMBfPbMcRficGP0IqeFCLJHCLY9UPArvJsafpYG_vRx46LxlINqF5u1I5JO8lCGtznxi1xdL70sewi4fTkvaSo8I03EQYd1YND_p4itRraqdpY/s4032/IMG_3309.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQxJrY0_-mZuQjh6i5Egq9i3W-lgO21ViTx0gp_2fQ-N5QfJM0TypolY6C5SBfiLfa9Bb_zUHCkr3I5KMBfPbMcRficGP0IqeFCLJHCLY9UPArvJsafpYG_vRx46LxlINqF5u1I5JO8lCGtznxi1xdL70sewi4fTkvaSo8I03EQYd1YND_p4itRraqdpY/s320/IMG_3309.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Talking of flying, Guru Rinpoche, the 8th lama who established Buddhism in Bhutan, flew here from Tibet on the back of a tigress. That's why it's called "Tiger's Nest".</span> </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">So my time here has almost expired. I’ve got two weeks to soak up everything Bhutan has left for me to learn and I'm madly trying to pay attention. The students have now left for their summer break (some taking
up to six days to reach their village, despite nowhere being more than 300 km away), and my wonderful Indian colleagues have started returning home too. So, the tough goodbyes have begun. The rest of the teachers will disperse
over the next few days, but most of my team will remain on campus through July to
work on research projects, report writing, and summer programs. I’ve begun the “use up all my food without reverting to ramen noodles”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">-game.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> Of course, there is also the last-chance textile shopping to conduct in which I’ll
probably lose all self-control. I’m starting to think about what will
become of my relationship with Bhutan. Will I come back in the future? In what
capacity? One thing I know: there are a ton more trails I want to explore, so
that might be all it takes.</span></div><p></p>
Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-22927569397384190342023-05-26T08:46:00.027-06:002023-06-29T09:54:55.407-06:00Life in the Kingdom of Bhutan - Part 3: A Himalayan Playground<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Ever since
the hillside outside my front door exploded in wild strawberries, I’ve started
eating better. In Canada, I get super excited whenever I find one or two of the tiny
treats on the side of a mountain trail, but here the ground is carpeted with them. Every
day, I pick a bowl full, and it still looks like I haven’t made a dent. Local
apples also came into season and mangos suddenly appeared in the market. I’ve
found chia and lettuce and fresh yoghurt, so my antioxidant and nutrient intake
has increased by orders of magnitude, just in time to power the numerous high-altitude
adventures I’ve started having.</span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhptg627ffuaC9I-WUxswZKRoxnrlGrjapzpxeb6WHfAPY9DgXKEfOZjaYFCl204lvYlgUvIaeIOk057_x2vU0kl6Jn54Axug3CulRRbbWliMzSdHOKQ8rtDiU5Q282yNisEiWKd4uTPC6KnuewP9HrJTK_6FWdXmt9tqOrG7YNQYWqx1SPVn9KC1Ws/s2016/IMG_3266.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhptg627ffuaC9I-WUxswZKRoxnrlGrjapzpxeb6WHfAPY9DgXKEfOZjaYFCl204lvYlgUvIaeIOk057_x2vU0kl6Jn54Axug3CulRRbbWliMzSdHOKQ8rtDiU5Q282yNisEiWKd4uTPC6KnuewP9HrJTK_6FWdXmt9tqOrG7YNQYWqx1SPVn9KC1Ws/s320/IMG_3266.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wild strawberry outbreak</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKFvhqF1zDtLgTUmALDeKLQ7LLtyAqSMv-dqkVbAXPOftejoYlBfdolkctbgqPpfPLzqlCu-rFBygFOkPwIi9Q_W98rA_1FubxNnUvjZvnLwC7bTH4gCyCPMRIO5H4saZ9iZrQxe1X81KVLHCYPOORDNU9dJUYsdbh2i17T_0JKUWsina6QK3WJLCE/s2016/IMG_3267.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKFvhqF1zDtLgTUmALDeKLQ7LLtyAqSMv-dqkVbAXPOftejoYlBfdolkctbgqPpfPLzqlCu-rFBygFOkPwIi9Q_W98rA_1FubxNnUvjZvnLwC7bTH4gCyCPMRIO5H4saZ9iZrQxe1X81KVLHCYPOORDNU9dJUYsdbh2i17T_0JKUWsina6QK3WJLCE/s320/IMG_3267.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">French toast for days</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I still
don’t have my own transport, but now that I’ve learned who drives where and when, I’ve
become more mobile. I’ve also procured a personal taxi in both Thimphu and Paro
which has opened access to the endless trail running and trekking options nearby: Bhutan
has now become a playground. My weekends are going to run out before my list of
objectives, which is not surprising considering this is the Himalayas. Most of my adventures are local - the mountains around Paro and Thimphu, the high trails that connect them, and the mountain on which my campus sits - but even just that is plenty. My dream, however, is to get up to Mt. Jomolhari basecamp before I leave. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Her white capped peak lures me every time I look out the bedroom window on a clear day,</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> but with monsoon season upon us, and permits hard to procure, I might have to leave that for another time. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFBrF8iFAgUQJtTmWXWL2WHLmmznGkTsQpyRvmJjqiNA5LKC4qZE7tdIMM2FnolZAyDM2uZZ96X4HIh5LSrqS1MDLxWm5DVLtapAVZ7PoBycMDLilirsr_qAEvU0cUMxEMZFKASrAkGckLCUPPQgwJglqzSdQVVFHgtAweSachO0QUjpiEsrts7-kR/s4032/IMG_3297%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFBrF8iFAgUQJtTmWXWL2WHLmmznGkTsQpyRvmJjqiNA5LKC4qZE7tdIMM2FnolZAyDM2uZZ96X4HIh5LSrqS1MDLxWm5DVLtapAVZ7PoBycMDLilirsr_qAEvU0cUMxEMZFKASrAkGckLCUPPQgwJglqzSdQVVFHgtAweSachO0QUjpiEsrts7-kR/s320/IMG_3297%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Summit 2nd Bumtrak Peak - 4300 m<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;">It’s now
been eight weeks since I arrived, and sadly, I’ve crossed the halfway point. Sure,
I miss home, my friends, and my mountains, and I'm looking forward to coming back to Canada, but I can’t
deny the moments of overwhelming contentment. There’s just something about this
place that catches my breath. Sometimes, when I’m out exploring the backyard
mountain trails and look over the Himalayan vista, I’m stunned with disbelief
that I get to live here (if only temporarily). And when I’m hanging out with my colleagues-turned-friends,
I catch myself feeling all kinds of grateful and enriched. We work together, eat together,
go to town together, and play intramural sports together, and it’s no end of
fun. The Bhutanese are the kindest, warmest, smiley-est people on the planet
and their temperament is contagious. I might even come back a nicer person! I am
most glad, however, when I realize I’m doing the very thing I dream about –
combining travel with education and adventure. With my heart firmly
planted in Canada AND Australia, I am causing a whole lot of new problems for
myself by developing a deep connection to yet another place, but regardless, I
need to figure out a way to double down on this. Calgary will always be my home base, but the rest of the world constantly calls my name.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Charu is
an experienced English teacher from Delhi and one of my dearest friends here in
Bhutan. She is one of six Indian nationals working at The Royal Academy and constantly insists I come over to eat
home-cooked Indian meals (everyone else, except me, is Bhutanese). We talk grammar and teaching and education philosophy
like proper nerds and I’m already going to miss her when I go. Last week, Charu
held an intimate puja ritual in her home to which I was invited along with a
handful of my colleagues. Puja is a Hindu ceremony that is practiced for
various reasons in various ways, but this one involved a bonfire in the living
room. Charu wanted to ground herself after a couple of difficult weeks and fill
her home with blessings and positive energy, which came in the form of about
20 minutes of Sanskrit chanting, ghee poured on flames… and smoke. I was
struck by the sacredness of the moment and, also, by the unimaginable fire
hazard. Thankfully, the house was not burned down by the blessing and the acrid
smoke did its thing to cleanse the home of bad things. I find life in Bhutan constantly sprinkled with cool experiences like this.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwkPBxG1VVFxbgqCnXUKEI3-gXbxpIv6K-7oX-7Zde7tNlOBq6c14ksCWk1plcaPn9r_t6sqPvDoWpRhuuiD_48KmLGvOg-tWjKkYS6RR2ISLNa_VYDNEK8KAG1ZBHPsh5LAdi5B5He7rznBq1vfaAigjHZJU1895LL6EbARRHeoQ8LrlJQde-Zzgv/s1280/IMG_3200.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwkPBxG1VVFxbgqCnXUKEI3-gXbxpIv6K-7oX-7Zde7tNlOBq6c14ksCWk1plcaPn9r_t6sqPvDoWpRhuuiD_48KmLGvOg-tWjKkYS6RR2ISLNa_VYDNEK8KAG1ZBHPsh5LAdi5B5He7rznBq1vfaAigjHZJU1895LL6EbARRHeoQ8LrlJQde-Zzgv/s320/IMG_3200.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Puja ceremony</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjLmSxTVXCEswRHKghr1N8nQEJ_bsKP7hRA4CWejkRSnvPldHpGGEzRdPBFwEE13Z2eIKasrogXCgrpYLTmMZBtdVdgfLdoHyBIanfeXH9HxjJQ4DcAgeN30w5MS3-QJ5iE0MkVyuRdFtby3UJYhWJpTXIhsAJKho9kdVJ8VQdMaP5dX0ccYlyjMsg/s1280/IMG_3199.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjLmSxTVXCEswRHKghr1N8nQEJ_bsKP7hRA4CWejkRSnvPldHpGGEzRdPBFwEE13Z2eIKasrogXCgrpYLTmMZBtdVdgfLdoHyBIanfeXH9HxjJQ4DcAgeN30w5MS3-QJ5iE0MkVyuRdFtby3UJYhWJpTXIhsAJKho9kdVJ8VQdMaP5dX0ccYlyjMsg/s320/IMG_3199.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Campfire in the living room before the flames and smoke got big.</span></td></tr></tbody></table></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Bhutan
shares most of its border with India, does almost all its export and import
business with them, and has a political history deeply intertwined with theirs,
yet the culture remains distinct. There is no confusing India with Bhutan,
that’s for sure. It’s amazing that a people of less than a million haven’t
integrated even one bit with the 1.4 billion just across the border. I love
that about Bhutan – they are stubbornly their own. Bollywood has had a little influence, but only since the beginning of this century when TVs were first
allowed in the country. In fact, many Bhutanese speak Hindi, which apparently they learned from Indian soap opera. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">If Bhutan could be likened to anywhere else in the
world, it would probably be Tibet. That’s because the kind of Buddhism that is practiced by 85% of the population and infused into all parts
of life here, came from there. I’m not a Buddhist, but I’m enjoying the benefits
of being immersed in it. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">For
example, Bhutan embraces the Buddhist concept of </span><i style="font-family: arial;">driglam,</i><span style="font-family: arial;"> which is the
official code of social etiquette, personal discipline, dress, and
architecture. It was handed down from the 17</span><sup style="font-family: arial;">th</sup><span style="font-family: arial;"> century Tibetan lama, Ngawang Namgyal, who is credited with first unifying Bhutan as a country.</span><span style="font-family: arial; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Driglam underpins so much of
the culture here – the generosity of spirit, the national pride, the artistic
beauty, and the traditional dress. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It’s no secret that I am particularly taken by their textiles. Textiles have always been my downfall, in fact. When I lived in the
Ivory Coast, this lady used to come by my house once every few months with
indigo cloth imported from Guinea knowing that I’d always buy it. And I still
have Kente cloth from Ghana, mud cloth from Mali, and Shuka blankets from the
Masai stored in boxes and cupboards at home. Here, I have three problems:
cashmere scarves, silk kira, and yak wool blankets.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9prbEh_Z7f5OwEBL6lHx0_8_3FWQNFd8cwdNg1E5q0uuGtNeBxWiIXeL_Yng49LX8oejTYkonwJeagPfwBfGIOjXgNxC8v-67LK3Ych5xG0sgj5wNFHzuTg9rXwilQt3IJRErBFpreTZ8sJE1zhxYiSX_q9T8caLDt8RSiAps5fDtwyr4z6OVLta6/s1280/IMG_3084.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9prbEh_Z7f5OwEBL6lHx0_8_3FWQNFd8cwdNg1E5q0uuGtNeBxWiIXeL_Yng49LX8oejTYkonwJeagPfwBfGIOjXgNxC8v-67LK3Ych5xG0sgj5wNFHzuTg9rXwilQt3IJRErBFpreTZ8sJE1zhxYiSX_q9T8caLDt8RSiAps5fDtwyr4z6OVLta6/s320/IMG_3084.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hand-woven yak wool blankets</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV9B4G68yG6Mn0pOtcE7KPd6VeKZRjjTr6akkLh7b2TuBcbi4aEpUL0-3m1NGtE7KhzbskiVPXsOXBqCHagaUwQRtW1Lcw4mJiuYk9vQVM1EYS9hlJyun6o4T28IJd3hpJm43018R3IPZA5_yGcoJrs6YLWYZoLjyF4hCw8PrIvBhkEeQSpK4-JIFX/s2016/IMG_2660.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV9B4G68yG6Mn0pOtcE7KPd6VeKZRjjTr6akkLh7b2TuBcbi4aEpUL0-3m1NGtE7KhzbskiVPXsOXBqCHagaUwQRtW1Lcw4mJiuYk9vQVM1EYS9hlJyun6o4T28IJd3hpJm43018R3IPZA5_yGcoJrs6YLWYZoLjyF4hCw8PrIvBhkEeQSpK4-JIFX/s320/IMG_2660.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So much beautiful</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I wear the
traditional <i>kira</i> to work most days, which has given me plenty of excuses to buy
more fabric! Not that I need five Kira, but whatever. The <i>kira</i> is a long dress or skirt, worn with a silk blouse called a <i>wonju</i>, and a fancy little jacket, called a <i>tego</i>, that is closed with a broach. I’ve grown quite accustomed to getting around in a long skirt and will probably find some excuse to wear it back home. Or turn it into a tablecloth. Either way, I win. Men wear a dress-like outfit, called a<i> gho</i>,
and I've since become a proponent
of men in skirts. They look really good, I swear.</p></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvn12PrflTRcxBKYZAot3Np_b1iRR8t5J7buFYAURKnbtv5pVVUwG2EPgayZ-94Qrfnk6uPqIvPKshbrEkJOTSga1Hjv0DptHfS-IszoT_xUr6s6HNXudpdIhfudrc_MIRQzw0CdHd-Yf7V-8WX7aiIdR7Iqv3SNaiE6MpmjZKgb2afJKOuob1lstb/s2016/IMG_2618.jpg" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvn12PrflTRcxBKYZAot3Np_b1iRR8t5J7buFYAURKnbtv5pVVUwG2EPgayZ-94Qrfnk6uPqIvPKshbrEkJOTSga1Hjv0DptHfS-IszoT_xUr6s6HNXudpdIhfudrc_MIRQzw0CdHd-Yf7V-8WX7aiIdR7Iqv3SNaiE6MpmjZKgb2afJKOuob1lstb/s320/IMG_2618.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’ve also
grown to adore the doggies. Bhutanese dogs are old souls. There are about 30 of them that live on campus, mostly unclaimed, except unofficially, by me. You see, I
love dogs, even though I’ve never had the opportunity or inclination to have my
own. Here, I get to have as many as I want. First, there is Chou-chou, who
came with the house and rarely moves from the front step. Then, there is Buddy
and Clive. They always seem to find me on my run and accompany me home, mostly
for snacks. I actually have no idea where they live. There’s a sweet guy up at
the momo canteen who's always smiling and begging for a pat, and the litter of puppies
who were fortunate to have been born right outside the school dining hall. My
friend, Malini feeds a pack of five stray dogs over on the other side of campus.
They are protective of their spot and bark every time I approach… that’s until
they see it’s me and erupt in bum-wiggling and joy. Yep, the dogs are a delight
and I’m sure going to miss them when I leave. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiapYIkgUDLkJgE7sp7eBA9vpxfWs0xEdAXGVRmaVkUcF4Dj2KMLLHeQXvrEntMm9N8-kX5uQ_9kDDD8_RuLJGb-cDOozADX4dviXTt_djhCw3cuL0mNYs7NQzblyxmPdQ0CdyPpZPqxLOKtEWKEIOWGWPA-BSyLj6LCU5NmvQbFJpxmUXNOIXo5Zdp/s1118/Untitled.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="997" data-original-width="1118" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiapYIkgUDLkJgE7sp7eBA9vpxfWs0xEdAXGVRmaVkUcF4Dj2KMLLHeQXvrEntMm9N8-kX5uQ_9kDDD8_RuLJGb-cDOozADX4dviXTt_djhCw3cuL0mNYs7NQzblyxmPdQ0CdyPpZPqxLOKtEWKEIOWGWPA-BSyLj6LCU5NmvQbFJpxmUXNOIXo5Zdp/s320/Untitled.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of my favourites (*all names invented by me)</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">With seven
weeks left, only five of which are with students, <span style="background-color: white; background: white; color: #1d2228;">I'm starting to transition my attention from learning
everything I can to figuring out what I can contribute. I’m trying to
build resources, facilitate workshops, support various on-going projects, and
collate recommendations for future growth and improvement, alongside my Herculean
effort to help teenagers love math. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course,
I’m also trying to squeeze in every mountain adventure I can, capitalize on the
altitude to get as fit as possible, and spend as much time with the
people I'm growing to love.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-58622588861724031442023-05-08T03:33:00.025-06:002023-06-29T09:54:25.999-06:00Life in the Kingdom of Bhutan - Part 2: Of Food and Fractions<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf73bcYeqZ3Nri1jK5QW5CmpO1g0bh-mtoJDB5_Z7b_bMEYnZA-pkqZ2JAFcDgM8T_ZRymeBNQ2lVpM9uO37hyp8SceFI3RQosg_nIYVBb3P6gUA7n4pWhwQEeUk_BsFVr2Xl0FWaeu5N7uix_pknawZ7pbJmT3874QsglIMj5n2Aehda7yZM-fefF/s4032/IMG_2789%20(1).jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf73bcYeqZ3Nri1jK5QW5CmpO1g0bh-mtoJDB5_Z7b_bMEYnZA-pkqZ2JAFcDgM8T_ZRymeBNQ2lVpM9uO37hyp8SceFI3RQosg_nIYVBb3P6gUA7n4pWhwQEeUk_BsFVr2Xl0FWaeu5N7uix_pknawZ7pbJmT3874QsglIMj5n2Aehda7yZM-fefF/s320/IMG_2789%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The K's Cafe. With canine welcoming party!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;">There’s a
cute café just 4 km from my place. It sits on a high point with sweeping views
of the entire Paro Valley from Mt Jomolhari to Thimphu. The river, which roars 800 m directly
below the café, separates my mountain from the ones across the way, but the valley is
so steep and narrow that it feels like I could just leap across. This is the
same valley that the pilots weave through in their commercial planes, normally below my eye
level, to reach the Paro International Airport. I love watching them come in as if they were in a video-game!</span><p style="text-align: left;"></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Not counting the academy faculty and staff, only 150
or so people live in this little mountain community of Pangbisa. From what
I can see, most are subsistence farmers and workers, so I am not sure who,
besides me, patronizes this rather fancy café in the middle of nowhere. I come
for the real coffee, butter popcorn, and the views. It’s also a nice excuse for
a walk off campus, passing terraced rice paddies, roaming cows, and the local
archery range, which dangerously spans from one side of the road to the other.
Archery is the national sport of Bhutan, but it’s not the kind of archery you
are picturing. Firstly, it’s more of a rural, raucous affair for the entire
community than an individual pursuit: the hush and silence that accompanies regular archery is replaced with jeering and mockery. Secondly, the range is
140 m (double that of the Olympic standard) with a target that is
significantly smaller. Sighting devices are illegal and drinking almost
guaranteed, so it’s a small wonder that anyone ever hits the target. When I
walk to the café, I pass right across the middle of the range (as do the cars
heading down to Paro), which always seems a little precarious if they are out
playing.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD9wfUThsDvbmoPvy7I6E5_CLg-CLfNZFJI0Zw49lUKmjkZjnje6AgE4vOZ1ZkBLetQs6FCqfAheQaIQWO3eHlWifRUmiglskrDdfo81De0hNaKys1F5n4xDvXJl77poxtcqT0Ks618yt72RTQb4DYZ8JrPlYCn9IUJlX-Ayno0x12bI5Xz-M0X7KG/s4032/IMG_2894.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD9wfUThsDvbmoPvy7I6E5_CLg-CLfNZFJI0Zw49lUKmjkZjnje6AgE4vOZ1ZkBLetQs6FCqfAheQaIQWO3eHlWifRUmiglskrDdfo81De0hNaKys1F5n4xDvXJl77poxtcqT0Ks618yt72RTQb4DYZ8JrPlYCn9IUJlX-Ayno0x12bI5Xz-M0X7KG/s320/IMG_2894.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">My math class. No desks!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;">I've now been here six
weeks and seem to have fallen into the rhythm of life. Most of my waking hours are
focused on the <i>Bhutan Baccalaureate</i> project. I teach math one block a day to a group of grade sevens. It’s been over a
decade since I was responsible for whether teenagers learn how to divide
fractions or not, but I am loving it. I have secretly longed to be back in the
classroom all these years and as it turns out, it’s as good as I remember.
Granted, this is a pretty easy teaching gig. The students here are keen,
polite, and kind. And because The Royal Academy is a selective (and free) boarding school to
which hundreds apply each year and only 60 are accepted, everybody appreciates
this shot at an innovative and good education. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the
bowing, though. Yes, the kids bow when I approach or walk past. Even
the "cool" high school kids stop whatever they are talking about, midsentence, to step back, bow, and say, “Hello Madam.” Sometimes, because Bhutanese don’t have surnames
(that’s another story for another time), I get “Dr. Nicki”, which is also very
cute.<br /> <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The
students represent all 20 <i>dzongkhags</i> (states) and socioeconomic classes.
For example, we have a young prince and the prime minister’s daughter studying
alongside some of the poorest kids in the country, and to be honest, I don’t necessarily know who is who. I also teach little Pema Zam, the young girl from Lunana,
who played herself in the 2022 film, <i>A Yak in the Classroom</i>. She’s all
grown up now and wrestling down fractions with the next person. As an aside, if
you haven’t seen the film, stop reading this now and go cue it up on Netflix. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">But I
didn’t come here to teach per se. That’s just the bonus! Most of my work is
with the Educational Research Team and Teacher Development Centre to help roll out the king’s vision for education across Bhutan. Mostly I am helping them improve their assessment practices, but when they found out that I am also
math pedagogue, I was quickly asked to facilitate a series of workshops for more
than one hundred K-12 math teachers. It’s been super
fun to roll up my sleeves on good math instruction again. There are thirteen of us on
the research and development team, plus I’m engaged virtually with a couple of consulting academics from
Oxford University, an assessment institute in Israel, an education scholar from
University of Melbourne, and the coolest educator/anthropologist from Montana
who is fast becoming a friend. So, I’m
learning A. LOT.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Once a
week, I try to get a ride down to Paro or Thimphu. Mostly, it’s in search of food - any
kind of food that is not rice or chilies or hacked-up pork-parts in gruel. In
order to survive in Bhutan, I’ve had to completely suspend
my gourmet sensibilities and avoid, at all cost, scrolling foodie reels on Instagram.
You wouldn’t come to Bhutan for the food, that’s for sure. There’s a small shop
just above campus that sells an interesting array of items – fresh eggs (thank god!),
tomatoes (occasionally), onions (you have to pick the good ones from the rotting
ones), and then a bunch of things that come in a package and were imported from
India sometime last decade. Ramen, Fanta, processed cheese, and dry biscuits
feature prominently. Things aren’t much better in Paro, but there is a veggie
market where I stock up on anything that’s green – cabbage, green beans, fiddleheads,
and asparagus are in season right now. And mushrooms. I love mushrooms, which is
a good thing, because I can always get them. So. Many. Mushrooms. Grocery shopping is like treasure
hunting. For example, everything improved for me the day I found oatmeal. And
then, a few days later I found pumpkin and flax seeds, which was a proper win.
My digestive system was particularly stoked. John told me to pretend I was on Masterchef and use my creativity to create the most gastronomic thing I can with the limited ingredients: <i>Okay contestants,</i> y<i>ou have fresh asparagus, dehydrated mushrooms, spaghetti, garlic, and long life milk... </i></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3321" data-original-width="2997" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7SzzA5WTe4pk299Exk5ODjRgjhlHqR_g6RfM0pHu1lT6n9lZaVfiM1oV7n6mOil4Ev6sU_-lvGJOd3In5cLCq4TIjPAaTnlznoTv9WduMRdJ4U2d1WY9eTt1a8Q1nGRtwIJi4SVp1xXRoqnsvl0pVaPbkBGbBmvEY1SWtEyVZfSiSse-0Yj05nn8S/s320/IMG_2763.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="289" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ta-da!</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7SzzA5WTe4pk299Exk5ODjRgjhlHqR_g6RfM0pHu1lT6n9lZaVfiM1oV7n6mOil4Ev6sU_-lvGJOd3In5cLCq4TIjPAaTnlznoTv9WduMRdJ4U2d1WY9eTt1a8Q1nGRtwIJi4SVp1xXRoqnsvl0pVaPbkBGbBmvEY1SWtEyVZfSiSse-0Yj05nn8S/s3321/IMG_2763.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKRWbVUy4p8_VgtEm9AouSkrTRSugZXsT-WVteTnQ7OVZbBO6BupiLf3FdBW9gd08gPZpBRYqCTQW-TP7sljQazRpoycauIpGOQbhkziaAG9OlFi9Ax1S3BkgH-Fwvh5KHphnoyauFTbDU4VL7hDeF2IhiSVMZzmSYptnKX9mX39JbDBb8DiVadSbm/s4032/IMG_2645.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKRWbVUy4p8_VgtEm9AouSkrTRSugZXsT-WVteTnQ7OVZbBO6BupiLf3FdBW9gd08gPZpBRYqCTQW-TP7sljQazRpoycauIpGOQbhkziaAG9OlFi9Ax1S3BkgH-Fwvh5KHphnoyauFTbDU4VL7hDeF2IhiSVMZzmSYptnKX9mX39JbDBb8DiVadSbm/s320/IMG_2645.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The local shop near my place.<br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;">I’m allowed
to eat with the kids in the dining hall whenever I want, but there is only so
much white rice and white potato in white gravy that I can manage. Sometimes
there is radish (also white). Or mushrooms. White. In fact, the only colour you might see,
besides white, is the finely chopped red chili that is sure to destroy your palate
for the next 24 hours. Regardless, because the kids really appreciate it, I join them at least once or twice a week for an always regrettable starchy lunch.
Here’s a fun fact, to feed just 260 students, the kitchen prepares 130 kg of uncooked
rice per day. I have never seen people eat so much rice.</span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC8lGmZZSe3d3Zkeiem646iCS6X48POPjY4lUGXz2hPN9vIjG2wRGAcOgaYgKfOn8yTScoNobEFdsXauxsCb-G8-2Kp_nBohfG4eEGt7eYfyTqUVr0SOf_-vUHiwj1m0cwVyEUu7MJfMhejQzoEH0cvGie_mjQ3ORijm9tqmbo-yqUmGf9aRvqBvRg/s320/IMG_2693.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="240" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Shamu datshi - mushrooms and chili in white "cheese" sauce (very typical and very spicy).</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4S57uVe9Ldni7HFWDZuE8g6F2f7hNOvSJShsqCipt_32RbTQuuySVflv91W3qvc4kldpcRiMBCsIcYZtzNLIx-v26TOfIy7WaylCvvCVTncPwiKnjgpE058rM4tzV3OThMVZsQcrPYKmL43ht6H7KJr7Jx3PGo_xBdrdYWHijNAEKr5To5W40gFzq/s4032/IMG_2595.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4S57uVe9Ldni7HFWDZuE8g6F2f7hNOvSJShsqCipt_32RbTQuuySVflv91W3qvc4kldpcRiMBCsIcYZtzNLIx-v26TOfIy7WaylCvvCVTncPwiKnjgpE058rM4tzV3OThMVZsQcrPYKmL43ht6H7KJr7Jx3PGo_xBdrdYWHijNAEKr5To5W40gFzq/w320-h240/IMG_2595.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Ambient Café</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;">Thankfully,
Paro and Thimphu both have amazing cafés with pizzas and, most importantly,
salads. My favourite is an organic, hippy joint in Thimphu called, Ambient. It’s
like a mini-UN, filled at all times of the day with university exchange
students from across the world, middle-class Bhutanese, and monks. They have
free internet, a café kitty, and the best vibe ever. I am no stranger to Ambient,
having now gotten to know the owners, and pretty much everyone else that eats there.
You meet the coolest, most interesting people in Bhutan - photographers and
filmmakers, UN workers, environmental consultants, spiritual pilgrims, birders - and they generally all hang out at Ambient! <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’ve also
stopped drinking alcohol, which I can assure you, is not by choice. The liver enzymes
responsible for processing alcohol did not seem to join me in Bhutan. Or more specifically,
to 10000 ft above sea level. Drinking booze at altitude is akin to drinking poison, because that’s what it feels like. But don’t worry, I’m not missing out on much
– there seems to be just two beer companies, one makes a barely drinkable
larger and the other a rice beer, which is an acquired taste that I have yet to
acquire. The wine is worse. Back in October, when I was here for the Snowman
Race, I met a larger-than-life Californian who is trying to start a wine
industry in Bhutan. All I can say is that it can’t come soon enough. So, what
my body is lacking in plant-based nutrients is balanced by an extended,
unsolicited liver detox. Or so I’m telling myself! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">While the
food is a one, everything else is a ten. I am surrounded by every kind of
beauty every day – vibrant colours, Himalayan views, birdsong, Buddhism, fresh
air, singing, dance, smiles, and the gentleness of the Bhutanese people. And I’m
not sure how many other chances I’ll get to live completely surrounded by nature on the
side of a mountain like this. It's very Thoreau-<i>ian</i>. I catch myself relishing moments of bliss almost
every day as I make friends, laugh, grow part of a community, explore new
trails, and connect to this place. Yep, I love it here!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKnaqurzVyARlMJSNJjcPm3K1mk6Pc-tUrFwDElc-HDAjo-t2GiH24iorxKH6TSpayFztgTZvjUgpllMKGTAWXa2deQOAvaq34zY4Qu7QVR1PPiM7L4cOxIb0XzUkcmxFpOQXY-a_fayr6bjiykfDThYmTlB2wfSGl-34J_9v8qCz328zJjxBW5vrP/s4032/IMG_3063.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKnaqurzVyARlMJSNJjcPm3K1mk6Pc-tUrFwDElc-HDAjo-t2GiH24iorxKH6TSpayFztgTZvjUgpllMKGTAWXa2deQOAvaq34zY4Qu7QVR1PPiM7L4cOxIb0XzUkcmxFpOQXY-a_fayr6bjiykfDThYmTlB2wfSGl-34J_9v8qCz328zJjxBW5vrP/s320/IMG_3063.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span><p></p>Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-32969857010280702232023-04-22T08:09:00.018-06:002023-06-29T09:55:35.637-06:00Life in the Kingdom of Bhutan- Part 1: First Impressions<p></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBmLMZVRC7G53fGRJCAAynaz8tr_xbx9ilv6uia1T2FMH7z4ZG-TCnF2ZybN4z84XmMy6ic8q-OC3xy_w8xVYX345pL_QV6f4ekpH0SyJ-xgK6DxnR_9UrrJ-lJ_G-aeSXJ43Q8uLYDYhIJhd7EI2LEoDzy-oBxhIvXFZ4Y0MckIrhs94DtY93sDgD/s2016/IMG_2527.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBmLMZVRC7G53fGRJCAAynaz8tr_xbx9ilv6uia1T2FMH7z4ZG-TCnF2ZybN4z84XmMy6ic8q-OC3xy_w8xVYX345pL_QV6f4ekpH0SyJ-xgK6DxnR_9UrrJ-lJ_G-aeSXJ43Q8uLYDYhIJhd7EI2LEoDzy-oBxhIvXFZ4Y0MckIrhs94DtY93sDgD/w320-h240/IMG_2527.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span>There’s a
7300 m, snow-capped peak out my bedroom window and I don’t think I’ll ever get
used to it being there. Mt Jomolhari’s pointy summit sits on the China-Bhutan
border and her impressive face forms a natural fortress separating the two.
