June 13

In between downpours, the interstitial gleams of cleansed light bathing the broad shoulders of the mountains, in stark relief against the bruised purple-blue patchwork of massive clouds roiling endless through the canyon. & in the mud now instead of the snow, the pressed soles of various shoes, the quick puncture work of dogs’ claws, the deep clefts of moose cows & calves. Up Bison Gulch, pockets of rotting grey snow cling still to the undersides of overhangs, rich green lichen spotting with white & pale blue specks stretching from underneath, giving the appearance of delicate china smashed & scattered over a rough moss. & the smell of the wet rocks, the slow slide of talus & scree underfoot in running. It is perhaps the one thing I miss the most in the winter, that feeling of solid earth & that damp soil smell it emanates. & it will come very soon to release instead the sweet, dry tundra smell that appertains to our dogs in their free running. But for now, everything rainslick & water-logged. But in those moments of brief respite, I find my way up the ridges again. Crow Pass Crossing just over a month away now, & plenty of miles to run in training between now & then, the majority of them relatively vertical in nature. Crow Pass seems a distinctly alluring race for its traverse of wilderness, its variegated terrain & its spirit of self-reliance. If you can’t make the first summit in an hour, you’re disqualified. If you don’t cross Eagle River at the appropriate point, you’re disqualified. & runners are warned repeatedly that wildlife encounters are assured each year. But the race itself lends you dirt & ridgeline & zigzagging trail & glacial traverse & glissade & repeated creek & river crossings. & looking at the roster, I’ll get to run behind (likely quite a bit behind) one of the most accomplished ultrarunners alive, so that should be an education for me, at least for the 200 feet at the beginning wherein the frontrunners remain visible. So, in anticipation, I find the high ridges after trudging up the worn-bald trails that jut straight up to them. & look out over the Dry Creek headwaters or west along Healy Ridge. & see the changing light, the cloud-shadow over the basalt & granite outcroppings that spread out to the interminable distance. & find the horizon a thing comprised of layer upon layer of mountain & ridgeline. & it never fails that once I achieve some considerable elevation & pause to regard my surroundings, I am in every instance aware of such a peculiar mix of happiness & gratitude & accomplishment. Beauty has a way of surprising you even when familiar. The heart knows it as well as the eye.