Small Town New Year

It’s been almost 3 months since Jack and I hopped off our bikes for the last time in Escalante, Utah. We both haven’t ridden since.

Just kidding. We’ve actually both been on our bikes a fair bit, from commuting during my wilderness medicine instructor course in Salt Lake for three weeks in November, to Jack checking out the local mountain bike trails surrounding our new home in Winthrop. But still, despite having been in the saddle here and there, our lives are nowhere close to what they were a few months ago. It’s been a real adjustment, going from riding basically every single day and focusing almost exclusively on meeting basic needs and pedaling, to entering back into the existentially brutalizing fray of working, paying rent, checking email way too often, going to the gym, and trying to find some semblance of balance through it all. I’ve gone through transitions like these many times, as an outdoor educator and someone who spends a lot of time way out there and disconnected from it all. Every time I am amazed at how quickly the simplicity and serenity from being out there dissolves and feels like it was already a lifetime ago. This time around though, I’m also struck by how preposterous it seems that we actually DID such a huge undertaking. Sometimes I catch myself thinking back and wondering: how could I have possibly ridden that far? Did I dream that? Was it real? Am I actually capable of such things? It feels surreal and strange, like maybe this summer was actually an extended out-of-body experience that happened in some in-between land.

In complete contrast, however, Jack and I just watched a recent hour-long film about Lachlan Morton’s individual time trial on the Divide this year (during which Lachlan rode past our camp early one morning in northern NM, while Jack and I were leisurely drinking coffee still lol). While watching, we were able to pick out almost every shot, even just the ones of seemingly mundane dirt roads that would be otherwise completely unrecognizable to most people. I could picture the places, the people we met there, the horrible washboards (which are NEVER accurately portrayed in bikepacking videos), the headwinds (also rarely accurately portrayed), the campsites, the views, the thunderstorms and bright clear days. After feeling somewhat detached from the trip, I suddenly felt so connected. I really did that. We were really there. We really pedaled that far! Even though the film was about Lachlan crushing the record on the Divide and riding it in 12 and a half days, which is truly an insane and incredible feat (consider our nearly 60 days on the Divide), I still got the feeling that I too did a remarkable thing. It was cool to be able to celebrate the trail, the feat that we accomplished, and just the feeling of being on a bike day after day, through the lens of someone else’s ride. Even though our journey this summer often slips far from my conscious thought as I focus on a new chapter of settling into a new place, I’m glad to find these moments when I can bring it back into focus.

New Town

Jack and I made it up to Winthrop, officially, by the end of November. It’s a small town, but a very charming one with a lot going on considering its size. We’re part of the greater Methow Valley, which encompasses Twisp, Mazama, and Carlton, as well as a few other little towns farther down the valley. The valley extends from the confluence of the Methow River with the Columbia River waaayyy up to the headwaters of the Methow River and Washington Pass in the Cascades. As part of our drive up, we managed to sneak through the North Cascades Highway one day before it closed for the winter, where I took in my first glimpses of the towering and glaciated peaks. There is SO much intriguing terrain up there, which we won’t really get to explore until late spring when the road reopens. Jack and I are already scheming backpacking routes.

Our home in Winthrop is amazing. Our good friend Bridger helped us find and secure a sweet rental next to the pizza shop in Winthrop. I walk everywhere here, which is somewhat unusual since many folks live farther away from town on larger pieces of land. But our location is perfect. I walk 7 minutes to the gym, 15 minutes to “down town” aka the western-themed and boardwalk-clad strip of main street where many of the local businesses are, and 25 minutes to where I work at the local bike shop (yes, I got a job at the bike shop! more on jobs later). Compared to Salt Lake where everything is driving or biking distance, I am LOVING the walk commute to basically anything I need. As part of my walk to most places, I cross the Methow River on the pedestrian suspension bridge, where I usually stop to watch the many bald eagles that roost here in the winter, and sometimes I catch glimpses of other things like great blue herons, ducks, and dippers. Dreamy? Dreamy.