They say she’s the bride of Mount Kanchenjunga, the 3</span><sup>rd</sup><span> tallest
mountain in the world located just 80 km further west, but despite my research,
I can’t find out why. I do know, however, that Jomolhari is surrounded by intrigue
and reverence. She is sacred to Tibetan Buddhists, who were very glad when
mountaineering was banned in Bhutan in 1994. Apparently, Jomolhari is home to
the female goddess, </span><i>Jomo,</i><span> who protects Bhutan and Tibet’s land and faith. The mountain has, however, been climbed six times between 1937 and 2006, mostly from the Chinese side, and I’ve
read all six tales. I love how the stories of a place come alive when your
there. Jomolhari is known for its terrifying wind, its knife-edged final ridge, the pots of gold
and diamonds delivered to the deity on the summit, and an Indian mountaineering
team that vanished on route, never to be seen again. For me, she’s a sight to
behold, and a constant reminder that I am, indeed, living in the Himalayas. It’s
been almost a month now, so I figured I’d capture my first impressions before
they fade away.</span></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span>It’s a
short flight from Delhi to Paro and I made sure to get a window seat on the
mountain side of the plane. The route follows the length of Nepal, and on a
clear day, which we had, you get a jaw-dropping view of the range. It’s like a tickertape
of famous peaks passing by the window – Annapurna, Manaslu, the Everest group, Makalu,
and finally Kanchenjunga. Shortly after the plane crosses the Bhutanese border
it drops out of the sky and starts its infamous valley-weaving descent to the
Paro airport. Less than half a dozen pilots are trained to make this fully-<span style="background-color: white; background: white; color: #181818;">manual, daylight-only approach which is flanked
by 18,000 ft peaks on both sides, and land onto an all-too-short runway that is
visible only moments before touchdown. I'm not going to lie, it's a bit like being in a Bond film. </span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span><span style="font-family: arial;">I was surprised
by the nostalgia that hit me as I stepped out of the plane into the sunshine. Just
six months earlier I stood on this tarmac with my fellow Snowman Race peeps filled
with anticipation, amazement, joy, and gratitude. I took a second to grieve a little for the memory of that
incredible moment that I’ll never feel in the same way again. This time I was
alone and facing a whole different kind of uncertainty, but I was up for it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span><span style="font-family: arial;">If you come
to Bhutan and only visit the Paro Airport, you wouldn’t be disappointed. More
temple than terminal, its ornate and colourful architectural finishings, wafts of incense,
and friendly, smiling people waiting to stamp your passport are like a warm blanket. There are two things that immediately impress newcomers
(and returnees alike) – the special quality of the air and the sense of calm. Despite
my 36-hour journey to get here, I felt relaxed and happy, as if arriving to
the birthplace of all things good. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span><span style="font-family: arial;">My driver,
Ashan, was out front waiting to drive me up to the campus. The Royal Academy is
just 17 kilometers from Paro, but the narrow mountain road climbs 800 m up
countless hairpin switchbacks, taking even the most skilled drivers at least 30
minutes. I tried to take it all in as we zoomed up into the cooler air. The
campus is at 3000 m – about halfway up the mountain – and the first thing I
wondered was how to trek further, ideally to the high point, Pangka La, at 4100
m. Of course, everywhere I look, I see trails I want to explore and peaks to
climb. But for now, my goal was to get settled. I tend to relish those first experiences
of a place when inundated with new things that need figuring out. My brain operates
on overdrive as it tries to map my surroundings (literally and figuratively),
look for patterns, study who’s who, remember names, and learn how to survive, preferably
with as little discomfort as possible. And then bit-by-bit, hour-by-hour,
day-by-day, things start to become familiar and known and automatic. It’s so
cool how we humans adapt. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOcAXGfe4Tc6UQME4Qe5KtDoelbSDTmo9JaDi76wVWNvv_jAIUCdjaYpkZmnlTBhPQ0_NBe2kUSS-src14MSN-rm21nkq5zA7RdhKOBkPcsJ7Oge0qptGo-LHxYIkW1qcpDylO72zi7jNk9JGwQe7rDE6-OLcgAXhFg4hkGi9XtBlEqNBzg9gBIjxR/s320/IMG_2504.jpg" width="320" /></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span>They gave
me a giant house and one tiny floor heater to heat it. It has three bedrooms, three
bathrooms, two studies, laundry, kitchen, balcony, and dining-living room. It also came with a dog who randomly lives outside my front door. I named him Chou-Chou and he’s very cute. </span></span><span><span>With
a house so big so high up on a mountain it’s as cold as an icebox. I’ve set up home in the main bedroom, with its oversized
walk-in closet and massive windows. Thankfully, I manage to keep at least one room heated and comfortable. The
kitchen is equipped with a microwave, rice cooker, a couple of plates, a bowl, and
some cutlery. And by some, I mean one fork and one spoon. I had to buy a mug,
chopping board, and a paring knife to complete my kitchen set. Food is a whole
topic worth exploring but I’ll leave that for my next blog post. Waking up in my big
cold house gives me flashbacks of </span></span><span>childhood winters in rural Australia. I crawl
out from under two tonnes of blankets, put on all the clothes I own, and run downstairs
to heat a coffee in the microwave while I do squats to stay warm before I can return
to my bedroom cocoon. But if I catch myself feeling sorry for myself, I just
glance out the window to see Jomolhari looming right there reminding me to
suck it up.</span></span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span>Most
mornings, after the coffee mission, I head out for a run. Living on the side of a mountain provides some cool challenges for a trail runner. You see, there’s
no way to ease into a training session. Firstly, at this elevation,
stretching makes me puff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And secondly,
besides my 50 m driveway, there are no flat sections – everything either goes
up or down from here. But the views from almost everywhere are so inspiring
that I don’t care how slow I move around. The mornings are incredible, and so I
never miss the magic sunrise hour. It’s the birds that wake me up and draw me
out. So. Many. Birds. My friend, Miles, has been unsuccessfully trying to get
me to pay attention to birds for over a decade. Who knew that all he had to do
was send me to Bhutan? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly, I’m a
birder. I know this because I now freeze mid-run</span><span> </span></span><span>to pull out my bird identification app</span><span> whenever I hear a new song or call.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: arial;">Other than
the cacophony of the birdsong, the mornings are peaceful. There is a stillness
that settles on this mountain that I can’t describe. In fact, I’m pretty sure
this is where the earth herself comes to rest. No wonder the monks like it up
here. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: arial;">The campus
sprawls over 700 vertical hectares. Buildings and houses are tucked in the
woods and connected by one narrow paved road with a bunch of singletrack shortcuts
that I’ve had fun discovering. This place would make for a wicked orienteering
map and so I’m slowly GPS-ing all the routes. Parts of it are still under
construction, like the multiplex sports center, the new football stadium and athletic
track, and the fairy tale fortress of a dzong, photographs of which I am forbidden
to post publicly until His Majesty gives the go ahead. It’s a breathtaking
structure that will surely become a manmade wonder of the world. My place is
smack in the middle of the campus with “easy”, cardio-building access to everything,
and I get my ten thousand steps in (with 400-500 m of elevation gain) without even
trying. Mostly I walk around mesmerized by the sweeping views or lost in
birdsong.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span>But
getting used to living so differently is not easy. The food situation isn’t
great (more on that to come), the power isn’t reliable, the water isn’t drinkable,
and there are so many new systems and scripts to learn. The simplest things we
take for granted need figuring out – like, how do you get rid of garbage or
recharge my SIM card? </span><span> </span><span>Also, without a
car, I can’t easily get off the mountain. Despite staring longingly at those
trails across the valley, it’s quite a long drive to arrive at the trailhead. For
the time being I’m scouring every nook and cranny on this side, but eventually
my wanderlust to go further is going to kick in. Hopefully, by then, I’ll have
made friends with all the people with cars. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: arial;">I learned how to live in a developing
country from Steve: eat the food, sit with the people, learn everyone’s name, ask
all the questions, and be up for anything. He was a ninja at fitting in where
he didn’t and I’m trying to channel a little of that. For example, there’s a
dive canteen a few hundred meters above my place that serves very questionable
food and cheap beer to the immigrant and local workers. I’ve made it a habit to
go join the dinner crew once or twice a week and eat momos and noodles,
and have a Druk lager, all of which costs me less than $3.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span>I’m giving myself grace as I surrender the kind of control of my everyday life that I’m
accustomed to and just accept the uncomfortable feelings that come, knowing
they will pass momentarily, which they do. I can wake up in the morning wishing
I was home in Calgary and by noon be overwhelmed with gratitude that I’m here
instead. It doesn’t take much to flip the switch: a fun conversation with students,
hanging out with my colleagues, a trail run in the woods, getting stuck into
the project, or a single glance at Jomolhari. These 3.5 months are going to fly
by and I'm determined to relish every moment. </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvqNcEwPMaW0d0qnilWyR2rdwjnelHbNQFQQ8UhXqU2aQzhHVwPSS5TU_CMrqH1hiyJ73sSE4zOcx0L_rpIeMtO5mWrvxedEZClgJ96FexoSe5WkHdqAKb5z9ihnSDlcP3bc_C9wWoBwBTipOJ5Nfm3oCKkNFBv8zyC7bJr4ysz0Fjx17CvQ01hZAO/s2016/IMG_2751.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvqNcEwPMaW0d0qnilWyR2rdwjnelHbNQFQQ8UhXqU2aQzhHVwPSS5TU_CMrqH1hiyJ73sSE4zOcx0L_rpIeMtO5mWrvxedEZClgJ96FexoSe5WkHdqAKb5z9ihnSDlcP3bc_C9wWoBwBTipOJ5Nfm3oCKkNFBv8zyC7bJr4ysz0Fjx17CvQ01hZAO/s320/IMG_2751.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">My giant house.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"></p></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8_EBJy-PL5SBT7vc6QgRtAt8How-SGsrrEm7afyXPV4EivMMFedgedDLeD7n3hjd4bLA4Dcz4oT24WX86tsoHD5--c_KEG4U_v5rO44K2tiyf4T7d8DV1FHVmen15XnpHJ2NPPJoodLwqJaQnifgHa4NKdWsIlu0AOcsTu3FKwwSAiTI61HNhBAme/s2016/IMG_2514.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8_EBJy-PL5SBT7vc6QgRtAt8How-SGsrrEm7afyXPV4EivMMFedgedDLeD7n3hjd4bLA4Dcz4oT24WX86tsoHD5--c_KEG4U_v5rO44K2tiyf4T7d8DV1FHVmen15XnpHJ2NPPJoodLwqJaQnifgHa4NKdWsIlu0AOcsTu3FKwwSAiTI61HNhBAme/s320/IMG_2514.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">"Chou-chou"</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfk7yDvAd2ZbfyDTszu9U6XQW3DP9ofaAuaWHFbA83Bl-7RIlSsjpA5k-eNAkodlUHhdoHbI5RueUcKyvtUheT0Mt_nK2hIAUAt_2OvPKCUyANm5mlr6AkAJS_glYdT-A9LxN8txZy1m3STSpjF5yMnAwPCyvkvl-bsbmNCiuuW0agaNVkM6Ji-cgX/s2016/IMG_2716.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfk7yDvAd2ZbfyDTszu9U6XQW3DP9ofaAuaWHFbA83Bl-7RIlSsjpA5k-eNAkodlUHhdoHbI5RueUcKyvtUheT0Mt_nK2hIAUAt_2OvPKCUyANm5mlr6AkAJS_glYdT-A9LxN8txZy1m3STSpjF5yMnAwPCyvkvl-bsbmNCiuuW0agaNVkM6Ji-cgX/s320/IMG_2716.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I can't wait to run on this track when it's finished.</span><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span><p></p>Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-27162743109573029382023-03-30T19:36:00.020-06:002023-06-30T00:00:50.258-06:00Back to Bhutan<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvMx5IYs5ts4YQpIDLxub0eG_K2LAMqFsKXz8Dl9O1E96oHiAaft-5A6MorA13qEjqzIheD9-D4GLJzReGdlqol27dDPIRkuAhYyiPhtugQmWehXnzl5HtvaWx3GkYU856_noIlc5sOX35prwMxeWIY_t4_X1VeD1iJE5DYH3Zs-gkYPZPkJkKI36d/s2048/IMG_0619.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1534" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvMx5IYs5ts4YQpIDLxub0eG_K2LAMqFsKXz8Dl9O1E96oHiAaft-5A6MorA13qEjqzIheD9-D4GLJzReGdlqol27dDPIRkuAhYyiPhtugQmWehXnzl5HtvaWx3GkYU856_noIlc5sOX35prwMxeWIY_t4_X1VeD1iJE5DYH3Zs-gkYPZPkJkKI36d/s320/IMG_0619.JPG" width="240" /></a></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">So, I'm going back to Bhutan. It's remarkable when you think about it;
how one small thing leads to another, and then another, and then suddenly
becomes this huge Thing, and you stand back and wonder at the threads
that wove it all together. Most people think this started with the Snowman Race, but actually things were set in motion back in 2019 when SJ walked into the class
I was teaching at Quest University He
told me he was from Bhutan and working on a capstone project to improve K-12
assessment in his country. After graduation, his goal was to secure a job at
The Royal Academy, an experimental institute that was reimaging and
reconstructing education in Bhutan. It was an initiative of the king, a smart,
progressive, and compassionate man who knows that to improve the outcomes of
your country, you need to improve schools. I was curious and inspired, and I
may have googled the school, which as it turns out, was just the
beginning.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span>When I mention Bhutan to people, I either get a blank stare or a look of
yearning. It's one or the other: you've either</span><i> never </i><span>heard of
it, or you dream of going there. Of course, I was in the latter. I didn’t know
much about Bhutan, but I could locate it on a map, and I'd heard it was a
happy place (the happiest, in fact). SJ’s kind, smiley demeaner preserves that perception. I knew Bhutan was a mountainous and mysterious
place, which was enough to add it to my </span><i>not-likely, but-wouldn’t-it-be-nice</i><span>
bucket list. </span><span>And then, almost three years later, what had been a fleeting interest
became a full-blown reality. In a<a href="http://nickirehn.blogspot.com/2022/12/the-snowman-race-bhutan.html" target="_blank"> once-in-a-lifetime turn of events </a>I got to go there. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">As the plane made the famous kamikaze approach into Paro Airport, I spotted a
sprawling campus high up on a mountain side and snapped a photo. My seatmate, a
Bhutanese, turned to me and said,</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"> </span><span>“That’s His Majesty’s Royal Academy.”</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"> </span><span>“No shit”, I replied. “I think I’m going to work there.”</span><span> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">I didn’t know what I was saying. I was heading to Bhutan for a race, not
a job, but I already felt the draw. My student, SJ, was now working at the
academy, and from helping him with his project I was familiar with its philosophy and aims. As strange as it was,
I already had a connection in this remote, untouched corner of the world. The pre-race
schedule was packed, and my focus was firmly on the daunting project we faced,
but in the back of my mind I hoped to pursue The Royal Academy while I was there.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span>Then things got even more </span>bizarre<span>. On the eve of the race, high up in the mountains, Claire and
I decided to sneak away from our accommodations, run the short trail down
to the Gasa Hot Springs, and have a last-minute soak. The retreat center lay in
the bottom of a deep jungled valley and so darkness fell early. It was grey and
drizzly as we made our way in the fading light to the springs. When we approached,
we noticed the open-air bath was now enclosed by a royal tent. We were met by
two security guards who said the springs were closed for the evening for a private
bathing.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"> </span><span>“Who’s in there?” Claire asked.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"> </span><span>“Someone important,” they replied.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Obviously. Just as we were about to turn for home, a friendly gentleman stepped out of the tent in his
swim trunks, steam rising from his body. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"> </span><span>“Are you Snowman athletes?” he asked.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span>He introduced himself (foreign minister; pediatrician; race dignitary) and insisted we join him and his assistant in the springs. The magic water would give
us racing superpowers, he said. So, we did. But here's the twist - our new friend just so happened to be close friends with the director of The Royal Academy. </span><span>Bhutan is a tiny country
and all, but come on…what a coincidence! He called it a “karmic connection”; I’m
not Buddhist, so I called it really good luck.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"> </span><span>“I’d love to work there,” I said.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"> </span><span>“I’ll make it happen,” he promised.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And he did. Calls were made, meetings were set, and a couple of days after I finished the race, I met the director to start making plans.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">So, here I am, flying back just five months later, this time with a
work visa and contract in hand. My job title is Visiting Faculty and Education
Manager and my scope of work is broad: university teaching, program evaluation,
teacher training, change management. The King wants to overhaul the traditional,
rote-learning + test-taking approach in K-12 schools to focus instead on creating
young Bhutanese citizens who can contribute to their communities, find personal
joy and fulfilment, and address the problems they will face in the future. He
also wants to stop the drain of young intellect from his country. Many promising
students seek better education abroad instead of staying home and that’s not great for nation-building.
It’s an innovative and audacious challenge, but I’m up for it, and giddy with excitement.
But I’m also shitting my pants a bit too. It’s been a long time since I’ve said <i>hell
yes</i> to so much uncertainty. Will my accommodations be heated? Will I have a
shower? Where will I do laundry? Where and what will I eat? How will my day be
structured? How will I get around? What is it like to work
in this culture? Will it be as good as the last time I was in Bhutan?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">This much I know: I’ll be living on campus, which sits at a staggering
3000 m above sea level, and so I’m going to grow red bloods cells just walking around; I will always see
mountains out my window; my team are smart and dedicated and keen to have me on board; and I love
chili. So, I'm going to be okay. And besides, facing so much unknown seems to
breathe life into my soul. Say yes and ask questions later, that's my motto. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span>Besides, education is a hill I’ll die on - anyone who knows me knows not to get me
started on the topic. I</span><span> have big dreams about big influence and this project makes me hopeful. </span><span>Of course, my optimism and idealism are tempered with a healthy dose of
reality and insecurity. In terms of my skill set, I am a jack-of-all-trades and
a master of none. Assessment, technology, pedagogy, learning design, teacher
training, learning psychology, education philosophy. I do all of it enthusiastically and expertly,
but none with precision, and I know people in each of those subfields who are smarter and more
experienced than me. But I’m learning to recognize these fears and show up anyway. To be honest, I think we’re all faking it a little bit.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">I have two goals: firstly, be useful; and second, write as much as possible about
everything. Oh, and meet with the king. Again. The Snowman team had a private
audience with him after the race and we talked about running and the mountains
and his love for his country. This time I want to chat education because I
suspect, along with exercise and wilderness, we also share this. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">So, h</span><span>ere we go. Onto Nicki's next chapter....</span></span></p><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-82004885797812733282022-12-01T02:22:00.082-07:002023-04-18T05:11:53.347-06:00The Snowman Race - Bhutan<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This is a story about a King, a cause, and the luckiest girl in the world. It's disguised as a race report, because that's how we were lured to Bhutan. Actually, I wasn't lured to Bhutan <span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">– I begged to go. This "race" was the coolest thing I'd ever heard of, and so unbelievable an opportunity, that I didn't believe it was really happening until I landed at Paro Airport and began what has easily become the greatest adventure of my life. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAhSkrAztohXwMuf7dpBVF63gaCrnKjLNr7s1MPJM9eWO51-qGjwjjxAgg-b5pJ2JJpnqqSwPoCvXMGwrAgv8O5iK97PCEqTNoin9sjy4Z7ObNo63GQ5fDCxD14-iInMIX6Tyf_5V75vNLB2SXvksR1mLuk3pjwT9gVJlCQSlXzjfn1yFb-xJsiT0h/s1495/cda72961-6656-4d3d-8c4e-6b7a0defd029.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="The team of ultramarathoners arrive in Bhutan" border="0" data-original-height="1119" data-original-width="1495" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAhSkrAztohXwMuf7dpBVF63gaCrnKjLNr7s1MPJM9eWO51-qGjwjjxAgg-b5pJ2JJpnqqSwPoCvXMGwrAgv8O5iK97PCEqTNoin9sjy4Z7ObNo63GQ5fDCxD14-iInMIX6Tyf_5V75vNLB2SXvksR1mLuk3pjwT9gVJlCQSlXzjfn1yFb-xJsiT0h/w320-h240/cda72961-6656-4d3d-8c4e-6b7a0defd029.jpg" title="Paro Airport" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">And so it begins (Paro Airport)</span></td></tr></tbody></table></span></div></div><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span>Day 1</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></h2><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZeO1Yyc6KHAaFD9MdQ8DCzaxJOyl0RRb-qj4Lp_ERcgAZsRGHK8fuvtOpd_cDHXwJeLlhvvDOWWIknFsJ38GcWyNqJs50QKL8XRZzTYOhBHopqQWAacYLGbs1qJHwanftoWT-5bgn8LkjAB5_i1Q9kYXE9nWdC8gwiXhX-oetKatzJpOiViZZ_PmW/s4032/HZVO0920.JPEG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Monks chanting prayers at Gasa Zhong in Bhutan" border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZeO1Yyc6KHAaFD9MdQ8DCzaxJOyl0RRb-qj4Lp_ERcgAZsRGHK8fuvtOpd_cDHXwJeLlhvvDOWWIknFsJ38GcWyNqJs50QKL8XRZzTYOhBHopqQWAacYLGbs1qJHwanftoWT-5bgn8LkjAB5_i1Q9kYXE9nWdC8gwiXhX-oetKatzJpOiViZZ_PmW/w320-h240/HZVO0920.JPEG" title="Gasa Zhong Bhutan Snowman Race" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Gasa Zhong, 5 am</span></td></tr></tbody></table>It was still dark when we arrived at the Gasa Dzong for the start of the race. Hushed anticipation hung in the air, along with the sound of fifty or so monks chanting prayers to the universe, begging whoever or whatever to end the monsoon and bring us good weather. The rains were running late and people <span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">– important people </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">– </span>were worried. It was damp and drippy as we hunkered under blankets during the 5 am opening ceremonies, but as soon as dawn began to lighten the sky, the clouds parted and the rain stopped. It's like the mountains flung open their doors and said, "Welcome". The Himalayas were ready to put on a show. </div><p></p><p>It's hard to capture how grateful I was to be invited to Bhutan, to join the impressive line up of international and Bhutanese athletes, and to participate in this Big and Important Thing. We were a team of 29 <span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">–</span> world record holders, FKT'ers, 100-mile winners, mountain climbers (including two who have stood atop Everest), semi-pro runners, trekking guides, Hardrock top 10'ers, special forces soldiers, and one badass female yak herder from Laya. I should have been intimidated, but instead, was humbled to be counted among them. The challenge ahead was daunting enough so I didn't waste any emotional energy getting worked up about whether I belonged. Besides, I had a feeling that this course, with its remote mountains, high passes, and promise of extended solitude in exposed, technical terrain, would suit me. And having come off two successful weeks of acclimatization up in the Everest valley, I felt cautiously confident and surprisingly calm. Nepal had given me my first taste of the pointy white peaks of the Himalayas, and I was craving more. Craving to be surrounded<span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">– no, swallowed </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">– by them, craving to feel that small, and craving to drink their magic. Yep, it was time to get this race underway! </span> </p><p>Compared to everyone else on that start line, I'm not fast. My advantage shows up in non-runnable terrain, where one is rewarded for grinding up steep hills for hours on end. The opening twenty kilometers on the road did not, therefore, favour me one bit. Claire and I "ran" conservatively, which is to say, we shuffled, and within minutes, most of the field had disappeared out of sight. My backpack was heavy and I wondered if I was carrying too much. I no longer needed the rain poncho or waterproof socks now the monks had negotiated an end to the monsoon, but I carried them anyway, along with an excess of other just-in-case things. I could have survived out there in a blizzard for days, but I was paying for my boy-scouts-approach within the first hour. My shoulders and neck were already hurting but I put discomfort aside and focused, instead, on the unfathomable beauty all around <span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">–</span> the impossibly steep canyon walls, the waterfalls pouring out of every nook and cranny, and the mist making it ethereal and lovely. I'm pretty sure I had fallen through to another universe where gods listen to monks and the earth breathes. The air was delicious, as if running through the planet's most powerful air filter. With 70% of Bhutan under forest canopy, I guess I kind of was. </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijRtbp6VeYqW_KLHN4n2CEBRu_fj36AJOzyjTXH3THTFPIFhkSmoOSr2YSaetq7wm82uSASIk3NnP2Ki0I2UehY-1Wxjn2PZ0DHqGbs5U6IsUkDyXynT8pxOXUKz-g3HS80vdmqnPSKcdChyMXrhBMJHs7fMJbTWFTuS8RjqhRffXRnYePA0NrenPf/s1440/Mud.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="A muddy trail on the Snowman Trek in Bhutan" border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijRtbp6VeYqW_KLHN4n2CEBRu_fj36AJOzyjTXH3THTFPIFhkSmoOSr2YSaetq7wm82uSASIk3NnP2Ki0I2UehY-1Wxjn2PZ0DHqGbs5U6IsUkDyXynT8pxOXUKz-g3HS80vdmqnPSKcdChyMXrhBMJHs7fMJbTWFTuS8RjqhRffXRnYePA0NrenPf/w320-h240/Mud.jpg" title="Mud" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Apocalyptic mud (📷: Ashley)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>We turned away from the Gasa valley and the last connection to civilization and began the steep climb toward the tiny settlement of Rodophu. The mud, once we left the gravel road, was epic. Vertical horse-shit-mud, in fact. There were no easy steps, but it was impossible to be frustrated, especially on reflection, again, of how lucky I was to be there. I was about to run into the high Himalayas of a mythical country, to journey across a route that few have ever travelled, and to see things I couldn't imagine. The mud was irrelevant. Luis Escobar, the race director, had asked us all, point blank, "Why are <i>you</i> here?" It was a philosophical question rather than a literal one. I wasn't sure of the answer, but I hoped I'd find out. </p><p>The upper valley was devoid of humans, so it was a lovely surprise to come across two young ladies perched on the side of the trail with a selection of simple treats laid out on a piece of cloth. They had hiked down a few hours from Laya just to be there. I took a mango juice box. It was the first of many, because as it turns out, the Bhutanese mango juice gave me superpowers. I had set an audacious goal of eating something <span style="color: #1d2228; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14.6667px;">– </span>anything <span style="color: #1d2228; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14.6667px;">–</span> every hour for the entire five days of the race. The stomach notoriously gets uncooperative at altitude and being able to eat regularly is a minor miracle. I didn't care what I ate, but every hour I reached into a side pocket and, like a game of lucky dip, pulled out whatever my hand touched <span style="color: #1d2228; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14.6667px;">– </span>Spring energy gel, licorice, cheezies, granola bar, Mars, and my favourite - biscotti. Boxed mango juice delivered to the trail was always a bonus. </p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHy4DirtZSypkqgk46FDEl71yCh2LQCheacWC-M-rscj5ywGToeJd7o0vQycGjQ90EGjwNZ9hzIdAY2VyueY2KLR880c8pf6nDte22cBZt9nA0i0QdzSM90ydh_EaawurppVPAM6bcac5ritJxv6guFbempGa19eBgToA6Bv_94vx09VPi1E5ybscX/s2626/IMG_0857%20(1).jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="View of Himalayan Mountains is covered by clouds" border="0" data-original-height="2626" data-original-width="2157" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHy4DirtZSypkqgk46FDEl71yCh2LQCheacWC-M-rscj5ywGToeJd7o0vQycGjQ90EGjwNZ9hzIdAY2VyueY2KLR880c8pf6nDte22cBZt9nA0i0QdzSM90ydh_EaawurppVPAM6bcac5ritJxv6guFbempGa19eBgToA6Bv_94vx09VPi1E5ybscX/w263-h320/IMG_0857%20(1).jpg" title="Rodophu on the Snowman Trek" width="263" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Rodophu</span></td></tr></tbody></table>The temperature dropped as we reached Rodophu in the late afternoon and so Claire and I stopped to layer up with gloves and wind jackets. With just a couple of abandoned huts sitting at 4200 m, it felt bleak and I didn't want to linger. The clouds hid the mountains, but I had the distinct feeling that I was deep in the Himalayas in a land far, far away. We had over 2000 meters of elevation gain in our legs so far and were now facing the toughest part of the day <span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">–</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;"> an 800-meter climb up to Tsemo La Pass, and then five kilometers of rolling terrain on the high plateau to reach camp at a staggering 4950 m.<br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">My goal on that first day was to keep the effort level sufficiently low as to arrive in camp "fresh-as-a-daisy" and not need to recover. No one is recovering on their first night at 4950 meters above sea level, so I didn't want to count on that. Unfortunately, no one finishes a 50-kilometer, high altitude mountain run fresh-as-a-daisy either. But blind optimism has its place, right?</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">I arrived at camp at 5 pm after eleven hours of careful effort. That last hour in the crisp, thin air was harder than I wanted it to be, but I put one foot in front of the other in the most efficient way I could at a pace I like to call Continual Forward Motion. I caught Tashi just before the pass and we stayed together until she and her Bhutanese lungs pulled away on the last punchy climb before camp. We arrived within minutes of each other, with Claire, who I'd spent most of the day with, coming in just 20 minutes later. It was wonderful to be greeted by Bryon Powell (the international camp representative) and the incredible Bhutanese support crew who had hiked up for days with a herd of pack animals and all the gear. An unfathomable amount of effort had gone into hosting us each night and providing a refuge in otherwise inhospitable terrain. I felt okay, but I was very cold and unable to think clearly. I knew I had to manage my overnight rest with as much diligence as I did my movement during the day, so I only indulged for five minutes of being catatonic in a chair before getting onto the business of self-care. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2228;">I stripped all my wet clothes and changed into warm layers, but even then, the chill didn't leave me. I made my way to the medical tent for the mandatory check-up where my blood pressure was good, but my oxygen saturation was only 79%. Not ideal, but the doctor wasn't concerned, attributing it to the fact I was still puffing from getting dressed. Doing anything at this altitude was a huge effort. The temperature dropped to -10 Celsius almost immediately after the sun went down and so I procured boiling water, had some ramen, and then went to my tent to crawl into my sleeping bag. I took a few minutes to organize everything for the next morning, and then passed out. It turns out that my sleeping superpowers still work at this altitude. The only thing that disrupted my unconscious state was the need to pee. You see, I was taking Diamox to help keep the Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS) at bay, but it's powerful diuretic properties meant that I had to "get up" multiple times in the freezing night. Out of necessity (or desperation), I mastered the art of peeing in a bottle </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">without even getting out of my sleeping bag. A risky maneuver for sure, but one that I proudly perfected. </span></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2228;">Day 2</span></span></h2><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimOy9tXeZ4SHtNCZLRHXClzjZCi-ndzReyij-THjRZ_kkJ8K9qGf6PbVRmsipAmcz8BzsRSurWa6dk2_-WfmIXFYbg-z7ZCQzWz2b7FUhVd_j46s5LPxfpoHhOkYC5XrnSkMnyYqpwae3OdYYZiD7UL_QZyV3-6nRj5iB58TBBCK82JdHPyn-zHqH_/s2016/IMG_0861.jpg" style="background-color: transparent; clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="Campsite and tents at high altitude in Himalayas in Bhutan" border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimOy9tXeZ4SHtNCZLRHXClzjZCi-ndzReyij-THjRZ_kkJ8K9qGf6PbVRmsipAmcz8BzsRSurWa6dk2_-WfmIXFYbg-z7ZCQzWz2b7FUhVd_j46s5LPxfpoHhOkYC5XrnSkMnyYqpwae3OdYYZiD7UL_QZyV3-6nRj5iB58TBBCK82JdHPyn-zHqH_/w320-h240/IMG_0861.jpg" title="Camp 1 - Snowman Race, Bhutan" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Overnight Camp 1</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2228;">Brian woke us up with a cowbell at 4 am. </span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2228;">"Get ready for one of the most beautiful sights of your life", he promised. </span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2228;">We'd gone to sleep in the clouds and woke up in a scene of magnificence. I crawled out of the tent to towering peaks that were lit by the stars. As billed, it was incredible. </span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">Everything had frozen overnight and so I fashioned a ziplock bag sock around my swollen feet and grimaced as I slipped them into the icy mud bricks that were my shoes. Besides the bitter cold, I was feeling okay, and during my morning medical check, my oxygen saturation had miraculously gone back up to 92%. It felt like a minor win and buoyed my spirits. Most importantly, it gave me confidence that my body was coping. Sadly, of the 29 who started, only 22 would continue with the race from here. Acute mountain sickness does not care if you are elite or experienced, and so staying in this race was proving precarious. The mood was somber and serious in the breakfast tent, knowing that any one of us could be next. We squeezed in as tightly as possible to draw warmth from one another and tried to steady shivering hands to sip hot tea while we waited for the 6 am start, which never came soon enough.</span></p><p><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;">I took off as fast as possible out of camp in order to warm up, which is to stay, as slow as a snail. From the tents, we climbed another 250 vertical meters to Karchung La at 5200 m </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">– an iconic pass on the Snowman Trek and the gateway to the remote Lunana valley. This wasn't the highest point we'd reach, but it was close. There is only 11% oxygen up there (just over half of what's at sea level) and you can almost feel your brain cells dying off one at a time. When I reached the top and looked over, I burst into tears. The magnitude of beauty was almost too much, and at the risk of sounding melodramatic (which I am not), weeping was really the only appropriate response. My Bhutanese friend, Lhomo, asked me if I was okay. </span></p><p>"I've never been so okay", I sputtered in between breaths of air. </p><p>The view was like nothing I'd seen in my life. I was staring at a wall of 7000 m peaks that form the border with Tibet. A true natural fortress, especially considering mountain climbing is banned in Bhutan. I snapped a couple of pictures and then with utterly frozen hands, began the descent into the glacial valley below. Just minutes later, the sun rose and I was forced to strip layers. Then I saw snow leopard prints which confirmed that this was, indeed, all a dream.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDm0suJh6D0bVygXuxpEKXUClbbl9Zij1SzV_GyclSs7KN6Ou958BppVNqI7_-3P0YarVI61_t7qrifClysyKKByyjbGi8ZVZJ2NfCCB8C5Mcm2yZLdeLpDQd2edSr2E1DZGUM1LjN4PfRYaJU91nyAL9U97Kzi2oYSI_9TMn4sRb1nbB2Idq8Vx2Q/s2016/IMG_0867.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="Two ultramarathon women reach highest pass on Snowman Trek in Bhutan" border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDm0suJh6D0bVygXuxpEKXUClbbl9Zij1SzV_GyclSs7KN6Ou958BppVNqI7_-3P0YarVI61_t7qrifClysyKKByyjbGi8ZVZJ2NfCCB8C5Mcm2yZLdeLpDQd2edSr2E1DZGUM1LjN4PfRYaJU91nyAL9U97Kzi2oYSI_9TMn4sRb1nbB2Idq8Vx2Q/w320-h240/IMG_0867.jpg" title="Karchung La, Bhutan" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Meghan and I on Kachung La Pass</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvZrmzN2mwF1P18QX8Qcinw_8h5hxLoQm58qbu9bmBAF8eGuK3pZEjAq0vRTXU1GRojA1n8vahAvY_tJBbYnOpFEhzWFMfbb-cPZi-gt8Oaiqbe_Iob08k9cxdG-G86diBiNdOSkYegEDF7N42xzCB5rNfRCaPq6d_c7o2lQLWYIaZxjFnNj7_DPtQ/s2016/IMG_0873.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="View from mountain pass to Tibet" border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvZrmzN2mwF1P18QX8Qcinw_8h5hxLoQm58qbu9bmBAF8eGuK3pZEjAq0vRTXU1GRojA1n8vahAvY_tJBbYnOpFEhzWFMfbb-cPZi-gt8Oaiqbe_Iob08k9cxdG-G86diBiNdOSkYegEDF7N42xzCB5rNfRCaPq6d_c7o2lQLWYIaZxjFnNj7_DPtQ/w320-h240/IMG_0873.jpg" title="Snowman Race, Bhutan" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">West Pho Chhu Valley</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>We dropped 1200 meters to the valley below on a technical, ankle-breaking path and began the long run down the West Pho Chhu. The river ran high, and in some places completely engulfed the trail. There was at least a kilometer in which I waded shin deep. I shared the morning with Meghan and Sarah, which was a delight. We hopscotched for a couple of hours but were generally moving at similar speeds until Meghan found her fast legs on the climb to the village of Woche and Sarah found that special ultramarathon dark place. Like most ultramarathoners, she was adept at hiding her suffering and insisted I leave her to take a quick rest under a tree. I figured she'd catch me, as she'd done a few times already, but I spent the rest of the day alone. I was served warm tea and biscuits at Woche by a small group of women who were generous with their smiles and cheers, and then worked my way up the third pass of the race <span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">– a "small" unnamed one at 4650 m. Cleary my perspective was being recalibrated and my body adapting. I remember reaching the summit of Handies Peak in Colorado this summer, my first 14'er, and being very proud. Suddenly, Handies didn't seem that high. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2228;">From there we dropped all the way to camp two at a luxurious 3800 m. We ran through a gauntlet of children from the Lunana school just before the finish line and I might have cried again. The degree of overwhelm kept leveling-up and my tears were becoming a theme. Day two was my best, which I completed in just under ten hours. T</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">hat night we had a bonfire
and a great feast, and I went to bed determined to sleep like a boss and
recover everything I could for what was going to be the single most challenging
