Fishing for Striped Bass

Fishing: There's a reason they don't call it catching.

It's very late on Friday night, we're both tired after a long week of work followed by a long drive, and the motel we planned to stay at is charging a whopping $200 per night to stay. "We'll keep looking, thank you". This is not the weekend fishing shanty we were hoping for. We look for other places, but can find nothing but "delightful" hotels and bed and breakfasts, or places a half-hour drive inland. We need a place close to shore and ideally close to Sandy Hook, our ultimate destination. I even call the L Motel, where we stayed in absolute desperation several years ago after several days of no sleep. "Leonardo Motel". "Do you have any rooms available and if so what is the price?". "We're all booked up." Wha?!?

We are sort of stuck, so stop into late night food joint and eat a little food. It's around 11pm and it's not as if more options are appearing while we wait. I call the Empress Hotel in far away Asbury Park next to the Stone Pony, where we had a memorable stay many years ago after a Ween concert. It's the last place we ever though we'd end up again, and an unusual spot for a fisherman's retreat. But as we will quickly learn, this is the sort of place where there are (as J put it), "no questions asked". Well except one. "King size bed?" "Umm, two beds please." It's 1 am and the place is busy with a full bar, and an outdoor pool area with a party that's not looking like it's ending any time soon. In fact the whole town is alive. We are not the only ones looking to get a room at this hour if you know what I mean.

We spend the whole weekend a little slow moving. We wake up, get coffee and breakfast, then drive up and down the beach looking for any signs that the fish have arrived. It's pretty bleak out there. Fishing is always full of half-signs. When you feel a little bump on your rod you think, "ooooh, was that a fish"? It gets you a little deludedly excited just enough to motivate to keep focus until an actual fish hits your line. When a fish hits, there is no mistaking it. All those little bumps were just hitting weeds. In this same way, we'll see a little flash of white in the water (was that a fish hitting the surface?) or a small patch of dark water (is that a pod of paid?)? You look again for confirmation, but it never comes. Confirming that it was just a mirage.

Forager's Stew

It's Friday the 13th and I have taken the day off from work. I have been spending a lot of time behind a desk and I'm nursing a sore hip so today I need a few things:

1) To take a break from work and regular responsibilities
2) To get some kind of mild all-day exercise besides running and hiking
3) To have an adventure

My first idea was to hop on my bike and go for a long ride. However, this was missing something. Motivation. A long ride requires a purpose or a destination.

I have been doing a little fishing recently using a collapsible fishing rod that I can carry in my small biking backpack. And there are trails we run at in Saratoga, the Skidmore Bike trails at Daniel's Road which has several ponds deep in the woods. Whenever we run past them I know that I need to try fishing these ponds.

Meanwhile I have had vague ideas rolling around in my head for years to spend some period of time relying on foraging for sustenance. It's the only logical conclusion after trying so hard to learn about local edible wild food.

The plan finally materializes. I will get up early and spend the day on my bike with the mission to feed myself on wild stuff for the day. Fuel my bike ride north, stopping along the way anywhere I need to to stock up on foraged supplies. My ultimate goal (which I don't make it to) is the ponds at the Skidmore trails. Along the way, I would like to stop at the Mechanicville Reservoir and try fishing there.

M doesn't know my plan. I wake up with her and start getting ready. "Why do you have a cooking pot strapped to your bike?". Perceptive this one is. I explain my plans for the day. Along with the cookpot, I have gathered the following equipment:
- bike, helmet, 2 empty 1-liter water bottles
- fishing pole, lures, pliers, measuring tape
- headlamp and reflective vest
- water purification drops
- a trowel

In the bathroom I move to brush my teeth, but realize that toothpaste is sort of like food and is off-limits so I brush my teeth with no toothpaste. This is going to be harder than I thought.

I frequently don't eat anything until 11am or later. But today it's 6am and I feel ravenously hungry. My body knows what I'm doing and is trying to encourage me to take the easy way out and grab something from the fridge.

