It is easy to get caught up in the fear of taking on a new challenge.  I myself, am not a fearless person.  The trick is that I try and fool myself into thinking that I am indeed fearless, and then while my brain is caught up in the confusion, I quickly go sign up for a triathlon, or a trip to Alaska, or whatever else I may actually fear most.  Once I return to sanity, it is too late to get my money back.  A training partner of mine has mentioned that she thinks my mentality is- what is the point of doing something if there isn’t a slight chance of it killing me?  That may taking me a bit far. . .but I know on many levels she is right.  If you can easily do something all along, where is the satisfaction in completing it?  Fortunately for me, most things don’t come easily.

The challenge of the week (or maybe the month) for me is: Clipless Pedals.  As I increase the mileage on my road bike in preparation for my triathlon at the end of September, I am starting to learn the benefit of taking the bike a little more seriously.  In the 9 mile sprint course I did last year, I could pretty much fake my way through it.  Anyone can travel 9 miles on a bike if they have to.  But 26 super hilly miles gets a little tougher and I need every bit of help I can get.  Enter: clipless pedals. 

Supposedly they will give me more power out my rotations, and will help me stand up easier, and all in all make me a more efficient cyclist.  But despite all of the future benefits, it is hard to ignore the present setbacks.  I can’t get my cleats in the pedals.  I also seem to keep getting them in wrong, and they get jammed, and then I panic.  I haven’t actually fallen yet but I have gotten honked at. . .and I haven’t even left my neighborhood yet.  Everyone says it just takes some time, but everyone also says they have never heard of someone not being able to get INTO their pedals.  Usually getting out is the problem. 

So what does this mean for my cycling training?  Well, I was tempted to throw in the towel, and only ride under controlled circumstances in areas only sparcely populated with pedestrians or cars.  But this, of course, means that most of my favorite rides would have to be amended and I would also have to stop riding to work.  And I don’t know, but I am guessing that spending less time on my bike in the final 7 weeks of training will not do much for race day.  So caution to the wind I forced my brain to do a 180 and have decided to spend every possible spare minute with my bike.  But the question is- is it good to push myself beyond my comfort level and rise to the challenge?  Or is getting on my bike when I know there is a significant chance of falling, perhaps into traffic, just plain stupid?  I get a little worried about myself when the line between ambition and stupidity blurs. 

The whole experience so far seems painfully reminiscent of learning to drive a stick shift.  It took me days (okay, maybe weeks) to even make it out of the parking lot in my ’87 Isuzu Trooper that surely needed a new clutch shortly after my 16^th birthday.  And the first time I ventured onto the street, my dad had to pull the emergency break trick at least once and I felt like it was physically impossible that I would ever actually be able to drive a stick shift comfortably.  Hopefully though clipless pedals seem impossible now, some day, like driving a stick shift, it will just be second nature and I will wonder why it was ever so hard.  And why my dad’s hair seemed to turn grey so suddenly.

Stayed up last night until close to midnight. No Northern Lights. Set the alarm for 2am. No Northern Lights. It’s the wrong time of year, but they were sighted a couple nights ago. I’ve got great animal mojo, but apparently I’m not celestially gifted. Slept late. John, a former cop, pours our coffee. Tells me stories about befriending gang members and hookers in Winnipeg. Says he’s thinking of working a cruise next.

We hop on the tundra buggy tour with Neil, our new best friend. After seeing bears for the last 14 days straight, we spend four hours traversing and see absolutely nothing. One bald eagle. A dead caribou on the back of an Inuit’s ATV. A couple sandhill cranes. A few snow geese. But I’m after bear. And, I’m patient. The next tundra buggy tour is booked solid with, get this, the Canadian Chapter of the SATW (Society of American Travel Writers). Pretty much anything I try to do something around here, the SATW already has it taken. What’s a girl to do? I decide to crash the party. I meet the head of the chapter and Travel Manitoba’s PR folks. Tell them I’m willing to be held captive in a tundra buggy for six hours with fifty writers who can pitch me every story they want for our magazine if they’ll just let me in among my peeps. They do.