day of racing of my life. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ahTzMQAzzwDSIv0MnqdhSH9MM8_0nNs5-ikWO2IHLh15XpnqsJFsRS_YnpMO-C1YG-ekY_bOjEDh9MA9Z_xB8uo4uPDgIfJe_Vrixz2_IIeUrwQ3N-LFubvj62IvuWZ3LrUTLEXdJMi6zgQYTZNRKdTsh-BsiZolQ2Xh8KT7avTpzIRXvUqzNzGi/s2016/IMG_0890.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="Bonfire with children from Lunana School Yak in the Classroom" border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ahTzMQAzzwDSIv0MnqdhSH9MM8_0nNs5-ikWO2IHLh15XpnqsJFsRS_YnpMO-C1YG-ekY_bOjEDh9MA9Z_xB8uo4uPDgIfJe_Vrixz2_IIeUrwQ3N-LFubvj62IvuWZ3LrUTLEXdJMi6zgQYTZNRKdTsh-BsiZolQ2Xh8KT7avTpzIRXvUqzNzGi/w320-h240/IMG_0890.jpg" title="Lunana Camp 2 - Snowman Race, Bhutan" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Lunana school kids performing a dance around the campfire</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;"></span></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">Day 3</span></h2><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2228;">Two more runners succumbed to the attitude overnight. By now we had developed deep respect for one another (friends turned family, in fact) and so it was tough to watch their journeys come to an end. The Snowman Race was more project than competition in which hugs disproportionally outweighed hand shakes and high-fives. Seeing fellow athletes hooked up to oxygen and evacuated by helicopter was sobering and sad. Claire wasn't feeling great either but decided to hedge her bets on her ability to bounce back from almost anything. We decided to stick together for the day to keep each other safe in the committing terrain ahead. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;"> </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2228;">Everyone took off running in the relatively thick air. The first 16 km followed the Lunana valley up to its glacial headwall. Despite the more gradual terrain, we took it easy and enjoyed the morning. The sun rose, the air was perfectly still, and the views were indescribable. I am certain that time is suspended up there. An old man stood out on the trail, framed by 7000 m peaks and yaks, holding a tray of cut apples. He draped the symbolic white silk scarf that signals a message of welcome, peace, and safe journey, and I wondered if he was an angel. </span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2228;">The Snowman Race was really a love letter from the King to </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">this man, and all the highlanders who live up there </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">– to tell them he cares. These Himalayan people are some of the first to suffer the impacts of climate change despite doing nothing to contribute to it. They watch the glaciers melt into lakes that teeter on the brink of overflow and constantly wonder if (and when) they will be the next village washed away in a flood. Trail runners tend to be deeply connected to the wild places in which they run and passionate about preserving them. The King figured that if we came and ran in his mountains, we'd want to help protect them too, and he was right.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMh1opyZQaiDOwhYaHiKeg6SeM3ucnvTVdvKlBx1R4uoyQrZ9dXy_hYGOFbJlw2QAbl8b23YNigGg9q3Bgo3nJXibSuYM3V_9QP3oLgY2pF5EtSLhxrrKooi1RB6RO5rvZrpLFCNe7XdvZC6ulCKqLZshis6sYATYDqmwL13C_XuIA5LnL3_gjaU4I/s2016/IMG_0905.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="Old man stands in Himalayan mountains offering snacks to ultramarathon runners" border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMh1opyZQaiDOwhYaHiKeg6SeM3ucnvTVdvKlBx1R4uoyQrZ9dXy_hYGOFbJlw2QAbl8b23YNigGg9q3Bgo3nJXibSuYM3V_9QP3oLgY2pF5EtSLhxrrKooi1RB6RO5rvZrpLFCNe7XdvZC6ulCKqLZshis6sYATYDqmwL13C_XuIA5LnL3_gjaU4I/w320-h240/IMG_0905.jpg" title="Lunana Valley" width="320" /></a></div><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;"></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">Claire had been moving steadily, but quietly </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">– a sure sign that she had found that nasty dark place too. I tucked in behind and watched her take painstaking steps to reach the prayer flags at the viewpoint above the village of Thangza at the end of the valley. We were "only" at 4400 m when she developed tunnel vision and difficulty breathing. She sat down and ripped off her pack to release her chest. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">"I don't know what to do", she said. There was panic in her voice.</span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ4PX3_W8-yHwoFp62H1LHrGzD31bG9y-xQPyiJ7WXdF8sLjHzo4g8F3h1yjlCWrdFRpN4RMGEGaD7QvHlfS-dgO-dtfOMHstVGOUU2KkTYg2tDgyh6VIh9cDunrbS5yNp6zXMNKKoRRffFJwVCqtNSfw11ZK5INFZF7Sd2_W71sZoD2rN7SP_Cvgn/s2016/IMG_0910.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="Woman ultramarathon runner waits for helicopter rescue in Himalayas" border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ4PX3_W8-yHwoFp62H1LHrGzD31bG9y-xQPyiJ7WXdF8sLjHzo4g8F3h1yjlCWrdFRpN4RMGEGaD7QvHlfS-dgO-dtfOMHstVGOUU2KkTYg2tDgyh6VIh9cDunrbS5yNp6zXMNKKoRRffFJwVCqtNSfw11ZK5INFZF7Sd2_W71sZoD2rN7SP_Cvgn/w320-h240/IMG_0910.jpg" title="Lunana Valley" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I left Claire with the soldier and this mind-blowing view.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">Unfortunately, you can't muscle through AMS, especially when you have another 1100 vertical meters to climb. Not even Claire, who is the toughest person I know. I helped her make the necessary decision to call for rescue. We had a soldier with us at the time and were able to use his radio to get direct contact with the doctor back at the Thimphu headquarters and confirmation that a helicopter was on its way. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">The devastating moment contrasted the otherwise perfect day. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">Knowing that reaching the 10 pm cutoff (and therefore my safety) was at risk if I stood around much longer, I made a tough decision to leave her with the soldier and keep moving. We hugged and said goodbye, and my heart broke for her as I left. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2KkNEvIQ1mTNYoljxhSkrVsg02rvcyzNF-EQSpTr5WhtbhsVz5-3WP8bFQzEEOqYkHF5qQcB1q1WJWHQ8dC7SFId1JEmTn-Mk0OjPWJDsD3gq6uY7RGOAzdgLS4Usr0SvM6SJaoUYK-Xba4PDWqiqyZ5HCSpMqO4P87_pVaIBbNb-j5maLuC8EzsH/s2016/IMG_0919.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Runner stares at remote valley in Himalayas" border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2KkNEvIQ1mTNYoljxhSkrVsg02rvcyzNF-EQSpTr5WhtbhsVz5-3WP8bFQzEEOqYkHF5qQcB1q1WJWHQ8dC7SFId1JEmTn-Mk0OjPWJDsD3gq6uY7RGOAzdgLS4Usr0SvM6SJaoUYK-Xba4PDWqiqyZ5HCSpMqO4P87_pVaIBbNb-j5maLuC8EzsH/w320-h240/IMG_0919.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Alone, here!</span></td></tr></tbody></table>For me, the day's work was about to begin. I was now in the very back of the pack, alone, and heading towards the highest section of the race </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">– a plateau, suspended between 5000 and 5500 meters above sea level. I was only 18 kilometers into what would become a 53 km day and I hadn't seen another runner since we left the start line. I tried not to think about all the distance I still had to cover at the agonizingly slow pace of one-breathless-step-at-a-time. </span></div><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">"Nicki, you can do this," I said to myself, out loud. I wasn't fully convinced, but I didn't have much choice. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">I spent six hours covering the next fifteen airy and remote kilometers, feeling like I was the only person on the planet. And then, when the altitude really started to muffle the world, I wondered whether I was still alive and any of this was real. Things were a bit blurry and confused but I knew I had to keep moving forward through this barren, rocky landscape, no matter how slowly. I've never worked so hard for so little speed. Light snow covered everything, but the day was crystal clear and the sky that characteristic Himalaya blue. I kept trying to look up at the view but it was hard to focus, so I stuck my head down and concentrated on taking nose breathes as much as possible. I had learned that somewhere, I think. I snapped a couple of photos, knowing that I'd need them to remember what it really looked like up there.</span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP8AUwmxeQHGGrz1nIcKlGYuwvvplf7Yz0BJ9XPLQMyHvDb_f871mfmC07nWD3d91YtNCAlV4amOdDoG9pKjNbW0qThsvVPQkxKwBW2CSxgpd8IVOCMeykkxoKkk35IvLECLBooZMJM9iAaqG_Uzi2Ihx_IpQoyltw2PeW4ZXyC-Bb26YTWlompo0N/s4032/IMG_0922.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="Highest pass on the Snowman Race in Bhutan" border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP8AUwmxeQHGGrz1nIcKlGYuwvvplf7Yz0BJ9XPLQMyHvDb_f871mfmC07nWD3d91YtNCAlV4amOdDoG9pKjNbW0qThsvVPQkxKwBW2CSxgpd8IVOCMeykkxoKkk35IvLECLBooZMJM9iAaqG_Uzi2Ihx_IpQoyltw2PeW4ZXyC-Bb26YTWlompo0N/w320-h240/IMG_0922.JPG" title="Gophu La, Snowman Trek, Bhutan" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Gophu La Pass - 5500 m</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Just before Gophu La Pass, I came upon the army checkpoint. Three soldiers were waiting for me and they poured me hot tea in the one cup they'd been sharing. One of the soldiers would accompany me the rest of the way to the overnight camp as the sweep. I wanted to make the pass by sunset so we didn't linger. As we neared the top an hour or so later, I thought I spotted two humans standing under the prayer flags. I couldn't tell for sure, but then the soldier, in his broken English, pointed and said, "Your friends". I tried to move a little faster to catch them, but it was like being in one of those nightmares where you are trying to run away from a monster but can't move yourself forward at any kind of speed. Fortunately, Nate and Emily saw me and waited. I couldn't believe that I had caught them. It seemed impossible, but there they were. I hugged Nate tightly, buried my head in his neck, and cried tears of relief at being reunited. I think they cried a bit too. We were all overwhelmed by the enormity of where we were and how hard we'd worked to get there. The sun was dropping fast and so we didn't stay long.</p><p>"It's all downhill from here", I said.</p><p>Except it wasn't. We stayed up on that high plateau for another five kilometers, rolling across steep moraines, and losing and then regaining elevation. At some point we lost the sun and the temperature plummeted. I called for a clothing change and went from shorts and T-shirt to wearing almost everything I was carrying. As we pulled out our headlamps, a tsunami of fog rolled up the valley and swallowed us, and we felt like we'd been transported somewhere else altogether. </p><p>It was a long drawn-out night. The footing was difficult <span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">–</span> a combination of loose rock, creek crossings, and then bog. Things unraveled for many of us at some point between the pass and the camp <span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">–</span> some got disoriented in the fog, others were suffering cold and confusion, and we all fought some degree of frustration and despair as it became obvious that the camp was not as indicated on the map. It had been set up 8 km further down the trail, which added almost two hours to our day. Nate, Emily, and I caught the large group of fellow racers who had coalesced in the night and we became a string of nine headlamps stumbling down the broad valley. Morale was low. We were like the walking dead.</p><p>I deferred to my adventure racing mindset of "surrendering to the existence" and kept telling myself that every extra step would be one less we'd take the next day. Besides, these difficult moments are the price we pay for the incredible ones. </p><p>"This discomfort is privilege", I kept repeating in my mind.</p><p>After 15 hours and 20 minutes of Constant Forward Motion, most of which had been at altitudes not suited to athletic performance of any kind, we finally stumbled into camp. I was glad to reach shelter and slump into a chair. They brought food, but I wasn't hungry. I had stopped putting calories into my body hours ago (the only time I was delinquent in my nutrition) and now I couldn't. Besides, the thing I needed more than food was to be horizonal. I left the kitchen tent without dinner and went straight to bed. Claire's drop bag was sitting there next to mine, and I wondered where she was and how she was doing. It seemed like a lifetime ago that we parted ways and it would be two days before I found out what happened to her. I unrolled my sleeping bag and without even taking off my dirty socks, crawled in. I was asleep before I could notice how gross it was to be lying there in my smelly clothes. </p><h2 style="text-align: left;">Day 4</h2><div><span style="font-weight: normal;">Waking up on day four felt different. I was shattered, but optimistic. I had a raging appetite and ate a big breakfast, my oxygen saturation was a whopping 94%, and in my mind, I had broken the back of this race. I rifled through Claire's drop bag and found the giant Lululemon Team Canada puffy coat she was looking forward to donating to a camp worker </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">– y</span>ou know, the one they wore at the winter Olympics. I found someone who looked particularly cold and passed it on, knowing it would make her happy to imagine a Bhutanese yak herder walking around in the mountains wearing that obnoxious, bright red, 800-fill down jacket. </div><div><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhorhfZ8V42aCQ6tKqauVG_NJ_fRH9rETkiUXBx7OFRCndTwsWdV-xboJXtH9AO3gsFejVxkGd0rkPwCd7XHvQmC8ar1f4bvLC6Hidz5Tc5KUup3Wrl6YuPHOcOk-ItAzY-ox3lcQHBuTveHiCN_mTo6AxVoPYWOHJkmb-92_o3vLGYxijGAvLoTDyM/s4032/IMG_0927.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="Two ultramarathon runners climb mountain in Himalayas" border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhorhfZ8V42aCQ6tKqauVG_NJ_fRH9rETkiUXBx7OFRCndTwsWdV-xboJXtH9AO3gsFejVxkGd0rkPwCd7XHvQmC8ar1f4bvLC6Hidz5Tc5KUup3Wrl6YuPHOcOk-ItAzY-ox3lcQHBuTveHiCN_mTo6AxVoPYWOHJkmb-92_o3vLGYxijGAvLoTDyM/w320-h240/IMG_0927.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Nate and I feeling great, with our back-of-the-pack army friends. </span></td></tr></tbody></table><div>I spent all of day four with Nate, which was wonderful. I'd tackle any big mountain adventure with him and I hope I do so again in the future. As we turned away from the highest peaks along the Tibet border and headed south, the terrain became very Italian Alps. The two big climbs of day <span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">–</span> Saga La and Gongte La <span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">– were reminiscent of Tor Des Geants, where you climb steeply to a narrow col and then descend quickly off the other side. It wasn't easy, but it was indulgent. And then things got really sweet when we dropped down under forest canopy for the first time in days. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;">"Where there are trees, there is oxygen," said Nate. </span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;">Boy-o-boy did we drink it in. We ran alongside a raging river and came upon possibly the most remote hot springs in the world </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">– Dur Tshachu. Said to hold magical healing powers, we wanted to stay and enjoy them, but the afternoon was hot and a huge 1100 meter climb stood between us and the overnight camp. We caught Takuya and Tashi just before the col and the four of us enjoyed a few moments at the top together and celebrated the sight of tents at the end of the beautiful lake just a few hundred meters below. I was so excited to see Magda Boulet, who was our international representative at camp, so I yelled her name and listened to it echo in the mountain bowl. "Magdaaaaaaaa!" And then, in anticipation of the hug she had promised when we parted ways a week earlier, I beelined for the campfire in the distance. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKiJzF0gPri9gyE-CsSrzjLt6lH7BEPn3NoTs0DQjPCZ58gfBBU6IuHv34gxBB5CFqFoLQeLu9Sh07lGEPEhmm0_uErVKjvJwAiM-qQip0uhS3ueAdQvoFfyeNonKtM-NMw4_H3JOLE751AqYYePJ27CT0ACJbycb6vr4XCYgt2L9FZ8hLSkFz5Yrw/s4032/IMG_0933.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="Travel to Bhutan" border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKiJzF0gPri9gyE-CsSrzjLt6lH7BEPn3NoTs0DQjPCZ58gfBBU6IuHv34gxBB5CFqFoLQeLu9Sh07lGEPEhmm0_uErVKjvJwAiM-qQip0uhS3ueAdQvoFfyeNonKtM-NMw4_H3JOLE751AqYYePJ27CT0ACJbycb6vr4XCYgt2L9FZ8hLSkFz5Yrw/w240-h320/IMG_0933.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Paradise</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div></div><div><br /></div><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;">Day 5</span></span></h2><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;">The mood was giddy in the breakfast tent on the morning of day five. A sense of accomplishment hung in the air as we savoured the last moments we'd have together in this way. They served French toast, for goodness sake! Just 43 kilometers stood between us and the finish line, at which point this would all just be a memory fading away too fast. Even though it was the last day, the route had plenty of challenges in store. It was so cold leaving camp and my hands froze on the punchy 400 m climb up to Juli La </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">– the</span><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"> final pass. We were on the shady side of the mountain where the temperature was well below zero, but the sun greeted us on the col and I cried, </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">again. This time it was from the pain of the screaming barfies as my hands warmed. Standing on that last high point, I had feelings of elation and gratitude mixed with a little sadness, knowing this incredible adventure was soon to end. I hate having the mountains at my back.</span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;">We dropped into a vast, sweeping valley, full of yaks and frozen bog. I was trying to keep up with Nate, who had found his running legs, and promptly tripped and face-planted. My head broke the ice and I was instantly soaked, with my hands going numb for the second time. Unfortunately, I had a lot of trouble staying on my feet that day, falling twice more </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">– </span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #1d2228;">both times in a creek. Lieutenant Sangay joined me at the back of the pack to ensure my safety to the finish line. I'm pretty sure he wondered how on earth such a clumsy person had made it this far. He was particularly helpful when we hit the shoe-sucking, shin-deep, Vietnam-war-level mud, literally holding me up from the top of my pack every time it looked like I was going to be swallowed alive. </span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;">We reached civilization around noon. Finally free of the mud, the trail emptied onto a gravel road (the first I'd seen since day one). It was hot, my pack felt heavy, and I'm not a fan of road running so I knew those last 12 kilometers would hurt. I wanted to power walk, but Sangay encouraged me to run. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">"What kind of athlete is this?" I'm sure he wondered. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">I rallied my legs and redeemed myself. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">My arrival drew more and more attention as we got closer to the center of town. We passed hundreds of school children who held homemade Save The Planet signs and high-fived me as I passed. Some abandoned their classmates and afternoon lessons and ran alongside as if I was the Pied Piper. A long queue of cars formed a traffic jam behind and people ahead were coming out of their shops and homes to cheer. It was super crazy, but I </span><i style="color: #1d2228;">never </i><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">could have imagined what awaited me at the stadium in Chamkhar Town. My finish signaled the end of this Herculean project for Bhutan and it felt like the whole country was there to witness it. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">I swear I heard the collective sigh of relief from the organizers, the dignitaries, and the King himself that we were now all out of the mountains safely. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">The noise of the crowd was jarring after five days of silence, but I relished the celebration. Being the last finisher, as it turns out, was awesome. </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7vWWYvPox5uVBNjY3dF7qaIbvVo0HO1ICN_0nmtKc7fAMAC4WR8wB1crlnmUY2uQkV8x2g4efGWIegLq9ONzZlaz8QPHBpMEqm56WssezDmpFu1x4BAS-HJ1VaeeCTxxcidpIfRt1qCYxJKeRXTVPo_H0INhgSnSnv7OTbCb73q6r5CQpzo471Y99/s2048/CMIU1461.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="Thousands of people cheer finisher at Snowman Race" border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7vWWYvPox5uVBNjY3dF7qaIbvVo0HO1ICN_0nmtKc7fAMAC4WR8wB1crlnmUY2uQkV8x2g4efGWIegLq9ONzZlaz8QPHBpMEqm56WssezDmpFu1x4BAS-HJ1VaeeCTxxcidpIfRt1qCYxJKeRXTVPo_H0INhgSnSnv7OTbCb73q6r5CQpzo471Y99/w320-h240/CMIU1461.JPG" title="Visit Bhutan" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Finish line insanity</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div></div><div><br /></div><div>The Snowman Race wasn't the hardest ultramarathon I've ever done. It can't be, because there are others I haven't finished, whereas this one I did. And physically and mentally, I've been to much darker places. But it was hard in new and surprising ways. Incredibly hard. Unforgiving, in fact. I'd like to say that I survived because of my experience, the diligent management of my nutrition and clothing and pace, and mental grittiness. Those things all had an influence, for sure. But mostly I finished because of luck. Luck to live and train in the Canadian Rockies. Luck to have had the time and resources to spend two glorious weeks acclimatizing in Nepal. Luck that I didn't get injured. Luck that fluid didn't seep into my lungs or brain at any point. And luck to have even been there in the first place. Yep, I'm definitely the luckiest girl in the world.</div><div><br /></div><div>While I'm no longer in Bhutan my soul is still there, somewhere up in the Himalayas looking for the answer to that question Luis asked. Why was <i>I </i>there? I still haven't found it and so clearly need to go back.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bhutan, I owe you. </div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br /></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br /></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;"> </span></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-7542343306478954252022-10-04T23:23:00.009-06:002022-11-22T00:55:40.579-07:00Bhutan - My Snow Leopard<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht7ADElewTrgy69NzwcUGmiLS78YD-nBQ8pIXHYnrruvmHC2KSXwNsyDZZa-he6nGdnuFyyalz-ZIX3GD5qJEX8DzYkCG0pKtuXXxgE_QJT7kOFPhIYH3BwiWx_dsl3oOu050ZFS_iTNmlxGgoJfcqnB_v-EE33q0X4IYFOL7uRXfz4kl5OfVoqDum/s1777/Bhutan%20visa.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="995" data-original-width="1777" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht7ADElewTrgy69NzwcUGmiLS78YD-nBQ8pIXHYnrruvmHC2KSXwNsyDZZa-he6nGdnuFyyalz-ZIX3GD5qJEX8DzYkCG0pKtuXXxgE_QJT7kOFPhIYH3BwiWx_dsl3oOu050ZFS_iTNmlxGgoJfcqnB_v-EE33q0X4IYFOL7uRXfz4kl5OfVoqDum/w320-h179/Bhutan%20visa.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />It’s time to talk about Bhutan. Later today, I fly to one
of the most obscure and mysterious countries in the world. I’ve had a growing interest in Bhutan, spurred by teaching advertisements pinned to the
bulletin board of my university, a Bhutanese undergraduate student I once taught, the countless unclimbed 7000 m Himalayan peaks within its borders, and its reputation for national
happiness. Also, Bhutan has snow leopards – the most elusive and least known
cat in the world. This trip, metaphorically, is my snow leopard – an
opportunity of a lifetime to experience and learn about one of the coolest
places on the planet. Despite the boarding pass in my hand, it still doesn’t quite
feel real. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Not everyone has heard of Bhutan, so let’s start there. It
is, in fact, a tiny country, landlocked by the two most populated nations in
the world – China and India. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
Himalayas line it’s northern border with Tibet. It has high peaks and lush greenery,
with over 60% of the country under forest canopy. Bhutan is so forested
and biodiverse that it is considered the first carbon negative country in the
world, but despite it’s A+ for environmentalism, it’s one of the countries most vulnerable to climate change - and it's why I am going
there. The mountains are warming and the glacial lakes are precariously overfilling and this is a big problem for Bhutan. </p><p class="MsoNormal">My visa says, “Official Guest” and by official, they mean
His Majesty the King. The King of Bhutan would like the world to know that his
beautiful country is threatened, so he commissioned a running race as a way to
bring awareness to the impact of climate change on glacier melt and habit lost
in Bhutan and beyond. I’ve
watched our own glaciers in the Canadian Rockies retreat over the 26+ years
I’ve lived there, and so this is not some abstract problem in a faraway place.
And I like running. And traveling. So, I sent in my resume. Initially I didn’t get
selected, but Claire did, and then COVID happened, and the event was postponed, then postponed, and then postponed again. Now three years later, a few of
the originally selected athletes are no longer able to come. Spots opened up, and based
on Claire’s recommendation and my original application, I received an invitation. So here I am, in Bangkok, visa and ticket in
hand, ready to tackle this insane adventure. Technically we're here to run a race, but in reality, we're here to help share Bhutan's story. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When that email came through just 8 weeks ago, I cried. And then I celebrated. And then I immediately started preparing. This race scares me a little. It’s high, long, cold, and
remote. Over five days, we will run 200 km, between 3000 m and 5500 m above
sea-level, mostly self-supported, across one of the most difficult routes in
the world – the Himalayan Snowman Route. Claire and I have worked hard to get
here, especially over the last couple of months. We’ve rucked water to the top
of Prairie Mountain, logged some REALLY big mountain days, done weighted hill
repeats, and then sharpened the top edge of our physiology in the TCR Altitude
Lab. I also crammed a vertical K and 60 km mountain ultra right before flying
across to Asia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then, just to really
make sure we were ready, we went to Nepal. We hiked up to 5600 m, slept above
5000 m, and tested our gear and fortitude. I learned three things while in
Nepal – my body is okay at those altitudes, drinking 4-5L of water a day is essential, and I fucking love the Himalayas. In fact, I think I might be
dangerously addicted to them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This 3-day Bangkok intermission has been great, but I’m
desperate to get back into those mountains and to move my body. I’m also really
excited to hang out with the 25 or so fellow athletes from around the world, to
meet the Bhutanese people, and to be part of
something big and important. I have no idea what’s ahead, but I suspect that by
the time I’m back here in Bangkok in 2.5 weeks time, things might look a bit
different. I’m also hoping to see an actual snow leopard. <o:p></o:p></p>Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-62834606339488558692022-09-12T22:58:00.013-06:002023-08-24T17:38:27.863-06:00On travel, mountains, and dirtbag camping<div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></p><p style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span>I can go a long time without a
shower. It's something I learned from my parents while growing up. We spent days (and sometimes weeks) camping off grid in Australia with nothing but a bucket and wet flannel, or a creek, to end the day. A little bit feral was my normal. I also credit them for
my ability to sleep anywhere. When we were kids, they towed my sisters and I to
their parties and dances, and then put us "to bed" in the corner amidst all the noise, lights, and shenanigans. Most people grow out of this by
the time they reach, say, adulthood, but not me. Even today, as a 47-year-old,
I’m as happy sleeping in the front seat of a small car, on the hard
ground, or in a cheap roadside motel as I am in my own bed. This, along with my
tolerance for instant coffee and ramen, makes me a very good dirtbag, adventure
traveler. Thanks mum and dad – because of you, the world is open to me and my
shoestring budget.</span><br /></span></p><p style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDq45SY5uONJieBIVfzb4TV8lFLzOVLDJIPJd8anCoKsxKhmCrq4ZhN-cooQoEGWs-RdibGCNDn89A7GbyNX5cog9RFMpZnsDmrRpDDRUKQbu99T12HAlGgXZ6dfCHl2txnHyx6SY1v9cbO8O661M-3ElHfpBnaJvMbDMEoOrQNH-y0s2ro4uj27Vh/s1280/Nicki%20Rehn_00290A.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="870" data-original-width="1280" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDq45SY5uONJieBIVfzb4TV8lFLzOVLDJIPJd8anCoKsxKhmCrq4ZhN-cooQoEGWs-RdibGCNDn89A7GbyNX5cog9RFMpZnsDmrRpDDRUKQbu99T12HAlGgXZ6dfCHl2txnHyx6SY1v9cbO8O661M-3ElHfpBnaJvMbDMEoOrQNH-y0s2ro4uj27Vh/w320-h218/Nicki%20Rehn_00290A.jpg" style="height: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><i>Bath time - in a creek, 1984</i></span><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span><br /></span></span><span><span>The last time I galivanted around
a foreign place on that shoestring budget with a small backpack, a couple of
pair of undies, and a toothbrush was in the summer of 2019 (<a href="http://nickirehn.blogspot.com/2019/08/world-rogaine-championships-la-molina.html?view=classic" target="_blank">Spain, France, and Slovenia</a>). It wasn’t <i>that</i> long ago, but for
someone with clinical wanderlust, it seems like forever. I love Canada, but I didn’t
appreciate being forcibly constrained here by a pandemic for two years. As soon
as the borders opened, and the airplanes (and their pilots) were dragged out of
storage, I let myself dream about faraway places again. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span><br /></span></span><span><span>The first faraway place I went to wasn’t actually that far away, but it did require me to show a passport. Colorado. Her mountains are, of course, just an extension of mine, and I’ve always felt like I had an obligation to go see what they were like down there on the other side of the border. For years, I’ve heard of Colorado’s thin air, endless ridges, accessible peaks, and microbreweries. All it took to get me there, besides an open border, was Joanna getting into the Hardrock Race. She was the third name drawn in the lottery and I texted her within minutes.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span>“Do you have a pacer yet?”</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span>Then Claire and Suzy proposed we all register for the Never Summer 100 km Ultramarathon in the northern part of the state, and just like that, I had the makings of a 3-week vacation in Colorado. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><u><b><span>Part 1 - Hardrock</span></b></u></p><p></p><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span>Having applied for the Hardrock lottery five times, I’ve dreamed about Silverton, studied maps and pictures, and imagined what it must be like to be there on that middle weekend in July when an international field of hardcore mountain runners gather to propel themselves around the epic 100-mile course. This race has so much history in a town with even more. They found gold here in the 1800s, and then silver, and then more gold. The place is basically a pin cushion of mines, and if you walk the notorious Blair St, kicking dust on the still-not-paved gravel road, it feels like not much as changed in 100 years. Except now you buy trinkets instead of hookers. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><br /></span><span>I got all the feels as we drove into town, but strangely, I had no FOMO. In fact, I’ve decided that the crew/pacer role at a big event like this is the way to go – there are no pre-race nerves or stress and you don’t have to deal with the suffering that is inflicted, but you still get to experience the vibe and run large sections of the spectacular course, all with a clear mind and strong body. You get to relax in a camp chair for hours on end at gorgeous remote aid stations, make new friends and catch up with old ones, and drink beer. It was ultrarunning indulgence, without the ultrarunning!</span></span></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><br /></span><span>After watching the athletes leave the start line at 6 am and disappear into the mountains, I went back to the campground to make coffee and chill for a few hours before heading out to meet Joanna at the first aid station. The stretch of road between Silverton and Ouray, called the million-dollar highway for a reason no one can agree on, is considered one of the most dangerous roads in the US, and I needed a caffeinated brain to take it on. The drive provides exposure like that of an airy, narrow ridge in the Canadian Rockies, and while scrambling can be thrilling and precarious, driving shouldn’t be. On the million-dollar highway there are no guardrails or shoulders protecting the hairpin turns and precipitous drop-offs, and not surprisingly, every year people drive off the edge and plunge 500 ft into the Uncompahgre Gorge. Crewing Hardrock means you will drive that highway at least four times, and I was determined to keep the wheels on the pavement and Joanna’s car out of the gorge.</span></span></div></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span>There were two monstrous storms that went through on day one of the race. The first, which was mostly heavy rain, hit while I was in Telluride (mile 28) waiting for Joanna. The beautiful day turned black in an instant and forced all the spectators and crew to gather their belongings from across the field and squeeze under the one park shelter. It was crammed and chaotic and only partially protected from the rain which came in sideways and turned the gazebo into a river. Of course, that’s just when Joanna arrived too! I got her fed, changed, and out of there in no time, which, let me assure you, was no easy feat. I’m normally on the receiving end of crew help so this responsibility was mostly new. There’s a lot of pressure to put the right candies in the right pocket, to measure the Gatorade at just the right amount, and to put socks on without crinkles. It sounds like I’m being facetious, but it's no joke - this stuff matters in ultrarunning, and my friend’s 9-year dream was on the line. I took my job very seriously and had a lot of fun doing so.</span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1265" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0pZ1efrUiHk_X675pY19zqupeabobOu_EYwclAp02GUVHHL5PCmMe11H4rm6jW3MR3EnFfnzqWc01VskUOGVXmb2JBo9CnSrtZablkKBkG8WnKXP2TMfSj8ji6Zy3YqGvBCjlHa3O5E0s4PirMpbLWnSSXJW0_hzkSdEEoxcuTodapQ9v5pNzc6Uk/w198-h200/IMG_0430.jpg" style="height: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="198" /></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span><i>"Watch out, she's coming through."</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><span><br /></span></div></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span>The second storm was more ferocious. It hit about five hours later, at mile 44, in Ouray. This one had me worried seems I was pacing Jo from here. I’ve always had a healthy fear of lightning, but it was made worse by reading the safety brochure that came in the Hardrock racer information. Do you know how many people are struck by lightning every year? It’s more than you expect, so I paid particular attention to the diagram showing the position one should adopt if caught above tree line in an electrical storm – crouch down, feet together, hands on knees. That way the current will travel to the ground through your extremities rather than your heart.<br /><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span>“Well, that’s sure comforting,” I thought to myself, “I’ll be alive to witness my limbs getting fried.”<br /><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span>I practiced the crouch. </span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span>Back in Ouray, the thunder shook the ground (quite literally) and the rain came down in sheets in a way I’ve not seen since living in West Africa. I overheard someone describe it as Biblical! Thank goodness the rest of Jo’s crew (her husband Matt, and the second pacer, Kris) had arrived because it took three of us to get her completely changed out of soaking clothes and ready for the night. Then, by some miracle, the entire storm passed just as we shuffled out of the aid station and up into the mountains. Not that it’s in any way about me, but I was so pleased not to get wet (or zapped) on the trail. Instead, we had a wonderful night under a full sky of stars as we climbed to 13000 ft at Engineers Pass. The moon rose and I got to see the vague profile of the high peaks all around us. Joanna was struggling with classic high altitude stomach issues and the other consequences of sixty cumulative mountain miles (this is not a glamorous sport, I can assure you), but for me, that night was magic. It was also awesome (and inspiring) to watch such a badass woman move so efficiently despite all the suffering. <br /><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span>We arrived at Animas Aid Station around 1.30 am and I handed over pacing (and caring) duties to Kris, then headed back to Silverton for a few hours of sleep. He would end up helping Joanna through the next 14 hours of the race – a long, remote section without access to crew. Matt and I spent hours just speculating how she was doing, mostly at the Cunningham Aid Station, pacing the access road as we waited for her to arrive. Despite having gone through hell and back with her stomach, she came in looking strong late in the afternoon. I then got to join Jo for the last 15 km section, up and over another 13000-foot pass, back to Silverton. I insisted that she stop for a few moments on the last pass, look out over the route, and soak in the accomplishment. And what an accomplishment it was! It was super cool to witness and be part of her finish, and I might have cried a little on her behalf. But no FOMO, I promise.</span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDHkWPjNuSiQdfRPns0Uy1fo6UuIHHedE_79odubp9lEZsHotDYu3fUiR_8UatcSDSNyP5AX8-qCvQOT5UJTcGm4esMYRcC6tGkfTOTDTg_OE6i1PFIUunnaFtScX_Nyp5AWfzz7HfXvRtCzX2yCv3z4G0Bcfiuux2FG24VHRdk_wCGaDF12N0MbfM/s2016/IMG_0487.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDHkWPjNuSiQdfRPns0Uy1fo6UuIHHedE_79odubp9lEZsHotDYu3fUiR_8UatcSDSNyP5AX8-qCvQOT5UJTcGm4esMYRcC6tGkfTOTDTg_OE6i1PFIUunnaFtScX_Nyp5AWfzz7HfXvRtCzX2yCv3z4G0Bcfiuux2FG24VHRdk_wCGaDF12N0MbfM/w200-h150/IMG_0487.jpg" style="height: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="200" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption"><span><i>The final pass</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span>The entire weekend was a wonderful experience, and possibly sufficient to satisfy my Hardrock dreams. It’s not what I would have said a few years ago, but 47-year-old Nicki doesn’t need to put herself through so much suffering. More and more, I like to enjoy the mountains on my own terms – something I would do in a big way over the next two weeks!</span></div></div></span><span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><u><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>Part 2 – Nicki’s Most Excellent
Solo Week</b><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></u></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">By Monday, Silverton had emptied
of all signs of Hardrock. The buzz receded and all that was left were the
mountains, the sleepy gravel streets, and the usual American tourists – off
road vehicle enthusiasts and day-trippers, mostly. I grabbed a ride to Montrose
with Leo, hailed a bus to Grand Junction, picked up a rental car from the
airport, then turned around and came straight back to Silverton. Hardrock pacing had
given me a taste of the San Juans and I wanted to explore more. I had amassed an
extensive list of peaks and routes that I planned to check off and I diligently
set about doing so. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It’s always my goal to establish
small routines while traveling, and I did this successfully in Silverton, and
then Telluride. I would start my run by 6.30 am so I could be done before
thunderstorm o’clock. Following the run, I’d visit my favorite river soaking
spot to clean up and ice the legs. Then I’d hit a local brewery for a recovery
beer and plate of salad to supplement the supreme lack of nutrients in my
otherwise ramen diet. I’d then spend the rest of the afternoon in the public library
doing some work (yes, I <i>do</i> have a job!) before heading out of town to find a douchebag free camping spot
for the night. Rinse and repeat.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Yep, those are my terms. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span>I</span><span> covered a lot of ground in that
post-Hardrock week. I started with the section I had paced Joanna in the night
– Bear Creek Canyon to Engineer Pass. It was a trail that bordered on
terrifying in the night, but in the daytime, it presented as only mildly
precipitous. I enjoyed solitude for the entire climb up to Engineers but was
met by a parade of off-road vehicles on the pass. That’s Colorado for you.