I'm thirsty. But tap water is somewhat off-limits. The temperature is in the 30's. I try to think of the best local water supply. The Colonie Reservoir (in Clifton Park) is supposed to be a backup water source for the town of Colonie. It's two miles away so I put on some gloves and warmer clothes and head over there. Brrr! The water has a ton of green in it - duck weed and algae, but I fill up anyway. While I'm there I notice that the 'no fishing' sign is completely faded, sunken, and not visible. It's still somewhat dark out, so I indulge in a few casts with the fishing pole. I've always wanted see what kind of sea monsters come out of this unfished body of water. The season and time of day is perfect, the location can't be beat, so I am very surprised to catch nothing after several casts. I pack up and head back to the house.

I treat the water. Man! I am frozen to the bone! I climb into a down sleeping bag on the couch to warm up, and pass out. I wake up and catch up on email, and some other errands on the computer. By the time I'm up again it's 11am! I need to eat!

There's a small apple I foraged recently that's been rolling around my house for the last week. That counts. I eat it. The next thing I need is some more easy food. It's a little warmer out now. I hop on my bike and head to nearby Hannaford which has a pretty awesome apple tree out front. The low-hanging fruit has all been taken, but there are very nice apples in the tree, just out of reach. I climb into the tree and take 4 nice apples, two to eat and two to carry in my pack for later. No sooner do I climb into the tree when a retired couple walks by and asks what I'm doing in the tree. "Just fetching some apples." "That's great, hey what are these?" the old man notices that several of the branches have odd berries, maybe small crab apples on them. (Is this some kind of grafting thing? It crosses my mind now that apples can't self-pollinate, so they need to have a second tree nearby in order to produce fruit. Maybe the tree was grafted with another fruit to allow it to self-pollinate). He quickly grabs some of the berries and says, "you gotta die sometime" and pops them into his mouth. I'm like, "I have no idea what those are, I would't eat those if I were you..." but it's too late. He is munching away. He describes their flavor and spits them out. He then motions as if he's choking and dying. Ha ha ha. He has a great poisoning death sense of humor.

Great. I knew this was a bad idea. I've been foraging for less than five minutes and already my actions may have killed someone. Why can't I just forage in peace?

As I walk back to my bike, a Hannaford employee comes up and says she saw me up in the tree and wondered what was going on. I told her I was picking apples. She says, "those are crabapples", after which I grab a nice apple out of my pack and say, "these are pretty legit apples". "Nope, those are crab apples". The then goes on to describe a wonderful pear tree in Glenville/Scotia.

Yesterday a friend (T) told me that he found meadow mushrooms in his yard. They might be my favorite wild mushroom to eat. There is a local place where I have found them once before, so next I head there to see if I can find any, but I find nothing. I eat some wild grapes along the way back to the house. I stop at another place I know of and eat a few really tasty concord grapes. There is also an elderberry bush here, but it has almost no leaves and looks really unhealthy. Also there are green apples here, but they never look very tasty so I leave them behind.

I realize that burdock has an edible root, almost like a potato. I vaguely recall previously taking note of seeing something behind Walmart. Was it burdock? At Walmart, I discover it was milkweed I had seen, not burdock. Something to remember come spring, since milkweed is a good spring edible as I understand it.

Ok, now I have water, and am slightly fed so I am ready to start the real trip of the day. It's on to Mechanicville Reservoir! Along the way I am scouring the nearby brush. At one point I stop to check out an odd looking plant on the side of the road that looks exactly like dill. I pull off some leaves, but it definitely doesn't smell like dill.

On Coons Crossing road along the Anthony Kill, I notice a giant burdock bush! I move toward it, but people are everywhere and I feel weird about digging up a big bush in front of them so I spend a little time fishing the Anthony Kill with no luck. Afterwards, people are still there so I move along.

In this area there are tons of empty beer and soda cans along the side of the road. I keep a tally. By the end of the day I have counted $5 worth of empties. Would I be able to get more food by picking up and returning empty cans from the side of the road, returning them, then shopping at the supermarket? It seems that it might be so. That might help to explain Francis the Can Man as he bikes all over Clifton Park every day, filling up giant bags with empty cans, including past my house and to the Vischer Ferry Store.

