Biathlon Heads to Utah and so Do I

The Beginning
It started one day when I happened to check the IBU World Cup Biathlon calendar for what races were coming up. This was probably around Christmas when I was eager to see the next race (there is about a three-week break between races around the holidays). On that day, I finally realized that the World Cup was coming to North America. And not just North America, but Salt Lake City, a mere day's drive from home. Behold! A chance to view the great sport of biathlon in person! I was immediately completely in.

Lauren was kind enough to join me. After some planning and a plane ticket purchase on her part, I ended up leaving on my own super early Thursday morning at 1:45 with the idea to arrive just in time to see the women's sprint race at 11:15 a.m. As I was loading the car, however, I was reminded by the ever-present "wealth" of information hiding quietly in the back of my mind that Salt Lake City was in mountain time. "Shoot." I was going to miss the race. Still, I figured I'd try to make it. Who knew? Maybe I could make up enough time.

Nope. I gave up after three hours of driving more slowly than normal in the unusual weather of Southern California they call rain. Also, I was really sleepy. So I pulled over at a pre-Vegas casino and slept for more than three hours. Then I drove the rest of the way in rain because a huge rain storm decided to grow over me and then head toward Salt Lake City as well. I slept twice more and eventually arrived to my Airbnb location after 5:00 p.m. Just missed that race...

This was the first time staying at an Airbnb by myself and I was a little nervous because I was sharing the home—and bathroom—with the hosts. Did I knock or just let myself into the home? I let myself in and it worked out fine. The room was also just fine, but the bathroom and other common areas of the house weren't quite as tidy as I imagined they'd be, I guess. It just took me a little off guard, even though it was a small thing. Mostly, I just felt like I had broken into someone's house and was very much intruding. A strange sensation.

I dropped my stuff off and headed to a nearby Sprouts for groceries. After wandering around the store along with a bunch of Subaru owners and 20-somethings from the nearby university, I paid and returned to the house. It was still empty (I had expected to find the hosts at some point), and I ate my leftovers brought from home and listened to more of my book (Words of Radiance).

Catching Sight of JT
Friday morning I made my parfait, ate my muffin, gathered my stuffs, and excitedly headed up the hill toward Soldier Hollow. I got there early since I didn't know how big the crowds would be for this greatest of international events. Turns out not many Americans show up to watch biathlon on Friday mornings. But I had much fun wandering around the venue and catching glimpses of athletes I recognized. It was a thrill to be standing mere feet away as they shredded by in their skintight onesies. I took plenty of pictures and video and sent several to my sister, who graciously gets hyped with me about our favorite Norwegian biathlete ("JT" we call him). Being there was a blast. It's harder to follow the race in person than it is while watching it on tv, ironically, but I felt it was worth it to be able to experience it happening around me.

I could have tackled JT. But I didn't.

I bought a burger from the food trucks and sat on the bleachers eating while athletes skied by in front of me on their cool downs. It was time to figure out my run for the afternoon. I had done some research trying to find some local winter trails that would be runnable, but I hadn't had much luck. I didn't know whether the weather would hold either, since there was supposed to be more snow coming in later that evening. So I decided to just leave from the parking lot, run down the road a ways, and head up a trail I could tell from the map was nearby. Turns out they don't plow hiking trails and apparently it's not an overly used one in the middle of winter. So I passed by the trail and stayed on the fire road heading up into the mountains. I was running in the partially packed tracks of snowmobiles on probably a foot of snow, sinking in at least a couple inches every step. So it was a solid workout. I made it six miles up and came to a saddle and junction, at which point I decided to return. The clouds were bright against the deep blue of the sky. The snow too. My feet were getting more and more damp and my muscles more and more cramped (not really, I just wanted to say cramped after damp). I got back to the car before the cold got to my bones and headed my exhausted body and face back down into town. Turns out I got sunburned a bit, but it wasn't too bad.

The Orem Public Library, with the mountains outside.