Compared to the Canadian Rockies, the ridges go on forever, but you might have
to share them with a whole bunch of bandana-wearing, cooler-carrying, petrol
heads! I left the misplaced crowds behind at the viewpoint and hit two peaks in
the area before dropping down into the expansive meadow that empties back into
the canyon like a funnel. It was great to have a 5-hour mountain run wrapped up
by noon.</span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhpSng9jAS9fTwxLhCTrCh-SCifaiHaMnOsVRq1YiX4hmfdHVlBhf4khZS5cY64eJVVQV-S9WrjFD3904GfToGMIliyVZGy-5vGt9eXg_mmrTgCMY_fvohOnDQe3fiHX2dbWg_8FgTNIaHoCiO9mOewqoVdaOFiNUMwM-jh1AFBzn5UHUGZDZ2csf/w200-h150/IMG_0612%20(1).jpg" style="height: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="200" /></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Summit of Darley Mountain</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicWaV4KGP9L_RtKk8-yesc5mez3M7H9EKSwKeaiw0vPozfR9GaBfUBruMhlnXp3FBGjXTVuPrmJO6sHJA02BmRl6KVGZ6fNG9AnUl0kng8MbDZPecSnXorOv2C-5CEDzS35iiG7kX9IyoelDl7jNb2r2AfygBGVFCxiwa0mo5wqLbxxTfFc6z7bHrL/s2016/IMG_0514.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1255" data-original-width="2016" height="124" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicWaV4KGP9L_RtKk8-yesc5mez3M7H9EKSwKeaiw0vPozfR9GaBfUBruMhlnXp3FBGjXTVuPrmJO6sHJA02BmRl6KVGZ6fNG9AnUl0kng8MbDZPecSnXorOv2C-5CEDzS35iiG7kX9IyoelDl7jNb2r2AfygBGVFCxiwa0mo5wqLbxxTfFc6z7bHrL/w200-h124/IMG_0514.jpg" style="height: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="200" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Meadow for miles.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The next day I did my first 14er
– Handies Peak. Without a high-clearance vehicle I had to leave my car at the
bottom of the valley and run the long way there – turning an otherwise 8.5 km
jaunt into a 25 km epic. But it meant I spent most of the morning alone and
only ran into crowds as my route merged with the main trail just before the
summit. The previous high point of my life was Mt Cameroon, at 13500 ft, way
back in 2005, so I was curious to see how it would feel that little bit higher
and seventeen years older. I puffed more than usual near the top, but
I felt strong and pushed hard. Probably a bit too hard, actually. The next morning, I
felt quite hangover-y from the effort and the accumulating effects of 6 days at altitude, but I refused
to take a rest day. I had one more objective in Silverton – Anvil Ridge. This ridge is
dangerous for people like me. Not because there is any chance of falling off
it, but because it’s likely I’ll never come down! You can start Anvil Ridge
right from the Silverton library and follow it north for sixteen glorious kilometers. Unfortunately,
I only had energy for about a third of it, but you can be sure I added it to my
to-do list for another time.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><span><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1244" data-original-width="1722" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYOIu6tjxjuXDjz9qz5tYXhF_zwBxIOMlSyUmVU8HJO0HkK2FAStfY7Jx3ZAgY6QgmvobmQknhUPKipirjJcQPfJLopaPNhi-jkIfeemW8IKQlJX_jWwQ_74Nx4nyHJIu7fTr3NccKR_7ECiqUVMtTtomPed4KQyTdtiJnb5vzKZS8BYk0ZK4s5xEc/w200-h144/IMG_0636.jpg" style="height: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="200" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span>It's 120 km from Silverton to Telluride, but you can hike there in just 45 km on the Hardrock course. Actually, on close inspection, you can even link the end of the above-mentioned ridge to Telluride in just 20 km. This is why I love Colorado. You can conceivably show up on the edge of the mountains with a backpack and just start walking. Feel like a beer in Leadville? No worries – just follow that ridge for a couple of days.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuTlkhkKA-1NqBOrGze1WM6UFOOFo7MErMnFkOHrrB9Buuitffcf5vGXwn1MBtPXuPSmPVoQ83WheiZpIbki5xyJ20fMW8-I19cS6mNM_TK0AlTt46aR38pOcN1PgjYCO3CI9glYOwniAJoseHEdI61Q-VdsoyDZEgd33vTi3FcaFLT1yq-ZmL6dRF/s2016/IMG_0702.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1137" data-original-width="2016" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuTlkhkKA-1NqBOrGze1WM6UFOOFo7MErMnFkOHrrB9Buuitffcf5vGXwn1MBtPXuPSmPVoQ83WheiZpIbki5xyJ20fMW8-I19cS6mNM_TK0AlTt46aR38pOcN1PgjYCO3CI9glYOwniAJoseHEdI61Q-VdsoyDZEgd33vTi3FcaFLT1yq-ZmL6dRF/w200-h113/IMG_0702.jpg" style="height: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="200" /></a></div></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Telluride is busier and swankier than Silverton. The streets are paved, it has a 5-star public library,
you get around by free gondola, and you can easily spot celebrities. Oprah,
Seinfeld, and Ralph Lauren all live here. I was on the hunt for Tom Cruise, and
while I didn’t find him, I did accidentally camp at the end of his mile long driveway
up on the BLM access road. Except, apparently, it’s not his driveway anymore -
he sold his place for 39.5 million last year, so now some other gazillionaire owns
this 320-acre ranch in the mountains. Luckily, I didn’t get hauled off by the
SWAT for squatting among the celebs and was able to enjoy two glorious
adventures in the mountains surrounding this cool town – the Schneffels
Highline Loop and Mt Ballard, both of which started and finished on main street,
and both of which had me craving more. Turns out, like most mountain
destinations, I’m not done with Telluride either.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj986q8c6DmhTZUxgqJpd8U4grg6RCuU5GOyWS5_S62un4XuMY_18-CdfL1YuKz6g2qjPugg0o5q6FsLtecGGXeQ6Sr5rfVAzxggB3CAHIx1wnRO36jByjbKmEbLZlaaEzwewKZuwQ_C_NQoixWlzMBEWzK2Htr0rta7se9KgJC0hRe_XWgp9nuFtvd/w200-h150/IMG_0803.jpg" style="height: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="200" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the Schneffels Highline</td></tr></tbody></table><br />I didn’t think it was possible to
pile on any more goodness, but on the last night, I stumbled upon one of the
coolest bars ever. In fact, it’s so cool, it rivals the other coolest bar in
the world – that tiny 6-person establishment I found in the Gothic Quarter of Barcelona back
in 2014, a literal-hole-in-the-literal-wall called <i>Zim</i>. For me, an
entire holiday can be made perfect by a find like this. <i>Tellurado</i> is an
art gallery with a bartender. Chris, is his name, and he makes the meanest Smokey
Old Fashion. It seemed a bit early in the afternoon, and a bit high above sea
level for bourbon, but Chris insisted. I think this little studio is Telluride’s best
kept secret. It’s small and pokey, and most people would walk right by, but
its unremarkable entry and artsy vibe make it popular with the Hollywood
producer-types. And Matthew McConaughey. I was sitting in his seat, in fact. <i>Tellurado
</i>is “A place to hideout, hang your hat and throw back a late afternoon or
evening libation while slowly taking in the tales of reckless footloose souls,
crazy romance, and the philosophy by artist Markus Pierson.” Indeed.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="593" data-original-width="1055" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD6ioII4QuKbuRWN8vENfI8B3dS9kWqM26f1mp1rrm2DjSN9YTRXJvlqbzPuocK08Yffj67VIFRMv1y5lJpVyY_Anhg22uYEfXOBPja0YXQvrzpLRtKgbtzNK5Tb0wnjiXbSLGr8Mn2GA91PbFqq7BsjbvKktjxdbvjRpe4CjWkJb43e-Mn4L9V98_/w320-h181/img_0430.2000x1125.webp" style="height: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span><i>Tellurado Studio</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><p></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Leaving the San Juans was not
easy, so I lingered. I sat in the town square and watched people for no reason
at all, I took an extra long soak in the creek, and I stopped for tacos in
Ridgeway, right on the edge of the range, even though I wasn’t hungry. And then, after I'd exhausted the ways to waste time, I reluctantly drove back out onto the desert floor as I watched the mountains fade away in
my rear mirror. I felt a mixture of satisfaction and melancholy, as I often do
when leaving behind a great experience like this.</span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Goodbye beautiful mountains. I
will be back.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I was supposed to return the car
that afternoon, but despite rental prices being completely unaffordable, I kept
it one more day. I wanted to close out this part of my trip with a sunrise over the desert from Colorado State Monument. Boy-o-boy, was it worth
the extra $90! I drove up to Artist’s Point in the darkness, hiked out to a
rocky ledge with a coffee, and bathed in one of the most
beautiful sunrises I’ve seen. The silence was weighty, loud, and incredibly
peaceful. It was a moment of perfection and I was lucky enough to be right
there, to catch it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikDlzdmnNaZF2ovVXAF2ngdpjhxkCiI7_6RRsfk_6t88DO3WQnnBR-vd-6mgMTT2Buy14OWSYctiy7VsiKOdj0cWhJ2QBkVusdkXrqrTXVoy_Q-c-TExByed-w62H_kL0buAbiSSultPRFtILV8VF09JI7UuBAfvmwVFrByjKiSe87hixfF0YZt3ru/s2016/IMG_0940%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikDlzdmnNaZF2ovVXAF2ngdpjhxkCiI7_6RRsfk_6t88DO3WQnnBR-vd-6mgMTT2Buy14OWSYctiy7VsiKOdj0cWhJ2QBkVusdkXrqrTXVoy_Q-c-TExByed-w62H_kL0buAbiSSultPRFtILV8VF09JI7UuBAfvmwVFrByjKiSe87hixfF0YZt3ru/w320-h240/IMG_0940%20(1).jpg" style="height: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="320" /></span></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><u><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>Part 3 – Things get fancy in
Aspen</b></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">My next destination was Aspen. I
took the Amtrak train to Glenwood Springs, and then a bus back up into the
mountains. I thought Telluride was fancy, but it’s nothing compared to Aspen. In
Telluride you can still park for free; in Aspen, you must pay to breathe. The
cheapest place in Aspen is, to this day, the most expensive hotel I’ve ever
stayed in. It was more guesthouse than hotel, but it had the nicest garden pool
and free chardonnay served every afternoon from 4-6 pm. It was a big step up
from my dirtbag accommodations, and it came with friends – Suzy and Claire! We were determined to offset the cost of our
tiny room with that free wine, and so made sure that no matter our plans for
the day, we would report to the pool promptly at 4 pm. I guess a little luxury never hurt anyone, right?</span></p></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhULmKN8rgBfUA_nUYdGX9HuJJiWW5wO1fC1R8gtmscIyssH_-wTF3RLcZIhSLtqMJCRMdBCGIokRVB85IFnZ83YmxcvCJEO48xR6gH0UVQJx7cvvd280SCVt_GKSz2NU6USvo4G8yU8SPNxcQ1FIGuLA7ZD7KM-Mwyitb38xjq1_GOKGVyRSNi7o-g/w150-h200/68048405015__5F1E1178-CEF1-48A9-96A4-538A3621E6BF.jpg" style="height: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="150" /></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><i>4 pm view</i></span><br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">We used Aspen as the launch point
for two amazing adventures – the famous Maroon Bells and a ridge-a-licious loop
up at Independence Pass. The Maroon Bells Wilderness area was crowded, and for
good reason – it’s postcard-gorgeous. We had hoped to do the entire 46 km loop but
opted for a more chilled exploratory day. The shuttle bus schedule was a little
restricting, we were nervous about the afternoon thunderstorms, and with only four days until our 100-km race, we figured that an ultramarathon
prologue was not an ideal taper. We lost count of the number of people we
passed heading up West Maroon Pass and struggled to find space to sit our bums
on the col. I’ve never seen that many people on a wilderness trail before – it
was like a hatching of humans. But it didn’t take much to find solitude –
instead of continuing the trail, we evacuated the area in an upward direction,
following the scrambly ridge away from the tea party. Within minutes we
were alone, and so we kept going.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy-22kIVUsx9Pw2f3TqsYJQSt9FrFOzWEwAoVoJyWk4RoHYm2peBQw8cMPhTI0rqP3TPXXNZldZSIEC2QOjRmnWICuavjWrQbRPhqJiYMWHL1xBtf9isr2CcDiRZUuTj3s6iXwl8MuBmlvzBuVQCNm3ygYG-XX9JVidCXDTlXeqpQDlrg4P0xRlu56/s2016/IMG_1035.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy-22kIVUsx9Pw2f3TqsYJQSt9FrFOzWEwAoVoJyWk4RoHYm2peBQw8cMPhTI0rqP3TPXXNZldZSIEC2QOjRmnWICuavjWrQbRPhqJiYMWHL1xBtf9isr2CcDiRZUuTj3s6iXwl8MuBmlvzBuVQCNm3ygYG-XX9JVidCXDTlXeqpQDlrg4P0xRlu56/w150-h200/IMG_1035.jpg" style="height: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="150" /></span></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I said, “Let’s just get to the
next high point,” more than times than I remember. In fact, I’m pretty sure
we’d still be up there today, if a big nasty storm didn’t roll in. On the first
clap of thunder, we dropped straight off the ridge to the meadowy
bowl below and into the safety of the forest. No need to adopt the crouched lightning position today. Our run ended up being only 25
km but we didn’t mind cutting it a little short because, well, you guessed
it…four o’clock free wine.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The next day we cheated big time.
We drove our car to Independence Pass and started our run at 12000 ft. In the
whole of the Canadian Rockies, we only have four mountains taller than that,
all of which are highly technical, mountaineering endeavours. Sure, Claire will
tell you that the drive up the narrow, switch-backed road to Independence Pass
is technical too, but the only safety gear you need is a stiff morning coffee and
a seatbelt. From Independence Pass there are, not surprisingly, ridges going in
all directions. We invented a route with lots of wonderful treats – incredible
views, hands-on scrambling, the-hills-are-alive ridge running, and even a
little bushwhacking. We ended that afternoon with a nudie swim and beers by the
lake, then a clothed swim and wine by the pool. Bliss!</span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZx1rrOPuUJJEjmcOFPdUmTtWOL7fdzbBGt4e2QyfvHfYnFcG6CiCuV0rwlrCXLR_iikix2DctBjXw3qDPqaxVkSzSI5TXMZGVOfhta4LFPNGPx1M6E3oMJJcvt9dU-0Q77UOxbNYh54Gdov-tTdDyqCsnFyShHjGFu18moWwqsJQTrPlW48h6WxAT/s2016/IMG_1227.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZx1rrOPuUJJEjmcOFPdUmTtWOL7fdzbBGt4e2QyfvHfYnFcG6CiCuV0rwlrCXLR_iikix2DctBjXw3qDPqaxVkSzSI5TXMZGVOfhta4LFPNGPx1M6E3oMJJcvt9dU-0Q77UOxbNYh54Gdov-tTdDyqCsnFyShHjGFu18moWwqsJQTrPlW48h6WxAT/w200-h150/IMG_1227.jpg" style="height: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="200" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p>
<div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Our evenings were spent
meandering the streets of Aspen, trying desperately to stop the dollars from falling
out of our wallets. We picnicked in the village square and watched the
billionaires go by. There are, in fact, more than 50 billionaires who live in
Aspen, so there’s a good chance of spotting one, whether you know it or not.
Based on what people were wearing and the plastic surgery per square meter, I just assumed everyone was. I doubt they were thinking the same about
me though, sitting there eating crackers on a park bench!! </span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">This little mountain town happens
to be a shopping mecca, right up there with New York and Beverly Hills. I
wasn’t in the market for a Gucci purse or a mortgage-requiring, tailored
festival hat, but I did have one moment of indulgence in a very cool photography
gallery. Which is to say, I went in and ogled. In doing so, I met a piece of
art that took my breath away. I’ve never wanted to possess high end art until I
sat in front of one of Peter Lik’s limited edition pictures. Being that I’m not
a billionaire, or a millionaire, or an any kind of -aire, I settled for snapping
a picture of the picture on my iPhone while no one was looking. And now it’s my
home screen wallpaper, which seems good enough. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="880" data-original-width="1280" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9E6z2F608mEqZR3kw5PJBKPQ7v3PJGOQd525sJKsdn7MTrrghHHrHfqveadxA2olmEj4agkciI034QrEIXmNjCOmYIuIZ5OfpYmw7EkrspPzgZxC-OxFt4OMy1whEoxMmO0AYRG-kF-nDKwVywy1L7wh8IkBSMqQqnQMOM2MWiPAx9pzR7THz3V4F/w200-h138/IMG_1106.jpg" style="height: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="200" /></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">We ate cheap, bought hardly anything, and
poached all the free chardonnay that we could, but we did contribute a few
pennies (relatively speaking) to the Aspen economy on our final night. The
girls wanted cocktails, and while I generally don’t like colourful fruity drinks with
suggestive names, I rarely decline a late-night whisky on a rooftop bar. We
played a game called, “Guess the most expensive wine on the menu” and “Escort
or girlfriend?” while watching people fail to eat all of their $400 steak. I’m a
vegetarian, but even I can see that’s a tragedy. We closed out our Aspen
vacation like proper posh socialites and it was delightful. Aspen is a place to
see and experience. Once. But it now was time to switch gears entirely – we had
an ultramarathon to run. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxDT1hW3K1hT29NcYuMvy1LU2o_WlRxlDf7crPdIl52Qb9K1nNPg0mOkCVlr-JeKRB8ss-HpfcXSTRePTm0mCRe1RorpVbUe2fdLrf1fWgKLGsJ3TjYcREE_nwpwSKGlxTqBFpqQuBBqFTRspWOdIwJa4iU1UxBukoo1WGbPVjl_4lKUPt9snLhQU9/s2016/IMG_0215.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxDT1hW3K1hT29NcYuMvy1LU2o_WlRxlDf7crPdIl52Qb9K1nNPg0mOkCVlr-JeKRB8ss-HpfcXSTRePTm0mCRe1RorpVbUe2fdLrf1fWgKLGsJ3TjYcREE_nwpwSKGlxTqBFpqQuBBqFTRspWOdIwJa4iU1UxBukoo1WGbPVjl_4lKUPt9snLhQU9/w150-h200/IMG_0215.jpg" style="height: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="150" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><u><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>Part 4 – Never Summer</b></span></u></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The Never Summer Ultramarathon
has a terrible name, but I agreed to do it anyway. It was held just outside of the
town of Walden, whose bustling population of 608 earns it the rank of most
populated community in the central north region. That is to say,
this race was in the middle of nowhere. We drove out to the staging area in
Gould, which is a non-existent village on the western edge of the range, parked
in a dry field among the sagebrush, and put our tents up behind the dilapidated
community hall. There was no running water, plumbed toilets, or cell coverage
for miles. And there was certainly no one serving free wine by the pool at 4
pm!! We spread out the tarp, cracked a beer (in order to ration our water),
and sorted our gear under a blazing afternoon sun. I was back to being a
dirtbag. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The race started at 6 am with
just over 300 participants. I had no idea how long this little loop through the
mountains was going to take me, but I was secretly hoping to be done before
dark. I know I’m not as fast as when I ran 100 km in 13 hours at Miwok ten
years ago, but I figured it shouldn’t take more than fifteen. Right? I put my headlamp in my 80 km drop bag, just in case.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I started out too fast. It was a
rookie error, but in my defense, it’s been a long time since I’ve done a
single-day ultramarathon and I was out of practice. I was also feeling
confident about my 3-week training block at altitude and convinced myself that
I was overflowing with hematocrit. I was altitude adapted, for sure, but not
enough to start an above 10000-foot race at that speed. I relished the sunrise
on the first climb up Utes Mountain and flew down the descent to the beautiful
Lake Angus. I was having a grand old time, and not thinking at all about what kind
of careful pacing is required for 100 km success. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDX33vnCSPnMOx_xgCpg6ayBTu3UeMZAa6V_wYTpd2dQGqRMRBeei1-MQSKp_xDGYgORRzFWfsuHWxT50LOraMSQWbKPKa4d21MLt5BccjxGNer0QPWc64SU3OiT1dArvu-7rCPdbjboPT7GZF7IOWLPM0mZdttjfhQUXs8a_tQOSL8smFtzdDBO8W/w200-h150/IMG_1123.jpg" style="height: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="200" /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><span>The third climb, up Diamond
Peak, came at the 30 km mark and was steep as shit. Almost vertical, in fact.
In a country that is known for its gratuitous switchbacks, this seemed out of
character, but I loved it. Grinding up big climbs is my superpower! The views were incredible and we were greeted by a small
musical ensemble who were blasting tunes into the thin air. Nineties covers,
mostly. I paused for a few moments to dance, high-five, and woo-hoo at the top.
That was both the mental and actual high point of the race. From there things
would heat up, slow down, and get a little ugly.</span></span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Over the last three weeks I learned that my appetite is suspended when up high, and so it was no surprise that
I had no interest in food. I forced myself to eat watermelon and pickles at the
aid stations, but that was about it. Combined, those two things have a caloric value
of about zero. My race was being powered by brine and lightly sugared water,
and by the time I wised up to the foolishness of this strategy, it was a bit
too late. Things were still okay at the 64 km mark, where you do an annoying 7
km out and back to Clear Lake. It was an unwelcome technical climb and descent late in the race but
it did mean I got to check out my placing and get eyes on most of the field ahead. I was fourteenth female, which, out of 83 starters, buoyed my spirits. To celebrate I ate a piece of pizza back at the aid station and left feeling optimistic. The temperature was cooling off and I
was running well, but unfortunately I could no longer ignore the fact that my guts started
feeling a bit icky. The pizza on an empty stomach hadn't helped. I slammed a ginger juice, which burned my throat on the way
down and turned my stomach from slightly uncomfortable to very grumpy and uncooperative.
At the 80-km aid station, I sat for the first time. I tried to drink broth
and eat quesadilla, but it continued to feel like there was a toxic experiment being
conducted in my digestive system. The hoped-for fifteen-hour mark came and went while I
was sitting there reconciling the fact that this was going to be a long march
to the finish. After a short rest, I grabbed my big headlamp from the just-in-case
drop bag, gathered my resolve, and headed out. I think I power-walked most of
that last 20 km, nibbling on a single saltine cracker as sustenance and a couple of Pepto Bismol tabs for the nausea. A few
headlamps passed me, but mostly I was alone. It’s been so long since I’ve visited that special dark place, but I remembered how to turn off the mind and just
move forward. Sometime after midnight, I stumbled across the finish line, unceremoniously. And
from there, I beelined straight for my tent and sleeping bag. I didn’t want food,
or drink, or a bath – I just wanted to be horizontal and asleep. I’m not sure I’ve
ever gone to bed that filthy. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It’s nice to know I can still get
around a 100 km course in the front quarter of the field, but I would have
preferred to manage the experience a little better. The next morning, I still
wasn’t feeling well, but I did muster the energy to wet wipe the surface layer
of dirt and stink off my body and pack up the tent. Claire and Suzy had their own mixture of joy, suffering,
and success out there, and we decided to “celebrate” with a greasy breakfast
back in Walden. Suddenly, I craved bacon. I haven’t eaten bacon in years, and I don't plan to start again, but it
was the only thing that sounded appetizing. I managed to chew down one rasher,
which felt shameful, but immediately settled my stomach. Bacon medicine, I guess. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span>On the drive back south, we stopped at a roadside lake to shower and shampoo in the cool water. That was even better medicine than the bacon. We were clean, refreshed, and filled up with greasy food, and with two nights
left before our flight home and nowhere to be, decided to drive to
Buena Vista to watch the start of the 6-day TransRockies Run. We knew a handful
of people from Calgary and Canmore who were racing and surprised them by appearing
in a random spot in the desert to cheer. Buena Vista
was an unexpected treat, an outdoorsy town with all the
things – breweries and restaurants, the beautiful Arkansas River, easy access
to the 14000-foot Collegiate mountains, and the most incredible boulder formations for miles. We camped in a free BLM campsite just out of town, explored
the rocks, soaked in the river, and then capped it all off with the very best margueritas
at an unpretentious rooftop bar. </span><span> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span><span style="font-family: arial;">Colorado did not disappoint, and I’m pretty sure I’ll find some excuse to go back. It was hard to see such a great adventure come to an end, but going home to my own mountains in the middle of summer is exciting too. After all, they are still the most beautiful.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC2vmf02o0CT6t-AaGrg8YVyK60yn0-4Pyjzh7q6di2yHAHj-1Vq3qw5zDkhqKhM44lew7Nr-elCLTkOc9gf-EsPPM0738drRHYnPaNBEdA88iMSXX00s9D2-9-sDQqmY9Ujvv7XDHO6ahcgb9BkQmcjI6EWt2P0Q0yTjvW-OUK_4wjiegZe2T1RDN/s2016/IMG_0338.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC2vmf02o0CT6t-AaGrg8YVyK60yn0-4Pyjzh7q6di2yHAHj-1Vq3qw5zDkhqKhM44lew7Nr-elCLTkOc9gf-EsPPM0738drRHYnPaNBEdA88iMSXX00s9D2-9-sDQqmY9Ujvv7XDHO6ahcgb9BkQmcjI6EWt2P0Q0yTjvW-OUK_4wjiegZe2T1RDN/w200-h150/IMG_0338.jpg" style="height: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="200" /></span></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDk9lrRY7b7acXArzCuO8H9kb8nhPHi1CqR_ujvIPDzNQkwHxSquYrwyWdJx_FxoQ78z9j9aF1EMzZGZm44FY15PjxlfJoZgsSNMEEueaCrTrIO3kuAyjhcYpM2Ku2W_IHUiD1ipV0RKQJo4SfoV1-KJVrem7Y0AwnX7uEWfYu1ezn-s21B7NCL1fY/s2016/IMG_1300.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDk9lrRY7b7acXArzCuO8H9kb8nhPHi1CqR_ujvIPDzNQkwHxSquYrwyWdJx_FxoQ78z9j9aF1EMzZGZm44FY15PjxlfJoZgsSNMEEueaCrTrIO3kuAyjhcYpM2Ku2W_IHUiD1ipV0RKQJo4SfoV1-KJVrem7Y0AwnX7uEWfYu1ezn-s21B7NCL1fY/w150-h200/IMG_1300.jpg" style="height: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="150" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiw60MN-DKk41G8vW6_961_oyfu7IualLQ0ytWh49UCTPytqVZEnS-cxCcPg6riXKUS-z98khwacACRT1Srs_uEaUKNB-BbaDQNq3_atYsY_BL-w4hUH03D_t4Imf90agFkQCJluLYq-H9wcVhZ5va_nDOzFWY8hhI3pFXIzUbZnoxYd9dyonmoQbN/s1512/IMG_0502.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1512" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiw60MN-DKk41G8vW6_961_oyfu7IualLQ0ytWh49UCTPytqVZEnS-cxCcPg6riXKUS-z98khwacACRT1Srs_uEaUKNB-BbaDQNq3_atYsY_BL-w4hUH03D_t4Imf90agFkQCJluLYq-H9wcVhZ5va_nDOzFWY8hhI3pFXIzUbZnoxYd9dyonmoQbN/w200-h200/IMG_0502.jpg" style="height: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="200" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRCI0vvxqYtgKNUru7XN3H1zhnQH05txLsWo7NiUy6hCpKG2OyVNlzbwtkvT4Pz2_7fsCZO7eYIgEzWCI8e8HeHJhMRHw51MzE5SoxkF6VWg7UpTola3o1eSqf9kAmm9PwAcPzfeteYLJJtr4OvXArmlzl5MGGIxcGSmNKMWOaKPozWlYbzTkMUhDl/s2016/IMG_1155.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRCI0vvxqYtgKNUru7XN3H1zhnQH05txLsWo7NiUy6hCpKG2OyVNlzbwtkvT4Pz2_7fsCZO7eYIgEzWCI8e8HeHJhMRHw51MzE5SoxkF6VWg7UpTola3o1eSqf9kAmm9PwAcPzfeteYLJJtr4OvXArmlzl5MGGIxcGSmNKMWOaKPozWlYbzTkMUhDl/s320/IMG_1155.jpg" style="height: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-53864973033426178912022-06-27T16:07:00.014-06:002022-07-24T12:05:35.907-06:00Medicine Hat Massacre #6 - 2022<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikjgAeTzizp__UNF67tZJ8jlao7rNGgcMXa9mYQnxARoSia9K9UawLM00S3U8q6BTw3NC0TeEtkdvrcTqU9WL2s3rCWJG0kTQH4vcqv3KXB9-2NsgTD6FaE5M9chXWWLIUfR_tXqPYitQu3srA5Fq_hagYTjQaCe0FuBUTOSVqHf0mPNGDR2xB7_r7/s1273/MHM1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Medicine Hat Massacre Adventure Race" border="0" data-original-height="1155" data-original-width="1273" height="362" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikjgAeTzizp__UNF67tZJ8jlao7rNGgcMXa9mYQnxARoSia9K9UawLM00S3U8q6BTw3NC0TeEtkdvrcTqU9WL2s3rCWJG0kTQH4vcqv3KXB9-2NsgTD6FaE5M9chXWWLIUfR_tXqPYitQu3srA5Fq_hagYTjQaCe0FuBUTOSVqHf0mPNGDR2xB7_r7/w400-h362/MHM1.jpg" title="Medicine Hat Massacre" width="400" /></a></div>It appears that life is - <i>FINALLY -</i> getting back to normal, thank god. Claire and I kicked off May with our (almost) annual pilgrimage to the Cypress Hills for one our favourite races ever - the Medicine Hat Massacre Adventure Race.<div><br /></div><div>After five previous go-arounds, the map and layout of the park is almost permanently imprinted in my brain, but piecing together the perfect race strategy is still an interesting challenge. And, I can't believe that RDs, Gerry and Paul, still manage to surprise us with beautiful places we haven't yet seen. </div><div><br /></div><div>We might be getting better and better at this race, but I confess that Claire and I are getting softer and softer. This year we rented a hotel room in Elkwater rather than sleeping in the back of the jeep or in a tent... and now that we've tasted luxury, there's no going back! We had our bins and gear mostly organized by 5 pm which is quite unlike us, but maybe all our experience is finally paying dividends in the form of some pre-race chill. Still, we didn't get our hands on the all-important maps until about 9 pm, and so sleep was in short supply. I can route plan, strategize, and map-prep for days, but I set a hard-stop for midnight and a wake-up alarm for 2:15 am. Yes, 2:15 in the f**king morning!!! Instead of showing up at the start line a few minutes before 4 am like we normally do, this year we had to be on the bus for a remote start at three - a surprise that wasn't announced until the pre-race briefing. </div><div><br /></div><div>The 20-minute bus ride out to Ressor Lake was crammed but subdued. The lights were dimmed as the old yellow school bus gently swayed along the road. I rested my eyelids, hugged the 40 pounds of rice I had on my lap, and hummed the words to Meatloaf's <i>I'll Do Anything for Love</i> that was playing softly on the radio. It was a moment of utter Zen.</div><div><br /></div><div>A record 101 teams lined up at the start. It's so great to see adventure racing gaining popularity again. I'm not surprised - I mean, what's not to love about bashing around in the wilderness for many hours (or days) with nothing but a boat or a bike, your feet, a map, and some teammates. Having woken up from my Meatloaf meditation, I was positively giddy as we took off down the road, surrounded by 200+ headlamps, and carrying enough rice to feed all of us twice over. The Food Bank drop-off was only a mile away, but it felt amazing to dump all that weight and fly off like a feather. We had 3.5 hours to get as many hike controls as possible and we moved through the darkness, and field of participants, fairly quickly. It's so rewarding to find a control, then leave back through the crisscrossing headlamps and hullabaloo of teams who are still looking for it. We blew a bit of time hunting for two of the controls that were misplaced, but we found them in the end, put our frustrations aside, and then efficiently made our way up onto the high plateau as the sun rose. We ran into Chris and Rich up there, one of our main competitors, and found ourselves fairly equally matched in speed, route choice, and navigation. We finished the hike/run section with them, taking advantage of the excellent fence-scaling assist they gave. So, I felt bad (even though I laughed a little) when I watched Chris almost disappear into a bog as we crossed together for a control - by luck I hit some firmer mud, whereas just a meter to my right, he found the deep, mucky hole. The highlight of the race was when we reached Policeman's Lookout on the edge of the coulee, with sweeping views of Ressor Lake and all of Alberta and Saskatchewan. We gave up at least a couple of minutes for some spontaneous frolicking. This was definitely a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ThFCg0tBDck" target="_blank">Travel Alberta (remember to breath)</a> moment.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIMKexDfERTeySLCD0LyFnOArAktAZxMFOgHFKPsIoexzAxBFOVdT1tLqPxKWivtQrsqiJfjU-JgaEF9N7SxaS0ZvvyZBE92FhBVWfixv2SQdH3QSqrR9CPf_ge35MU3V_NywH1b3sIxNfWStDipQiDWJvBeX3dPgkWN0bmVEQZI1G0FRdQttUaEwd/s1458/MHM.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Medicine Hat Massacre Adventure Race Alberta Cypress Hills" border="0" data-original-height="1458" data-original-width="1080" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIMKexDfERTeySLCD0LyFnOArAktAZxMFOgHFKPsIoexzAxBFOVdT1tLqPxKWivtQrsqiJfjU-JgaEF9N7SxaS0ZvvyZBE92FhBVWfixv2SQdH3QSqrR9CPf_ge35MU3V_NywH1b3sIxNfWStDipQiDWJvBeX3dPgkWN0bmVEQZI1G0FRdQttUaEwd/w148-h200/MHM.jpg" width="148" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>From our conversation I determined that we had 20 more points than Chris and Rich at the end of that section, which was nice, but almost certainly not enough to hold off their strong biking. We also knew of 2-3 other all-male teams who can out-bike us, but we wasted no time in transition. We might not be the fastest bikers, but we sure are the fastest transitioners!!! The bike section went well. Our general strategy was to stay up on the plateau and make use of the roads rather than the single track in the valley. It might not have been as enjoyable to ride on pavement and gravel, but we moved a lot faster. There was, however, a little lumpy cow-pasture riding just to remind us that we were, indeed, adventure racing and not out on a Sunday road cycling cruise! </div><div><br /></div><div>For the first time in our MHM-lives, we actually cleaned up what we intended on the bike, <i>and </i>got back early. In fact, we had time to design a little bonus loop on the ski hill for more points. Yes, there<i> is</i> a ski hill way out there in the middle of the prairies and it's legit! We then headed down to the lake to finish the race on the water. We launched <i>She's Hilarious</i>, our old tin canoe, into the wind and powered around Elkwater Lake getting all the controls. Well, all except one, which we literally paddled right over. I have this terrible map reading technique where I sit on my map while I paddle so it doesn't blow away or slosh around in the bottom of the boat. But it means, for the second year in a row, I've managed to completely skip a control. Next year, we're building a map board for the boat so I can read it on the go!!</div><div><br /></div><div>Like every other year, we had a blast. We covered almost 70 km of terrain with +1800 m of gain. Those nine hours of hard effort sure go by in a flash - one minute your running in the dark to find the first control, and the next your scrambling to get back to the finish on time. To top off what was already an amazing day, we took the overall win for the 4th time. It turns out that navigation and strategy continue to trump raw speed and strength. I think the key to our success is knowing our strengths, knowing how fast we can move on water, bike, and foot, planning accordingly, preparing our maps with lots of detailed notes, navigating well, and having back-up plans for if and when our estimated timings fall apart. In summary, we don't waste any time out there.</div><div><br /></div><div>I really hope we can get more Calgary friends out to this event next year. There is great synergy between Medicine Hat Massacre and Run the Wild Navigation Marathon (mine, JP, and Jen's event), and so I'm planning to instigate some cross-pollination. I've already got May 13th, 2023 in the race calendar! How about you??</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTqKSuPL9Tnl5II-t71WydL5CgBfvATpPUnCoM0t4M_xnj_5wShfP5fsTl5jDgmeko71y_WXaD-a9_CCsI005sAGzSt8YN1CoGDX-tQX2MQCFUoT2exTWFEQeX6sVZpwwbkF3Pf2BXXH4F23_BrLDSJhWZfQluksTC0heYxKxw2l56XT8NjY6k2hnr/s1732/DSC_2537.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Medicine Hat Massacre Adventure Race Cypress Hills Navigation Orienteering" border="0" data-original-height="1155" data-original-width="1732" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTqKSuPL9Tnl5II-t71WydL5CgBfvATpPUnCoM0t4M_xnj_5wShfP5fsTl5jDgmeko71y_WXaD-a9_CCsI005sAGzSt8YN1CoGDX-tQX2MQCFUoT2exTWFEQeX6sVZpwwbkF3Pf2BXXH4F23_BrLDSJhWZfQluksTC0heYxKxw2l56XT8NjY6k2hnr/w320-h213/DSC_2537.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpbrdLNk4MVAGc7Ucp5bWhu4-OtyJu8gsz8a1a5scVNE9QsnuZMgSZamAp1M6Ce6gKNpKGjifTaLgDepWl4jvRuHtaeQ5vmbPsPqV6Vzq8zJ4eWZgn1dbvK8p8se1F6jFu6Uawk_iaDVnR5bh9FQ-3sMMRtd3IAWf_Y54ZxGU5tu47Ty1zvr6a8cCJ/s1732/DSC_2548.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Medicine Hat Massacre Adventure Race Cypress Hills Navigation Orienteering" border="0" data-original-height="1155" data-original-width="1732" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpbrdLNk4MVAGc7Ucp5bWhu4-OtyJu8gsz8a1a5scVNE9QsnuZMgSZamAp1M6Ce6gKNpKGjifTaLgDepWl4jvRuHtaeQ5vmbPsPqV6Vzq8zJ4eWZgn1dbvK8p8se1F6jFu6Uawk_iaDVnR5bh9FQ-3sMMRtd3IAWf_Y54ZxGU5tu47Ty1zvr6a8cCJ/w320-h213/DSC_2548.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-66458085563109549652021-10-17T19:17:00.010-06:002022-06-27T16:08:13.981-06:00New Brunswick<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXYkrcnWsR8Q15XIsIjfegBYOIT7tiDkofBxVfKgnFIKbRHoNOFt5moJe0n5C_GC6nfV347DO0sCglkpdhKJmPCfCRR0ZmsQi1Px9rUcSIZ_8SSidVwe2jV7sHleUtO2-WeshbFCgGnWo/s3196/Image-1+%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="New Brunswick Travel Tourism Adventure" border="0" data-original-height="568" data-original-width="3196" height="114" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXYkrcnWsR8Q15XIsIjfegBYOIT7tiDkofBxVfKgnFIKbRHoNOFt5moJe0n5C_GC6nfV347DO0sCglkpdhKJmPCfCRR0ZmsQi1Px9rUcSIZ_8SSidVwe2jV7sHleUtO2-WeshbFCgGnWo/w640-h114/Image-1+%25281%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>Like most people, I miss traveling. And, like most people, I haven't crossed a foreign border in what seems like forever. Since the beginning of COVID, I've pretty much been in my kitchen and behind a screen, working. As it turns out, Zoom isn't much of a destination, so I decided I needed a change of scenery. I know I'm probably one of the luckiest people in the world to have had the Canadian Rockies as my personal, unrestricted playground during this never-ending dumpster fire of a pandemic, but this girl has clinical wanderlust. So, I decided to take a job in a place far-far-away. It's still not "technically" advised to vacation outside of Canada, and Western Australia isn't likely to open its borders before the next century, so I drove 4500 km across this gigantic country to explore the east. So here I am, in New Brunswick - the land of lawn. And trees. And lobster rolls. </p><p>First impressions are exciting, but short lived, so I thought I'd pen them down before they become unrecognizable. </p><p>Let's go back to the topic of lawn. I've never seen so much of it in all my life. Eight-five percent of New Brunswick is covered in trees, but I'm pretty sure the remaining 15% is lawn - perfectly manicured, sweeping fields of lawn. Even the large Victorian-style properties in downtown Fredericton are more lawn than house at a ratio of about five to one. Okay, there are veggie gardens and rivers and red muddy coastlines as well, but it's very clear that lawns are a big frigg'n deal. Riding a ride-on mower is basically a sport here. It's all very quaint, and leads one to want to take up polo or crochet, or have a picnic, at the very least. I've even been tempted to poach someone's verandah swing and watch the world go by with a book or needlepoint like I was Anne of Green Gables from the next province over. So, there's that. </p><p>It makes sense. It's so damp and drippy here that you'd have a hard time not growing lawn. I didn't know there was anywhere in Canada with this much humidity. It's not quite West-Africa-humid, but close. My four years living in a tropical rainforest on the equator of Africa continue to provide me with a reference point I can use to say, "Well, it's still not as bad as that!" But, it is a contrast from Calgary, where my skin cracks and peels under an inch of moisturizer. Here, my complexion is radiant and my hair is bouncy, but if you leave a dish on the sink, it'll never dry. Tea-towels are as necessary as ride-on mowers. </p><p>I might not be in a foreign country, but sometimes it feels like it. That's partly because eastern Canada is really different to the west, and partly because my approach to life here is to pretend I'm on an exotic, international travel adventure. If there's a beach shack claiming to have the "Best Lobster Roll", I'm going to see if they're telling the truth (Alma for the win, so far). If I can use my French, which I can, almost every day, I do (<span style="color: #202124;"><span style="background-color: #f8f9fa; white-space: pre-wrap;">it truly is a bilingual province</span></span>). And if it's sunny and warm on a Monday night (or Tuesday, or Wednesday, or...), I sit on a patio after work and drink craft beer. Unlike Calgary in the fall, there have been a lot of sunny, patio-enticing afternoons, so I've inadvertently become a bit of an aficionado of the brew scene here in Fredericton. </p><p>I'm also trying to see all of the region before winter arrives. I've printed off a map of the province and am highlighting the roads that I travel on my weekend adventures. Turns out, there aren't many roads in New Brunswick (85% trees, remember), so after just two months, its almost all coloured in. But there are plenty of little gems to be found along the few routes that exist, and I'll keep hunting for them until the weather shuts me down. The thing that's easy about this little project of mine is that everywhere in New Brunswick (including three different coastlines) is less than 2.5 hours away. And if you're willing to extend your drive a few hours beyond that, you can get all the way to Halifax, PEI, Gaspe Peninsula, and Cape Breton. The spectacular mountains of Maine are even less than 90 minutes away....although, with the border <i>still</i> closed, they might as well be on another planet. With Australia. </p><p>The Fundy coast has been my favourite place to visit so far, although the tides freak me out. Big tides always have. When I was a kid we often vacationed to the other place in the world with the biggest tides - the northwest tip of Western Australia. Once, we set up our tent on the beach at low tide but my Dad misjudged the high water mark and we almost floated away in the middle of the night. I think I've been traumatized every since. Here in Fundy, there are mesmerizing whirlpools, rapids that flow the wrong way up the river, and trails that are only runnable for a few hours a day. I just can't fathom where all that water goes - 100 billion ton of it coming in and out, twice a day like a slow-moving tsunami. It's almost like the ocean has somewhere else to be, but then comes back every 12 hours to check on things. Nature is cool. </p><p>The Fundy coast (on the NB side) stretches from the Petitcodiac River near Moncton, west to the US border. I've almost seen it all, although everywhere deserves at least a second visit. Especially the Holy Whale Brewery in Alma. Who knew that Skittles Sour Beer would be so damn delicious. I've been working my way west, running all the trails, and trying all the lobster rolls as I go. I'm hoping for a gorgeous November because I've got a few spots left to see before that infamously wet, bitter winter rolls in. I hate global warming for the earth, but I confess that don't hate it for me.</p><p>After two months, I've settled into a nice little routine. Going into an office is still a novelty and I'm loving the excuse to have a daily bike commute. It's 11 km from my farmhouse loft in the countryside to my workplace right downtown....all on a bike path. Bike paths, in fact, are New Brunswick's little secret. There are literally hundreds of kilometers of them in this tiny province - sometimes hardpacked dirt and sometimes smooth asphalt. I actually remember this from when I biked across Canada 25 years ago. After riding for over 6000 km on the highway, it was a great relief to deviate onto a classic NB bike path. It's my only memory of New Brunswick, but it was a positive one. Now I get to enjoy these lanes almost daily as I tootle to and from the office. I'm determined, once the snow comes, that I'll ski in at least once. </p><p>I'm supporting teaching and learning at craft and design college, which has been a whole lot of fun so far. I go to gallery openings, discuss the power of visual imagery, debate form and function, and use words like curatorial, negative space, and aesthetic. I often walk the 2nd floor hallway just to hear the zhung-zhung of the knitting machines, and the pedaling of the looms. Downstairs they're throwing clay and pounding metal and upstairs they're sketching and beading and carving and sewing. There is a constant buzz of making - it's colourful, loud, and bursting with human expression. I love it! While I haven't done crafts, knitted a scarf, cross-stitched, played in my dad's woodwork shop, or been into a dark room for years, I'm passionate about design, creative thinking, and challenging the status quo, so I feel quite at home here. My colleagues are fabulous and have generously welcomed me. Gardening, pickling, and foraging seem to go hand-in-hand with the creative life in New Brunswick so I often find treats left for me - cookies, chanterelles, spice mix, chutney, and homemade jam. Once I came into work to find a whole zucchini on my desk. The college is housed in the 200-year old Soldiers Barracks right in the heart of the historic garrison district and I've lost count of the number of craft breweries, hip cafes, and incredible restaurants there are within 5 minutes walk of my office. So, it's not hard to imagine that going to work is all part of adventure.</p><p>Travelling lets you see beautiful places, explore delicious food and drink, and feel new feels, but my most favourite thing is experiencing how strangers one minute, become friends the next. I'm loving getting to know colleagues at work, fellow trail runners, and random people I meet at the bar, or out and about. For some reason, being a visitor gives one an excuse to talk to anyone. And so I do. Constantly. It is well known that if you didn't grow up here, you'll always be "from away". I kind of like this rule, because for me, this will never stop being a vacation!</p><p><br /></p><br />Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-71502000990084027832021-06-30T07:28:00.005-06:002021-09-24T05:47:04.602-06:00Medicine Hat Massacre 2021 - COVID edition<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbXCB3kHeIhRplkPQvnBAMur1ianbFutC_v5Rh1hXotwxhlZNrQ7elj5ZMTAF5Esw7GUEknS1ThdqiiJ6i7SLwmaaY4p6cQH5t6CFBYvdXLd5yPTAYj6Az5zfyO3tmeLyBMRUJpYERR-Q/s640/IMG_1138.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbXCB3kHeIhRplkPQvnBAMur1ianbFutC_v5Rh1hXotwxhlZNrQ7elj5ZMTAF5Esw7GUEknS1ThdqiiJ6i7SLwmaaY4p6cQH5t6CFBYvdXLd5yPTAYj6Az5zfyO3tmeLyBMRUJpYERR-Q/s320/IMG_1138.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>In early June, I pinned this bib to my chest and did a race.
