Alyeska Mountain in the snow

Yesterday I pulled myself away from my writerly isolation (is there such a word as writerly? I dunno. Maybe I just made it up) and drove out to Alyeska Resort in Girdwood to visit MM, who was staying at the lodge for three days for a work conference.

I've been at the resort but I've never been inside one of the actual rooms, which are pricey. But since the State of Alaska was footing the bill (thank you, MM, for working for a company that frequently sends you us to conferences in cool places like Hawaii and Portland and now Girdwood)

The resort is situated against the mountains and the views are incredible, yet the actual building is heavy and clunky and looks terribly out-of-place. But no matter. As I said: The views are incredible.

Why do I always think of "The Shining" when I see this? Source: Alyeska Resort

So of course we hiked and ran up Alyeska Mountain. It was late afternoon, the end of a sunny autumn day, the air crisp with a lingering warmth. Except for one other hiker (who was faster than we were, even though we were booking it), we had the mountain to ourselves. The tram was closed for the interim before the ski season and it was so quiet, and the leaves were turning, and the mountains were topped with snow, and all around was a paradise.

 

See those wires in the upper left-hand corner? Those are the tram cables. But it didn't matter because it wasn't running and we had the whole place to ourselves.

The biggest thrill was running in snow toward the top. Okay, by mid-winter I am sick of running in snow but since the temps were still warm and it was the first snow, it was kinda special.

Dear Brooks: This is snow. Get used to it. You'll be running in it, a lot.

We went back to the room and did something I've never done before. And it was so exciting!

We ordered room service.

Isn't that tiny bottle of hot sauce the cutest thing?

After we ate, we swam, and the pool at the resort is amazing. It was delicious and warm and the bottom was painted deep blue so that with the lights on it waved the most deep and haunting shadows.

And then it was 11 p.m. and as MM curled up in the very cozy room, I had to get in my cold car (there was frost on the windshield!) and drive back to Anchorage because dogs aren't allowed in the hotel and we couldn't find a sitter and poor Beebs is old and set in her ways and poops on the floor whenever we leave her alone.

It's heartbreaking watching your dog age. Just. Heart. Breaking. I had no idea. I want to take her old and smelly head between my hands, lean down close and whisper: Stop aging. Please? But of course there's nothing I can do and Beebs is happy sleeping through the day and taking short walks and eating everything in sight. She's getting a bit chubby but so what? Food makes her happy and I'll be damned if I'll put her on a diet, not when she's 13.5 years old. I'm planning on eating like a pig the last couple years of my life. I'll still run, though, so I probably won't get too fat.

Oh, oh: I interviewed Ron Nicholl for a magazine story. He's 70 years old and runs the Susitna 100 Race each year. It's 100 miles through off-road winter trails around a series of lakes and swamps.  (Karen and Matt did the 50K a few years ago). This year he'll be almost 71 at race date. So inspiring. He said that he runs around 40-60 miles a week. Unbelievable. And when I called to interview him, he was in Idaho getting ready to run a 50K the next morning. That is so going to be me at 71. Or at least, I hope. Now I just need to run a 50K and 100 miler now, eh?

Happy weekend, everyone.

Hello, Peak Two. It's been a while, no?

When the sun peaks out and the birch leaves glow yellow, autumn in Alaska is the best place in the world.

The air is crisp and the sun is warm and you can smell the scent of berries and leaves and the soft, damp odor of the ground.

On such days, it's impossible to stay indoors. And if you're in the middle of a large writing project and don't have a lot of time, you can head up to Glen Alps and be up in the mountains in less than a half hour.

My brooks are too damned clean. I need a good, muddy, long run.

A lot of people scoff at the idea of hiking/running Flattop, the most climbed mountain in Alaska. But if you go late in the afternoon and hike/run up the backside, you can basically have the mountain to yourself. I passed four people the entire way, and once I cleared Flattop and headed up to Peak Two, there was no one around. In fact, there wasn't a person in sight; I had the place to myself. And the views were incredible.

 

I power hiked up and ran down. I shouldn't have run because the footing with iffy and, wouldn't you know it, I twisted the very foot that's still recovering from an injury. But such outings are worth a little pain. I can't wait until I can run the entire mountain again but patience, Cinthia. Patience.

I love how these little roots. They are so white and pure and bare.
 