I parked near Subway and realized with joy that the Orem Public Library was right across the little street I parked on. Since libraries are probably only second on my list—after kitties—of things to become giddy about, I happily postponed supper and went inside. It's a fantastic library, with two levels and two buildings, a courtyard in between. I suppose looking tired and frazzled, with a silly grin and sunburn on my face, and taking pictures in the children's section wasn't the best move. I was asked if needed anything by a staff member, who, after hearing me say no and apparently judging me relatively harmless, returned to her other staff members and said something along the lines of, "He's fine." In the adult wing of the library, the views outside the giant windows look out onto the mountains. It's wonderful. After cutting ties at last with my library awe, I made my way to Subway. I got soda with my sub since I was using a gift card from Mom and had earned the sugar, if only by my own estimation.



Apparently only Airbnb guests are required to maintain certain levels of quiet, because there were visitors that evening that talked and talked late into the night. I know, because even I stayed up until after 11, at which point I could hear them for a good hour as I struggled to fall asleep. One or two were still in the living room crashed on the couch when I left after breakfast in the morning. I was taking notes, in case I ever get the chance to be a host. It's the little things, man, the little things.

Sublime Sabbath Snowshoeing
I found Lauren at the airport in SLC. It had snowed an inch or two in town overnight and everything was white and sparkling. We got groceries at Walmart and then stopped at the County Library of the Salt Lake City County Library System to make plans for the day. Lauren obliged me by listening quite patiently at all the possibilities I'd come across the night before and couldn't decide on, plus some rambling about books I was passing in the fantasy aisle behind us. Eventually we decided we'd hope for the best for some snowshoeing from Aspen Grove, even though it might be overcast and possibly snowy.

On our way we stopped by a little trail I thought might have some views of the Heber Valley we were driving through. It sort of did and we enjoyed a little walk. The rest of the drive to Aspen Grove was beautiful and it was fun to drive up the last few miles on a windy road with a wall of snow on one side and little alpine cabins peaking out of the snow and trees on the other. We ate sandwiches in the car and then bundled up and got our (well, Bjorn's, in my case) snowshoes on, then headed into the puffy stuff for to see what we could see.

Looking up the bowl, Mt. Timpanogos invisible somewhere off to the left.

The trail wound through some firs and aspen before straightening out and taking on a slight increase in grade and opening up to the view of a huge, high treeless bowl of cliff and snow at our front. It was impressive. Mt. Timpanogos was up ahead of us at about our 10 o'clock, but we couldn't see the peak because the clouds were low. They wafted around the rocky precipices to our left and shaded the sun overhead. It was snowing. We passed a couple of folks heading down from the direction we were going, and then we had the entire bowl to ourselves. We hiked and hiked, stopping frequently to catch our breaths, relish the views, and add to our collection of panorama pictures. After more than an hour we had gone about 0.85 miles.

A somewhat skewed panorama of Lauren marching up the bowl.

Sometime later we were both feeling a turnaround would be prescient, but we were close to the satisfaction of 1.50 miles and there was what seemed to be an overlook ahead and above that would offer a cool view down through the bowl. But it was a steep final ascent and we were breaking trail now. We zigged and zagged up the slope carefully, doing our best to avoid snow in the boots, slips down the hill, and avalanches, of course. We finally made it up and enjoyed a rest and the view before adding layers and beginning our return.

Going down was fun. I got a little hyper surrounded by all that snow and did some running and jumping around while Lauren responsibly and merrily marched toward the car. The light was fading, the temperatures dropping, and the snow increasing by the time we arrived, and we were happy to be warm and sitting again. We got to our lovely new Airbnb hosts (Brett and Bridget—plus Gunther the friendly pup—who were excellent hosts) and warmed up dal and recouped nutrients with a bountiful salad. Then we slept, hard.

Relay Time
Sunday morning we got our hot cereal and fruit ingested, then headed to Soldier Hollow for a day of relays. It was cold—somewhere in the teens—and the snow was no longer as puffy as the days before. But we still had fun watching the single mixed relay (Hofer and Wierer won it for the Italians) from different vantage points. I took the opportunity to ramble some more about what was happening and Lauren at least feigned interest, if not actually enjoying it a little bit too. When the race was over, we explored a frozen marshy by the lake nearby, complete with beaver homes and dams, before deciding that the veggie burgers at SpinCafe in the neighboring town of Heber had the most appeal for lunch. We made a stop for pastries afterward and Lauren was able to buy the very last two. We sat a spell, enjoying the crystalized sugar on the one pastry and the lavender flavors of the other. Then Lauren obliged me again by allowing us to return to Soldier Hollow to watch the big mixed relay event that afternoon.