Yes, an actual, in-the-flesh, bona fide race. On your marks, get set, go! Claire and I are superfans of the MHM, so
we were stoked when, just 6 days before the proposed race day, we heard that Alberta Health
gave the official go-ahead. This might have been the first sanctioned, in-person race in the province since March last year, and I reckon there was no better
way to break the 14-month dry spell than with a 9-hour adventure in the beautiful
Cypress Hills.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Since COVID, I’ve become agnostic about hope. Especially
when it comes to big events, fun gatherings, and travel plans beyond Calgary. It
sounds kind of pessimistic, which is out of character for me, but it’s been my way
of psychologically surviving this extended pause on <i>life-as-I-know-it</i>. So,
I almost cried with joy as I dug out my adventure racing gear from the depths
of storage. And I was positively giddy as we drove east to Medicine Hat. Turns
out, I’ve missed racing - the challenge, camaraderie, aid station volunteers, deep experiences....all of it. This year (our fifth go-around - <a href="http://nickirehn.blogspot.com/2013/05/medicine-hat-massacre.html?view=flipcard" target="_blank">2013</a>, <a href="http://nickirehn.blogspot.com/2015/05/medicine-hat-massacre-2015.html?view=flipcard" target="_blank">2015</a>, <a href="http://nickirehn.blogspot.com/2016/06/medicine-hat-massacre-adventure-race.html?view=flipcard" target="_blank">2016</a>, <a href="http://nickirehn.blogspot.com/2017/05/medicine-hat-mud-massacre-version-40.html?view=flipcard" target="_blank">2017</a>) we were allowed to bring our own boat rather than use their inflatable bathtub-style kayaks, and so Claire procured an old tin canoe. We named (and
decaled) her “She’s Hilarious”, to match out team name – Hilarious. You see, our
goal in this race is to have the most fun. Which we do. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_vLbTFsg68uYrUmkMg8nEVixHCcSRtdm9ydXS5NsHBC4bf0F4XGtEji1XD1pvoxrzymc_ukWjzXYDnjX3U-F_gqUH1mj3IZMZkMXZrn3NOx4M7tkgzVmtt9k_WUkek5M9lg0XLTePq54/s640/IMG_1133.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="498" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_vLbTFsg68uYrUmkMg8nEVixHCcSRtdm9ydXS5NsHBC4bf0F4XGtEji1XD1pvoxrzymc_ukWjzXYDnjX3U-F_gqUH1mj3IZMZkMXZrn3NOx4M7tkgzVmtt9k_WUkek5M9lg0XLTePq54/s320/IMG_1133.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>As soon as we got to Elkwater Lake, we gear-exploded all
over the parking lot and got our bins sorted. I had to keep pinching myself to
make sure this wasn’t a dream. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We got
the maps, grabbed a table at the local pub, and started my favourite discipline
– route planning and map preparation. There is not much that brings me more joy
than staring at a map, and so we stayed up way too late exploring all the permutations of strategy. As always, we planned an overly optimistic route, but with options to cut it short when the inevitable required us to do so. The points were
heavily concentrated on the remote and navigationally difficult hike section,
so that made me very excited. This year's course would favour our strengths.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1t6K_8GNcJRMONbueGdJqd4xF6qFpbJblZWNgofZJd9b7-Tvpx2IZl6smoP3JO5TLZr3bp1fXg2GABhl5W6RMHHn0ea0fO3FTIcXsX_oPyq0Onsmex1h3RCiMqdZr2TxnyU13D3GUfXg/s640/IMG_1137.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1t6K_8GNcJRMONbueGdJqd4xF6qFpbJblZWNgofZJd9b7-Tvpx2IZl6smoP3JO5TLZr3bp1fXg2GABhl5W6RMHHn0ea0fO3FTIcXsX_oPyq0Onsmex1h3RCiMqdZr2TxnyU13D3GUfXg/s320/IMG_1137.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal">We were given a start time of 3.50 am. And it begun, as always,
with the <i>rice-dash</i>. You get points for each pound of food you carry
to the food bank truck parked a couple of kilometers down the road. You can donate anything you want but everyone knows that rice is the high performance version of food donation - it's body contouring, dense, and easy to carry! We loaded
up with the maximum of sixty pounds. Do the math: seventy teams times 60 pounds equals SO. MUCH. RICE. I’m
pretty sure the food bank has enough rice to feed Medicine Hat for the whole
year! Next year, I might donate Teriyaki Sauce, just to balance it out. </p><p class="MsoNormal">From
there, we headed down to the water to start the paddling section. We zoomed around
the lake as dawn arrived and cleaned up all the controls. Well, except for the
one that I missed, totally by accident. I only discovered it two days later
when I was home, micro-analyzing our race over coffee (as I do!). Whoops. And then there was that other mishap on the paddling section when we came in a bit hot to one of the
floating controls. Claire executed the fly-by punch beautifully but then fumbled our tiny SI timing device and dropped it in the lake. We watched
in horror as all our points and the $50 deposit sunk into the reeds about a
meter and a half down. We spent 5 minutes circling around trying to will
it back to the surface. We used the paddle to create a gentle upward current, and
while it raised the SI stick close to the surface, it also agitated all the
mud and we couldn’t quite get eyes on it, nor reach it. It sunk again. And again. And again. Just as we were about to abandon it to Elkwater
Lake, the boys from Badlands Burrows came up and asked what on earth we were doing. At that moment, they looked down in the water as a sunray caught the little blue stick right under their boat. "We see it, we see it", they yelled. We worked together to float the SI stick and finally retrieve it. They saved our race! Hey boys.....we owe you beer.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The rest of the paddle was uneventful, and we were done and onto the biking section by 6.15 am. It took us two hours to ride up, up, up to the hike section via the network of mountain bike trails, collecting
controls as we went. We’re both better bikers than last time we
did this race and it wasn't our first ride of the year (like it usually is), so it felt good to not suck. Just after Spruce Coulee
Reservoir we climbed the Trans Canada Trail up onto the high bench for the best view of the day. The entire of Saskatchewan was lit up in the early morning light. It was breathtaking.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinvKNuQknvX4BuyUDexA0q-GZAly2uvBhyphenhyphenLt1CuTz-BoRJ7pNPz5nbeGe2mQOYSSEiUYJNURt2cmC6XGJsuF5s7uUyFRDeBA-rLCpnhcmJqGioE5Ad0wCDJcVfz7tiX4fHuqGBjlofsDI/s1498/7503396.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="855" data-original-width="1498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinvKNuQknvX4BuyUDexA0q-GZAly2uvBhyphenhyphenLt1CuTz-BoRJ7pNPz5nbeGe2mQOYSSEiUYJNURt2cmC6XGJsuF5s7uUyFRDeBA-rLCpnhcmJqGioE5Ad0wCDJcVfz7tiX4fHuqGBjlofsDI/s320/7503396.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">We quickly transitioned to hiking and set out on what I felt
was going to be the crux of the race. We gave ourselves until 11.30 am to get
as many controls as possible and leave a comfortable buffer to get back to the
finish line by the 1.00 pm cut-off. The terrain was tough and slow. It was
hilly, overgrown, and fortressed with an expansive blowdown of pick-up-sticks. The map is vague and lacking all manner of useful detail, and so the navigation was tricky. It required a lot of compass bearings,
pace counting, and gut feel. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
we nailed it! We ran, hiked, and slip-slided smoothly around an aesthetic loop,
only fumbling one of our 11 controls. It’s so sweet to navigate well. We took
longer than planned but I knew we had hauled in a bunch of points which I was
almost certain no other team would match.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We got back to the bikes just before noon and made a quick transition toward the finish line. I couldn’t believe we had been racing hard for 8
hours already. Time flies at the Medicine Hat Massacre and you never have enough
of it. Unfortunately, we needed that extra 30 minutes to complete the biking
course as planned. Like every other year, we found ourselves rushing to get
back in time. We turned into a gale force prairie headwind (which is a guarantee when you are in a hurry), and realized we had to make that route adjustment we'd prepared. We gave up four controls
and 105 points, but it meant we’d get back on time and avoid penalty. We've been late the last two times we did this race and we didn't want to get a reputation!<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKxPsQLrPpWiE8FlraZEh8KuTCf76ccidkKLtGPN5ZMULLR3iRD5Sy501TuSR3CncrViMajeYiTEsoemj612okMDJGuHr6RW7d8RV-wUZJxeMkiSxuu52YojUhIR_9xQ60wqzQcFf6g-Y/s2048/7503304.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1668" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKxPsQLrPpWiE8FlraZEh8KuTCf76ccidkKLtGPN5ZMULLR3iRD5Sy501TuSR3CncrViMajeYiTEsoemj612okMDJGuHr6RW7d8RV-wUZJxeMkiSxuu52YojUhIR_9xQ60wqzQcFf6g-Y/s320/7503304.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">It was a good call because we rode back into the finish line with 2 minutes to spare, huge
grins on our faces, and the overall win. Woohoo! The last time we won outright was 2015,
so it was nice to know the name, "Hilarious" would be engraved back on the perpetual trophy.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I love this race and I love that it’s still going after 13 years. Thanks to Gerry, Paul, the Southern Alberta Search and Rescue crew, and the community who come
around to volunteer and sponsor this event. It was extra work to host what is already a resource-intensive race with
all the COVID-protocols, but they did a fine job. Let this signal the beginning
of life getting back to normal! <o:p></o:p></p></div>Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-34348924549656099852019-08-12T17:35:00.001-06:002019-08-23T17:41:19.909-06:00World Rogaine Championships - La Molina, Spain... and other adventures<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<h3>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Part 1 – The Prelude</span></b></h3>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM-hUgei60GYIikxaaCeHCVVKdkZLHXrPJEPO1Ohi0JhU6xpepQbbtoGsDGi8O55AOZQKW-yc1Fu1ANKuLkjZFpfOyqeyBxN6lsBqvdKsG8pCMw3PuQzyxp77ZM1ZSt4yLuRqsSxtNEE4/s1600/IMG_7345.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM-hUgei60GYIikxaaCeHCVVKdkZLHXrPJEPO1Ohi0JhU6xpepQbbtoGsDGi8O55AOZQKW-yc1Fu1ANKuLkjZFpfOyqeyBxN6lsBqvdKsG8pCMw3PuQzyxp77ZM1ZSt4yLuRqsSxtNEE4/s320/IMG_7345.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carcassonne cathedral</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I never get
sick of Europe. So, despite spending only 24 days in my own bed this
year and having just recently returned from the UK, I threw a few items of
clothing in a carry-on backpack and headed back across the Atlantic. I do work,
I promise. I’m just taking the second half of this year to navigate a mini
mid-life crisis. I do it about once a decade – quit my job, travel somewhere, spend all my savings,
and then make a new plan. There is no better place to ponder the meaning the life and my
purpose in it than on an alfresco café somewhere in Europe, sipping sparkling
wine before noon! Actually, the main purpose was to compete in the World 24-hr Rogaine
Champs in the Spanish Pyrenees with my sister, but this trip ended up being
about so much more than a big race in an exotic location. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVbm2mHF_x48Gs19bhrAFvo1AL289y8rNX6UKQfj76mr7qWU_RENP20ATtBX_NCorJvRfQGyLQoecA28v5fU4DBAgCz4D6dZfv47y74V3R6qyuBWeHg92vuh5RaRks1vFfl9LwA7wvWPk/s1600/IMG_7253.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVbm2mHF_x48Gs19bhrAFvo1AL289y8rNX6UKQfj76mr7qWU_RENP20ATtBX_NCorJvRfQGyLQoecA28v5fU4DBAgCz4D6dZfv47y74V3R6qyuBWeHg92vuh5RaRks1vFfl9LwA7wvWPk/s320/IMG_7253.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful Montpellier</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Linda was
able to carve out 16 days from her insanely busy and responsibility-filled life
which gave us a precious window of time to do what all sisters should do – gallivant
around southern Europe without a worry or a care. Our plan was to have no plans
and to move one day at time from Barcelona through France to La Molina, the ski
village that hosted the race. I’ve backpacked around Europe enough times to
fall immediately into the rhythm of life there, but this was Linda’s first trip
to an actual foreign country (she’s been to Canada, but that doesn’t count because
it’s basically just a colder version of Australia). It was so fun to experience
Europe through her virgin eyes. Within 24 hours, she had stayed in her first
hostel dorm bed, taken her first underground subway, ridden her first high
speed train, and drunk her first mini coffee. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We got a
lot accomplished in those twelve days before the race. We visited Linda’s exchange
student in Montpellier, ate a lot of baguette and smelly cheese, explored the
medieval city of Carcassonne, almost caught the Tour de France (missed it by 4
minutes), soaked up the vibe in Toulouse, cried at the beauty of more than one
cathedral, discovered the best little creperie in the world (in Ax-les-Thermes, y'all), ran on the GR10 in
the Pyrenees, and caught the clickerty-clackerty little yellow train out of the
mountains and back to the coast. There were a lot of trains, hostel beds, free live concerts, hot evenings on restaurant patios, and
wines before noon. We loved France, but were glad to leave its unique and
endearing blend of eau-de-pee, cigarette and fresh croissant behind and
head back to Spain for a final few blissful days in Girona and Barcelona. I never get sick of wandering old cities, people-watching, contemplating history and humanity, and eating tapas. And I am
still thinking about that paella we had on our last hot, steamy night.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvd49MC6LAOTCjQhuPgzOrdmUMrx_m1n18h-eooVXH7r0zWoWZ2umDLFhikoeaaYMCaybbwXZnwnvwhwa6yr3TD39sEmBcmn7RmwB0_678Cj-ooQLrfzIWjvFE2egxkKTTcQwnU12JioE/s200/IMG_6762.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="200" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Delicious paella</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Part 2 - The Race</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrabeR9d67UCJ3AIVXVfAnToXxN20bGwLz-HvszJbkekqwIOhyphenhyphenW0-dUfBLTgosS6vWGlH4b4EgPIa-RMDEqE7JJdkYYrajkF7gxVV-O9tpU1pBSIczls4Onfmf8nNS3nYEDFdsezWB_fY/s1600/IMG_7951.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrabeR9d67UCJ3AIVXVfAnToXxN20bGwLz-HvszJbkekqwIOhyphenhyphenW0-dUfBLTgosS6vWGlH4b4EgPIa-RMDEqE7JJdkYYrajkF7gxVV-O9tpU1pBSIczls4Onfmf8nNS3nYEDFdsezWB_fY/s320/IMG_7951.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The holidaying was over and it was time to shift focus.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Rogaining
was invented in Australia, where teams of two or three cover vast distances in
straight lines to find controls hidden on very subtle features, like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">small rock in middle of flat bushland</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I was interested to see what would happen
when you transplant this sport high up into the rugged Spanish Pyrenees, where
following a bearing would likely lead you, at the very least, gratuitously up
and down, up and down, and at the worst, straight off a mountain cliff. No
previous WRC had been held in such mountainous terrain. Having just come off
Dragonsback and a few weeks of good training in the Rockies, I was psyched about
the physical demands of the course. Linda, on the other hand, was terrified.
The biggest hill she trains on is the +100m gradually rising paddock behind her house. All I could do was reassure her of the incredible capacity of the
body to put one foot in front of the other, regardless of the terrain. She is
fit, agile and determined, so I knew she’d be okay for 24-hrs of knee-pounding,
back-jarring, ankle-twisting, quad-destroying adventure. And she was!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It was so
great to leave the touristy mayhem of Barcelona behind and head back up into the
mountains, to be surrounded by athletes and adventurers and the grizzled rogaining
crowd with their baggy shorts and floppy hats. On the day before the race we
had a wonderful afternoon out on the model map where there was more frolicking and
socializing than orienteering. We picked wild strawberries, photographed the alpine
cows (Linda is obsessed with cows), chatted to fellow competitors from all over
the world, lay in a high meadow to contemplate the magnitude of the course… and
found a couple of controls. It was delightful, and nothing at all like what we
would experience on race morning. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi06YvUrSw7ULZAma1VfFCRAQle8u34O2vU5RVQelE99Ju1rbUYPYZVTxoPd5PBtJjfyuKTcyq3SO8LNYXxtyWVYDJJtdCJpPMJJes4LZFDqNooWHDZRV5F4E_vcE9nv1n9rUP4ZCmcMjc/s1600/IMG_7887.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="126" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi06YvUrSw7ULZAma1VfFCRAQle8u34O2vU5RVQelE99Ju1rbUYPYZVTxoPd5PBtJjfyuKTcyq3SO8LNYXxtyWVYDJJtdCJpPMJJes4LZFDqNooWHDZRV5F4E_vcE9nv1n9rUP4ZCmcMjc/s320/IMG_7887.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">la-de-da-de-da</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We got our
maps three hours before the start just as a massive electrical storm with deafening thunder moved in. The heavens opened up, the temperature dove into single digits, and our spirits wilted. This
weather came as a surprise to anyone who had been following the news of the
month-long heat wave gripping southern Europe. We grabbed the maps, tucked them
under our rain jackets, and sprinted for the shelter of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Buttons</i>, our tiny euro rental car (a 2-door Fiat), where we did our
level best to plan a route and prepare our maps in the cramped space. With such
extreme contour detail, success would belong to the team who could put together
the smartest route, so we spent the first hour just staring at the map, trying
to make it come alive in 3D, and the second hour, carving an efficient journey
across it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">The start/finish
arena was located in the La Molina ski village. From there you either went 500
m straight down to the valley bottom, or 500 m straight up to the peaks. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We decided to cross the deep valley and spend
the first half of the race on the more heavily vegetated north side of the map,
over in France. The navigation looked more complex over there, the trees would
provide some protection from the rain, and it seemed smart to leave the
ski-hill portion to the end to ensure a downhill sprint to the finish! We
planned out a zig-zagging kind of loop that made use of trails and roads to contour
as much as possible. It is so hard to know how much distance you can travel in
this kind of terrain so we mapped out about 75 km with some options for adding
and removing controls depending on our progress. I predicted we’d reach our eigth control around 3 pm and decided to use that as an indicator of whether we were
on track or not, and then adjust accordingly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We left the
comfort of our tiny car at 11.30 am and headed up to the starting corral. It
was absolutely pouring as all 800 of us stood there shivering in the mud pit
waiting for the clock to tick noon, wishing we could either just get started or
go back to bed. We were wearing all our mandatory clothes and even before the
gun went off they were soaked through. It was forecast to rain all afternoon
and into the evening which made things seem a little desperate to say the least.
Of course, as soon as you get running and onto the business of finding orange
and white flags in the woods, you warm up and all the misery is forgotten. For
a while, anyway. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We had a
great first few hours, with minimal drama. I foolishly forgot to use waterproof
pen on my map and so all the course marking was erased by the time we reached
the first control, and I misjudged a leap across a swollen river and ended up
going for a swim, but we were nailing the navigation and moving efficiently. We
reached that eigth control at 3:00:02, which I felt was a minor
victory. I am adamant that there is nothing better in the world than orienteering and
we were both having a grand time exploring the nooks and crannies of this part
of the world. It was also a relief to finally be burning off all the croissants
and wine we’d consumed over the last couple of weeks!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuS9GDlX21X_DamEfDxs4xeZ-3KSTOgPiG2xp7WPbaNalPriC0G1EASDwyE09pSGIcxe4XD_t0qWGjWZiIrK7DZrFqO6xHU0CjbTCyTdwx34VGKtUtOC0CTiNdXI5N4fb6DklsdRBtz4U/s1600/IMG_6810.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuS9GDlX21X_DamEfDxs4xeZ-3KSTOgPiG2xp7WPbaNalPriC0G1EASDwyE09pSGIcxe4XD_t0qWGjWZiIrK7DZrFqO6xHU0CjbTCyTdwx34VGKtUtOC0CTiNdXI5N4fb6DklsdRBtz4U/s320/IMG_6810.jpg" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The rain
broke for a few hours in the afternoon and the sun came out and I think my
pants even dried temporarily. I made the mistake of wondering, out loud,
whether that was the end of the rain, and then I was punished for my optimism
by a second thunderstorm around 6 pm. Unfortunately, it hit just as we reached
our high point on the north side of the map – an exposed hill top with a
powerline that we were using as a navigational handrail. It was definitely a
little scary. I had already been zapped by an electric fence earlier in the day
and still felt the zinging down my right arm: I wasn’t too keen to experience
the ferocity of a full zap from the sky. We grabbed one last up-high control,
ducked as we ran back under the powerlines (as if that would make all the
difference), and then sprinted off the mountain and back down into the trees. Right
then, we came upon a randomly located guesthouse, which served as a perfectly-timed shelter from the
storm. We dripped all over the lobby while shoving dinner into mouths and
assessing our progress as the rain and lightning passed over. Things were going
well, and unbeknown to us, we were leading our category. However, in the 15
minutes we stood around in the hotel, my Russian nemesis – team Marina and Nina
- would take the lead from us and begin their usual domination. And, unfortunately,
as night fell, our race was going to start its decline into chaos. First, the
wind picked up, then we got chased by a herd of young steers, and I couldn’t
find the bunker control on the side of a wide, grassy hill. Bunkers, of course,
are designed not to be found….that’s the whole point of a bunker. It was
starting to get very cold and very windy just as our route plan took us up,
up, up onto the exposed summits of the ski hill. Anytime we hesitated to check
something, we froze. We dropped off the back of a high point to join a track
that would move us quickly up to the next control and came upon a barn. We
decided to take ten minutes to shelter from the elements, refold our maps without
risk of losing them to the wind, and take stock of where we were. It was
midnight and there was no avoiding the fact that the next many hours were
going to be spent fully exposed. Within a few minutes we both started shivering
uncontrollably and so I made the decision to pull out our single emergency
blanket and hunker down in the hope that the weather would settle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We both
dozed in and out of a sleep to the sound of what seemed like a freight train on
top of the roof. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wind did not
subside as hoped, the shivering continued, and our feet, which were poking out
from under the blanket and were soaking wet, went completely numb. We needed an
intervention. I decided that we should head back to our hotel room for a temporary
respite rather than continue up to the highest summits. I knew this would blow
our chances at the podium, but we were seriously cold and unable to concentrate
properly on navigation anyway. I taught Linda how to fashion a running toga out
of the emergency blanket, we took a deep breath, put our heads down, and headed
back out into the wind storm. Then Linda ran straight into an electric fence
and was literally thrown to the ground. It woke her up and lightened the mood
in a sick kind of way. We powered up to the saddle above us and then down onto
a main road which would take us the 7 km back to La Molina. We ran hard, which returned
feeling to our feet and warmth to our core, and by the time we got to the
hotel, everything was OK again. We had given up almost 4 hours by this stage
but I wasn’t ready to give up entirely. We aimed to have a quick turnaround –
just enough time to change socks, make a new route plan, text the family (who
were following the live tracking) to assure them that complete disaster had not
befallen, eat some food, and get going again. We might have shut our eyes for
10 minutes as well, but I was very proud that we left the warmth and comfort of
the hotel within 45 minutes, in the pitch darkness, while the storm still raged.