I spot the only bear we see and loan out my binoculars to the journalists. I earn my keep. They let me drive the Tundra Buggy and drink their beer. They’re a fun group. We have a “tail gate” party right there on the tundra in the rain.

We sleep late. Sunday is the day of rest around Churchill. No tours. No snorkeling. Nothing much open except the grocery store. We buy some picnic items and head for the beach to watch the Belugas and look for bears. Tomorrow we head home. Two polar bears in the wild. Worth the trip. Getting away from civilization for a while (my cell phone doesn’t work here)…priceless.

I did find out a secret denning place for mother polar bears and their spring cubs. Only sixteen people at a time can go. It’s in the Wapusk National Park. That’s all I’m going to say until I visit one day. Maybe in March. I’ll keep you posted. Here are some of my final photos…..

Michelle driving the tundra buggy

The town of Churchill

The Lazy Bear Lodge

Churchill Weather Station

Watch for Bears!

Finally spotted one

I’ve forgotten to mention the other big summer attraction here in Churchill…beluga whales. They are every where. They look a lot like oversized, lumpy dolphins. In my opinion though, they are cuter than Orcas or other whales. For one thing, there are no barnacles hanging off of them. Another, they seem to possess human characteristics. They smile. On the boat to Seal River on day one, we saw a ton of them. The water here is a clear blue, so you could make them out under the water even though they don’t leap out like dolphins or breach like other types of whale. At some points, we could even hear them communicating with one another. To get a face shot of the beluga though, you have to get in the water with them. My plan today was to go snorkeling with them and test out a new underwater camera I’ve had at the office for a while. Bad news. It’s windy. Wind kicks up debris in the bay. No visibility. No snorkeling. We took the three hour cultural tour instead. Saw the polar bear jail and bear traps they set for bears who misbehave. I’m thinking the next feature article I write will be about the different ways states, countries, and even towns deal with wildlife. They’ve been killing the bears and cougars in Boulder for some time now. One doesn’t have to be aggressive to be put down. It just has to be relocated and return after the third time. Three strikes. Ridiculous if you ask me. We choose to live in the foothills and mountains. We get what we get. The polar bear is the largest carnivorous land mammal on the planet. Here, when the bears come to shore to wait for the ice, they shoot “crackers” to scare them off. Occasionally, they use slugs. But they never put a bear down unless it has attacked someone. Never. Even then, they’ll autopsy the bear to see if perhaps it was crazy or starving to have attacked a human. About 1,000 polar bears roam through the Hudson Bay area. The population of Churchill is around 950. Bears outnumber people. But, fear hasn’t caused them to lose their heads here. We could learn a thing or two back in Boulder from the town of Churchill.

We took yesterday off to rest. The boat trip on day one wiped me out. Lots of sleeping. Found the best place to eat in town. A place called Gypsies. Awesome pastries. Nice people. Everyone in Canada is nice.

Tomorrow, we signed up for tundra buggy tours to search for polar bears and bird watch. The tour this morning saw a momma bear and two cubs. Crossing my fingers.

I might be able to get back on the Seal River again by Sunday, if Wally runs a tour. And, if it’s not windy tomorrow night, I’ll be trying to snorkel with the Belugas. Otherwise, more sleeping. Which is nice too. And, tonight I’ll set my alarm to try to catch the Northern Lights.

I have to remind myself that I’ve just seen a polar bear in the wild. Not on the Discovery Channel from my Lazy Boy or at the Denver Zoo in 90 degree heat or at Sea World in Texas. As bears go, he wasn’t a big bear. Medium size. Swimming. Diving. Huffing in big, disgruntled bursts.

The best months for polar bear viewing in Churchill are October and November. The land starts to freeze up. The seals congregate. And, the summer fasting for bears is over. They feast. Winter tourists use tundra buggies to get up close. And it’s cold. Way cold. In the summer, you’ll get an occasional bear sighting in town, but otherwise, you’ll need to take a boat across the Hudson Bay to find them. 