A view from our vantage point on the track. Off in the distance is the shooting range. The biathletes ski up on our left and down on the right.

(Volume warning) I can't remember who this is, but it's either Jake Brown or Alex Howe of the U.S. team.

I had such a good time. I decided I did want to walk up onto the course after all, even though it meant not being able to see how the shootings were progressing on the giant screen near the start/finish. But up on the course we could look down over the whole track and get views of all the skiers as they struggled up the hill to one side of us and then streamed down right on the other side of us. Susan Dunklee was up there cheering on her teammates (another fan asked me to take a picture of him and her for him; I was too timid to say anything except "I'd be happy to," let alone actually meet Susan). Benedikt Doll skied up to our viewing area after his leg to cheer on the final German skier. Fillon Maillet also skied up and all over cheering for his teammate after his own leg. JT and all the others skied up and down a mere ten feet away from me and I thought it was the coolest thing. Thanks, Lauren. I'd really made it to a World Cup biathlon event.

On our way home we located the pathway passing by Bridal Veil Falls and made a stop for a pleasant walk through the snow beside the babbling brook. The giant icicles high up on the cliffs were a sight. We marveled a while and gradually made our way back to the car. Tired and hungry, we went back to the house. As it turns out, Great Value makes some fantastic macaroni and cheese. We enjoyed that and some broccoli for supper before crashing again after a long, cold day of fun.

The creek we walked beside to reach Bridal Veil Falls. Photo by Lauren.

Bryce Detour
At the library on Sabbath, Lauren perked up when I mentioned possibly making a slight detour to visit Bryce Canyon on our return. So that became Monday's plan (yay, presidents). Admittedly, I was a little concerned about driving my little fwd coupe in the snowy road conditions and low temps scheduled for that morning, but everything turned out fine. I drove safely and we avoided being the victims of that sharp turn in the park that claimed the front of another car about thirty seconds before we passed by. Our drive to the park was peaceful, as the sunny skies over SLC eventually turned into overcast skies in the mountains that began to drop snow. I was proud to display my annual national parks pass and then make it to the Bryce Point overlook without issue. We ate sandwiches in the car again, then bundled up before heading out into the winter wonderland that was Bryce Canyon in February 2019.

Bryce Canyon. Photo by Lauren.

Gratuitous portrait and apparently a Marmot advertisement.

We drove to three different points along the rim over the next couple of hours, walking our way to the fourth. We took pictures, jumped in the snow, tried to keep our hands warm, and thoroughly enjoyed the otherworldly views. Snow piled up in smooth, curvaceous piles among the fins, arches, and hoodoos of the canyon. Where visible, the red of the hardened soil rock contrasted lovelily against the bright white of the snow. Thor's Hammer looked sublime, and as a Christothor myself, I was happy to see it. (I'm actually still not 100 percent certain what I was admiring and imagining to be the Hammer was actually the Hammer, but let's say it was.) Because of the snowy skies rolling over us, the atmosphere would go from eerily dim and foggy to bright and sparkly when the sunshine would fight its way through the clouds now and then. It was a beautiful, if frigid, day.



Heading Home
We stayed longer than we planned to, but since Lauren thought it was worth it we were fine. Eventually we took our bathroom break, shed our layers, and began the long drive home. It went well. (Except unfortunately, that the night before my car's head unit—the radio—suddenly wasn't working any longer when I tried turning it on at one point and continued to persist in its malfunctioning on Monday, leaving me without road tunes. Sadness abounded in my heart.) Lauren and I enjoyed conversation, Chipotle, naps (mostly just Lauren on that one as I was the designated driver), and even some typical holiday-end traffic over Cajon Pass. We got home around 11:00 p.m., three hours after we'd "planned." We'll say that was a sign of a successful adventure.

