Autumn in Alaska

My car thermometer read 25 degrees when I set the parking brake at the trailhead. Even though it was nearly 11 a.m. on a Sunday, only one other vehicle was there. The unfamiliar crunch of ice under my tires broke the silence as I pedaled briskly up the trail, determined to get warm and stay that way.

I had a hard time getting going this morning. Today's sunrise was at 8:53 and my boyfriend/adventure partner is out of town. I could just as easily have stayed home in my jammies all day, drinking coffee, reading, putzing around, wishing I were out doing something. I know this about myself, and have developed a strong discipline to prevent such lethargy, at least most of the time, and especially on nice days.

First, let me tell you about the sun. Yes, the sun still comes up here this time of year, for approximately 10 hours, give or take (okay, just take) 10 minutes or so per day. But it stubbornly clings to the southern sky at such an angle that, unless you are traveling directly away from it, it is in your eyes. You can't see anything unless your eyes are tucked behind the lowered brim of a hat. And then you can't see anything beyond said brim of said hat.

So there I was, crunching along the frozen trail with my head cocked to shield my eyes from the sun, thinking about how quiet it was. Then I thought about the bears in their final feeding frenzy before denning for the winter. Then I thought about how grateful I was for the bear bell on my handlebars. Then I thought about how quiet it was. The ringer in my bell had frozen in place. I shook it loose and resumed the familiar jangling along the trail, reassured that any bear could hear me from a distance of at least five feet. And since I could see at least four feet ahead even with the sun in my eyes, I should be good.

With the mud hardened and the taller-than-your-head grasses frozen into submission, I was repeatedly wowed by views of snow-capped peaks as the trail wound through narrows and meadows, gradually climbing toward Johnson Pass with enough twisty descents to fool me into thinking I wasn't really climbing. I took the numerous stream crossings slow in an effort to keep my tush dry since I forgot my fender.

Wildlife encounters consisted of four porcupines, each one waddling defiantly down the trail ahead of me, and about a dozen swans, peacefully paddling along the far shore of Bench Lake in the sun. The sun, which plied the frozen trail with warmth, forming a mucky gooshiness for my return trip.

And, in retrospect, this may have been the last great day for a fall ride. It snowed eight inches that night and it hasn't warmed up enought to melt. Glad I got out there!