At breakfast, I ask a local if I can run through town. He points, “Run that way, otherwise you’re likely to bump into one. They’re starting to come back now.” Some part of me is tempted to go the opposite direction, but yes, I’m still smarter than that. I say, “Don’t polar bears usually avoid people though. When was the last time anyone in Churchill was attacked?” Stone faced, he says, “Two years ago. But, it was 1am and the guy was drunk and went out with his .22 and tried to wrestle with the bear. He’s lucky he only lost an arm.” He chuckles. “He used to be a two-fisted drinker. Now he’s just one.” The town bears have names. Bruno and Scarface. The last bear attack fatality here was in 1983. As I’ll find out in my boat later, they are more frightened of us than we are of them.

I start out the day in shorts and a tank top. It’s hot. Sweaty. I lather myself in sunscreen and bug spray, but we’ve missed most of bug season with the Bull mosquitoes. We hop on a motor boat. Wally, who owns the Lazy Bear Lodge with his wife Dawn, captains it. We’re wind-whipped and bounced around. One hour or so to get to Seal River. Belugas on the way. We search for about an hour around smooth rocks where the bears are known to lie around. No luck. I think we’re giving up when Wally spots one. Standing up in the water about a mile away. Wally has “guide eyes”. A reminder to me never to discount the value of a good guide. Wally speeds us in the direction of the bear. But, we lose him. We spot him again behind us about half a mile away. We keep our eyes on him. Roar back the other direction. We get him. There is no land any where close. 

We follow the polar bear in our boat, taking photos as he swims in front and along side us. I’m on my knees on the deck of the boat to keep my balance and get low to the water. More than a few times, the bear was close enough to reach an arm over and pet, if I had tried, which I didn’t. The polar bear was definitely afraid of us, and a bit pissed off. He wanted to hunt some beluga whale calves. And, we were interrupting. More than a few times, we asked Wally if we were stressing out the bear. He seemed labored. And with no land in sight, well, we worried. Wally assured us that the bear could swim for 60 miles. Still, we started to herd him back toward shore, using the boat like a cattle dog on a ranch. The bear had other ideas. Turns out bears don’t want to be herded. So we left him to do whatever bears do.

More later. Exhausted today. Who knew shooting shots on your knees from a moving boat could be such a great workout.

“On the Polar Bear boat”

“Meet Mr. Polar Bear”

“Bye for now!”

Hi to all from Churchill, Polar Bear Capitol of the World. Churchill sits in the Northwest Territory of Canada on the Hudson Bay. I’ve packed every bit of winter and foul weather gear I own, digging out snowboard clothing I’d stored away until November. Polar bears like cold weather, right? And, I’m supposed to be heading toward the North Pole. As we land after the three hour flight from Winnipeg into Churchill (the only way you can get to Churchill is by plane or train), we look out the window and spot the Casper-the-Ghost-notebook-paper white skins of Beluga whales below us. Very cool. But, too far for my new Canon G9 to shoot. I’ve sold my big lenses in favor of an easy-to-travel with point and shoot. After shooting in Africa and Alaska, I’m tired of lugging the big equipment and am hoping that digital advancements will get me what I need. But, I’m thinking I’m going to have to get pretty close to wildlife to get what I’m used to with my mega lenses. I’ve got good animal mojo though. I know they’ll come to me.

I get to the customs guy, a friendly Canadian who asks me why I’m in Canada. I answer, “Hopefully, to see Polar Bears.” He answers that he just returned from Churchill and saw several in town even. Okay. Now I’m excited. This time of year, there are no guarantees. Summer tours in Churchill promise Belugas and “possible” polar bears. So this is good news. The mountie (they are called mounties, right?) asks if I’ll be leaving anything behind in Canada. I answer, “Hopefully, not my dead carcass.” Good thing the Canadians have a sense of humor.