We didn’t even shower. That, let me tell you, is a feat worth </span>celebrating.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi93xlJSPM5s9Ocos1eZRrQvQtKHX6NOW5JtxtoAfsLk03uOG24Jce2tZjEIj0O01ih4mOJBUSEjUkvBIU14oWfnLhRqzynxf2x2ygibfLbPO2-T4NoR0G3IpH7dxYZIp4qUyIbFRBEPhE/s1600/IMGP9226.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi93xlJSPM5s9Ocos1eZRrQvQtKHX6NOW5JtxtoAfsLk03uOG24Jce2tZjEIj0O01ih4mOJBUSEjUkvBIU14oWfnLhRqzynxf2x2ygibfLbPO2-T4NoR0G3IpH7dxYZIp4qUyIbFRBEPhE/s320/IMGP9226.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We had a
little over seven hours left with the promise of sunrise just around the
corner. Our new route had us pick up all the low-point controls tucked into the
trees around La Molina and then head back up to the highest summits above the
ski hill as the morning arrived. The wind dropped, the day heated up, the
navigation was perfect, and we kept extending our loop as time allowed getting
as many points as possible. Both of our bodies had held up and we were able to
push hard right up until the end. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
the best part was we got our downhill finish!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We were the
13<sup>th</sup> all-female team out of 135 and 5<sup>th</sup> in our category, which
I was really happy about considering we spent almost five hours doing nothing! We
ran 77 km with 4000 m of ascent. Marina and Nina took the win, again, but I’m
determined, one day, to end their reign. To be continued in Lake Tahoe,
California, 2020…..<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYj6qLwlar6YDzC02VJXTazJscbYWobfYlbWT6qsakWZMH55dSEdf7j3NPBzgYtsrpRbtFwkUnGumSJyWpOlN0AfBsnWC8bmMwIciAF7NmTJBJtpDr8_Mey2pM-FKQA-0OBgmqT8uNSFk/s1600/IMG_7732.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYj6qLwlar6YDzC02VJXTazJscbYWobfYlbWT6qsakWZMH55dSEdf7j3NPBzgYtsrpRbtFwkUnGumSJyWpOlN0AfBsnWC8bmMwIciAF7NmTJBJtpDr8_Mey2pM-FKQA-0OBgmqT8uNSFk/s320/IMG_7732.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-80252820461520743672019-05-31T14:27:00.000-06:002019-06-01T14:54:24.732-06:00Dragonsback Race 2019<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8YyEJIaAvstUK-M0iamSSwZ1jBveVdX7ClXkeH2K1LJcoVu-Qso8ha7jmDPtgv3sCrztTWsJoBD8OEbHJohSiarBq2GWDgZ9ImN9R9dJkDBWkp-QnAkH_dvT_kyMTubzpi1YyosEF2hQ/s1600/DRAGON_09913.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1065" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8YyEJIaAvstUK-M0iamSSwZ1jBveVdX7ClXkeH2K1LJcoVu-Qso8ha7jmDPtgv3sCrztTWsJoBD8OEbHJohSiarBq2GWDgZ9ImN9R9dJkDBWkp-QnAkH_dvT_kyMTubzpi1YyosEF2hQ/s400/DRAGON_09913.JPG" width="266" /></a>The Dragonsback Race has been on my radar since it was resurrected in
2012, twenty years after the one and only
previous edition. The concept of traversing the country of Wales along
its spine, climbing almost all its summits, as
fast as possible intrigued me. Claire was planning on
doubling down on her trans-Scotland race from 2018 and I
decided to sign up and join her. It was all good in theory, but it's been a while since I've done a multi-day, body-trashing, ultra-endurance event, and to be honest, I wasn't sure it was still in me to run 315 km, mostly off-trail, in just five days. I knew I was <i>capable</i> of toughing it out, but I wasn't sure if I'd <i>want</i> to. You see, I'm getting a bit soft these days, especially if it gets to the point that I stop having fun. I am no longer motivated by finish lines, or pushing physical limits, or proving that I am tough. Therefore, the only way I was going to get from one end of Wales to the other, on foot, was to surrender to the journey, and find a way to love it. My goal was to forget about times and distances, and instead, embrace the expedition, look after myself, indulge in the views, and enjoy all the people along the way. The fear of missing out on new friends, shared experiences, funny moments, and gorgeous vistas would definitely be my primary driver.<br />
<br />
Shortly after committing to this race, I moved to Australia, a country which is distinctly lacking in mountains, shitty weather, and off-piste running - not the ideal place to train for a monster like Dragonsback. Instead, I rode my bike, took up kite-surfing and hoped for the best. To be fair, I also ran a little, lifted weights, did a couple of short rogaines, put in one +3800 m day, and fast-packed a 135 km trail in 36 hours just to remind myself what it feels like to do something really hard. I ignored the Facebook posts and Strava feeds that testified to everyone else's insane training regime and trusted that experience and a calm mind would compensate for my lack of physical preparedness.<br />
<br />
It did.<br />
<br />
<u><b>Day 1</b></u><br />
52 km, +3800 m, 12:14 <br />
<br />
It's really cool to start a race in a 700-year old castle. I closed my eyes, listened to the songs of the Welsh choir that were reverberating around the stone walls, and wondered what the next five days had in store. Dragonsback kicks off with the highlight reel of Wales - Tryfan and the Glyderau, the iconic razor-edged ridge of Crib Goch, and the highest mountain in Wales, Snowdon. I am more partial to scrambling than running, so this was <i>my</i> day. It was epic, airy, and indulgent and I loved every minute. I might have even giggled as we climbed, bum-scooted and hoop-hollered along Crib Goch in the afternoon sunshine. Despite the massive elevation and technical terrain, I arrived in camp feeling pretty good in body and optimistic in mind. Claire and I started and finished together, and shared the trail for most of the day, which was a really nice way to kick off the week.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWHXiuFP4aAQJ0KEA90ap8ulecIHTIKN8SO07ibPIh7IxmvObwZa83Yg6y_9o6Bjg4i1wasLy2y2xCrAStWLegDSvtrzu6lXw1OLqwIVAwbd-QOO1jjoBtdzR4mprnFLKqv2TNUN1HQhw/s1600/IMG_6290.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWHXiuFP4aAQJ0KEA90ap8ulecIHTIKN8SO07ibPIh7IxmvObwZa83Yg6y_9o6Bjg4i1wasLy2y2xCrAStWLegDSvtrzu6lXw1OLqwIVAwbd-QOO1jjoBtdzR4mprnFLKqv2TNUN1HQhw/s320/IMG_6290.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crib Goch</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This was my first ever stage race and I was looking forward to relaxed evenings eating and socializing. I even packed red wine and whisky in my overnight bag. But unfortunately, I found camp life a little stressful. The days on the trail were so long that I wanted to be in bed as soon as possible, but there was always so much to do first: get out of wet clothes, take a wet-wipe bath, hang damp gear, set up bedding, empty garbage, charge phone, re-pack the running pack, fill water bladder, dry feet, drink your chosen recovery elixir, walk over to the catering area, force down as much food as possible, make small talk with new friends, wash dishes, toilet, teeth, review route for next day, sleep. It might not sound like much but when you are exhausted, and battling the urge to just sit there on the tent floor with your gear exploded everywhere and stare into blank space, any small task seemed epic. <br />
<br />
<b><u>Day 2</u></b><br />
58 km, +3600 m, 12:34 <br />
<br />
I woke just before 5 am each morning with the goal of being out on the course by 6.15. You can start any time between 6-9 am, but with tight, non-negotiable cut-offs, Claire and I aimed to get going early and build a safe buffer. They said that day two is the hardest - something about the ankle-breaking terrain, eight climbs, five kilometers of bog, and the "<i>fury of the Moelwynion and Rhinogydd</i>" - but that remained to to be seen. Claire and I stuck together again for most of the day but were joined on-and-off by a handful of new friends who were moving at various paces faster and slower than us. Overtaking and being overtaken by the same people each day was a useful time stamp and reassuring guide. My favourite time was always spent with the morning crew - Jono, the closet Welshman, Raver, the jokester Scotsman, and Carmine, the non-stop talking Italian. I have never laughed as hard as I did whenever they were around which made the kilometers tick over quickly. The views that afternoon were inspiring - all the way to Ireland, in fact - as the weather continued to be miraculously perfect. We descended Rhinog Fawr, Rhinog Fach, and Diffwys (far, f*ck, and fwuss) with the sun and a new crew of British friends, reaching pavement eight kilometers from the finish. I hate pavement so I made it go away by running fast. I left Claire and about 15 other people behind, stuck my head down, and finished the day off with a strong, consistent run. I was buoyed by how good I felt, but I would pay for all that pounding on day three!<br />
<br />
<b><u>Day 3</u></b><br />
71 km, +3500 m, 13:25 <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo3K-9fY6qOLMVVZyFPTvp-W9SjbzY7BctqJR88GXxLbPzlLG64GvvSDoYrOOhM1GpPNfuj8aMP96qdeKQaDVq8Mfhsb9s6oObkaZ4CUlRjXOfovOH4cedTbpziNfnSZgO4DSVFWtcRKQ/s1600/IMG_6258.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1160" data-original-width="1544" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo3K-9fY6qOLMVVZyFPTvp-W9SjbzY7BctqJR88GXxLbPzlLG64GvvSDoYrOOhM1GpPNfuj8aMP96qdeKQaDVq8Mfhsb9s6oObkaZ4CUlRjXOfovOH4cedTbpziNfnSZgO4DSVFWtcRKQ/s320/IMG_6258.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Discovering a TDG friend on the rooftop of Wales</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Having completed day one and two without too much difficulty, I started to believe that I would finish this race. It was clear that I wouldn't be competitive and settled quite happily into the middle of the pack - plodding along, looking after myself, and never pushing too hard. Day three promised to be long and hilly and overcast. The morning was spent up in the clouds and mist along the 10 km ridge that extends to and from Cadir Idris. It was ethereal, and should have been enjoyed, but things started to unravel early. I stopped to adjust some taping on my foot and promptly left my gloves behind. I had to run back a few hundred meters to get them which made me a little cranky. I eventually caught back up to Claire and the regular morning crew but then she needed to stop to take care of something herself and we separated again. Things were starting to hurt today - my feet, my quads, and my stomach - and so I figured she'd re-catch me. Unfortunately, she didn't, and for some reason I found myself alone for most of the day. I even had to pull out the GPS app on my phone because for the first time in three days, I couldn't see people immediately ahead of me. You see, none of the 315 km course was flagged, with navigation being one of the things that initially drew me to this race. But most people had a fancy $1000 Garmin watch which helped them follow the route exactly without too much effort..... and then I just followed them. With all the technology available and the excellent weather, you'd have been hard pressed to get lost, and so my navigation superpowers were not really any use. <br />
<br />
The near-vertical gratuitous up-and-down Tarren y Gasail destroyed some of my soul but it was partially repaired by the cold San Pellegrino Limonata I procured from the gas station as we passed through the small village of Machyneth right after. Claire came into the mid-way support point just as I was leaving, and again, I thought she'd catch me. Alas, I had a lonely afternoon crossing the high plateau of the Cambrian Mountains. The sun came out, it warmed up, and I grew tired of continually shoving food into my mouth. Not eating is never an option in ultras - I know that better than anyone - but I just zoned out and got out of the habit. Then my stomach shut down. I would put one cashew in my mouth, chew it thirty times, spend a few torturous moments willing myself to swallow, and then congratulate myself for doing so. The day dragged on, but eventually I reached the summit of Pen Pumlumon and stumbled down the the final 5 km to the finish. I was dizzy and nauseous and barely managed to take off my shoes before collapsing in the tent. All I wanted in the world was to go to sleep and wake up on a beach somewhere far away from the Welsh mountains. Alas, I was now three days deep into this monstrous journey and there was no way I was going to throw away that investment; and so, I forced myself over to the kitchen tent where I sat for two hours drinking broth and electrolytes until my stomach came good again. Getting up the next morning and facing another 71 km ultra-marathon would be impossible unless I held down something solid, so I sacrificed some sleep for the shepards pie I was eventually able to eat around 10.30 pm.<br />
<br />
<b><u>Day 4</u></b><br />
71 km, +2400 m, 13:39 <br />
<br />
Not surprisingly, I started day four feeling groggy. My feet hurt and my body was fatiguing. But, I had no blisters, I was able to eat, and I knew that this was the beginning of the end. My goal today was to go slowly, consume as much food as possible, recover my body and spirit, and finish with some motivation to crush the final day. Claire and I stuck together for the entire day which was fun. We enjoyed the expansive landscape of the Elan Valley, coordinated our stops for water, foot management and toileting, goofed off for the cameras, played some tunes, and chatted to the sheep. We even gave up 30 minutes for a cold drink at the pub in Elan Village. Day 1-3 had us playing, almost in circles, in the mountains of northern Wales, but at some point we had to stop messing around and get onto the business of crossing the entire country.....and that's what day four was for - southbound in the straightest line possible. By now I knew I was going to get to the end of this race, and so I just
had to get through day four and put it behind me. I practiced the art
of dissociating emotion and pain from some practical truths: <i>the
body can keep going, humans have endured far worse, keep moving forward
and this too shall end</i>.<br />
<br />
I knew things were looking up when I ate three servings of vegetarian lasagna for dinner. <br />
<br />
<b><u>Day 5</u></b><br />
63 km +2200 m, 10:20<br />
<br />
I woke up to face my fifth ultra-marathon in five days feeling great - I still had no blisters and my body had started to recover from the previous four days of punishment. Spirits were also high in tent #19 (my home for the week) as all seven of us were still in the race and Julie was on track to win the coveted title of last place finisher - an accomplishment that is rewarded with the biggest dragon trophy imaginable. We had all witnessed her fight to reach the cut-offs each day and crawl into the tent after midnight for just a few hours of sleep, and her grit and positive attitude garnered so much of our respect and inspired us all. <br />
<br />
Claire and I set a fast pace from the very start of day five. We blew through the village of Llandovery without so much as a glance inside the bakery. After yesterday's lollygagging, I was impatient to just go, go, go. Shortly after we passed through town, a fellow runner came up behind us and randomly gave us his extra freshly baked, jam doughnut. The camaraderie on the trail had been incredible all week - from someone holding your poles while you tie your shoe, to sharing food and laughs, and telling lies about how strong one looked. But that doughnut......that was the best.<br />
<br />
I was so excited to explore the Black Mountains - the final treat of the week. The first major climb beckoned and I attacked it with joy. I was moving well, but powered by that doughnut (or something) Claire was super-charged. There was no way I could match her uphill run and she soon disappeared over the lip of Fan Brycheiniog and out of sight. As I descended to the col between that mountain and the next, I noticed a navigational shortcut for the first time this week and contoured around Picws Du rather than going up and over it. I felt quite chuffed about my windfall, picked up my pace, and slowly reeled in Claire three kilometers later. She had slowed down a little because her leg suddenly started hurting. She mentioned something about a cramp in her quad but told me it would go away with an e-cap and stretching. I moved past her and assumed she was right behind as I made another alternate route decision to contour rather than climb. She wasn't. Unfortunately, Claire got rhabdomyolysis 23 km from the end and was busy dealing with a real physical battle to the finish as I, unknowingly, continued along. I felt bad, but I had no idea something was really wrong until I found her in the medical tent a few hours later.<br />
<br />
The last part of my journey wasn't quite as dramatic. My afternoon spent in the Black Mountains was definitely a highlight, but I was relieved to leave them behind and get those final miles done. The last nine kilometers were a mixture of pavement, trails, and farmer's fields, interrupted only by the frustrating necessity to hoist my exhausted body over at least 20 stiles. I was like a horse to the barn and just powered through it all. <br />
<br />
I had strong final day, finishing way further up the field than the other days. But the finish line was anti-climatic, as it often is. Rather than sitting down to soak up the pride of my achievement, I beelined it straight for the wood-fired pizza van. Before I even took off my running pack, I ordered two pizzas and scoffed back a pink sherbet-covered Mr Whippy. It was the highlight of my week. That, and the shower, of course. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6LfBcdwKnzogL0U5tSriWQB9Jb8U44-N2-MGCifaW4NRt0-BP5MS4NtqsNrOq0igsyO719mUjMnvuPOWcE-cjzCk0hwcN7J3AFhjhJSNDF6BO79BJv-l2eaA3-aa1hqX3306DoEvcNsE/s1600/IMG_8713.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1471" data-original-width="1220" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6LfBcdwKnzogL0U5tSriWQB9Jb8U44-N2-MGCifaW4NRt0-BP5MS4NtqsNrOq0igsyO719mUjMnvuPOWcE-cjzCk0hwcN7J3AFhjhJSNDF6BO79BJv-l2eaA3-aa1hqX3306DoEvcNsE/s320/IMG_8713.jpg" width="265" /></a>402 people started the Dragonsback Race and 260 finished. I came 141st, which seemed OK considering I went into it relatively untrained. Mostly, I was stoked to have run across Wales, to have experienced her varied geography, remote corners, weird place names, and cute horses. I learned to run on <i>heather </i>and <i>fell</i> and not trip on my face. I loved all the people I met and am thankful, in particular, to those with whom I shared the trail and a short conversation at some point every day: Jono, Dave and Carmine; the Swiss boys (Michael, Dan and Ian - even though he wasn't Swiss); Ed of number 333; "<i>old-man-knees</i>"; Robin, my Dutch TDG friend; fellow north American compatriots James, Jenny, Wade, Lourdes, Theresa, Kevin and Randy; the Irish girls Fiona and Avril; and my tentmates-turned-family Wes, Dirk, Mike, Pam, Julie and Ollie.<br />
<br />
And of course, Claire......who got me into this nonsense in the first place and with whom I spent almost 60 hours of the race. She ran like a legend. <br />
<br />
It's going to take me a while to recover from this one. Time to go kite-surfing..... <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-23563787999940108152018-10-10T23:17:00.001-06:002018-10-12T09:50:15.846-06:00Flagstaff Sky Peaks 50-miler<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWOU99GQuQnV4QeoUD5xogmJToPV_nrjJ2OrVA2yd9_NhyqdIq2L6yawwPCUqGbFNOquUAZnpj2LP_EFJ-CqDwEBHAp7ovAGRvXSAPh_SaXM5uL9W53xh8jnTjFRlz2j8Bat1esnvJcg/s1600/50+Mile+On+Course+Watermark-217.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWOU99GQuQnV4QeoUD5xogmJToPV_nrjJ2OrVA2yd9_NhyqdIq2L6yawwPCUqGbFNOquUAZnpj2LP_EFJ-CqDwEBHAp7ovAGRvXSAPh_SaXM5uL9W53xh8jnTjFRlz2j8Bat1esnvJcg/s320/50+Mile+On+Course+Watermark-217.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo credit: Jamil Coury</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Sometime in mid-September I gave up on
fall. I had ambitious plans to climb many mountains before the arrival of
winter; but alas, the Canadian Rockies and Winter had other ideas. So, I decided to change
focus. Actually, what really happened was on a particularly cold day a Westjet sale flashed across my work computer screen and in a desperate moment I booked a direct flight, on impulse, to wherever the
sun was shining, which just happened to be Phoenix. I was also jonesing for a long run
and decided to sign up for the Flagstaff Sky Peaks 50-miler. I then embarked
on a 2.5 week training plan, which involved binge training in the hypoxia lab
at TCR in an attempt to take the sting out of what would be a day spent running a
high altitude (the race started at 10000 feet and climbed to almost 12000 feet). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I left for Phoenix two days after Calgary
got buried by the biggest October snowfall in over 100 years. It never ceases
to amaze me how just a two hour flight can transform one’s surroundings from
winter misery to sunny paradise, but there I was, battling a blizzard at lunch
time and then sweating over a margarita on a patio for dinner. The sun on my
skin was pure bliss and the vast desert landscape instantly put my soul to rest,
reminding me again, that I really am a hot climate kind of girl. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsVk8DxKbWQSDUcdYCHii4OGjLEuJNohe3uFaRE_Nf32SVsH4PCj6IsRPDbwmFynGiTT_71wsFovm8fKKMLf-g3qpCJW1g2VRbL6Qy7_6cgvNTeXaMAL835qfHgqLAlWqfSVrxIXUoSsE/s1600/IMG_4177.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="954" data-original-width="960" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsVk8DxKbWQSDUcdYCHii4OGjLEuJNohe3uFaRE_Nf32SVsH4PCj6IsRPDbwmFynGiTT_71wsFovm8fKKMLf-g3qpCJW1g2VRbL6Qy7_6cgvNTeXaMAL835qfHgqLAlWqfSVrxIXUoSsE/s320/IMG_4177.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Aspen Forest we ran through<br />
<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo Credit: Aravaipa Running</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Unfortunately, the race was not in Phoenix.
I made my way up, up, up to Flagstaff where an ill-timed winter storm was due to hit the
high peaks. So much for my hot destination race! I was afraid to look, but I think
it ended up being warmer in Calgary that weekend. I slept in my car at the start line and
awoke to just five degrees Celsius at 5 am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> That would be</span> the high for the day. The race started at the base of Mt
Humphreys with a 2000 foot climb directly up the summit of
the ski hill and then straight back down, before embarking on a grandiose loop
of the entire San Francisco Peaks range. It was a flowy, uncontrived course
that made use of miles of single track and hiking trail, minor forest roads,
and a little off-trail meadow-whacking. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
aid station volunteers were a delight, and with a relatively small field of
competitors, I had them all to myself at every
stop. I won’t lie, there was much pampering had. The mild temperatures were perfect for running,
the aspen groves were on fire with colour, the views extended all the way to
the Grand Canyon, and I was in running bliss….for the first 27 miles, anyway. My
motto was, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Just a relaxed
50-mile jog in the hills where people put food out for me</i>”, and that’s
exactly how it was playing out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The storm arrived as promised in
the early afternoon. As I descended the exposed access road on the back of the
mountain, I was hit with sideways hail and gale force winds, and by the time I arrived
at the aid station at 35 miles, I was soaked to the bone. But surprisingly, I
felt great. My recent experience at races with brutal-weather, and the fact that I
was hauling around a puffy jacket, multiple gloves, a proper rain jacket, and
an emergency blanket meant that I stayed warm. I was in control of my
eating, my pace, and my mental state, and continued to run with a smile on my
face. Having not done any running of significant length for ages, my hip flexors were the only thing complaining, but I just took that as the cost of doing business!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">An ultra-marathon is never over
until it’s over, a truth that became very evident in this race. The last aid
station was just 4.5 miles from the finish line, but it involved a 2000 foot
climb back up into the thin air…..and the fog. At first I balked at such an uphill finish, but then again, no one feels like running at the end of a 50-miler and this gave me permission to power hike without guilt. I was still feeling strong and
figured I’d be done before dark. Boy-o-boy, was I wrong. I can’t believe it is
possible, but that fog was almost as bad as the worst I’ve seen at Barkley. The
route took us off-trail into the back of the ski hill, carefully marked by
little pin flags that were placed just far enough apart that you couldn’t see
the next one in the fog. My strategy involved standing at a pin flag and
walking no more than five steps in the supposed direction, then scanning my
headlamp until I caught a flash of the reflector tape of the next flag. If I
didn’t see it, I would walk the five steps back and then try a slightly
different angle. Twice, I struggled to relocate the original flag as it got
completely enveloped by the fog behind me. It was claustrophobic and a little
frightening, but I was close to the finish (just 500 m away, in fact) so I
stayed calm and patiently stayed in contact with the course as I inched closer and closer to the end. Had I got too many meters
off route, I would have been pulling the emergency blanket out and spending
the night on the mountain. In the end, it took me 2hr15 to do those last 4.5
miles, most of which was spent negotiating that final kilometre!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpDz7gDLsEbWt92T98QNx2p6MCTXFtZSVPFT4Rdhm86_l0rQxQ2mNytlB6XIS347wMmbLBPxk6kVcxJqgzvlbI_6YKqSKY4LwUXRTBhMoZnq8N0pdgbdTbHkmHbefmwWJmHyz9FEfhoRo/s1600/IMG_4140.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpDz7gDLsEbWt92T98QNx2p6MCTXFtZSVPFT4Rdhm86_l0rQxQ2mNytlB6XIS347wMmbLBPxk6kVcxJqgzvlbI_6YKqSKY4LwUXRTBhMoZnq8N0pdgbdTbHkmHbefmwWJmHyz9FEfhoRo/s320/IMG_4140.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mt Humphreys the next morning</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It was such a relief to finally catch sight
of the glow of the finish arena. I held onto first place female, which I can
assure you, is far less remarkable than finishing the race itself in those conditions. I didn’t stick around to celebrate though because one hour
after finishing, the mountain got hit with a big dump of snow. Thankfully by then, I was
tucked into my sleeping bag in the back of my car and sleeping off the experience
with that sense of utter bliss than can only come from having run for over 13
hours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-9462184158511724592018-07-02T12:07:00.001-06:002022-11-10T10:12:32.271-07:00Planes, trains and automobiles, ferries and feet. Week 4 - Italy<div style="color: #454545;">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaJJn1bRZKJDK0c84FaYeyd12ZnvgE5s3eYm0ww-xvDC2dVgGlfiLcg0Jy4Ut49b2jgaPBXHuGAqXztIe-ej2HLcwPKkV7UQ9G7V5MkHnFPe-f8NBk06Y80uHxJXCCuK-FcOPiyLMIn7o/s1600/florence.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaJJn1bRZKJDK0c84FaYeyd12ZnvgE5s3eYm0ww-xvDC2dVgGlfiLcg0Jy4Ut49b2jgaPBXHuGAqXztIe-ej2HLcwPKkV7UQ9G7V5MkHnFPe-f8NBk06Y80uHxJXCCuK-FcOPiyLMIn7o/s1600/florence.jpg" /></a><span style="color: #454545;">I
sailed to Italy from Corsica. Just saying those six words sounds as marvelous as it was. I
was heading to the Dolomites for the 5 Days of Italy Orienteering but I
noticed that my train would pass right through Florence, Tuscany. Who wouldn't
stop there for a few days?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">Tomatoes.
Mouth-watering tomatoes. That's what I think of when I imagine Tuscany. So,
when I arrived in the centre of Florence at 11 pm, I immediately sat down
to a plate of spaghetti pomodoro at the first restaurant I came across. It was
a steamy night and the narrow, cobblestone street in which I found myself was
alive with energy and activity. It's such a cliché, I know, but that simple
plate of spaghetti was the best damn pasta I've ever had.</span><span style="color: #454545;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">To
be honest, aside from the delicious food and wine, I had to work really hard
to like Florence. It seems to be everyone's favourite city, and supposedly the birth place of academia, to which I owe my career, but I felt out of place.
I wandered around for an entire day getting twisted and turned in the maze of
streets, imagining myself as a scarf and leather jacket wearing girl on a Vespa
- sleek, sophisticated and fashionably coordinated, just like everyone else.
But then I remembered that my idea of a purse is the inside zipper of my race
vest where I store my cash and credit card in a Ziploc bag, my legs are meaty
and powerful and much better suited to climbing big mountains than wearing
high heels under a mini skirt, and I smelled funny, because I've been washing
my T-shirt and undies in a hostel sink with cheap soap for the last 3
weeks. </span><span style="color: #454545;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">I
conceded that Florence was lovely, but after my last couple of weeks in the
wilderness, it was hard to be around so many tour-bus-taking,
selfie-stick-wielding people. I was also desperately missing the GR 20 trail and my
badass, like-minded trekking peeps. Nevertheless, I did what I always do in big
touristy European cities... I made it my mission to find sanctuary - a cafe in
an urban garden tucked away down an inconspicuous lane way where I went for
morning coffee but ended up with Prosecco; a church that no one was interested
in because it was <i>only</i> 600 years old; and, a farm-to-table
restaurant that might have been the only place to make vegan food in all of
Italy. I found my own way to be a tourist, but after just 24 hrs, it was time
to take those sporty legs back to where they belong - the
mountains. Florence, check</span><span style="color: #454545;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">It
has been my dream for years to compete at a big European orienteering meet.
After the Denmark workshop, this was the second priority for my trip and I was
willing to go anywhere for it. I looked at the dates for all the usual suspects
- Scottish 6-days, nope; Swiss-O week, nope; O-Ringen, nope; World Masters,
nope. As it turns out, the only big event that I could find was in Italy. Five
days, five races, 2000 competitors, way up in the mountains... Well, OK then,
if I must. The festivities were staged out of the village of Madonna di
Campiglio deep in the Brenta Dolomites, with a backdrop of pointy peaks,
sparkling glaciers, and green alpine meadows carpeted in flowers that took
my breath away every time I looked up from my race map. It was exquisite. </span><span style="color: #454545;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">Most
people don't believe me when I say, "<i>I wasn't there to be competitive</i>",
but it was the truth. For one, I accidentally registered to race down an age
category with girls who were just slightly too old to make the Swedish national
team anymore. The competition was deep in the W35 group, with 26 ladies from
Russia, Estonia, and every part of Scandinavia. In fact, I was the only athlete
from an English speaking country, and I'm pretty sure the only one who hasn't
been orienteering six days a week since birth. Not coming dead last was my
legitimate daily goal. </span><span style="color: #454545;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxCJIIvXy8ZOcI-W1a60h0NtvzeWo8TMgmBxOvR8V4IizfdvILeJSM8B9hzRGWrmv4JMEQqAPj3iq_59cyKmryFrXJq5Dkf40Jk4Zaarg1E9UQeKG9NjF9_wC7Zoj14Sz6eKeAQXxqS5g/s1600/finish+arena.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxCJIIvXy8ZOcI-W1a60h0NtvzeWo8TMgmBxOvR8V4IizfdvILeJSM8B9hzRGWrmv4JMEQqAPj3iq_59cyKmryFrXJq5Dkf40Jk4Zaarg1E9UQeKG9NjF9_wC7Zoj14Sz6eKeAQXxqS5g/s1600/finish+arena.jpg" /></a>Orienteering
in Europe is a sight to behold. It was everything I imagined and more.... colourful
Orienteering outfits, club banners to match, day tents set up in a sprawling
arena, old wiry men getting changed right out in the open, and tacky
orienteering songs being played over the loud speaker. And, everyone, I mean,
everyone, had a backpack that turned into a stool. Apparently, sitting directly
on the nice lawn after bashing through mud, thick bush and high grass for over
an hour is unacceptable. I might not have had a nifty backpack-stool but the
internationally standard orienteering script was familiar, and so I felt like I
belonged. The whole event was a highly sophisticated operation, with up to 15
athletes aged between 5 and 85 starting on the minute, every minute for up to
three hours, and heading off on at least 20 different variations of the race
course. I cannot overstate that there were controls everywhere. The
orienteering itself was pure bliss, but my favourite day was the final sprint
through the impossibly narrow and windy, cobblestone streets of Pinzolo that
were packed with Saturday market goers, tourists, and tiny cars. There was a
control on almost every corner, flower bed, underpass and water fountain and it
was like a game of high speed dodge. So. Much. Fun. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">I
stayed at a gorgeous B&B that was six kilometres down the valley. Each day,
I put on my club O-shirt, my race number, stood out on the road, and hitchhiked
up to Madonna. The first day I got picked up by the British army team, which
was fabulous because I instantly had a tribe to hang out with in the event
arena. Making friends at a European orienteering meet is not as easy as you
might think - very few people speak English, everyone sticks with their O-club,
their family, or their national team peeps, and even at the best of times,
orienteers are not known for being overly gregarious. Not so, with the British
lads. They were a riot, and they welcomed me to sit, conduct post-race
analysis, and drink beers with them. And, when I lost my camera on day two and
miraculously found it lying in a random meadow high up in the mountains on day
four, they were ready to recruit me to the search and rescue regiment! I also
made friends with George and Lynn Walker, and American/Australian couple who
were storming the 75+ category. Seeing them every day reminded me that
orienteering is the best damn sport in the world. Name a sport in which
you can find yourself on the international circuit, right alongside the elites
and professionals, getting just as much air time from the announcer at 75+
years of age? Yep, orienteering is a beautiful thing that is cheap and
accessible to all, and after 15 years in the sport, I still get a rush every
time I find a little orange and white flag in the woods tucked behind the exact
rock I was expecting. But above all else, it has empowered me to feel
un-intimidated in the wilderness, alone, with nothing but a map and compass.
What a gift!</span><span style="color: #454545;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">In
the end, after an even mix of sloppy and superb orienteering performance, I
came 15th. Not even close to dead last!!!</span><span style="color: #454545;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1sAmIuWPh-5BC-GHTyxZGqvSGfDcf05WnlpETZihfw5mEhuH97keOv5YjJ2nJcBWbwrRBVNXyt5haLnVrjWZQLy26yQxQLdbau4QgMqMb5BsI6ORO_-fC5kyhqTUSV4iMvoLsW_B8sKY/s1600/dolomites+sign.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1sAmIuWPh-5BC-GHTyxZGqvSGfDcf05WnlpETZihfw5mEhuH97keOv5YjJ2nJcBWbwrRBVNXyt5haLnVrjWZQLy26yQxQLdbau4QgMqMb5BsI6ORO_-fC5kyhqTUSV4iMvoLsW_B8sKY/s1600/dolomites+sign.jpg" /></a><span style="color: #454545;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #454545;">While
I went to the Dolomites for orienteering, I doubled down with some incredible
mountain adventures as well. As soon as my race was done each day, I exchanged
the detailed orienteering map for a larger scale trail map and found a 4-6 hour
high mountain commute home. Running in the Dolomites is epic, but civilized.
For example, at the top of a 1200 m ascent that involves hands-on scrambling
and via Ferrata there is likely to be a full service Refugio. And from there
you can go any which way over glaciers, summits, or high passes via well marked
routes to another Refugio that is just over in the next valley. On my last day,
I climbed to 2600 m and ordered the soup with wine. You'd think they'd
look at me and think, "<i>Gee, she still needs to run for three precarious
hours back down this mountain, we better just give her a small wine</i>".
Nope, they go full carafe up there in the thin air. Just $5 for a jug of wine.
Solo and tipsy....that's how I experienced the high Dolomites!</span><span style="color: #454545;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">It's
not the first time I've had to peel myself kicking and screaming away from the
Italian mountains. I reluctantly took the bus back down to Trento, then a train
out to the flat lands of Verona, but with a strong resolve to be back as soon
as possible. My European extravaganza was coming to an end, but I had one final
night to kill back in the UK. Knowing my distaste for big cities (especially
London), I decided to go out with a bang by heading down to the notoriously
partying-hard town of Brighton. And boy-o-boy do I know how to party! I jumped
in the ocean, had a sunset beer on the pier, and then reserved a spot for
Monday night trivia down at the local Lobster and Lion. A classic British pub
quiz night with a bunch of regular oldies....now that’s how to celebrate an
incredible month of traveling.</span><span style="color: #454545;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #454545;">It
was bittersweet to board my WestJet flight back to Calgary. In the last month
I’ve taken seven flights, twelve trains, fourteen buses, one ferry, and
hitchhiked five times. I’ve walked, hiked, run, and scrambled countless miles.
I’ve met many interesting and kind people, and made a bunch of new friends,
survived with nothing but a few items of clothing that I haul around in a small
carry-on backpack with a tent and sleeping bag. I recorded a podcast for the
Swedish government and learned how to be a better teacher. I’ve been to the
Arctic, the Mediterranean, and the high Dolomites, and explored Florence,
London, and Stockholm. I got charged by a mountain cow during an orienteering
race, almost missed a couple of trains, and lost my prescription glasses, my
favourite Lululemon pants, and my camera (although I found that again...see
above). I’ve drunk a lot of amazing wine. </span><span style="color: #454545;">So, how does one return to normal life? Lucky for me, my “normal life” is pretty
damn awesome as well. I’m looking forward to seeing John, hanging out with
friends, eating vegetables, and using hair conditioner. Not to mention playing
in my very own backyard mountains which are now in their full summer glory.
Trust me, the adventures and good times do not stop here.</span></div>
</div>
Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-82876125418485236682018-06-25T05:50:00.000-06:002018-07-30T13:18:51.428-06:00Planes, trains and automobiles, ferries and feet. Week 3 - Corsica GR20<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt5s2orxT_36h2EGQWY0vIhyphenhyphencTsqMn0ENk6I0lxOLebf_-sUBD0hg6_CF_6gy66-Y3VSxK4CiEI_vpPj_Ze1LFB07wmCJC2qAm5O6KzGooiDVhkfq0Z6qP8b6v85t4b2u_bQ4EM-X-XOI/s1600/mountains.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt5s2orxT_36h2EGQWY0vIhyphenhyphencTsqMn0ENk6I0lxOLebf_-sUBD0hg6_CF_6gy66-Y3VSxK4CiEI_vpPj_Ze1LFB07wmCJC2qAm5O6KzGooiDVhkfq0Z6qP8b6v85t4b2u_bQ4EM-X-XOI/s1600/mountains.jpg" /></a><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Corsica is an interesting island
with somewhat of an identity crisis. That's probably because it has spent
the last 800 years trying to figure out who it belongs to. It definitely smells
like France with eau-de-cigarette wafting everywhere you go. Everyone has a
small dog, the wait staff don't give a shit, and Napoleon was born here, so
there is no mistaking its current national status. But it tastes like Italy
with its pizza, gnocchi, and burrata cheese, and the coffee has that
oh-so-good, distinctive Italian bite. They also speak their own Corsican blend
of <i>bonjour Madame </i>and <i>ciao Bella, </i>and have a
unique range of cheeses and aperitifs found nowhere else. Of course,
officially, it is part of France, and to me France will always feel like my
escape from Africa 16 years ago, a refuge from a war, and a deep breath of
relief. I was so happy to be here, to be able to dust off my French, and
to get my fill of pain au chocolate. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I came to Corsica to hike the
GR20, a 170 km, +11000 m route that winds its way down the spine of this small
Mediterranean island. It was an idea that I poached off my friend, Claire,
because, until last year, I hadn't even heard of it. I read that fast-packing,
ultra-running type people do it in seven days, instead of the recommended
15-16, but after factoring time to transfer to and from the start and finish, I
only had six. No problems, I said, that's <i>only </i>30 km a day.
How hard can that be?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I flew into Bastia and found a
guesthouse that was willing to store half my belongings for the week. I took
ghetto to the next level and went ultra-minimalist with a backpack weighing
just 6 kg, including a tent, sleeping bag and mat. I was prepared to freeze at
night (which I did) and starve during the day (also did) in order to feel
light. I preloaded my adventure with a big feed of mussels on a terrace
overlooking the port and a good night of sleep, and then began my journey
across the island to Calvi on a clickerty-clackerty child-sized version of a
train. We were packed in like cattle with twice as many people as there were
seats, all of whom were sporting a monstrous hiking backpack. It was clear that
I would not be alone on the trail. It was also clear that, comparatively, I had
under-packed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Everyone spilled out of the train
three stops before Calvi so I figured I should too. I didn't really know where
I was but the backpack was a clear indication of where I was going so I stuck
out my thumb and within a few minutes had hitched a ride the 8 km up to the
trailhead. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the middle of a 34 degree
afternoon and under a blazing sun, I began walking up into the mountains. From
that moment on, my perception of distance, elevation gain, and fast-packing
pace were forever changed. Let's make one thing clear. The northern half of the
GR20 is not a trail. It is a sustained 4th class scrambling route. For the next
four days, I would spend nine hours a day clambering across the most dramatic
mountains I've ever seen, ensuring constant 4-5 points of contact, including my
backside which got used extensively for balancing, leveraging, sliding, and
resting. During the rare moments that I was not scrambling, I was carefully
traversing some of the roughest, loosest, and rockiest terrain underfoot,
either straight up or straight down, at a pace just slightly faster than a
crawl. Nine hours to complete 11 km, for example. This, by the way, was a
double stage at double the speed of most everyone else I met. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The route was treacherous and
spectacular, at times terrifying and overwhelming, mentally and emotionally
exhausting, and overall, amazing. I couldn't have imagined anything like it in
my wildest dreams. I was so thankful for a light pack, but also aware that I
was one thunderstorm away from having to abandon the mission. Turns out I got
lucky with a streak of hot, bluebird days. My fitness wasn't really tested at
these speeds, but my technical agility sure was. At some point on day two,
while inching along on a precarious ridge, I surrendered my impatience and
accepted the reality of this slow, careful existence. And then I started loving
it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The scrambling was fabulous with
solid holds and grippy granite, breathtaking, airy drop offs and delicious
views. For me, it was a pure indulgence, with just the right amount of scary.
Mostly. On day two I noticed people coming and going with ice axes, crampons,
and rope. I didn't even have a spare pair of undies, let alone any
mountaineering equipment. The hikers coming from the opposite direction
reported significant snow on the two highest passes, but assured me there was
an overpriced shuttle bus taking ill-equipped people around the first, and a
low-level variant for the second. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Darn it. No hiker ever wants to
take a bus in the middle of a through-route. Alas, I paid my $50 (!!!) and
prepared for a grumpy day down low. But then I was chatting with a Scottish
couple over a beer and they said they successfully came down the biggest
snowfield in running shoes. They claimed that poles, patience, a clear window
of weather, and a little bravery were all that were required. Hmmmm! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn't have poles. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Serendipitously, there was a team
of 14 German ultra-runners staying at Ascu Stagnu (the base of the tallest peak
in Corsica and the start of the most dangerous stage). I could tell that these
were my kind of people and so I made friends. By the end of that night we had
all shared beer, dinner, race stories, and a game of "do you know
so-and-so", and I had procured a loaner pair of poles. I got a refund on
my bus ticket and at 5.30 am the next morning, I went to face the
mountain. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dying or getting a helicopter
rescue in Corsica seemed really inconvenient so I just made a decision to not
slip off the mountain. Instead, I took a deep breath, found my zen, and for
over an hour, carefully kick-stepped my way up to the highest point on the GR
20, Monte Cinto. It was another one of those amazing days that I will
never forget. I was feeling so buoyed by the achievement that I went on to
complete three stages that day, which caught me up to a whole new crop of
hikers. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The vast majority of people on
the GR20 are French. They are a determined and focused bunch, who rarely have
much to say. The non-French stand out. They are smiley, chatty, and stumble
over "bonjour" with a bad accent when you pass. Of course, I chat to
anyone (in French or English) so I found myself collecting new friends as I
walked south. I came across Sebastian, a young Danish guy, sitting on a ledge
on the afternoon of day three. He had this youthful, optimistic, free-spirit
and I instantly liked him. We hiked the rest of that afternoon together. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next came the young German boys. They had
names but we just called them "the Germans". Sebastian had met them
the day earlier and so all four of us had dinner together that night. They got
going earlier than me on day four, but I caught them just before the ascent up
to the second snowy pass. Again, everyone was coming down with crampons but I
figured if I stuck with Sebastian and the Germans, we could look after each
other up there. This section was the most dramatic and spectacular and I spent
the entire time exclaiming either "<i>wow</i>" or "<i>holy shit</i>".
Sebastian and I giggled with delight for much of the 2-hr razor edged ridge and
snow traverse. It was exhilarating and the day ended before I was ready,
despite having been on my feet (and bum) for over 10 hours.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Petra Piana was the highest place
we camped, and we arrived late in the day to a UN-esque welcoming party. It
seems that all the non-French had coalesced here on a perch, sharing stories
and drinking beer and wine that had been helicoptered in to this remote, high
mountain refuge. All of a sudden we were 11, from Denmark, Netherlands,
Germany, UK, Canada and Australia. While we kept walking separately or in
pairs, we all planned to double the next stage to reach Vizzavona, the halfway
point, and celebrate together. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It took me a total of 4.5 days to
reach Vizzavona, and after multiple calculations and recalculations, I accepted
the fact that I was one day short of being able to complete the southern half.