This was the first time I've hiked/run Flattop and Peak Two alone, without The Beebs. I thought I would be lonely, but I wasn't. How can one be lonely in the mountains? It's funny. When we were in Portland, I often felt lonely in the city (though I loved, loved, loved the 85 degree temps) but I never feel lonely out on the trails. I can run and hike for hours and not pass another person and feel totally content. The mountains and trees, you see, are good company.

When I got home I made my too-lazy-to-cook-goto-meal, a Salad of Salads. This one includes mixed greens, chicken veggie burger, tomatoes, chia seeds and dried seaweed, with the last of the Trader Joe's Goddess dressing. (Oh, Trader Joe's, I miss you so!)

I'm posting another food picture! I hope I don't turn into a food blogger. Then I would have to actually cook.

Reading: I seem to be reading three books at a time. I'm not sure how this happened but I'm going with it.

Anne Tyler's Morgan's Crossing. I've read this countless times and it never fails. No one writes dialogue like Tyler. No one.

David Roberts' On a Ridge Between Life and Death. The ultimate climbing memoir. I don't climb mountains, I hike and run them, but I enjoy reading such adventures. A big plus: Roberts is a damned good writer.

Michael Brookes' Faust 2.0.  This is an indie book I got for free when I signed up for a newsletter. It's an action-packed quick read about a computer virus with the ability to rationalize and think coherent thoughts. It's not my usual reading genre but sometimes it's nice to kick out of one's comfort zone.

P.S. Can't get this song out of my mind. Think I might have to go rent "The Full Monty."

Cheers and happy Tuesday and Wednesday, everyone.

Me, two horny moose and eight miles

It's rutting season, and you know what that means? All over the city male moose are pumped up on mating hormones.

And I mean pumped.

They want to find a female, and they want to find one NOW.

I didn't think I'd have to worry while running on the paved Coastal Trail. Yeah, it weaves through wooded areas but it's paved, people. It's not what comes to mind when I think of prime moose make-out areas.

Boy, was I wrong.



Shhhh! Don't tell anyone but this small stretch of paved trail is a bona fide lover's lane for moose.

At exactly 4.14 miles of my 8-miler today (I know, because I ample time to look at my watch while perched up in a tree), I looked up to find cow moose running straight at right at me.

It happened that fast. One moment I was chilling to "Super Freak" and the next I was veering off through the brush with a very excited moose inches behind.
She was running fast, and she had the most intense and panicked look on her face. I hid behind a scrawny alder tree and she turned away. I waited a moment, got back on the trail.

A few seconds later a very excited bull moose charged straight at me. I veered off behind the very same tree but he kept coming. He was riled up, too, and snorting, and I scampered up a wimpy tree and held tight.

Hey, Mr. Moose, are you the one that charged me? I hope you found your female and that you showed her a good time with your very big and very fine rack.

This isn't me in a tree hiding from a horny moose but it is me in a tree so I thought I'd stick it in. This is from our Portland trip and it was 85 degrees and there were no moose around, no wildlife at all, which was sad.

Once the moose realized that while I was female, I certainly wasn't a moose, it lurched off, headed back to the trail and hightailed after its beloved. I waited until it was out of sight an limped back to trail. My legs shook from fright and the next mile was my slowest of the day, even though it was mostly downhill. 

Rutting moose are nothing to joke about. They are crazed, literally. They are looking for action. They can't think straight.

A bull moose was shot and killed during a middle school cross country meet out at Kincaid Park a few days ago. Here's a link for the article, from my alma mater, the Anchorage Daily News: Aggressive moose shot near middle school race at Kincaid Park.

And an interesting tidbit about moose I found on the National Park Website: Ninety-eight percent of cows observed over a 12-year period mated once a year, with only one bull. In contrast, bulls may mate with up to 25 cows each year if they can fight off challengers.

Sounds as if it's still a man's world among moose, too, eh? But enough moose talk; let's get back to running.

My 8-miler went well and I stayed within my slowish post-injury pace. My foot felt strong, though my legs were sore from swimming. On the way back the wind picked up and leaves blew over my face and I felt as if I were somewhere magical, in a movie or running across the pages of a magazine.

Then I came home and cleaned up dog puke. Beebs hurt her leg and I've been keeping it bandaged, so that she won't lick it and make it worse, and she ate the bandages while I was out running. The minute I walked in the door, she threw them all back up again. It was an awful mess.