The Lazy Bear Lodge is a log cabin style inn at the edge of town. Lots of wood. Spartan rooms. Quaint. Don’t plan on being uptight here about anything. It’s laid back. For dinner, I had arctic char. The table next to us returned two of their fillets because they were still cold in the center. For someone like me OCD about food poisoning, that might have sent me over the edge. But, I convince myself that mine was cooked. Poke a finger into the middle of the remaining slab and find it still warm to the touch. Breathe. There’s a polar bear rug mounted over our heads. Makes me a little sad to see him hanging there like that.

After dinner we walk through town. Lots of kids on ATVs. Not a whole lot else for them to do around here. Churchill’s buildings need a remodel. Mixed use hasn’t caught on here yet. It’s slightly dilapidated, weathered. But, it works. You can find the liquor store and bank in one building with several churches steps away. Go to the bank, spend your money on booze, then repent. Got it.

Mosquitoes are still around. Got my BUZZ OFF™ clothes and some repellent. It’s hot here. Balmy even. If I were a polar bear, I’d be on some ice far, far away. Hope it cools off soon.

Today, we’re off for a 6 hour boat trip in search of the great white bear. More later!

(Editor’s Note: Kristin is able to send us her blog entries when she comes to a town with internet access. As a result, the entries are published as they are received rather than on the day the events actually took place.)

“Are you a PCT hiker?” the cashier at Elk Lake asked me. “Yeah, what gave it away?” I smiled, standing there with my loaded pack, unshowered and covered with Oregon dust. “There is a notice up over on the wall for thru-hikers” he informed me. I walked over to the far wall where I read “the Sisters are impassable, do not attempt without ice gear.” The Sisters are the first decent sized mountains that the trail passes by in Oregon, still covered in snow even in early August.

I had met several hikers coming south over the past week who had gotten through the Sisters without axes or crampons just fine. I figured that I would keep heading north, and if I hit a problem, I could just turn around and come back. The following day I went through the Sisters without any difficulty. The trail did disappear under the snow a few times, but footprints from previous hikers made it easy to follow. The hike was so simple that it left me overly confident and very unprepared for the challenge that Jefferson Park was about to bring.

Mt. Jefferson is quite a sight to see. In the early 1800s, Lewis and Clark named the towering peak after their president and today the area attracts thousands of visitors a year. Unfortunately, since the Northeast got so much snow this winter, the higher elevations are completely buried making finding the trail a frustrating guessing game.

The first snow patches by Mt. Jefferson were manageable, but one larger one left me completely disoriented. I finally bushwhacked down through some brush, turned left and there the trail was. I was very happy to have found it, but not sure exactly where the spot was on the map.

I continued down the trail only to find more white. The next snow covered area stretched out forever. Footprints of earlier confused hikers spiraled off in all different directions. My map was not detailed enough to be much help. I walked around the snow field for what seemed like hours increasingly worried. Eventually I stumbled upon what looked like two sets of confident footprints and followed them down the snowy meadow. To my shock, they actually did lead me to a trail. Unfortunately, in my confused state, I feared that this was the wrong trail. It lead me to a ridge with two lakes down a ravine to the west. I took out my map and found the two lakes that I thought they must be, but they were to the east of the trail. Luckily, I spotted a campfire down in the ravine and decided to bushwhack down to confirm that the trail really was on the opposite ridge and then bushwhack up the other side to find the PCT.

Getting down to the camp was much more difficult than I had anticipated. The walls of the ravine were steep and every step resulted in miniature rock slides. After about 30 minutes, I stumbled into the camp to discover a group of boy scouts out for a weekend hike.

I have always been a little suspicious of boy scouts probably because when I was growing up, while my town’s boy scout troop was off on all sorts of adventures, the girl scout troop that I belonged to was stuck in a room in the back of the school learning to make beaded lizards and apply makeup. This boy scout troop; however, erased all of my bad feelings. They insisted on giving me trail mix and a granola bar and let me look at a more detailed map which helped me on my way. Sadly, that way was right back where I had come from and I had to scramble back up the ravine to the trail that I had been so sure was the wrong one.

