When I first moved from Anchorage to the Mat-Su, friends here were hellbent on convincing me that Palmer is a fantastic place to live. It was funny, because my husband and I had already made the move, but also lovely because we felt so warmly welcomed. Every week it was an invite to come over for dinner, an opportunity to try this new activity, or a bid for an after-work ski.
This is how I found myself convinced to play hooky on a perfect, full-blast-sunshine-type March morning in early 2017 to ride my bike to Knik Glacier.
There is something inherently daunting and thrilling about that phrase: riding a bicycle to a glacier. Truly, I didn’t know what to expect.
What I found was that the ride was both extraordinarily straightforward and, in some ways, easy in that the route is basically flat and, at that peak point in the winter, clearly established. But the other thing I’d learn over time is the amount of fun on that ride is proportional to 1) trail conditions, 2) butt conditions — meaning, how conditioned my derrière is to a bike saddle.
That first ride, my butt was not conditioned. Yet, it didn’t matter because the awe of seeing that glacier up close dwarfed my physical discomfort. For me, closely attuned to my physical state of being, that’s saying something. The glacier is nothing short of spectacular and breathtaking.
Since then I have ridden my bike to pay homage to the world class, ethereal blue, sawtooth and horizon-dominating glory that is “my backyard glacier” more times than I can count. How ridiculous is it to even write such a phrase?! How lucky are we, and am I, to experience Alaska?
I was thinking about this as I set out for my first annual pilgrimage to Knik Glacier this year.
I did the normal prep for the ride: eating a solid breakfast, packing up all of my layers, bringing my trademark hot tea and bevy of delicious snacks, and testing the tires on my fat tire bike. I mentally prepared myself for a roughly 18-20
round trip, depending on how long we played around on the lake with all of the fun, hulking blue bergs that change year to year.
Upon arrival at the trailhead, the morning was sunny and slightly breezy, with thin clouds cast on the horizon. We got to riding. Conditions on the trail were pretty good — there was a layer of fresh snow that had been ground up and frozen by snow machines, so it was a little bumpy but relatively steady going nonetheless. My butt had been in better biking shape, but also worse.
I was in it to enjoy myself and the day. A familiar excitement settled in as I pedaled through the first of two creek crossings, thrilled by the idea that I’d get to spend a whole morning outside.
The problem started about 5 miles in.
That little breeze from the trailhead? It had picked up. Significantly.
The terrain had opened up, and with the broadened expanse no longer buffered by short scrub, so had the wind gusting right off the glacier itself. Read: it was cold. It was also consistent.
I pulled my buff tighter around my ears to prevent the frosty wind from gusting its way into my ears, a particularly aching kind of pain. I tugged another buff down over my forehead to ward off that external brain freeze feeling, another ordinary Alaska evil.
I clicked my gears into the lowest setting I could bear without wasting energy spinning, and rolled slowly forward. If you’ve fat tire biked, you know that sound: the grinding of thick rubber against snow, that at once can be exciting if the conditions are good, but can quickly turn to signify a grueling effort when things slow down.
The wind, as it will be when it is fresh off a giant ice cube, was chilled and ceaseless.
After 10, 15 minutes of this, I did another systems check on myself post-buff rearrangement and realized that although I was physically fine — warm enough, uncomfortable but not weak — I was no longer having fun.
Actually, let’s be real: the phrase “I hate this” blazed across the marquee of my brain.
I also realized there were still 3 or 4 miles left, potentially another hour in fat bike on softening snow against the wind time. And, that’s before riding out onto the lake to check out the bergs.
And, that’s before riding back.
I had a quick chat with my husband. I said, calmly but emphatically, “I am not having fun. I’m turning around. You go on.” At first, he (graciously) said he’d come with me, but after we chatted about it for another minute, I convinced him to keep going. Turning around was my choice, not his.
As he went one way and I picked up my bike to turn it around 180 degrees, I experienced the following: regret, fear, failure, uncertainty, and disappointment. As I started to pedal back toward the trailhead, I felt a pang of shame and anger at myself for not following through on what I’d intended to do.
Yet, as I rode on (with the wind now at my back) into the sunny spring sun over bright white snow, I realized that physically I was actually — what was this? — enjoying myself.
I rode a little harder. If it’s possible to put pep in a step that is actually a bicycle, that’s what happened — I felt lighter, stronger, and faster as I pedaled forward across the tracks that had only been made smoother by our ride out coupled with others behind us.
As I cruised along, I realized I was fully enjoying sections of the trail that I’m usually too tired to take in by the time I’ve made it to the glacier and am heading home. I noticed land masses I usually missed; enjoyed the long, straight shots of trails that have otherwise felt like a slog.
There is a time and a place to push on and overcome physical discomfort in order to achieve a broader goal or experience. And, as I discovered, there is also credence to knowing when to bag it. I found that, and in that moment and that experience, I couldn’t have been happier.