Please Beebs, don't eat your bandages, okay?

Happy Sunday, everyone.
 

Another great, though short, run

I'm in the second week of post-injury running and so far, so good. My foot is holding up, though it aches slightly the first mile or so. Maybe I need to stretch out my arch first?

Here's how it's gone down the past couple of days:

Saturday: Swimming: 92 lengths of the pool (I think that's about 2,500 yards or 1.5 miles)

Sunday: Gym: 40 minutes elliptical, 30 minutes weights

Monday:  Running: Four miles with MM. Started slow but picked it up to a decent pace.

Tuesday:  Swimming: 68 lengths (just over 1 mile)

I'm hitting okay times. Nothing like I had been running before the injury but I'll take it. Mostly, it feels good to simply run, to allow my body to move in that familiar and well-loved motion.

Hello, 8s. I've missed you so. (Okay, it's the high 8s, but I'll take it.)

The bummer is that I have to stay off trails for a couple of weeks, to lessen the chance of twisting/ re-injuring my foot. I'm running on pavement, which is NOT my favorite thing. I so miss the trails. I know a lot of runners love pavement but it's not my thing. The only way I can tolerate it is by blasting tunes in my ears (Hello, trashy 80s music. My favorite this week? "Tainted Love," by Soft Cell. I know, I know--trashy).

Oh, trails, I miss you so!

Have a great day, everyone.

P.S. Any views or recommendations on a good but inexpensive foam roller? Thanks!

Too fast, too soon, and I'm in the newspaper

Well, I ran my 6-miler too fast the other day (um, almost race pace. Couldn't help it; it felt so good to move), and decided to take today off and swim instead. I'm starting to love swimming more and more, especially since I've been lifting weights and my puny arms can now put a little heft in my strokes.

Other news: It snowed today. I'd post a picture but I've been inside all day trying to finish up a writing assignment. Seems I overwrote a bit. Like, 500 words. Oops! Sorry about that, dear editor. Please allow me to chop and hack my piece to death until I get it down to word count, okay?

Also, I was in the newspaper today. An essay about running, aptly titled "Running," won two awards and was selected for publication in this year's "Best American Sports Writing." The majority of the entries are from very established writers hailing from big cities and big publication. And then there's me, a woman who can't walk in high heels or pronounce six-syllable words. I might not be sophisticated but I can run, damn it. Or I used to be able to run. And someday soon will run again.

Running is more than way of life for Alaska writer with essay featured in anthology

Suzanna Caldwell

September 22, 2013

 

Cinthia Ritchie descending the mountain during the 2011 Mt Marathon race in Seward. Loren Holmes photo

 

 

"Cinthia Ritchie is obsessed with running. She collects specialty running shirts like prizes and spends much of free time researching the latest in gear, from goos to shoes to water belts.

But for all her obsession, running is much more than that. It's like a form of prayer, a meditation, a source of strength, and even more importantly, joy.

Ritchie explores those themes in her essay “Running,” which will be included in this year's “Best American Sports Writing” anthology due out Oct. 8. The essay is one of a dozen from such prestigious publications as The New York Times Magazine, Sports Illustrated, ESPN and The New Yorker."

Here's a link to the rest of The Alaska Dispatch story, "Running is more than way of life for Alaska writer with essay featured in anthology."

 

It was very odd being on the other side of the interviewing process. I worked as a journalist for over 13 years and in that time I interviewed hundreds of people, and from all walks of life, from governors to famous authors (Pam Houston, Maxine Hong Kingston), homeless poets to fishermen, oil executives to cancer survivors, and I have to say: It's not easy talking about yourself when you know that whatever you say, and however you say it, might end up on the pages of the newspaper. It's downright intimidating, actually. And humbling.

 

Interviewing Lisa Murkowski a few years ago, down in Seward, AK. Do you remember me, Lisa? Probably not. Probably I was just another news reporter you had to suck up to. But still, thank you for being so gracious, and for not crying.
 

And of course I cried when I talked about what running meant to me, and what it's given me. I sat there in the coffee shop and wiped my eyes on a dirty napkin and wept.

 

Such is life, eh?

 

Cheers and hope everyone is having a great Monday.

 

 

Six big, fat and slow miles (and lovin' every minute)

Guess what I'm doing again?

Hello, Brooks! Did you miss me?