Four last 32 mile days brought me to the Oregon-Washington border and here I stand with one last state between me and Canada. 2,155 miles down, 506.8 miles to go. Who knows what sort of adventures they have to bring.

(Editor’s Note: Kristin is able to send us her blog entries when she comes to a town with internet access. As a result, the entries are published as they are received rather than on the day the events actually took place.)

About a week after I had passed through the forest fires and thought the smoke filled road walks were behind me, I received word that yet another fire was ablaze in the Marblehead Wilderness. This meant another road walk. Morale was low after this unfortunate obstacle, but in order to keep my spirits up, I had a plan. A crazy plan.

A few weeks earlier, another thru-hiker had mentioned to me how he had heard of people hiking through the 460 mile state of Oregon in just 2 weeks. The idea of passing through an entire state in such a short time, after having spent what felt like years walking through California grabbed a hold of me. So, to keep morale up, I did not take a day off, I did not laze around town, filling myself with “real” food, instead, I charged into Oregon, determined to hike 32+ miles a day and reach the Washington border in 14 days.

The trail through Oregon is gradual which allows for quick walking. However, high mileage days would not be possible without a light weight pack. The ultra-light mentality has taken the backpacking world by storm but, despite all of gear that is out there, it can still be difficult to cut down pack weight. On my first backpacking trip, on the Long Trail, my pack weighed over 50 pounds. The following year, on the Appalachian Trail, I was able to get my pack weight down to 30. It takes a while to learn what you need and what you don’t need. My latest attempts at lightening my pack have involved switching from a sleeping bag to a down quilt, cutting the last third of my sleeping pad off, and saying goodbye to an extra fleece. My pack now weighs between 20 and 25 pounds depending on how much food I have to carry.

So, with only the essentials on my back, I headed north into Oregon. The first few days of 30s went surprisingly well and took me to the jaw dropping Crater Lake. Crater Lake was formed nearly 8,000 years ago when the summit of what used to be Mt Mazama collapsed during a volcanic eruption. Today, the distance between the rim of the crater and the lake is 900 feet and it is an incredible sight. As luck would have it, that day my 32 miles left me right at the lip of the crater where I made my best camp yet.

(Editor’s Note:  Kristin is able to send us her blog entries when she comes to a town with internet access.  As a result, the entries are published as they are received rather than on the day the events actually took place.)

When you live out in the wild you do not get to watch the evening news, go on the internet, or skim the newspaper. When you live in the wild you have no idea what is going on in the outside world. Your world is a quiet trail and a dream of the North. So, when I saw the haze by Carson Pass I assumed it was humidity but then the next day it was thicker and had an oppressive taste and smell. When I went into town to re-supply I heard about the fires- people were being evacuated from their homes and the air was thick with smoke. I soon found out that over 100 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail had been closed from Quincy- LaPorte Road all the way to Chester. There is a bus that goes from Quincy to Chester. The two hour ride costs only $3.00. But what do you do when your goal is to walk from Mexico to Canada?

You watch the Bus drive away at 55MPH and you start road walking. The route was simple enough. Turn right on Quincy-LaPorte Road, left on RT 89, left on RT 36 and eventually you will be back on the PCT north of Chester, that is, of course, if you can manage to endure the smoke-filled air, 100 degree heat and dodge the speeding logging trucks. At first the shoulder was so wide it was like I had my own lane, but after Quincy as the road wound upwards the shoulder begin to shrink and soon I had little more than a few inches of white line to walk on. Some of the logging trucks were going back and forth between the fire and a lumber yard and passed me so many times, they started waving. There were trucks and buses of fire fighters going by too.

When I finally reached Chester I saw the fire camps. The towns High School and Junior Highs’ fields were packed with tents where the fire fighters slept. Signs lined the roads saying “Thank You” to the men and women who have come from all over the country to help put out the fires.