Winthrop itself is a lot of what you might expect for a western-themed town: wooden facades on small boutiques and tourist shops. But we also have a pretty good selection of things even us “locals” find useful (am I a local yet??): outdoor stores for gear and nordic skiing setups, Three Fingered Jack’s – the oldest saloon in the state which also has two pool tables that are almost always open when we go, Rocking Horse Bakery, the ice skating rink which regularly hosts local hockey games, Old Schoolhouse Brewery crafting local beer, the Ciderhouse for local cider, Lost River vineyard for the winos, and a variety of cute restaurants. We even have an ACE hardware, a medical clinic, and a vet clinic, and the gym I go to is also the physical therapy clinic. Anything we don’t have in Winthrop, they have in Twisp for the most part, so it’s pretty remarkable how little we have to rely on outside resources in this little valley of only a few thousand people. The Methow is also unique in the number of community-oriented organizations and programs here, given the tiny population. We have The Methow Conservancy, Methow Beaver Project, Evergreen Mountain Bike Alliance Methow Chapter (who Jack will build trails for this summer!), Methow Housing Trust, Aero Methow Rescue Service (who I will be volunteering with as an EMT!), Methow Valley Community Theater, Methow Recycles, The Cove foodbank, Room One social services, Methow Trails (who Jack is grooming for this winter), the list goes on! It’s a remarkable community and the people here seem to really care about making this place a good one to live in.

The surrounding scenery in the valley is also lovely and is the main draw for tourists and part-time residents with second homes/cabins. Every side valley has a river here it seems, wandering down from the Cascades and eventually meeting the main Methow River. The valleys are surrounded by scrub-steppe, with lots of bitterbrush and sage, and dotted with ponderosas, my favorite tree. Like most places in the west, many fires have come through here, so there are many swaths of burned forest in various stages of regrowth. Climbing higher into the foothills and eventually into the true mountains, there are forests of ponderosa giving way to fir, cedar, and, in some places, mystical larches. This place reminds me so much of the other places I’ve called home – mainly Salt Lake and Carson City – with the elements of high desert, but with more ponderosas, more rivers, and less scrub oak (thank god). There’s also wolves, yes wolves, that live around here and even the occasional grizzly bear in the nearby Pasayten Wilderness. So I guess what I’m trying to say is, this place is like a combination of many of the places I hold dear, from the deserts of Utah and Nevada, to the ponderosa forests of Idaho, to the clear cold alpine water of Lake Tahoe, to the contrasting steppe and craggy peaks of Wyoming, to the grizzlies and wolves wandering wild places in Montana and Canada. It’s comforting to be in a place with these familiar elements. But it’s still not home yet.

There is a place in Salt Lake City that I used to go to often, on the Bonneville Shoreline Trail. I’d ride my bike up there after work with friends, or maybe have a midday romp on the weekend. There is a bend in the trail around a little sub-ridge as the track traverses across the foothills above downtown, and at that bend is the most incredible view. In the spring the hillside all around is covered in bright yellow arrowleaf balsamroot, and the entire city stretches out before you with the Wasatch precipitously jutting up from the valley floor. The sun bounces off the Great Salt Lake at the edge of the city to the west. Yes, there are oil refineries and smoke stacks and the huge Kennecott copper mine gouging the side of the Oquirrh Mountains. Yes, the din of the city, the planes landing and taking off, the many other trail users passing by elude me of true stillness and quiet at that view. But nonetheless, I find that spot to be so deeply beautiful and magical, I think partly because I know it so well. There is familiarity there, gazing across a place that has been my home for almost 10 years. It’s warm and welcoming, even with the many flaws and things that others would categorize as ugly and obtrusive.

I don’t have that feeling here in the Methow Valley yet. Everything is new, and often stunning, but so unfamiliar. The little pieces bring me comfort – the bark of ponderosas and the crusty, scraggly branches of bitterbrush. But there is no place here yet that I can conjure in my mind as the idea of my home. Almost everyone here seems to agree that we do indeed live in an incredibly beautiful place. And I agree too; in fact, just the other day we had our first true bluebird day since moving here. The Cascades shone against the golden blue of the deep winter sky, covered in new snow. Everything was glittering and putting on it’s very best face. It felt like there was a collective sigh of relief encompassing the valley. I was in awe. Jack and Bridger teased me: “do you still think it’s ugly here Zoey?” Indeed, I live in a beautiful place. But I still feel like such a stranger here. There is no warm hug from my favorite view. There is no familiarity or favorite peak yet. Most of the time I can’t even identify which direction I’m facing or basic landmarks! I know that this will all come with time and someday soon I’ll have that view of home conjured in my mind. But for now I still feel a little bit adrift, still in transition, still carving out a space.