Yep, I started running this past weekend. I was excited, and I was scared, too, because I didn't know how my foot would hold up or how I would hold up, either. I hadn't run for eight weeks. I knew it wouldn't be easy.

It wasn't. My first run was three miles over the Coastal Trail, and every single step clunked. My form was off. My pacing was a mess. It wasn't pretty. And I was really, really slow. Believe it or not, it hurt almost the whole way. Even though I had been working out, swimming and even lifting weights, my running muscles had been sadly neglected.

But I ran three miles without stopping once. I cried when I strapped on my Garmin and I cried a good part of the run, too. I breathed hard and snot ran down my nose and I was a mess and still I rejoiced because it  was as if I were reconnecting with an essential part of myself, as if something in my body was saying, "Yes, yes, I remember this."




Slow, but who cares. Any run is a good run, especially after eight weeks.

I came home, iced my foot, and headed out the next day, this time for six very slow miles. The sun shone and the leaving were just beginning to turn and it was beautiful and crisp. I might have cried a little bit on this run, too.

See the snow covered mountains in the background? Yep, winter is coming.

And then yesterday I headed out again and everything fell in  place. My pace flowed. My legs felt strong and capable. I rocked the run, at least rocked it as well as one can expect to rock after a long absence. It. Was. Beautiful.

Today I'm not running, and I'm not running tomorrow, either. In fact, I probably won't run until Friday or Saturday. I have a rather, um, intense personality and I'm fighting like crazy to not do anything stupid like fire out a 10 or 12 mile run and re-injuring my foot.
Patience, they say, is a virtue. And so I shall be virtuous.

In the meantime, I've been writing like mad to get my second novel finished. And the apples on our tree have turned the most beautiful, vivid red and I'm aching to pick them and cook up some type of odd yet wonderful dessert. If anyone has any recipes for very small, very red apples, please feel free to share. Thanks! (Apple cinnamon rolls, Karen??)

Aren't they beautiful?

I'm also spending a lot of time with this guy:

Icelandic author Bergsveinn Birgisson (please don't ask me to pronounce his name, though I think it sounds quite lovely). I highly recommend "Reply to a Letter from Helga."

And I'm almost finished with Kevin Brennan's "Our Children Are Not Our Children," a collection of short shorts.

Anyone out there on Goodreads? If so, don't hesitate to friend me here: I'd love to connect about books and get your recommendations and reviews.

Cheers and happy running, hiking and reading.

Running The Dome, kind of

Yesterday I ran!

Not for far and not for long but I did manage to run most of the way down The Dome, a smallish (by Alaska standards) mountain on the outskirts of town.

It's been raining here in Alaska and I spent most of Labor Day weekend with my butt planted firmly at my desk, in a desperate attempt to finish my novel by mid-September (that goal is kind of like attempting to run a sub-three hour marathon: totally and absurdly impossible).

So last night when the clouds cleared and the sun miraculously peered down, we threw on our running clothes and headed up Campbell Airstrip Road. I can only sit so long. After that, I need to move (move!).

We had to leave The Beebs home, since she's too limpy for uphill climbs (poor Beebs; poor old, smelly, wonderful Beebs), which made me a bit weepy; I had never climbed The Dome without her.

Beebs on The Dome last year.

The beginning of the trail was muddy and overgrown so that the brush was as high as my shoulders, not too comforting in bear country but I had my trusty bell ring, ring, ringing as we climbed, climbed, climbed.

Bridge crossing (for some reason I always imagine falling, I guess to see how far my body would be swept)

We ran down, slowly; it was more of a jog but it was running nevertheless. I was so happy to feel my body move in familiar cadence again, and to jump over roots and rocks and slide in mud and get my feet wet, my legs dirty. What a joy! I cannot wait until I'm back to running full force.

I've become a bit hooked on downloading books on Amazon and I don't even have a Kindle, yet. I read them directly on my computer. There's a beauty to one-click ordering. I can read anything I want, whenever I want. Any book in the world, or at least the world according to Amazon which, since it bought out Goodreads, might soon be the world.

Reading: Right now I'm reading Our Children Are Not Our Children, a collection of short-shorts by Kevin Brennan, and Stranger in Town by Cheryl Bradshaw, which is a fast and light read thought many situations aren't exactly plausible.

Anyone reading anything stupendously good? If so, let me know, okay?

Cheers and happy running/hiking/reading.