And the weather was about to turn, as well. Sebastian was also short on time,
so we both (very) reluctantly traded trail life for a couple of days of beach
life. We took the train to Ajaccio, I rented a car for a day, and we drove
north to Porto along the spectacular Mediterranean coast, swimming, drinking
coffee, and oogling the sights. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As we watched the sunset on a
seaside terrace drinking way too much wine, I marvelled (again) at how travel
and adventure brings people into your life that just days before you didn't know
existed…people with whom you share just one delicious moment of life. It has
happened countless times to me over the years and it's my favourite part of
traveling. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I returned the car to Ajaccio the
next day as Sebastian kept hitchhiking north. My week on Corsica was coming to
an end and the next adventure loomed. Twenty four hours, two trains and a ferry
later, I found myself in Florence, Italy. I'm on my way up to the Dolomites for
the Italian 5-days of Orienteering Festival and I can't help but wonder what
and who will surprise me by the end of this next week.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJHabWgOppusFCGDckh4DOzt8gKVWLQhRt_HDlFvRV2-MZwR5R_Yy9NvsFPtqh5DaHBcSJ0gqetWemuQZvVewulcMIPxc9aUUUzGLC27eXBs1CTiSaP3s9wvjld8Oi390SL-SNn2aWMdU/s1600/monte+cinto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJHabWgOppusFCGDckh4DOzt8gKVWLQhRt_HDlFvRV2-MZwR5R_Yy9NvsFPtqh5DaHBcSJ0gqetWemuQZvVewulcMIPxc9aUUUzGLC27eXBs1CTiSaP3s9wvjld8Oi390SL-SNn2aWMdU/s1600/monte+cinto.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Summit of Monte Cinto</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY2_fA-zLOndjTdf6NFYGvJiKUmma9dEIj2OE_JdO-v8K_iCQb8VFNjjHYEhTggTP8auvfFyFKvvELRY_64nMcL9XODKs5s7zHylk6eBvaijRBNQ386Na3TklkzLkwPFl65kTx0UT1GF4/s1600/petra.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY2_fA-zLOndjTdf6NFYGvJiKUmma9dEIj2OE_JdO-v8K_iCQb8VFNjjHYEhTggTP8auvfFyFKvvELRY_64nMcL9XODKs5s7zHylk6eBvaijRBNQ386Na3TklkzLkwPFl65kTx0UT1GF4/s1600/petra.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arriving at Petra Piana</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6VOixnBf0QOf7xqtpH3LEFZbs0HmKV-16czPA5sq6Q6H13bWCkSnigd53jQmnTzdfPEw4kpHsQOyb1q6OelLeDt76RrgDrqfNuYvHdAEL5fTOF5uGK29hB7jL7UTMWPaFRTnuuDq0Oe4/s1600/seb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6VOixnBf0QOf7xqtpH3LEFZbs0HmKV-16czPA5sq6Q6H13bWCkSnigd53jQmnTzdfPEw4kpHsQOyb1q6OelLeDt76RrgDrqfNuYvHdAEL5fTOF5uGK29hB7jL7UTMWPaFRTnuuDq0Oe4/s1600/seb.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sebastian descending typical terrain</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic3gL2H6sXmadxPyJ4kej8rF0G14HckB_VBpbI00nVIdwoPEbYvq5WBl4H8bXQVBYLPKBmb238BLQU8GCsv4gyqxcU6TeQROCbwvVnriMmwDtP3VCFZpDybGWH-nZlL2fhCyv1y165YXo/s1600/snow+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic3gL2H6sXmadxPyJ4kej8rF0G14HckB_VBpbI00nVIdwoPEbYvq5WBl4H8bXQVBYLPKBmb238BLQU8GCsv4gyqxcU6TeQROCbwvVnriMmwDtP3VCFZpDybGWH-nZlL2fhCyv1y165YXo/s1600/snow+2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ascending the snow fields on Monte Cinto</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF68cbJn8it630jDqBf5aM1qwsB5zaFz6-v4oKmXXXVIalK10MttUMYkY1yU-tgWMHWZyHggPrNKUBcdfuwayK66Hine-OmYV_c9pvmbjz0N87pFxffr_xb468cwF8x-qP3Qh6wHmPnnU/s1600/snow+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF68cbJn8it630jDqBf5aM1qwsB5zaFz6-v4oKmXXXVIalK10MttUMYkY1yU-tgWMHWZyHggPrNKUBcdfuwayK66Hine-OmYV_c9pvmbjz0N87pFxffr_xb468cwF8x-qP3Qh6wHmPnnU/s1600/snow+3.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slipping here is not an option</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2NUh3PRNeS2XV1THe3-nQtjPH8W5DN69jhDzU9D47cf1_9n-kxUa7GoBcoe1pjHv8jZDIW1pmkBojhFzem_0lkqX5fExho4YXdcva_VQ1onLpCbrsglHTRezrGX0iHpIK_SpTkG22gSU/s1600/snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2NUh3PRNeS2XV1THe3-nQtjPH8W5DN69jhDzU9D47cf1_9n-kxUa7GoBcoe1pjHv8jZDIW1pmkBojhFzem_0lkqX5fExho4YXdcva_VQ1onLpCbrsglHTRezrGX0iHpIK_SpTkG22gSU/s1600/snow.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An ice-axe would have been nice!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpRmPe9iJrQQ3BRrsfg8lDx3R2oSzbTAZcdq42hy5xzyegRJNA9SBQZaZPwg-VI9ugNOjuQc9EFKzAaeHsZI8WEC2fslKNkMdo3NxSslVIlCtiuZYB0wJmCcrheEP5iRlojFY3iid_Qa4/s1600/stage+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpRmPe9iJrQQ3BRrsfg8lDx3R2oSzbTAZcdq42hy5xzyegRJNA9SBQZaZPwg-VI9ugNOjuQc9EFKzAaeHsZI8WEC2fslKNkMdo3NxSslVIlCtiuZYB0wJmCcrheEP5iRlojFY3iid_Qa4/s1600/stage+7.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful lakes</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPIKY9OGIAJBhBp5xpzTPSgnvNLWVtEcHE3wmupD5IiLxlOOzM30k9i6NYUdLntQrbiiFcN0zNNw4hi4By0Rt3tnCxFxI7o2rYtpvyZUrS6EtyhwV7DLmA9GMBuxJ3m_QqW2LZUB7PJFY/s1600/tent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPIKY9OGIAJBhBp5xpzTPSgnvNLWVtEcHE3wmupD5IiLxlOOzM30k9i6NYUdLntQrbiiFcN0zNNw4hi4By0Rt3tnCxFxI7o2rYtpvyZUrS6EtyhwV7DLmA9GMBuxJ3m_QqW2LZUB7PJFY/s1600/tent.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Typical camp</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-78286887377320875952018-06-16T03:06:00.002-06:002018-09-03T09:30:46.813-06:00Planes, trains and automobiles, ferries and feet. Week 2 - Sweden<div style="color: #454545;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Two weeks before coming to Europe, I had no intention of
visiting Sweden. But apparently some director-type in the Swedish Agency for
Education recently read a paper that I had published on videoconferencing and
invited me to come and record a podcast for distance education teachers across
Sweden. This gave me a week to kill between the end of my Denmark course and
the meeting in Stockholm, so I googled "hiking in Sweden" and was
instantly taken by the photos from the Lapland region in the far north. The Kungsleden
Trail - a 450 km long distance trek - drew my attention, and even though I
didn't have time to do the entire route, I figured I could bang out the first
110 km section from Abisko to Kebnekaise. Flights to the northern most town in
Sweden (Kiruna) were relatively cheap and getting to and from the trailhead
seemed easy enough. I've always dreamed of seeing the midnight sun so
I jumped on the opportunity to explore the top end of the earth.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr9PSN0jFw-jhh7oMJWHdN4nF5p6hQNixUQaHcsvw9vpHvdPpgRiR-ItwHbvNpQaAGAhR2k6ReKq3x6-JF8U2zT4_jhSdQfxoJfdxVt81CDYnqNUe9wIuL_ShxhAWj7L1bwNCPAV0h25A/s1600/stockholm+o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr9PSN0jFw-jhh7oMJWHdN4nF5p6hQNixUQaHcsvw9vpHvdPpgRiR-ItwHbvNpQaAGAhR2k6ReKq3x6-JF8U2zT4_jhSdQfxoJfdxVt81CDYnqNUe9wIuL_ShxhAWj7L1bwNCPAV0h25A/s1600/stockholm+o.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">First I had to overnight in Stockholm. I arrived on a sunny Saturday
afternoon and the streets were frantic with tourists, construction, and
locals commuting around on....wait for it.....roller skis (wtf??). Also, it
seems like Stockholm is the capital of paternity leave. I dodged as many men
with prams as I did tourists. I hadn't done any research to figure out what
drew so many people to wander around this classic Nordic city, but I did know
that I was coming to the mothership of orienteering, and that was good enough
for me. I mean, this is a place that you can go to the bar in your orienteering
clothes...no problems. I heard rumours of orienteering courses set up in almost
every green space in the country, changed regularly, with maps available from
some dude in a corner store. I had to see it to believe it, so I dug out my
sexy O-shirt and thumb compass, jumped on a city bus, and went to Hellasgarden,
a big park just 15 minutes from downtown. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">But I didn't go alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Just as I was planning to head out, I got a text from a
Vancouver orienteering friend who noticed from a FB post that I was going to be
in Sweden, asking if we could grab a beer if I passed through Stockholm. Erica
had just arrived that morning for a conference. I love it when the trajectories
of life intersect like that. She was stoked to go orienteering as well and we
were like kids in a candy store running around some urban woods in a foreign
country looking for little white and orange flags. We followed it up with a dip
in a lake, and then had that beer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">I have to confess, I was glad to leave the bustle of Stockholm
and head north. I much prefer being on the edges of civilization than smack in
the middle of it. I flew to Kiruna the next day, 150 km north of the Arctic
Circle. Kiruna is an intriguing little place - a remote arctic settlement that
was eerily empty and quiet, and clearly battered by year after year of brutal,
dark winters. It seemed like a town almost forgotten. But Kiruna is home to the
world's largest underground iron ore mine (providing 90% of all of Europe's
ore), and the original ice hotel. How could it be so sleepy? I couch-surfed
with a delightful young lady who is working as a social entrepreneur to
rejuvenate Kiruna as it moves 2 miles east to avoid its inevitable collapse (sometime
in the near future) into a giant mining-caused sinkhole. They are literally
moving the town, one heritage building at a time. Google it, if you don't
believe me!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">From Kiruna I took a train further into no-man’s land - toward
the Norwegian border and deep within the Lapland mountains to an outpost called
Abisko. By outpost, I mean an open-air train platform, one gravel street, and a
handful of houses. It felt exposed and deserted - windy, overcast and cool.
Apparently this place buzzes in the middle of winter when thousands flock to
see the northern lights, and then again in the height of summer with the
Kungsleden crowd. I arrived exactly 4 days before the hiking season opened, like
it has an on-switch, or something. The youth hostel, the restaurant,
the mountain huts, the tourist information, the gear shop...all closed. But, it
did have just what I needed - a bed in an otherwise empty guesthouse, a basic
grocery store, and trails. Doing a through-hike on the Kungsleden was
out-of-the-question as there would be no shuttle and limited chance of getting
a hitchhike at the end of the section I was planning on doing. And my
Mediterranean-ready hiking kit was not adequate for overnight camping in below
zero temperatures or traveling across the snowy high passes which were still
undergoing bouts of winter. I was only disappointed for a moment because as it
turns out, my poor timing meant that I had the entire area to myself -
completely void of people.....and those notorious mosquitos. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEbDUoO_NsEgK8gTbsDmGm0v1DJVLtsigkja4LkW5u5uECnMIEoxGDqmPJLPP08GjcxXbPqK1QwkK09n1klO2lkKFkqJXqPf-lE4TJ2H5pKv-urSetBJdQtm-KVNT-3go5EItgWvRy5cw/s1600/abisko.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="216" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEbDUoO_NsEgK8gTbsDmGm0v1DJVLtsigkja4LkW5u5uECnMIEoxGDqmPJLPP08GjcxXbPqK1QwkK09n1klO2lkKFkqJXqPf-lE4TJ2H5pKv-urSetBJdQtm-KVNT-3go5EItgWvRy5cw/s1600/abisko.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">I enjoyed an out-and-back run on the Kungsleden and marvelled at
some awesome waterfalls, but the entire trip north paid for itself with just
one adventure - the hike over to the village of Bjorkliden via Mt Njulla. It
was a 22 km journey of pure bliss. The sun came out for most of it and the
views from the summit extended all the way to Norway. I saw no one, and as I
dropped off the back of the mountain into a remote valley, I felt more alone
than ever. It was just me in this vast exaggerated landscape of memorizing beauty
and I'm not sure I have ever felt such joy. I actually wondered whether I had
slipped through a trapdoor into heaven itself. And then I deeply understood why
I do what I do - why I search for remote, empty, lovely places. It's to find
that moment when all the cells in your body resonate with the overwhelming
beauty of a perfect, uninterrupted landscape. Sunrise in the Australian desert,
coastal Iceland on a calm day, Moroccan sand dunes on sunset, the summit of a
mountain in the Canadian Rockies....and now the Arctic Lapland of Sweden. Yep,
I'm doomed to wander to far and away for the rest of my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">That day is going to be hard to beat. And I don't think that's
the last the Arctic has seen of me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">I felt ready to give Stockholm a second chance. Making the
transition from feral wilderness girl to schmoozing professional was the next
challenge ahead of me. It was time to buy a razor and comb and dig out the
skirt that I have rolled up and buried in the bottom of my backpack. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">I got to meet with a variety of very interesting people at the
Swedish Agency of Education, and chat with a fellow scholar from Uppsala
University, whose work I had read over the years. We spent the morning
recording a podcast of a conversation between the two of us and the director of
teacher development. Then there was champagne on a floating bar, a long walk in
the sunshine, and a networking dinner with rich conversation comparing
education in Sweden and Alberta. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">And, I learned to like Stockholm, despite its insanity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Scandinavia has surprised me.
I always thought of myself as a France-Italy-Spain kind of girl. But given the
choice, I would now chose to come up here. I said goodbye to the well-oiled
machine of Scandinavia and prepared myself for the glorious shit-show that one is
likely to find on a Mediterranean island. Off to Corsica...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLw1s2ZGgntSwEigAEgdylI7Gzlht_SSX-jVI4mf3BmmTHMydO0w3VoIVd35K-MKodGclW9P8KD1gu6F6nQa-o3-N4lh2SnjlycFJJxvcy2q-00Z78GVZELU5URJDkrm8iKH5Kpb1pdXk/s1600/education+director.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="255" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLw1s2ZGgntSwEigAEgdylI7Gzlht_SSX-jVI4mf3BmmTHMydO0w3VoIVd35K-MKodGclW9P8KD1gu6F6nQa-o3-N4lh2SnjlycFJJxvcy2q-00Z78GVZELU5URJDkrm8iKH5Kpb1pdXk/s1600/education+director.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-542216360126259522018-06-11T05:52:00.001-06:002018-09-03T09:35:21.067-06:00Planes, trains and automobiles, ferries and feet. Week 1 - Denmark<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyE2hyphenhyphenvB5_5rfbshHtPGSToqg8B-DQ7sD2oVm3kbpOYzAzy6AFmflb9To8Tlz_Q2dAdfXtbjytBZWTuEWXqZ_HIcFFpOhLXNgqzGnBFcZaDYqnebINfVyriUByia2ULKmPEDQU9zhM-tk/s1600/ERNJ5428.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="777" data-original-width="1600" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyE2hyphenhyphenvB5_5rfbshHtPGSToqg8B-DQ7sD2oVm3kbpOYzAzy6AFmflb9To8Tlz_Q2dAdfXtbjytBZWTuEWXqZ_HIcFFpOhLXNgqzGnBFcZaDYqnebINfVyriUByia2ULKmPEDQU9zhM-tk/s400/ERNJ5428.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #454545; font-family: inherit;">It's not hard for me to find an excuse to be in Europe at least once each summer. Normally it's a race that brings me over to the land of cobblestone streets and pastries, but this year, it was a 3-day course of study that would become the launch point for a 5-week ultimate European adventure.</span></span><br />
<div style="color: #454545;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #454545;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Let's begin in Scandinavia.</span></div>
<div style="color: #454545;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #454545;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">For almost a decade, I've been salivating over a radical business and leadership school in Aarhus, Denmark, called KaosPilots. Something about its ballsy, anti-establishment, experiential program has kept me lurking on their website and wishing I was a 20-something year old entrepreneurial wannabe just starting out in life. I am none of those things, but I am an educator and a disruptor who is constantly pushing the boundaries of the system while obsessively trying to figure out this whole learning thing, and having as much fun as possible along the way. So, when KaosPilots starting offering an intensive course for educators to experience their methodology, I signed up instantly. The workshop would bring together 23 like-minded badasses from 13 different countries who know that education can and must be better. A design and innovation think-tank, if you will. A joyride into ideas and possibility. After so much anticipation, this workshop was up against seemingly unattainable expectations, but it over-delivered on multiple counts. <span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It's going to take me months to process everything I learned and experienced and I can't wait to apply some of the practices to my course this coming semester. Sorry to my next crop of students, but a little Kaos is coming your way!</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #454545;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #454545;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: inherit;">I started each day with a morning run on the forest trails that surround Aarhus and follow the coastline. The weather was perfect every day - sunny and warm with the clearest of skies - and so I dipped in the ocean a couple of times, just to wash off any last remains of jet lag. The course was intense and so the days disappeared in the airy and windowed 6th floor design studio of KaosPilots, and the evenings were spent with new friends debriefing, dreaming and laughing until it hurt. We sampled a bunch of roof-top bars and street patios and ate some incredible food and stayed out late. I was in study and travel bliss. One day you are going about your normal routine at home and a few days later you are sharing life with a bunch of strangers-turned-friends. It makes me hopeful and excited to anticipate new things and new people that are either further on the horizon or just around the next corner.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #454545;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #454545;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I fell into the rhythm of being a ghetto European backpacker almost immediately. I love<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> meeting strangers, figuring out transit schedules, and spending all day with some version of a map in my hand. And, the</span> simplicity of a hostel dorm bed, my passport and Visa card, a couple of pairs of undies, and a small bottle of soap that doubles as my shampoo and laundry detergent just makes me so happy. I went particularly bare-bones on this trip as I'm traveling with just a carry-on backpack that is mostly filled up by my tent, sleeping bad and Thermarest. I needed to be prepared for running, orienteering, camping, fast-packing in hot and cold climates, and one swanky dinner with the Swedish education minister, but I seem to be managing so far. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #454545;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Overall, my week in Denmark was fabulous. Aarhus is an edgy, university town on the Baltic Sea filled with beautiful looking people riding around on bicycles or sitting around in street bars drinking Aperol Spritz on sunny evenings. Fashion-forward men in tailored above-the knee shorts and loafers and designer sunglasses, coiffed hair, and man purses slung over their shoulders, and women in breezy dresses and tennis shoes made me feel like I was walking around in an H&M commercial. There's just something about Denmark. The ease with which people seem to move through life might have something to do with the fact that they consistently come out as the top country for quality of living, apparently uninhibited by their 60-80% tax rates. They are into food and architecture and sailing, community gardens and sustainability....its just one big country of hipsters!</span></div>
<div style="color: #454545;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #454545;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was sad to leave, but I have so much adventure ahead. Now, onto Sweden.</span></div>
<div style="color: #454545;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #454545;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #454545;">
</div>
<div style="height: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">x</span></div>
Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-68325382056750376142018-04-11T10:05:00.000-06:002018-04-19T16:10:44.174-06:00Help is Not Coming - Barkley #5<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4QEYXyFElVusMQqY6DpKY1eAlckLJZDcoWTkUS-j3AO-winNisQf9LepNt_we6Gfct3T6rSKEtn3o3dgz3lwRyD8golPbBG-BgNm1Uz5pjyhZEzgAd-iHX9bKmPTd-i0aHhPORgw4bRQ/s1600/DSC00134-sml.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4QEYXyFElVusMQqY6DpKY1eAlckLJZDcoWTkUS-j3AO-winNisQf9LepNt_we6Gfct3T6rSKEtn3o3dgz3lwRyD8golPbBG-BgNm1Uz5pjyhZEzgAd-iHX9bKmPTd-i0aHhPORgw4bRQ/s400/DSC00134-sml.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It is normal for me to forget the pain and misery of an ultra-marathon or adventure race. This is the perfectly useful mechanism that causes me to declare...."I want to do that again" as soon as I've crossed the finish line. But the Barkley Marathons is an exception to this pattern. Leading up to my fifth attempt, I vividly recalled and deeply felt the experience of the previous four go-arounds, and subsequently doubted the sanity of my return to the yellow gate. In fact, I was more afraid of the fifth attempt than my first. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I had so many questions. Would all the extra training I had done with my coach (+130000 ft climbing in 12 weeks) make any kind of difference? Would it feel like the same ol' Barkley now that it has so much media attention? Would my old friends be back? Who were all these elite women that everyone was talking about? How big was the new section? And, having missed 2017, would I remember my way around the course?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It turns out that all I needed to do (like most things in life) was <i>show up</i>. Driving into Frozen Head State Park felt like coming home to family and I knew I had made the right decision the minute we pulled into the campground. I was super excited to have Claire with me, to welcome her into this obsession of mine, have her experience this beautiful corner of the world, and draw on her calm head and crewing superpowers when I needed them most.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Barkley #5, here we go. </b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaedfWY09xvEN6nwGoT6S5uIuueZvV1vaSZauL9GKQo3p0ArkqiUPlDfCV5X73ysQXS8UVL-HXl9DUj_DP2sgdKIrpIYAE1ZK5McODEpojYQAq0Cmgnc_TvhngTf_eY15zAYlZkyrQP_A/s1600/IMG_0239.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaedfWY09xvEN6nwGoT6S5uIuueZvV1vaSZauL9GKQo3p0ArkqiUPlDfCV5X73ysQXS8UVL-HXl9DUj_DP2sgdKIrpIYAE1ZK5McODEpojYQAq0Cmgnc_TvhngTf_eY15zAYlZkyrQP_A/s320/IMG_0239.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">Old friends...YES! Hiram and I have a long history here. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We arrived Friday afternoon. This was later than usual, but I didn't want to be around everyone else's pre-race nerves and banter. I rocked up wearing shorts, but the temperature was already diving as the sun disappeared and the clouds rolled in. Right from the outset, the talk around the campfire was the approaching weather system. The map came out late (around 7 pm), but this did not bother me too much. The general flow of the course is permanently etched as a 3D photograph in my mind, and my own master map was already prepped and marked up with the hard-earned micro-navigation details that I've memorized over the years. Mossy rocks here, the dead stump there, the maze of ancient, almost undetectable coal roads on Stallion Mountain, the dilapidated deer stand, the small dirt mound, the point at which you veer slightly off your 304 degree bearing to find that particular capstone, and what the river looks like when you need to look up and find that exact tree. This race is intimidating, even with a wealth of course knowledge, so I always give huge kudos to the courage of the new crop of virgins. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Mind you, when the night time fog reduces the visibility to half an outstretched arm, and torrential rain quadruples the flow of all water sources and turns every trail and gentle gully into a new river, we all become virgins out there. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The race started at the sensible hour of 9.33 am. Not much about the Barkley is sensible so this felt like a windfall. Despite expecting to be woken up for a one am start, I put my sleeping superpower to good use and got a solid eight hours of deep slumber in the back of our rental car. The hour between the conch and the cigarette goes by in a flash. I shoved as much breakfast into me as I could (shrimp and cheesy grits, y'all), got a weather update, did a final gear check, took some pre-race photos and presented at the yellow gate. I noticed that for the first time in three months, I wasn't nervous. I was about to spend an undetermined amount of time in the woods, having one big, audacious adventure, and I couldn't wait. I had never worked harder for my training, or been so focused over these last few months, and I <i>know</i> this place. It was all the bank and it was now time to start withdrawing.<br />
<br />
<b>Loop 1</b><br />
<br />
The first half of loop one was uneventful. Despite the slight hiccup between the bottom of Jacque Mate Hill and Jury Ridge, I moved efficiently. That boundary corner always seems to confuse me no matter how cleanly I hit it - in fact, it's the only section of the course that I still find a little navigationally mysterious. The north boundary trail was already a mess from recent heavy snowfall and the overnight rain, and despite running most of it, the pace was slow. Grant, Ed and I arrived at the Garden Spot (book 4) at around 3.5 hours. We had formed a solid trio somewhere after book one and stayed that way right up until the end. Grant, a fellow Australian, was sandwiching his virgin Barkley attempt between the Iditarod and Mt Everest....as you do. We spoke the same language, are equally obsessed with exploration and adventure, and seem to move at similar paces. He is a career yachtsman, and while I know how to navigate on land, I figured his ocean compass skills would come in handy when the mayonnaise fog rolled in. Ed, who finished one loop last year in over 20 hours, was also great company and was determined to get a clean loop done this year and get out on the second.<br />
<br />
We nailed the endless descent down Leonard's Buttslide to the new book. That hill is so steep that I figured the only thing below the old book location was hell itself, but it turns out that 400 vertical feet further down is a little piece of paradise by the Barley Mouth Branch. I think it was the prettiest spot I've ever seen in Frozen Head, and I would have loved to stay and live out the rest of my days there rather than reclimb that damn thing. It was all "lollipops and puppies" by the river, but alas, we left and ascended into the storm. The apocalypse was coming, and that extra section had already added at least 30 minutes.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-dbPNlYS86UKP_v7gISUYXq-yeAWVf6QNTmYJ1aNBYB8zw1J05sx1qEJlr7W3G71HXp7twU92UlcxROFDNUmhvn2qZcEzK5AwU7mvw_ac107IV5vnswydllu9eZphZ7dz4UB8WbFqLHk/s1600/DSC00096.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-dbPNlYS86UKP_v7gISUYXq-yeAWVf6QNTmYJ1aNBYB8zw1J05sx1qEJlr7W3G71HXp7twU92UlcxROFDNUmhvn2qZcEzK5AwU7mvw_ac107IV5vnswydllu9eZphZ7dz4UB8WbFqLHk/s320/DSC00096.jpg" width="320" /></a>By the time we reached Fykes Peak, the fog had enveloped everything. Yet despite the lack of visibility, we continued to navigate perfectly. I finally led a fast and clean descent off Stallion Mountain and before we knew it we were crawling (literally) our way up the Testicle. The struggle to move upwards in the vertical mud was real, and the worst, on Rat Jaw, was yet to come. As we began descending to Raw Dog Falls, an entourage of speedy people came up behind - I think it was Eion, Maggie, Liz, Garret, Anatoly, and Remi. This band of characters are way faster than me, so it just goes to show how clean navigation can really save time and energy. The new book was hidden in a tire instead of the drum, which didn't seem too problematic until we found that there was about 500 tires in the immediate area. It was serendipitous to have so many eyes at that very moment to help locate the correct tire. Then they all disappeared into the fog and the life of Nicki, Grant and Ed returned to normal again.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTCq5zSGDch01vxZOhKiYHdSO5ZhEE93bl_C_4IKCnSMBQARL-x-d_PZleC58YHoP7F_VVI_xYhONcd87hCRn8sU0P6shRPj3_LTH-dYmj0NQhyr7A7e48BhYtUlcNX-CQijKM1DlqHCA/s1600/DSC00066.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTCq5zSGDch01vxZOhKiYHdSO5ZhEE93bl_C_4IKCnSMBQARL-x-d_PZleC58YHoP7F_VVI_xYhONcd87hCRn8sU0P6shRPj3_LTH-dYmj0NQhyr7A7e48BhYtUlcNX-CQijKM1DlqHCA/s320/DSC00066.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Nickiiiiiiiii..........are you out there???"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Rat Jaw was a mess. I think I was in disbelief as I laboured up that monster. But bubbling up below the misery was deep joy and gratitude. I was feeling strong, I was loving the brutality of the elements, and my name was being called from the heavens above, carried down the mountain through the mist. It was Claire. It was barely above freezing on the tower with gale force winds and sideways rain, yet Claire was up there waiting for me, yelling into the emptiness of the fog. What a trooper!<br />
<br />
The second half of the course was marked by mud, wind, fog, rain, and biting cold. Still, we joined the final four books with straight lines and didn't waste any time. Between the prison and the beech fork, our little trio grew again as we came across the six speedsters scattered in various places on Indian Knob in the fog. Everyone was a bit worried about finding the next book at the beech fork tree, especially with the approaching darkness, but I came through on my promise to get them there before we needed headlamps. With one mountain left to climb and the rain coming down in sheets, everyone took off at their own pace. Anatoly stuck with Grant, Ed and I, but the others disappeared. The fog was incredible on Chimney Top...not quite as bad as my first year in 2013, but close. And as you approached the summit, the wind roared across the capstones like a deafening freight train.The night was raging. Despite wanting to get off that mountain as fast as possible, it took significantly longer than usual to run down the candy ass trail to camp. It was near impossible to differentiate trail from non-trail, with the green blazes indistinguishable from the blobs of moss (if you could see them at all) and the entire mountainside turned into a river. I returned to the yellow gate at 12:17 - my slowest first loop ever, but the strongest by far.<br />
<br />
<b>Interloopal</b><br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
<br /></div>
Thank God for Claire. It was a like a crime scene in the ladies bathroom. I brought in half the Frozen Head mud and plopped myself on the floor in the middle of it all while Claire put a hot bowl of baked beans and Barkley chicken in my hand. I sat in that growing puddle of mud for about 10 minutes while I hand-shoveled the sloppy plate of food in the general direction of my mouth. It was NOT pretty. There was no doubt about me going back out, and Ed and I agreed to meet at the yellow gate at exactly 13:00 hours. Forty minutes is an excessively long interloopal time, but I was a mess and I needed it all. After dealing with my nauseating hunger, I peeled off all the layers of wet clothes that had vacuum-sealed to my body and stood under a steaming hot shower until the circulation (and feeling) returned to my feet. Dry clothes, operational limbs, and a belly full of food.... I was happy and ready to tackle loop 2.<br />
<br />
<b>Loop 2</b><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3pcBFV1VtqY2nQTEvxv3mnJ91oVu1FpXb-aK4rtQyPdyaqkNqORFnLlMvl74qrERawiJMVuQhDSiIEFpIHy4Tp2biCFjVfqbzz01oa1yyD8zKsVEvf6NITZRVPpvD3eNY4MYgQe9I2l0/s1600/29060680_10155589582349542_930365257575016192_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3pcBFV1VtqY2nQTEvxv3mnJ91oVu1FpXb-aK4rtQyPdyaqkNqORFnLlMvl74qrERawiJMVuQhDSiIEFpIHy4Tp2biCFjVfqbzz01oa1yyD8zKsVEvf6NITZRVPpvD3eNY4MYgQe9I2l0/s320/29060680_10155589582349542_930365257575016192_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Unfortunately, my battle stance didn't last long. Ed and I departed in the reverse direction to retrace our steps back up Chimney Top as planned. Stephanie and Gabriel, who had just come in off loop one, quickly turned around and joined us. The heavens were dumping about two inches of rain per hour directly on my head, my body was trying to digest 3000 calories of chicken and beans, and my legs were cut off at the knees in the fog. I was overheating under all my layers so I started opening zippers and lifting hoods to lower my body temperature. I might has well have been back in the shower. I was immediately soaked and in the few moments that I paused, I lost Ed, Stephanie and Gabriel to the fog. And then I lost my mind. The fog reflected everything straight back at me, and then the rain caused this psychedelic flickering that sent my head into a spin. Being mostly blind in one eye, I already suffer with depth perception, but this was new. I turned off the headlamp for a while and sat down in the middle of the trail in order to steady my balance. My overheating issues were suddenly gone and I started to shiver and realized that I needed to keep moving. I turned my headlamp back on and started inching my way up the mountain, but I was essentially hiking blind. I couldn't find the trail, I couldn't see my feet, and I had no one else around me to help provide spatial context. My brain was completely wigged out and I started to succumb to my claustrophobia. At some point I realized that I was going back down the hill instead of up (by mistake)... and yet I didn't fight it. Had I kept going just a little further up, I would have likely caught Stephanie and Gabriel at the next switchback and stuck with them to finish the loop. Or found the big crew of people (Eion, Amelia, Maggie...etc.) wandering around on top looking for the capstones in the fog. Instead, I was incapacitated to move forward. I returned to camp about two hours later, having no idea how I bled two hours descending Chimney Top Mountain. Barkley is full of feats of mystery, and I really might have been going around in circles up there. I was intensely proud, overwhelmed with emotion, and deeply unsatisfied as Dave played taps in the rain.<br />
<br />
<b>Again?</b><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvKKyGnP928hOW6gXtK_VOKyLMRLXRn294Ldr9RFGB7Ty5Hj9Jd0o28rtB80PBX1RdW-LItD6cUkivAeZUNFDcUYK6FibRC3wClzQuC9c5mGe4gP6cLgleleItAa6ginU5h-vGdWZC110/s1600/IMG_0237.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvKKyGnP928hOW6gXtK_VOKyLMRLXRn294Ldr9RFGB7Ty5Hj9Jd0o28rtB80PBX1RdW-LItD6cUkivAeZUNFDcUYK6FibRC3wClzQuC9c5mGe4gP6cLgleleItAa6ginU5h-vGdWZC110/s320/IMG_0237.jpg" width="320" /></a>Damn this race. I desperately wanted that to be my last attempt, but I had so much fun out there, and loved feeling strong over that cruel yet magnificent course. I love how this race mocks me each year that I show up with better training, better resolve, and better experience. Regardless, I will not surrender. I fiercely believe that I have three loops in me, I just need to get my raw speed to catch up with my navigation skills on a year that is less apocalyptic.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAQC78-mDw4eIDbcTQQDL6d3x_NrcQ-YmZyr2A2s_nP-VxPEDKtEHPvjv3yULwnX9Pdn4C9UOumOE9KKYePOQX7UVFsbhDv9CauiyS8hFNSkk-7aYYpzj0VScRYoZUqgKSHmCLh0Ru3j4/s1600/IMG_0233.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAQC78-mDw4eIDbcTQQDL6d3x_NrcQ-YmZyr2A2s_nP-VxPEDKtEHPvjv3yULwnX9Pdn4C9UOumOE9KKYePOQX7UVFsbhDv9CauiyS8hFNSkk-7aYYpzj0VScRYoZUqgKSHmCLh0Ru3j4/s320/IMG_0233.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Please Laz......let me do this again.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-63089905410896213422018-02-15T21:53:00.000-07:002018-02-15T22:06:39.626-07:00Why?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcqjwPBSRpeY_0gszAxPckEsAAdZXgAYX-XZC6z9dV2n9Q8x0FMbXC98wLX9-M3g4Gx5gwcj0hyR881JlZe4VoLwYC2b-fkkiTquML18lJbUXTfZy1MpyhYO8c5hSmoaK7DYjTtsh1lhQ/s1600/IMG_1698.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcqjwPBSRpeY_0gszAxPckEsAAdZXgAYX-XZC6z9dV2n9Q8x0FMbXC98wLX9-M3g4Gx5gwcj0hyR881JlZe4VoLwYC2b-fkkiTquML18lJbUXTfZy1MpyhYO8c5hSmoaK7DYjTtsh1lhQ/s320/IMG_1698.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
In just a few weeks, I'm going to be lining up at the infamous yellow gate in Frozen Head State Park for the 5th time. Yes, this will be my Barkley Marathons #5 and I feel so lucky to have been given five chances to take on this course. Most people ask me why I keep going back to an unfinishable race? I expect this question from friends, family and strangers, because I admit, it kind of defies logic, or common sense. However, what I didn't expect was when that question came from my coach.<br />
<br />
Why do you do this sport, Nicki?<br />
<br />
He challenged me to write down the 4-5 values that keep driving me to this seeming insanity. Figuring them out has been a project I've been working on all week, so here goes....<br />
<br />
<b>1.</b> <b>Feeling physically strong</b> - I love feeling strong. It's why I love crossfit, and throwing a heavy barbell above my head in the gym, power-hiking up mountains with a weight vest, and putting in back-to-back +25,000 ft gain training weeks. I hope to still feel strong when I am old, so I dare not give this up. <br />
<br />
<b>2. Strength of mind </b>- Ultra-distance racing both requires strength mind, and builds it. However, I don't consider this the same as being strong-willed. Strong-willed sounds irresponsible, and single-minded, and unbalanced. It carries with it an image of bashing myself up against something. Instead, I seek zen, and I find it when I build consistent training habits, and sleep for 8 hours a day, and keep everything in perspective. And then, when I am out racing I stay in the moment, look after myself, meditate through the miles, and sometimes have serious conversations with myself to convince me to keep going. <br />
<br />
<b>3. Solitude </b>- I value time spent in my own company. Long solo training days and long events give me that. It's that simple. <br />
<br />
<b>4. Beautiful places</b> - Every time I think I might stop racing, I remember where racing has taken me: the Atlas mountains of Morrocco, along alpine ridges on sunset in the Alps and the Pyrenees, clear across the Mexican Baja, watching sunrise in the open desert of central Australia, star-filled nights with the aurora borealis putting on a show in the Canadian Rockies, to the empty expanses of Iceland. Just to name a few! And now, for the 5th time, I will enjoy the curious and fierce woods of eastern Tennessee.<br />
<br />
<b>5. Friluftsliv (Free Air Life)</b> - I love this Norwegian concept: outdoors, in nature, against the elements, and (for me) preferably wild. Nothing makes me happier and calmer.<br />
<br />
So coach, that's why!<br />
<br />
<h1 class="entry-title" itemprop="headline">
</h1>
Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-85861466280173716962017-08-31T22:17:00.001-06:002017-09-01T15:51:09.915-06:00Survival Run Canada<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZlPdutq1edXW3NsVmGkMwvI_NamUNwzj8C1gOZ868OtM9Y_2qZ9EmE56dD_BRouiXqnYwemHaO-vSfblCye36VfsqJqTdSF2_80thyphenhyphenlKf_q2vDj3fhJ3kDpFR8c-q8240fWbYMWF8sAY/s1600/21151766_1491430804256860_8817013962609604943_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZlPdutq1edXW3NsVmGkMwvI_NamUNwzj8C1gOZ868OtM9Y_2qZ9EmE56dD_BRouiXqnYwemHaO-vSfblCye36VfsqJqTdSF2_80thyphenhyphenlKf_q2vDj3fhJ3kDpFR8c-q8240fWbYMWF8sAY/s320/21151766_1491430804256860_8817013962609604943_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting my FAIL medal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What the heck is Survival Run, anyway? Despite being asked
this question a million times in the last year, I never did nail down a succinct
explanation. So let’s go with this… ultra-marathon meets adventure race meets
Amazing Race meets obstacle course race meets lumberjack games, 125 km, close
to 30000 ft of elevation gain, 36 hrs, non-stop. Yep, that about summed it up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Survival Run, for me, was a chance to break out of the
familiar and predictable, and to take on something the scared the shit out of
me. I know I can march over mountains for days without sleep, but I had no idea
whether I could be successful at a race in which the ultra-marching would be randomly
interrupted with tasks requiring brute strength, gymnastics, and survival
skills I didn't yet have. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As soon as I got accepted in this race, I knew I needed an
intervention into my comfortably routine training, so I hired a coach. I began working
with Nickademus Holland in February and it has been one of the best decisions
ever. If anyone knows how to prepare for epic, terrifying races, it’s Nick – he
finished Barkley, he came 2<sup>nd</sup> at TDG and Ronda del Cims, and, among
many other things, won Survival Run Nicaragua. And he is an incredibly talented
coach too. I trusted him, and for the last 7 months, I faithfully just did
whatever I was told…..even when he had me dragging a tire up and down my back
alley, carrying 20L of water up Prairie Mountain, walking around the
neighborhood with a 50lb sandbag, doing burpees in the middle of a long trail run,
and spending many hours lifting weights in the gym. I even ran on a treadmill…..more
than once. By the time I toed the line of Survival Run Canada, I can
confidently say that I was the fittest and strongest that I have ever been. That’s
a good feeling.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The race began at 5.30 am in a dirt pull-out in Britannia
Beach where we gathered around Dylan, the RD, to give the Survival Run Oath: <b><i>If I
get lost, hurt or die…..it’s my own damn fault</i></b>. Then we started with a
prologue – carve a fishing harpoon to exact specifications from a block of wood.