New Year

We were lucky to celebrate the New Year with a visit from our friend Jackson, whom Bridger and I went to college with and used to live with post-college in Salt Lake. For the ball drop, we had a simple dinner and played some games at home before heading out for perhaps the wildest and latest night the Methow has seen in quite some time. We went out to Meza, a local restaurant, for a dance party and DJ set by DJ Paulala. For the Methow folk, there was a convenient ball drop recognized at 9pm, since that’s the time of the true ball drop in NYC and is also known as “Methow Midnight” around here. But for the true party fiends (us), DJ Paulala took us on a musical journey of dance bangers all the way to actual midnight (gasp)! Who knew that we would be getting DOWN to club bangers in little old Winthrop?? The experience has since inspired Jack to study under DJ Paulala to learn the art of putting on fuego dance parties for the (developing) Methow club scene. Stay tuned for details on his debut gig.

As far as New Years Resolutions go, neither Jack nor I are very big into them, but here’s some things I’m thinking about/working towards in the new year:

• Non-violent communication – Jack and I both listed to the audio version of the book Non-Violent Communication while riding this summer, and we began practicing communicating this way together. Notably, we both practiced non-violent communication to resolve a conflict during the final hours of our 92-mile push the day before Jack proposed. Even though we were both completely exhausted, getting cold, riding in the dark, after 13 hours of pedaling and pushing our bikes, we were able to communicate our feelings, needs, and requests of each other in a way that both of us could hear and understand. It was a remarkable example to me of the power of communicating non-violently, and the importance of it. I know the title and term “non-violent communication” is provocative and quite the turn-off for many people, but it has started to change my life. If you’re interested, I would highly recommend the audiobook version, read by the author.
• De-prioritizing “cool” work – Thus far, I have almost exclusively worked “cool” jobs: ski patrol, EMT in Zion, conservation corps, field semester proctor, etc. These jobs have all contributed immensely to my current skill-set and to my current work opportunities. However, all of these jobs have also come with significant sacrifices to my relationships, mental health, sleep, creativity, energy for recreation, and general ability to find balance. I’ve also realized recently that my “cool” jobs were the only way I knew how to feel “cool” as a person, directly tying my job to my feelings of self-worth. This is not healthy nor is it how I desire to live my life. Currently, I’m working only 3-days per week at the local bike shop, and I have basically zero work-related stress for possibly the first time in my life. At times I feel that old sneaking grip of doubt start to squeeze my insides: Am I selling myself short? Shouldn’t I be doing more? Am I working enough? Am I going to lose my skills as a leader, outdoor educator, trail builder, patroller….literally everything?? But then I remember: I want to live a rich life outside of work. I want to have meaningful time and energy to spend with Jack. I want to have a home. I want to cultivate friends and community in this new place. I want to have space to be creative and to care for myself. I want to have time and energy to devote to getting my wilderness medicine business off the ground (which is a cool job anyway, so what the heck?). I want to have moments of stillness and ease. I want to let go of judgments of myself related to work.
• Giving this place my best shot – we made a pact upon deciding to move to Winthrop that we would give this place our very best. To me, this means spending this year sinking deep into the community, getting involved in things I care about here, intentionally making time to explore and acquaint ourselves with the land, saying “yes” to invites and meeting new people, staying strong in my resolve to de-prioritize work, and creating what I want to see in my community. So far this has actualized as: starting the process to volunteer with Aero Methow, saying “yes” to last minute ski plans with a new friend, going to game nights where I don’t know most of the people there, starting to plan bikepacking workshops and events for the spring and summer, and….even starting some new business ventures (dun dun duuuuunnnn!).

As far as this blog goes…that’s another thing I’m thinking about with the new year. I had a ton of fun writing this summer, and I think Jack did too. I learned a lot and also reacquainted myself with my love for writing as a creative outlet. But obviously the trip has ended and now we’re just living our normal-ass lives in a small town in Washington. Do you want to keep reading? I think there are likely to be many more HAGSian bikepacking adventures (although probably not a 4-month long one) in the future, but what about the in-between time? Do you care? Let us know in the comments if you feel strongly in favor and what you might want to read about (and if you feel strongly NOT in favor, maybe just quietly unsubscribe).

Here’s to a happy new year for you and those you love! If there’s one thing for sure, it will be full of changes and impermanence just like every other year that has ever been, but I hope you’re able to weather it with strength, grace, and love for yourself. And thanks for reading HAGS!