Sound to Summit – Part 1

Hi All!  Today I have a guest blogger on Susanintherain.  It’s Tom, my best friend, partner, and spouse, not to mention one amazing athlete.  Enjoy a fresh voice and vicarious trip along one of Washington’s most beautiful greenways. 

It’s more than a paddle on the Sound, it’s more than a bike ride, and it’s more than a walk in the woods.  But is it an ADVENTURE?  I don’t know.  What I do know is that “The Sound to Summit Adventure Series” sounded like a pretty cool name for this thing I dreamed up nearly two years ago.  Shortly after summiting Mount Rainier in September 2008, I conceived of and starting planning a series of events – triathlons really – that would follow four major Washington river systems from Puget Sound to each river’s namesake origin.

Each event would include kayaking up river, biking to a mountain trailhead, and hiking to the summit of the mountain.  I sketched out a plan for following the Stillaguamish River to Stillaguamish Peak, Skykomish River to Skykomish Peak, Snohomish/Snoqualmie Rivers to Snoqualmie Mountain, and finally the Nisqually River to Nisqually Glacier and the summit of Mount Rainier.  It would be a bit like the “Ski to Sea” held in Bellingham each year – but going uphill instead of down.  It might also be compared to the journey of the salmon – if fish had ice axes and crampons.  The concept had continuity, completeness, even a little poetry.  And I liked that.  It also sounded really hard.  From Sound to Summit under human power alone.

Once the idea had taken shape, the research and training began.  I scrutinized tide tables, studied bike routes, and pored over topo maps of mountain trails.  To build strength, I started lifting weights and doing yoga.  To increase endurance, I ramped up my running and biking mileage.  I scouted each bike route; first by car and then on bike.  Even The Courage Classic, which I rode in August 2009, was but a step toward this larger, more personal goal.  And now, after many months of planning and training, the first event has come and gone.

I began the first journey on June 18^th, where the waters of the Snoqualmie and Snohomish Rivers flow into Puget Sound, with a 6:40 am launch in Everett.  As I had planned and hoped, the incoming tide was in perfect balance with the river’s current.  I set out on water so smooth and still it was hard to distinguish the shore from its reflection.  I paddled easily past hulking tugs and barges and under the twin spans of I-5.  Then, 2 miles upstream I saw the first sign of riffles on the water.  I knew that as I moved upstream the tide’s influence would diminish and the river would exert its power.  I moved closer to the bank where the water was slower, and hoped the current wouldn’t get too strong.  Fortunately, after another ½ mile or so, the river again turned to glass.  I paddled the last couple of miles without incidence, with just the sound of birds and the rhythmic slice of my paddle for accompaniment.

I transitioned to my bike and began riding through the rolling hills and farmland of the Snohomish Valley.  The morning air was cool, the pavement smooth, and my legs felt strong.  I zipped past Snohomish, crossed the river at Duvall, and turned the corner toward Carnation.  At about 20 miles I switched from the asphalt shoulder of route 203 to the packed gravel of the Snoqualmie Valley Trail, an old railroad grade now used for hiking, biking, dog walking, and bird-watching.  Past Carnation the trail crept from the valley floor to the hill side for a gradual but unrelenting ascent toward Snoqualmie Falls.

The gravelly climb was taking its toll as I doggedly cranked the next several miles from the town of Snoqualmie to Rattlesnake Lake, where I met Susan for a brief lunch and rest stop.  5 river miles and 55 bike miles behind me, and the serious climbing was just about to begin.  From Rattlesnake Lake, I took the Iron Horse Trail, the McClellan Butte Trail, and Tinkham Road, reaching Alpental about 4 pm.

At the Snoqualmie Mountain trailhead Susan joined me once again and we hit the trail leading to the 6278’ summit.  I hiked this trail last year on my birthday, and I described it at the time as “steeper than Mount Peak, requiring a mixture of scrambling and route-finding, and due to the rugged terrain takes as long to descend as it does to climb.”  It’s also an 8 mile round-trip, which took 4 hours last year on fresh legs.  As tough as the trail was last year, it’s tougher now, with wind-fall and snowmelt providing additional challenges.

About a mile into the hike we realized we were running out of trail and daylight.  We had climbed over several fallen trees, and were splashing up a snow-melt stream in places.  (I did say this trip would be a bit like the salmon’s journey!)  We figured we had another 4 or 5 hours of fairly unpleasant hiking which would put us back at the truck between 9 and 10pm.  Keeping safety and the time-honored tradition of post-hike pub food and cold beer in mind, we headed back down the mountain.  There’s nothing worse than finding the pubs closed when you’ve earned the right to replace some calories!

We returned to the parking lot and started the much more reasonable hike toward Snow Lake.  We walked the well-maintained Snow Lake trail about 2 miles in, enjoying the scenery and each other’s company.  A part of me hated to turn back from Snoqualmie Mountain after all the time and energy spent leading up to that day.  But I had a great day, a fine adventure, and looked forward to sharing the last few miles, a big meal, and a cold beer with my wife and partner who supported me throughout.  I started at sea level, ended in the mountains, and covered 80 miles under my own power.  Susan dedicated a day, drove support vehicle, and joined me for the last few miles.  Who could ask for a better day or a better person to end the day with?

As we settled in with cold beers and garlic fries, we toasted to all the future adventures we’ll share.

Stay tuned for Sound to Summit part 2 – Mount Rainier, August 18-20!

Oh Hail!