After having lived in the woods for two months, walking around so many cars was a little stressful and I was very relieved to get back to the real PCT. A few days later a moment I had been hoping for since the beginning of my trip occurred. I saw a bear. At first I thought it was a dog, but then it flew up a tree. When I took a step closer, it ran right back down the tree and off into the bushes. It was small but looked incredibly powerful.

Later that evening as I was trying to find a flat spot to camp I heard noises coming from the bushes, I turned the corner to see another furry brown behind- two Bears in one day- I could not believe it. I continued quietly surprised by the size of the animal towering over the bushes. Then I realized it was a cow.

by Deidre O.

“Is that the summit,” I asked my Aunt Flossie for maybe the fifth time so far on our quest to summit Mount Yale. My aunt just laughed, and I stared at her in bewilderment. We had been hiking for maybe only two hours and had not even come close to tree line yet; after a quick break we kept trucking.

Pretty soon, when I first saw the snow, I shrieked and my aunt took pictures of me in shorts standing in the snow. I was in Denver on vacation from Philadelphia and summiting Mount Yale would also be my very first real hike.

Hour four brought us to above treeline. Aunt Flossie waited patiently while we stood amongst Old Men on the Mountain and I snapped dozens of pictures. We soon arrived at The Switchbacks. The Switchbacks were not too hard but one misstep and a beginner like me would fall down a few feet of rock. But still we went on with many frequent electrolyte - fueled pit stops.

Finally we scaled or bouldered across twenty yards and before I knew it I even knew what was happening I was hungrily scarfing down my lunch and taking pictures of everything and anything. When I looked down and saw the rolling hills I only a few short hours ago believed to be the real summit I laughed at myself; they were sooo far down.

We had a few other hikers take our pictures and my trusty, lime green digital beeped three times and flashed a LOW BATTERY; I almost died!

Then we started our descent. I fell at least four times on my way down the switchbacks. One particular time I glided a few feet and exclaimed, ” My hands are all exfoliated now!”

In a camp I had learned to visualize. When I told my aunt I was visualizing she told me that visualizing where your foot would go would help me get down; I seemed to fall a LOT. I laughed and told her I was visualizing an ice cold Dr. Pepper and a bag of Sun Chips.

When it was all over and my visualization had become reality I realized that material things (no matter how cold that Dr. Pepper was) could not compare to rolling down the snow on the side of a mountain 13,000 feet up, or feeling the exhilaration of peering over the boulders on the edge of the summit (I thought the summit was a flat plateau - I WISH), or even sleeping in a tent besides people I love, knowing that the best therapy would be looking at the vast nature around me and realizing my materialistic problems are diminutive in comparison.

Congratulations, Deirdre!

If you’d like to win a WA tee, stop by and tell us your story!

Next week, I’ll be at the Lazy Bear Lodge in Churchill Manitoba in search of polar bears. It’s a dream trip, oddly enough bestowed upon me by none other than Montel Williams (yes, the bald, handsome black man who usually has a psychic named Sylvia on his show). I was on Montel this summer and had a very Oprah-esque moment.

I got the trip for having Multiple Sclerosis. Well, actually for running an adventure magazine and having MS. But, I feel a little guilty. I’m not in a wheel chair. I don’t walk with a cane. I can still see. In fact, I run / walk about twenty miles a week. I snowboard, rock climb, and lift weights. I direct the publications division of a company. I raise a three-year old energetic toddler at the age of forty-one. There’s not much I can’t do today that I couldn’t do five years ago when I was diagnosed.

Still, it doesn’t mean I don’t battle the effects of MS. Every single day, I’m reminded that I have it. But my symptoms are irritating and not debilitating. Thank God. So while part of me feels like an imposter, the other part says, hell yeah, take the trip. Because MS is sneaky and I don’t know what the future holds and I’d really like to be able to run away from the polar bears if I had to and maybe three years from now, I won’t be able to. So, I’m off to see the polar bears. And I won’t feel guilty about being able to walk and run and see. Instead, I’ll try to enjoy every second of it. Look for reports from me!