Some favorite memories of Lauren's, translated by me:

• Lots of snow!
• Shufflin' through the pufflin'
• Watching biathlon being acceptably cool (probably in terms of temps, but still)
• Snowy landscapes in the sunshine—particularly the windy road up to Aspen Grove TH
• And the sunniness that would poke through while in Bryce Canyon

As for me, it was a trip I'll remember fondly as the one with the white walls of the Wasatch Mountains, the smallness of the biathlon greats as they quietly stormed right by me at Soldier Hollow, the stories of Kaladin and Dalinar from Words of Radiance in my ears before bed, the laughs and conversations and pictures and meals and walks with Lauren, the new experiences of Airbnb, the inspiring Orem library, the glory of winter Bryce Canyon, and the effect of renewed hunger for adventure and a revisit of the Wasatch someday.

"Let's do it again" I texted Lauren the next day.

"Agreed!" she replied. Agreed.

Trying to jump off a snow pile into more snow while wearing snowshoes is a futile endeavor. Photo by Lauren.

Here I Am

This morning during a "field trip" group run up the Loch Leven trail, I found myself chatting with someone joining us for the first time. He asked me what I did.

It's a question that has plagued me. "I do nothing. I do laziness. I run? I... edit..?" I'm as cliche as the next person struggling with his identity, and my answers always get mumbled out somehow and end up a little differently each time.

I quit my managing editor job for the medical school alumni magazine last fall. For the next several weeks I wasn't overly productive. "I'm retired," I'd tell people as glibly as I could, smirking a bit for show. This, of course, masked my mountainous disappointment in where my unfettered tendencies lead and the great fear looming over me about how to proceed with life. What is life? Is it even worth living? How can I justify any type of work? Why am I cursed with privilege? Yada yada. So much pathetics, and I knew it. It's a curious spiral: shame for the ease of life, leading to the inability to enjoy it and live it well, leading to more shame. Brené Brown would be disappointed. Or curious. Or over it, probably.

After the new year, I finally began something that felt like forward motion: a proofreading class through the Christian Editors Network, of which I had signed myself up as a bronze member a few weeks before. I'm still taking that course, so this point in time is not far removed from that one. I've had no great epiphanies or sudden increases in discipline or unsolicited influxes in clients or cash. But editing, and my participation in it, has certainly taken up more real estate in my mind.

I joined the Freelance Editing 101 course a couple weeks ago. And a few days later finally started reading through the Establishing Your Freelance Business 101 material I purchased (well, grandma purchased as a gift for me) over Christmas. It's probably the biggest wave of incoming information I've experienced in a decade—all while also being selected as a juror in a four-day trial, which only added to the feeling of over saturation.

Is over saturation two words? Or should I hyphenate it? Is it okay that I started that sentence with "or"? If so, according to whom?

I think I want to be a copy editor, but I also think it's only because I don't think I have any other skills. But reading and studying all this material is depressing, or at least discouraging. It's a romantic ideal, this dream of being a freelancer that many of us coddle and attempt to retain while awake. I'm told the reality is: heaps of work. And it's work that needs to come from self-motivated hands, from someone who can promote themselves, from someone who is disciplined with his time at home. This is discouraging to me. I struggle mightily with these things, and saying that I struggle feels like a grand overstatement.

They also say to be an editor of quality and credibility, one ought to write, to be published, even. Oh, and that it's probably best in many cases to get things running on the side, because you won't make much money for the first few years.

As I watch my savings dwindle and the list of should-dos grow, it's almost all I can do to just laugh a little. I'm nearly 32. I'm not the age I feel anymore, which is somewhere around 17. (Wait, ages are written out according to Chicago style. Using numerals is Associated Press style. But I'm not changing those because I'm the publisher of this blog, so I can overrule the rules.) I'm trying to trust God, because I believe He is wholly capable to make worlds out of nothing. In ten years I think I'll see little worlds of my own, as it were, that He did make for me. But you know how it is, this darkness in the moment, this silence of the seconds. I am the blind man before surgery, but in this case, I can't just lie around awaiting instructions or mobile beds. Maybe I can eventually, but it has to start with me. I have to get myself dressed, so I can get to the door, so I can let in the person who will take me to the surgery. It's the little things, sometimes.

A couple days ago, I agreed with a good friend to spend 20 minutes blogging today (there we go again, numerals). And here I am.

Yes, that's my gloved thumb. Yes, this was taken this morning.