There’s grace in green things.  Under the most cruel conditions, drought or deluge, they try pretty darn hard to keep growing.  And that’s a lesson for me.  June 15th at about a quarter to five in the afternoon, I watched a hail storm of biblical proportions wipe out my vegetable garden and do serious damage to my ornamentals.  In a matter of twenty minutes, the kitchen garden I’ve been cultivating since last fall, was sealed beneath four inches of marble-sized hail.  Where my beets were planted, the surface bled purple.  My frantic attempts to dig out all the baby lettuces, and junior carrots and chard were quickly abandoned when I realized my produce had been reduced to mush.  Line up the Gerber jars.  I stood in my driveway and bawled.  Six hydrangeas across the front of the porch, who were just teasing me that morning with some early blossoms, looked as if a swarm of locust had come through.  In many places at the crowns of these mature shrubs, only the center vein of each leaf was left.  The hail was so large, and so jagged, and lasted so long, that around each viburnum and spirea, clump of plox and Gaillardia, a pile of green confetti had collected.  My lush garden reduced to shreds.  Literally.

As my sister has said, my plants are my babies.  I know each one.  In that silly, anthropomorphic way of nurturers, I address each flower and shrub and tree as if it has sentience.  Certainly each has personality–some are generous and others stubborn.  So I was only mildly surprised when within a week, my babies were pushing new growth out every pore.  To look at them is to see battered, sere blades and stalks, but look more carefully, lift a shattered leaf or two, and there!  A new bit of growth, and effort at reclaiming itself.  Without enough green matter, my babies will starve, so they grow to replace the lost foliage.  How often is that my response to a dashing? 

This morning I noticed that my pink phlox are about to bloom, even though none of them has more than a leaf or two left from the hail storm.  Blooming is the beginning of reproduction.  Maybe they are giving their all to leave behind a genetic legacy.  To support them I’ve been ladling cups of organic fertilizer tea onto their root crowns.  I’d hate to see my flowers bloom in a kind of self-sacrificial death scene. 

Last night I planted another round of lettuces.  I think the carrots will make it and maybe the beets, although their shredded red flag leaves have a lot of work to do first.  I bought strawberries from the valley the other day, giving up on the now brown beads that should have been a bumper crop.  So, I guess I’m suffering little from that bizarre storm left over from last winter; at least my suffering isn’t material.  I will surely miss my voluptuous garden this summer.  But I’ll love what I got.

Respecting Food

I spent part of this dry morning–we’ve had so few over the last couple weeks–picking nasty little yellow leaves off my spinach.  With the recent rains came the leaf miners, taking shelter between the layers of spinach leaves and devouring all the nutrients as they did so.  If I intend to feed Tom and me on our kitchen garden this summer, I’ll have to get a bit more vicious with the wildlife.  Slugs, bugs, and birds–and birds are normally my pals–are at tug-o’-war with me over my baby veggies.  I’d been blaming the slugs for gnawing the leaves off my sunflower seedlings, forcing me to go through five packets of sunflowers in an attempt to see just a few of the joy-inducing giants to maturity.  But after an experiment and Tom’s keen observation, I realized that the birds were the rascals, and they really, really like those sunflower seeds, especially when they’re just sprouting, tender and nutty, and devoid of the shell.  I’m sure my feathered friends thought I was laying the table just for them.  I now have my sunflower seedlings tucked beneath a shield of netting and encircled by Sluggo, lest any other beastlet make a go for them.

Last night we had a salad made of mesclun and spinach thinings.  It was light, green, and gently crunchy.  I dressed it with a simple vinaigrette, and we munched it reflectively, rather taken by the oddness of home gardening in the modern age, where one can thoughtlessly toss out half a three-day-old pizza, but glean all the bitty sprouts of salad greens from a half-hour’s garden maintenance, pick off hundreds of tiny roots, and finally deliver the greens up on a dinner dish, with a smile of pride usually associated with the mom of the kid who kicked the goal.  Look, Honey!  Our lettuce seeds have grown two inches!  Dish up.

Growing a home garden makes me more respectful of food.  I look askance at the processed and packaged food-like items in the grocery store, knowing that I will soon have more fresh-off-the-vine sugar and snap peas than anyone with good sense could want.  Why would I buy something in a box, with ingredients that have been sourced from more parts of the globe than I will ever see, when I can pick a peck of dewy, crisp-cool pea pods from my own back yard?  Boxed and plastic-wrapped snack, three dollars; home-grown produce, priceless.  There’s no accounting for the value of a home garden, though, because it’s not an economic endeavor to begin with–at least not for me.  I can buy most everything I eat from my garden cheaper at the store or the Saturday market.  But the pleasure of watching the inert become life, a seed become dinner, and the exercise of patience and attention required to husband the process, are rewards beyond the cost/benefit analysis.  I know how to grow food.  That feels both magical and powerful.

Tom likes to point out how scary it is that we have products on the market called “cheese food” and “juice drink,” which are neither cheese nor juice.  The irony, he notes, is that the words “food” and “drink” are used to signal the products are not what they appear to be.  They are, in fact, non-cheese and non-juice.  But in this age of soy powder, high fructose corn syrup, and designer bottled water, who’s to say what’s food and drink anymore?  I’ll stick to the stuff I pick when I can.  (If we get some sun, it will rain strawberries here!)

So it’s June 1, and I need to hustle if I’m going to get my squashes planted in time for a pre-frost harvest in late September.  Gardening is as much deferred gratification as it is cultivation.  Fortunately, six rows of potatoes are sporting curly sprouts, so I only need to make my tube of Pringles Lites last until August.