This task is not exactly in my wheelhouse (i.e. not at all) but I pulled out my
big, sharp knife and sat down in the dirt, and whittled-away. Turns out I’m not
the fastest or craftiest whittler - it took me about 25 minutes while my friend
and survivor-man-extraordinaire, Shane, did it in about five. Still, I am very
proud of my harpoon and once it passed the quality control check, I was given
my bib and released onto the race course. We were told to follow the pink
flags. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here is the first interesting thing about this race. While
the instructions say, “follow the flags”, they do not say to where or for how
long. This makes it tough to pace, manage water, and mentally keep things under control. One of my mottos in ultra-racing is <b><i>Surrender to the existence</i></b>, and this was something that became pertinent for mental sanity here, because you just never
knew when any stage would end. As a navigator, this is also extremely
unnerving. For the record, flag-following is a discipline unto itself, contraindicated
by navigation skills, which meant I sucked. I ran off course four times, with
an accumulated time loss of 75 minutes (a lot of time to lose in a race
with tight and undisclosed time cut-offs). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, I know Squamish pretty well and so I was constantly
making guesses about where we were going. It looked like we were headed to Sky
Pilot – an iconic, towering peak that John and I climbed a few years ago. Due
to its technical summit ridge, I would not consider this a race appropriate
mountain so I figured we would just climb up to the col above the glacier, and
I was right. Partway to the mountain we came upon Petgil Lake and had to swim across
it to pick up the trail on the other side. The temperature was steamy and I had
been pushing a solid pace off the start, keeping up with Helene Dumais (the
only woman to have finished this race before) and Vanessa (the super elite
OCR-chick from Germany), so the swim was welcomed. Unfortunately, I left my
glasses on the other side of the lake so I lost a good 15
minutes, and the lead ladies, when I went back to retrieve them. Comedy of errors number
one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I continued up the Sky Pilot valley and began the scramble
to the glacier. I was surprised with how much of the snow field remained
despite such a hot summer. I put my crampons on and kick-stepped up the
ever-more-vertical face to the checkpoint on the col. It was definitely way too
steep of a pitch to not have ice axes so I slowed down and took great care to make
solid steps all the way, trying not to think about how I would get back down. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As it turns out, getting back down was a breeze. In fact, it
only took about 5 seconds to drop 150 vertical meters from the col to the
glacier. My 3<sup>rd</sup> step on the snow slid out from under me and I
instantly went into an unplanned and uncontrolled glissade. There was no danger
of flying off a cliff, but there was a large pile of boulders about three
quarters of the way down that I did not want to hit at torpedo speed. That
would have been race-ending. A lot of things went through my mind in slow
motion as I was careening off the mountain like a rag doll.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
- <i>Oh shit, I slipped and I can’t stop.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<i>- I don’t really know how this will end<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<i>- I wonder what it will feel like if I hit those rocks.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<i>- I might get a helicopter rescue out of this. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Luckily I had put my helmet on and even more luckily, I slid
just to the side of the rocks and eventually came to a stop at the bottom.
Besides being bruised and winded from bouncing on hard snow, I was fine. But my
backpack had emptied out like a yard sale all over the glacier. The time I
gained from the quick exit off the mountain was lost in the time it took to
recover all my things. Comedy of errors number two….although not really all
that funny. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next few hours were just plain fun. We did a multi-pitch
rappel off Wrinkle Rock, moved quickly through a via ferrata route, and threw
axes. I had been working specifically on axe-throwing over the last month in
Calgary and I was excited to show off my mad skills. I hit a bulls-eye on my second throw! There are no aid stations in
this race so I refueled on hot dogs and coke from the kiosk at the Sea to Sky
Gondola station, shoving them in my mouth as I ran down the back access road to
the next checkpoint. Since the approach
to Sky Pilot, I had been running on and off with the Calgary brothers. They do
actually have individual names (Kris and Stefan) but they always train and race
together (mostly OCR) so they just get called, “the brothers”. We’d never met
before this weekend but I really enjoyed our hours spent together on the trail talking
about scrambling and ultra-running, and I always moved faster when I was with
them. Making new friends is the best part of this sport. We ran down to the
next checkpoint together discussing how, despite being about seven hours into
the race, we hadn’t had to carry anything heavy yet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was about to change!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A large log and an axe were waiting for us at the bottom. We
had to chop off a five foot piece and take it with us to the next checkpoint. They
made us hike up a black diamond bike trail for four hours in the heat of the
afternoon with that thing. I completely ran out of water for way too long. Carrying a log over one shoulder is not pleasant for more than about
five minutes, so I used some ingenuity that I didn’t even know I had and rigged
up the sweetest tow system ever. I towed that log the entire way (apparently the only one to have done so) and moved quickly
and efficiently….managing to put a sizable gap between me and the brothers
(they would catch me again much later). I was pretty chuffed, and by the end, I
felt some affinity with the log, like it was a loyal friend and companion that followed me everywhere. I
even named it….Betsy, the big log. The decline into insanity was beginning. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDy-An28DwZZsm61JifSLX_qe3xD-cH_zI8lyKKV9AfXquuxmbKgSNfM6UXe3fzY4OOfuhPUqjbMVxhkh0-O6v1wLnJz50VdoBhV-Pp9a57DeY2X9NXizCRSBOJKYq4qegiLDLGAdf0Dk/s1600/IMG_1476.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDy-An28DwZZsm61JifSLX_qe3xD-cH_zI8lyKKV9AfXquuxmbKgSNfM6UXe3fzY4OOfuhPUqjbMVxhkh0-O6v1wLnJz50VdoBhV-Pp9a57DeY2X9NXizCRSBOJKYq4qegiLDLGAdf0Dk/s320/IMG_1476.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The aftermath of the Trapper Nelson pack</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I eventually got to abandon Betsy and exchange her for a
much lighter stack of wooden planks. The wooden planks didn’t deserve a name, because they
were just annoying to carry. I continued
on up through the mountain bike trail system for another couple of hours and arrived
at the next checkpoint at 7 pm where we had to build a Trapper Nelson backpack
from the wood we were carrying, the bolts we had collected on Sky Pilot and the
fire hose we had been given at the gondola. Think of a Trapper Nelson as the original backpack, version
1.0, circa 1800s, from the Klondike Days. I'm not sure what Mr. Nelson was thinking but I prefer to call it... the wooden thing of torture. Now, if you ever want to see my soul destroyed, just watch me build Ikea
furniture. I knew this building task might take a while and so I pulled out my little Thermarest mat (best equipment decision ever) and settled into the dirt. Despite great frustration, my
relationship with this thing was about to get a lot worse. Once built, we had to lash a
25lb bag of sand to it and hike for over two hours to the next checkpoint, with
my own backpack worn on the front. I’ll just say one thing….be very glad that
backpack design has evolved. The pain was inescapable. I tried leaning forward
every few minutes to take the weight off my shoulders, I tried jimmying a waist
strap, I tried shifting my arms around…..and NOTHING worked to relieve the
biting pain. So, I just surrendered to it. And took some ibuprofen. And cried a
little bit. And just kept moving. Eventually, we did get to offload the pack
and dismantle it. I smashed mine with a rock and it might have been one of the
most therapeutic things ever……even more so than axe-throwing. Unfortunately, the
Trapper Nelson was not going to let me forget the experience, because it rubbed my left shoulder raw – something that would hurt
for the rest of the race (and the week following!)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From there, it was a blur of mountain bike trails. We weaved
and wove through the black diamond and double black diamond system under the
darkness of night, sometimes being taken off trail altogether for a little gratuitous
bush-whacking. Around 4 am, I
slept-walked my way to a check point where I was required to recite all 14
stanzas of The Cremation of Sam McGee. I had a relatively non-functioning brain
at this point but managed to pull that spectacular poem out the recesses of my
memory as I had obsessively practiced it for the last few weeks. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We then had to wade across the freezing rapids of the
Cheekye River, in the dark, in order to access Cat Lake. I was excited at the
prospect of a big swim, despite the pre-dawn temperature being pretty cold. We
had to dive deep down to collect a wrist band and then swim clear
across the lake, with all our gear. I had brought goggles and a swim cap, set
up a tow system for my pack and just put my head down and swam. This challenge
was definitely in my wheelhouse and I LOVED it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Related image" height="200" src="https://i.pinimg.com/236x/a8/b5/32/a8b53249537a61f3d250c2b8119624c8--trapper-nelson.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="133" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Trapper Nelson</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At some point while in the Cat Lake trail system, the new
day dawned. I was proud to have completed 24 hours of racing and knew that at
the very most, there would only be twelve left. I was buoyed by this thought, and
the knowledge that I was in 7<sup>th</sup> place. Sure, I had wasted a lot of
time losing the route, but I was doing much better than I expected. I was
running and eating and having a great time. Then it all went to hell, as it is
prone to do in adventure racing. I blame it on the ski.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me explain. We were sent back up high via Galactic Trail
and told by a volunteer that, “<i>There
would be something to collect at the high point</i>”. I think she also said
something about an arm band, but I can’t really remember. My brain was a little
foggy. After about an hour of climbing the Galactic Trail, I came upon a row of
eight skis leaning on a rock, right on the side of the trail, on a slight rise.
There was a pink marker right next to them. Skis do not belong in the
wilderness, if you didn’t know, and we hadn’t carried anything strange for a
while. To me, the most logical explanation for the presence of skis, in the middle
of nowhere, in summer, is that we had to collect one and bring it down with us to exchange for
that arm band that might or might not have been mentioned. So I did. I carried a ski the rest of the way up the mountain
and then all the way back down to Squamish. Three and a half hours, with a ski.
This ski-carrying exercise happened to coincide with what can be best described
as a bonk storm. I started hallucinating badly (I swear there was a fluorescent
green kayak in the woods), over-heating in the 32 degree sunshine, bleeding
from the shoulders, slipping over every other step, and second-guessing whether
or not I had recently seen a pink flag. My feet were on fire, and I also ran
out of water just for good measure….again. I hated that ski and blamed all my
problems on it. After what seemed like an eternity, during which time the brothers
flew by me like I was standing still, I arrived at a check point. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Turns out, we
were <b><i>not</i></b> required to bring down a ski after all. Apparently the collection of skis
are a Squamish icon and have been there for years. So I’m going to go on record here to apologize to the community of Squamish….you are now short a ski. Sorry. Comedy
of errors number three.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another axe-throwing challenge allowed me to release all my
frustration and I gain my 10<sup>th</sup> arm band. Unfortunately, however, I
was 40 minutes after the cut-off to continue. Of course, I did not know that I
was approaching a cut-off as I was wrestling with a ski (and my demons) all the
way down the mountain but that’s the beauty of this race. You just never know
what’s coming. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwLj8poE3Nhco39PQySkLFiOK93e2sVy-PWnt7TRMBGDfx_EY5uE-t7GuJVRX22syhNzhdzfQI1neBcN2Qpq4VeP6g90skRb7krqsTgnmhvzYipeI-ViXB9t1vjkGjb_DTJuU0yrtujL4/s1600/IMG_1473.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwLj8poE3Nhco39PQySkLFiOK93e2sVy-PWnt7TRMBGDfx_EY5uE-t7GuJVRX22syhNzhdzfQI1neBcN2Qpq4VeP6g90skRb7krqsTgnmhvzYipeI-ViXB9t1vjkGjb_DTJuU0yrtujL4/s200/IMG_1473.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arm-bands collected along the way</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My race was over at 32.5 hours. I was heart-broken to get
timed-out so close to the end, but jubilant to have had a race that far
exceeded what I expected was possible. I was also extremely humbled to have
stayed in sight (at times) of the eight incredibly fit men and women who finished ahead of
me. I have never been prouder…..and more determined to return next year. The combination
of seven months of awesome training, the wickedly unique and fun format, the chance
to feel badass, and the new friends I met made for one of my favourite
race experiences ever. My friend, Shane, said to me the other day, “<i>Welcome to
the tribe</i>” and I was stoked. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
After note: Apparently there is a documentary coming!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-27783822853247480042017-06-12T13:15:00.000-06:002017-06-15T08:20:15.882-06:00Iceland Part 3: Final ThoughtsOur post-race recovery began here...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHfPcL2dYm4rF48JmnlbCGbtDh6oW5mv7G06IV-thC1LEUEBYkWn2DpqxQt3JucjIOYbFjpmXerQvAuUX3hs9T_2THpkNqim64qeEXGEMRDDopM-AM0dWvOZ9Ea9JewkbAlyTUWIGkICg/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHfPcL2dYm4rF48JmnlbCGbtDh6oW5mv7G06IV-thC1LEUEBYkWn2DpqxQt3JucjIOYbFjpmXerQvAuUX3hs9T_2THpkNqim64qeEXGEMRDDopM-AM0dWvOZ9Ea9JewkbAlyTUWIGkICg/s320/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blue Lagoon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I was reluctant to pay $85 and take a bath with hundreds of other humans, but I am so glad I did. This place is pretty awesome, and it is sufficiently expansive and misty, that you barely know that you are sharing it with others. The float up bar was particularly fun. We spent over three hours soaking in the Blue Lagoon, analyzing the race with fellow competitors, and completely turning into prunes. We then headed into Reykjavik and rented a tiny guesthouse room that was quickly transformed into a laundry so we could dry out everything we owned. We had tent-parts and sleeping bags and mattresses and socks hanging from the ceiling and curtain rods!<br />
<br />
Louise had just one day up her sleeve before having to return to Norway so we decided to explore a little town called Hverager<span style="font-family: inherit;">ði, better known as the "</span><i style="font-family: inherit;">hot spring capital of the world.</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">" It deserves its title because this place is so </span>geo-thermally<span style="font-family: inherit;"> active that people have 100 degree water bubbling up in their backyards! Heck, you can bake bread by digging a hole in a ground. Louise had lined up a recovery run to the Reykjadula Hot Springs, a naturally hot river found 3 km and 400m+ up a gorgeous valley. I pictured a "</span><i style="font-family: inherit;">hills are alive with the sound of music</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">" kind of day, an image that was quickly rebuffed by the pouring rain and 100 km/hr winds. Undeterred, we went anyway and I almost lost Louise on the return when a wind gust took her away. My face felt like what a car looks like after a hail storm. Needless to say, we didn't soak in any hot springs as we would have had to retreive our clothes from having been blown to Greenland. But no one can </span>accuse<span style="font-family: inherit;"> us of not diligently doing a recovery run!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I felt bad dropping Louise at the airport the next day because I'm not sure that she saw the sun the entire time she was in Iceland. I had two days left to myself and it looked like the perfect weather was going to return, so I bolted east, back to the town of V</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">í</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">k (one of the few towns I could confidently pronounce). There were so many things still on my bucket list and I was going to do as many of them as possible. I visited more waterfalls, hiked another mountain, ran to an abandoned plane wreck, searched for puffins, and found the oldest pool in Iceland. My last 24 hours looked a little like this....</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgibf-obuedME1jVzCqivfcYixYRIrinfKDCAt5sa9c-9Xg5cT_ndKGOsjTRfUqfNKdhdH0a-kcy-FM-2ARtLmS3soIMQLUjR2UhkR-MUgrASAlW7VACVMks_db5LZgbBkXXCS8BAWhvMg/s1600/FullSizeRender+%2528003%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="640" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgibf-obuedME1jVzCqivfcYixYRIrinfKDCAt5sa9c-9Xg5cT_ndKGOsjTRfUqfNKdhdH0a-kcy-FM-2ARtLmS3soIMQLUjR2UhkR-MUgrASAlW7VACVMks_db5LZgbBkXXCS8BAWhvMg/s320/FullSizeRender+%2528003%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wow!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHrfW-TzOu8Khpt8F7vT3nrl32DG2WO4dDysmsl4bZsMmi7sbtdnfs7p3aHCA9MhatzlcGeF8tPM18WXG16PvQ5YAtoPfHX4MFBlyfIhTDfJ12KmlsPD5ONv4DTL_poWyotAyLnbCc4-8/s1600/IMG_0696.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHrfW-TzOu8Khpt8F7vT3nrl32DG2WO4dDysmsl4bZsMmi7sbtdnfs7p3aHCA9MhatzlcGeF8tPM18WXG16PvQ5YAtoPfHX4MFBlyfIhTDfJ12KmlsPD5ONv4DTL_poWyotAyLnbCc4-8/s320/IMG_0696.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wow!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpfvGoxdMhiQxSwinX4YHsHn52HhSoMIfOK-nmBbZ1oWGgScNPg6L-zXbN4tIztzl0pRdmNl2ExKTPe0hW6A3EXFd9we7AMFtZYSmCl3GjRFUN5Nu3AFWBRa2QFX1NP4C3CD_SGICRN6U/s1600/FullSizeRender+%2528007%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpfvGoxdMhiQxSwinX4YHsHn52HhSoMIfOK-nmBbZ1oWGgScNPg6L-zXbN4tIztzl0pRdmNl2ExKTPe0hW6A3EXFd9we7AMFtZYSmCl3GjRFUN5Nu3AFWBRa2QFX1NP4C3CD_SGICRN6U/s320/FullSizeRender+%2528007%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wow!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sure, Iceland is expensive, volatile and difficult to pronounce, but I LOVED it. I spent the entire short flight home making notations on my map of all the places I will visit and things I will do next time. The list is long! I'm not sure whether it was the barren landscape, the freedom to wander, the fascinating history, the wild weather, the jiggly earth, or that mystical mountain in the west, but Iceland put a spell on me. It is an </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">especially pristine, unique, indulgence for the eye...a land that combined the best parts of Norway, Newfoundland, New Zealand and the moon. All this time, she had been hiding a piece of my soul and it felt good to go recover it. </span>Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-68373639201673731412017-06-11T22:33:00.001-06:002017-06-15T23:52:08.300-06:00Iceland Part 2: OMM<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXH5LuXHXGb3L0wOn6_xeKSQeWBRTIzNs0CSi2rkxLhWLmRB7HaneqloRGwPH7Jdt0NSdlsIeGhSCUgZJpXExQsA8nvD0-vbVUVLxfYSwEY3jgZm19Dgd5CXnCqjngaw3W9kM0mBa6Ah4/s1600/1929783_11334589541_8179_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="453" data-original-width="604" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXH5LuXHXGb3L0wOn6_xeKSQeWBRTIzNs0CSi2rkxLhWLmRB7HaneqloRGwPH7Jdt0NSdlsIeGhSCUgZJpXExQsA8nvD0-vbVUVLxfYSwEY3jgZm19Dgd5CXnCqjngaw3W9kM0mBa6Ah4/s200/1929783_11334589541_8179_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Circa 2007<br />
Jen Silverthorn and I at the OMM-esque <br />
navigation marathon in Saskatchewan.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I have wanted to do an OMM ever since I got a taste for it way back in
2007 in Saskatchewan (of all places). It's a cool 2-day race format,
originally invented in the UK 50 years ago, combining navigation, fell
running, and all-round mountain skills. Some even say it was the
precursor to adventure racing. While the <i>original</i> Original Mountain Marathon continues to be held in the UK each year, OMM Iceland has recently been added to their racing line-up.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBMFHBBzcEGo_ks0WwzTEHs75kQaaIbYKx4mDeLbXJFFcXiABZ_5tPCcW31bt2eJCQiyQSSr_GcBTjLgUa33pfUgqyOeK-Di3LBOJiYx_yaRNbbXr0mgkKbbSibrG7XxDJYrvSN4kG1wU/s1600/IMG_0410.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBMFHBBzcEGo_ks0WwzTEHs75kQaaIbYKx4mDeLbXJFFcXiABZ_5tPCcW31bt2eJCQiyQSSr_GcBTjLgUa33pfUgqyOeK-Di3LBOJiYx_yaRNbbXr0mgkKbbSibrG7XxDJYrvSN4kG1wU/s320/IMG_0410.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picnicking, Iceland style</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I was so excited to race with Louise. We have been talking about doing a rogaine together for years and years and now that she lives in Norway, the Iceland destination was an easy sell. For as long as I can remember, I have been a lead adventure race and rogaine navigator, but for this race, I was teaming up with one of the best there is, so I was going to be taking a much anticipated back seat. I collected Louise from the airport and we hit the grocery store, had a picnic, then went for a drive around the Reykjanes Pennisula - the location of the OMM. The fog was completely hiding the terrain that we would be racing on, but we did get out of the car a few times in the grey drizzle to practice running on volcanic rock. It was a weird mix of ankle-breaking, skin-tearing boulders covered in the softest, cuddly moss imaginable. The trick was to land on the moss, and not in the myriad of convoluted holes in between. That night we stayed in a guesthouse near the airport, which was pure luxury for me. I even had a shower!<br />
<br />
We moved over to the race HQ hotel in Grindavík the next night and spent the evening getting our gear ready. This race requires that you carry all supplies needed for camping at a remote finish line, including tent, sleeping bag, dry clothes, stove, food, and emergency rations. I had brought my one-man ultralight tent in the hope that we would both fit. We did.....just...which is good because I had no backup plan. Despite having, what we thought was a pretty light kit, we were a bit embarrassed to see others carrying packs half the size and half the weight [we found out later that the winners sleep on bubble wrap]. Perhaps the silk liner and entire block of after-dinner chocolate was unnecessary.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJoS9VcEieori1e0lCjmDMeNPwUXONbZiyfu-BXhijzVDfSnkItUZxiqNrPECQ5Ds4Ojp4aunOjD8pRuht3S5rOtQmZ1fsJJ6ONzDxykqNUlQmGZahh2iYBUxYlF0eqMhsBY_1oYHfrk0/s1600/GOPR0514.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJoS9VcEieori1e0lCjmDMeNPwUXONbZiyfu-BXhijzVDfSnkItUZxiqNrPECQ5Ds4Ojp4aunOjD8pRuht3S5rOtQmZ1fsJJ6ONzDxykqNUlQmGZahh2iYBUxYlF0eqMhsBY_1oYHfrk0/s320/GOPR0514.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heading to the start</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
They loaded us onto a bus early Saturday morning and shipped us out to a remote start. It was ominously misty, windy and foggy. I didn't mind the weather, but I did hope that it would dry up by the time we reached the finish line seven hours away to set up camp. We were handed the maps right at the start, and only spent about five minutes making a rough route plan. We would adjust that plan many times throughout the day, but most surprisingly, we kept getting more aggressive rather than cutting it short. That NEVER happens. The terrain was unlike anything I have ever experienced. It varied between that nasty volcanic rock, black sandy mountains, steep crags, lush marshy valleys, hot springs, barren flat lands, and what can only be described as miles of trampoline moss. For the record, while trampoline moss is beautiful to look at, fun to bounce on, and ideal for napping, it is the most energy sucking ground to run over....unless you are Louise. She has go-go-gadget moss-running legs. And where else will you find the control feature, "bottom of crater". We navigated perfectly, despite being inundated by thick fog a few times and having to negotiate a very inaccurate map. However, we made a couple of less-than-ideal route decisions (mostly because we were being greedy) and ended up in a desperate 7 km "sprint" to the finish line. If Louise could have offloaded me as the dead weight, she would have made it, as I struggled to keep pace over those last 45 minutes. Unfortunately, we arrived 12 minutes late and got served a critical 24-point penalty.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyoiGvSMQ1ZPv88MxMcvWif_piTsh3IIoorGV8lI8AMAr5ckQRznMKoEW4hCVIcDP0RcYVHEKB34UUMnhndiJpB6zX1xqgpY3gKTiL4jVkfal6DCiJPnY4DN-nhbzsjRzu6LEuHlF3vdU/s1600/GOPR0551.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyoiGvSMQ1ZPv88MxMcvWif_piTsh3IIoorGV8lI8AMAr5ckQRznMKoEW4hCVIcDP0RcYVHEKB34UUMnhndiJpB6zX1xqgpY3gKTiL4jVkfal6DCiJPnY4DN-nhbzsjRzu6LEuHlF3vdU/s320/GOPR0551.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's a 100 degree hot spring.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We were a bit frustrated, but super happy to find out that it was still good enough for 2nd overall on day one. We were curled up in the tent like sardines by 8 pm and I slept soundly (like I always do). We drew a 5.31 am start time so we rose early. Everything was wet from the overnight rain (ever put on a wet bra at 5 in the morning?) so we were keen to get going and warm up. The second day promised big mountains and atrocious weather. Compared to day one, there was less distance, more elevation, no trails, gale force winds and sideways rain. I loved it. We had a really good run, but were still reeling from yesterday's penalty so made a conservative decision at the end to come back early rather than rush for a final control. We should have just gone for it and taken a little penalty, because in the end, we gave up 2nd position by just 14 points. When it comes to score-O, those who are greedy are often rewarded!<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBFJ-hzgzp__0RCOE_KnG2yPt4RYjDgzO2t8gGFEG6IXYCJ_UiQOg_PdYybDQkM3QEoSVTqMt4N5d5T8BvvkaaYcMNCcsjzefF9eq-TIQUCVKa9TANcwR9bj_DdfdwNGs7kUHHbLbwg5E/s1600/IMG_0757.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBFJ-hzgzp__0RCOE_KnG2yPt4RYjDgzO2t8gGFEG6IXYCJ_UiQOg_PdYybDQkM3QEoSVTqMt4N5d5T8BvvkaaYcMNCcsjzefF9eq-TIQUCVKa9TANcwR9bj_DdfdwNGs7kUHHbLbwg5E/s320/IMG_0757.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">End of day 1. I am leaning on Louise to stay upright. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We finished the race in the worst possible weather imaginable, which made the visit to the Blue Lagoon immediately afterwards even more amazing. Best post-race activity EVER! I didn't care that it cost me $85, or that it is the most touristy place in Iceland, because it took almost three hours to soak the chill out of my bones. I even spent $20 on a glass of champagne from the "swim-up bar" to celebrate our successful race: 75 km of running, 2000 m of climbing, 20 lbs packs, 1st female team. <br />
<br />
Now that I've had another taste of OMM, next time I will head to the UK and do the main event. I just have to learn how to sleep on bubble wrap first.Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6071825042342403196.post-89601765468681084632017-06-11T22:33:00.000-06:002017-06-15T08:09:49.911-06:00Iceland, oh IcelandI needed Iceland. I needed its treeless empty spaces. I needed the simplicity of travel. I needed to wander a wild land un-tethered from a laptop or schedule. And I needed to be alone for a while.<br />
<br />
Iceland delivered on all counts.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga-2ybVSjVocxLUo7sA09Ce3wS-48bzPwFNZzaUkGm9084DA39Usu3UC897SlHP3ACET5YMSRAH6sd4VpwrxCAM65LJPt_suH5CRerWR05yluTfl3kAGYJWwf6gKk7_kyDkVFor999opo/s1600/DSC02382.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga-2ybVSjVocxLUo7sA09Ce3wS-48bzPwFNZzaUkGm9084DA39Usu3UC897SlHP3ACET5YMSRAH6sd4VpwrxCAM65LJPt_suH5CRerWR05yluTfl3kAGYJWwf6gKk7_kyDkVFor999opo/s320/DSC02382.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Summit of Mt Esja</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I have always wanted to see Iceland, so I used "finished my PhD" as the excuse, and "doing a race" as the impetus. I signed up for the Original Mountain Marathon way back in October and convinced my friend, Louise, to pop over from Norway to be my partner. She was able to secure only a few days of holiday, leaving me to sandwich the race weekend with 10 days of solo gallivanting. <br />
<br />
I arrived in Iceland on a perfect day - cloudless, windless, and warm - which is apparently unheard of in May. The first thing that caught my eye as we flew in was Mt <span style="font-family: inherit;">Snæfellsjökul shimmering on the western tip of Iceland</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">, a mystical, glacier-capped peak </span>which s<span style="font-family: inherit;">ome say is one of the world's seven energy centers. I have no idea what that means exactly, but visiting this mountain quickly became the first thing added to my blank itinerary. That's right, I went to Iceland with no plans except to pick up a rental car, and drive somewhere beautiful. That's code for, "get out of Reykjavik as quick as possible!" Saying that, I spent the first day in and around this small city - apparently the northernmost capital in the world, and one of the cleanest and safest. </span>They say that Reykjavik is a hip-hop-happening kind of place, but I didn't come to Iceland for the late night music scene. I had to pick up some basic supplies and let my feet settle on the ground for a few hours before establishing a loose plan to explore this country. <span style="font-family: inherit;">I checked into a hostel, and promptly crashed in a dorm bed at 2 pm, which is my typical response to a red eye flight + </span>jet lag<span style="font-family: inherit;">. I woke at 8 pm and was devastated that I might have just wasted the only perfect day of the year in Iceland. But then I remembered that I was at 65 degrees latitude, which at this time of the year means 24 hours of daylight! At 8 pm there is still plenty of "day" to be had, so I headed out to the edge of town and climbed the 3000 ft Mt Esja....as you do. At 11.30 pm, I sat on the summit in a T-shirt and watched the sun do its brief dip below the horizon. Between 11.30 pm and 3.30 am, Iceland remains in a suspended state of dusky dawn that is light enough to read a book without a headlamp, the novelty of which never wore off. And because I was climbing mountains in the middle of the night, neither did the </span>jet lag!<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVgrIN7slnSl2TA7_hLoaNI0UVZU4x1gaN3YFzw-BRbV7TCcpKMnsfu58BbsE2k687PqbtaryG5bQ86pfJ0sCwYOgzePOg4akhDOOAYCAvVUFnOVCJIUstMb60SM5UDQ3w4AjozdrBFPw/s1600/DSC02431.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVgrIN7slnSl2TA7_hLoaNI0UVZU4x1gaN3YFzw-BRbV7TCcpKMnsfu58BbsE2k687PqbtaryG5bQ86pfJ0sCwYOgzePOg4akhDOOAYCAvVUFnOVCJIUstMb60SM5UDQ3w4AjozdrBFPw/s320/DSC02431.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entirely under the spell of Iceland</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The next morning, I headed west toward the supposed energy-giving Mt Snæf. (or Snuffleupagus, as it became know to me, because it was easier to pronounce). As an aside, I renamed almost everything in Iceland. I took the longest way possible to get there and stopped often to ogle the countless waterfalls, sparkly white mountains, wind-</span>swept<span style="font-family: inherit;"> plains, and sea cliffs alive with bird life. I circumnavigated </span>Mt Snæfellsjökul, walked along the coast for hours, and ended my day in a pull-out just outside <span style="font-family: inherit;">Grundarfjörður,</span> overlooking the Westfjords to the north. This might be a good time to explain my sleeping and eating arrangements...<br />
<br />
There are three challenges that one is likely to face in Iceland - weather, prices and those pesky pronunciations. While I had an ultralight tent with me, the extreme likelihood of a 100 km/hr raging Arctic storm at any time necessitated the need to have access to a more rigid structure over my head. However, the outrageous cost of just about everything in Iceland precluded me from staying in hotels, or even guesthouses. Just for reference, a hostel dorm bed is about $120 CDN. Therefore, I mostly slept in the front passenger seat of my mini euro-car. It was a little bit ghetto, but it meant I didn't have to take a second line of credit on my house to fund this little getaway. And it was exceptionally liberating because I never had to think about where my day might end. And while I am on the topic of expense, here are some tips for people who also seek to travel Iceland "on-the-cheap".<br />
<ul>
<li>Bring your own food and a camp stove. Surrender to the fact that you will eat for sustenance (ie. peanut butter, Ramen noodles, instant coffee, cheap chocolate, and hotdogs) and not pleasure. If you want a gastronomic holiday, I suggest Barcelona. A dinner out is about $100 pp.</li>
<li>Go alcohol free, unless you want to pay $20 for a beer.</li>
<li>Learn to shower with wet-wipes (that you also brought over from Canada).</li>
<li>Don't buy anything. Period.</li>
<li>Hike, hike, and hike some more. Want to ride an Icelandic pony for an hour or so? Well, that will set you back $250</li>
<li>Fill your days with the delicious scenery. Sit and watch those adorable Icelandic ponies rather than ride them. </li>
<li>Find the free hot springs, (or pay $85 for a soak in the Blue Lagoon)</li>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNN7qmGTxCPPP2XclKG-L9OMLSknPVZ0W6gRtpzD2IXaPzIz4qpjQLAHsup0kOBDZZadOKtzA3dGvbGXHojuZfjsRHz-r1T0WVbDJBxwHbrTuadhGGZXq_FAUEwjCd-dnkp6pB_nnpl-E/s1600/IMG_0748.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNN7qmGTxCPPP2XclKG-L9OMLSknPVZ0W6gRtpzD2IXaPzIz4qpjQLAHsup0kOBDZZadOKtzA3dGvbGXHojuZfjsRHz-r1T0WVbDJBxwHbrTuadhGGZXq_FAUEwjCd-dnkp6pB_nnpl-E/s320/IMG_0748.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This pool is free. Built in 1923. Geothermal heated. You just have to walk 20 minutes up a remote valley to find it.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<li>Don't stay too long, for fear of becoming desensitized. Towards the end of my trip I had a bowl of lobster soup because it was only $30, which I caught myself saying,<i> "isn't toooooo bad</i>". </li>
</ul>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqCfGSa4gbUfeHVgDCv4NqR-rjFr15kN2BoLRMF90nfWqSuD2tP83rk_Gpm1UlvuclLEkwqdAzZ9qVBE4efvPSV6swQKKp_COJ_Yh5vp9IZy1uNZUgvQdwi35-I0A-R302UNb6oD0TSGA/s1600/DSC02446.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqCfGSa4gbUfeHVgDCv4NqR-rjFr15kN2BoLRMF90nfWqSuD2tP83rk_Gpm1UlvuclLEkwqdAzZ9qVBE4efvPSV6swQKKp_COJ_Yh5vp9IZy1uNZUgvQdwi35-I0A-R302UNb6oD0TSGA/s320/DSC02446.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Approaching the summit of Mt Akrafyall</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The weather held for my first four days and I hiked like a crazy woman. I climbed Mt Ok (pronounced <i>aulk</i>) in the west interior, and the north and south summit of Mt Akrafyall (say that with a thick southern accent, y'all), and shared the trails with absolutely no one. Initially, I had wanted to drive the entire ring road, <i>and</i> explore the Westfjords, <i>and</i> climb all the mountains, <i>and</i> take all the side roads. But, Iceland is bigger than you think, and after four days, I had only covered a fraction of the west. And, with the race falling in the middle of my trip, I needed to stay within a sensible radius of the Reykjanes Peninsula and the airport. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So next, I drove the infamously popular, "Golden Triangle". It had to be done at some point and the weather was becoming less conducive to remote adventures. I avoided crowds at the some of the most touristy landmarks by going early in the morning: <span style="font-family: inherit;">Þingvellir, the location of the oldest parliament in 930 AD (and by the way, that funny 'P' is actually a 'th'</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">); the great Geysir; and the monstrous Gullfoss Falls. Let me tell you, I got schooled in history and geography and learned more than I had in all my years (which isn't many, </span>admittedly<span style="font-family: inherit;">) of social studies. And as an educator, I was reminded of the power and significance of place-based learning. Never has literature and geology come more alive.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPR_v8SywZAv2B-LJLY01GJIit52aO6MB15S7Wa9pabjgRZrjlfaF24hdfv5aAkyM8a_fnwg0z3AQY8e_BoIGHKMJi7aD7vDTKCzlkIekHpURtiiz0Vv-tbrRWLElvJtxGTiwg1VwvZeY/s1600/collage-2017-06-12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="851" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPR_v8SywZAv2B-LJLY01GJIit52aO6MB15S7Wa9pabjgRZrjlfaF24hdfv5aAkyM8a_fnwg0z3AQY8e_BoIGHKMJi7aD7vDTKCzlkIekHpURtiiz0Vv-tbrRWLElvJtxGTiwg1VwvZeY/s400/collage-2017-06-12.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
One of my big bucket list items has always been to fast-pack the 55-km Laugavegur Trail in the south east, but it didn't open until mid-June and there is no access to either end without a river-fording capable monster truck. So, I settled for an adjacent trail - the 23 km <span style="font-family: inherit;">Fimmvörðuháls (otherwise known as "<i>the hike that starts with 'f'</i>"). </span>It starts at the base of the Sk<span style="font-family: inherit;">ó</span>gafoss Falls with about 200 gawking tourists, but you quickly find yourself alone after you move more than a few steps from the tour buses. The route takes you past 26 waterfalls and up to the base of the giant Eyjafjallajökull volcano (the one that blew in 2010 and shut down European airspace for week). If you ever want to be reminded of the potential volatility of this planet, go to Iceland. The land bubbles and steams, and sometimes explodes.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeXYOsWHRkZF4NS6e0jW0v5T-TR0XY04FhAv9g5bLj-UFM4RfI4YpxTU8MRMKU8bQkG050fPlmo_9tdgNQFNBEgQ-MchGit4OoWDNpVWXge0F7aVK52l6srbm4y6Ai6USfIfn2TYlfId4/s1600/IMG_0290.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeXYOsWHRkZF4NS6e0jW0v5T-TR0XY04FhAv9g5bLj-UFM4RfI4YpxTU8MRMKU8bQkG050fPlmo_9tdgNQFNBEgQ-MchGit4OoWDNpVWXge0F7aVK52l6srbm4y6Ai6USfIfn2TYlfId4/s320/IMG_0290.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">WOW! Skaftafell National Park.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Just when I thought it couldn't get any better, on day six I found myself at Skaftafell National Park and staring up at the third largest icecap in the world. It was mesmerizing. I immediately set my sights on Mt Kristínartindar which sits in between two big glacier tongues, but unfortunately I got skunked by a white-out just as I was approaching the summit block. Nevertheless, I got to play up high, all by myself for over three hours. Already I knew that this would not be my last trip to Iceland and this mountain is not going anywhere..........although I guess that's not necessarily true because it could erupt!<br />
<br />
It seemed that the bad weather was really starting to settle in, just in time for the race weekend. It was time to switch gears from carefree gallivanting to laser race focus and so I turned westward to pick up Louise from the airport.....see <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6071825042342403196#editor/target=post;postID=6837363920167373141;onPublishedMenu=allposts;onClosedMenu=allposts;postNum=0;src=postname" target="_blank">Iceland Part 2: OMM </a></div>
Nicki Rehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09475519892379863131noreply@blogger.com1