I use my phone to help navigate to the Mechanicville Reservoir. I find myself a little on edge. On a hiking adventure in this area several years ago, I placed a backpack with a few random items on the side of the quiet road for a few minutes and when I returned it was gone! Among other things it had my headlamp in it and it was getting dark soon, so I barely made it home in one piece. I don't have a bike lock with me, and I know that fishing will require that I leave my bike unguarded. I will need to keep it hidden.

I crash through an overgrown trail following powerlines. The going is rough, but eventually I make it to a small clearing at the side of the reservoir. There are empty whiskey bottles, beer cans, a fire pit, a chair, and a rope swing. I start fishing. The first cast on a pristine, quiet lake usually represents your best chance of catching a fish. After that first cast, you've alerted the lake to your presence, and the fish will be a little more skittish. So after a few casts without any signs of life, I am disappointed. I start to focus on the negative. It's muddy, shallow, and no-place a fish would ever live. I make my way down the shore to a piece of structure, a long log in the water. A cast near the log produces a big flash and a splash on the surface - it's fish! He missed, but my hope is renewed. Before long I start catching some small fish, and then a nice sunfish and then a keeper-sized large mouth bass! I keep them both for my lunch. I have everything I need to start eating. However, my excitement won't let me stop fishing while they are still biting. Over this period of an hour or so, I catch a total of 6 keeper size large mouth bass including one giant one, a nice sunfish, and several more smaller bass, all on the same little perch Rapala. I start to imagine a nature video about myself, the creature so driven by the compulsion to catch fish that he never stops to eat one and eventually starves to death.

I start feeling tired and hungry and I work my way back to the fire pit. I start a fire and clean the fish. I have always cooked fish by pan frying with some kind of fat - butter or oil, of which I have none. So instead I put the fish filets, a puffball mushroom I found, and 2 cut up apples (apples are kind of like potatoes, in fact the word for potato in French is "pomme de terre" whose literal translation is, "apple of the earth"). The stew cooks up quickly. My first bite is of the fish. Much to my surprise it's delicious! Bass has a really distinct and tasty flavor, even with no seasoning. I enjoy the cooked apples and mushroom as well. How satisfying! If I did it again I would have kept another bass or two for a truly filling meal. Heck maybe even a little more to hold onto in a tupperware container to eat later.

I make my way back home, stopping to dig up the burdock on the way. After a lot of work I don't have much to show for it, but I did bring home a small root to try.

When I get home, my foraging adventure complete, M makes tacos. She notices that I eat a *lot* of food, 5 tacos and more. But I would still like to call my first day of foraging a wild success.

SRT 30 Mile Run/Hike

Thirty of us line up at the start of the SRT 30 mile run/hike. We are split into two waves. The first wave is released at 9am. 12 participants take off, making their way up the hill 50 feet ahead of us. There is a bit of commotion amongst the volunteers. "Hey wait, you're all going the wrong way! It's that way!". All runners come back down the hill, and off to the right into the woods.

This was a perfect introduction for what was to be for the next 30 miles.

At 9:02 the second wave is released, including me. We have a distinct advantage, knowing which way to go. We work our way up a long hill. A large Slovakian dude is first up the hill, cruising ahead of everyone. Eventually another runner and I overtake the Slovakian and the runners in both waves. I'm lucky to have someone with me who knows the trail, he directs me for a few turns, a right off the main road followed by a quick left. We are running along the most incredible trail I have been on in a long time through endless fields of low huckleberry bushes with the early morning hot sun directly on us. The trail has a distinct feel to it, like a strange run through a forested desert, impressive rock outcroppings nearby, and views of long, cliffy ridges poking through the clouds in the distance.

The winner from two years ago who is also the course record holder is catching up to the two of us, just as I start increasing my pace a little. Now I am running solo. At the six-mile mark, I know there is a confusing turn to make. B&T had run the 50-miler last year, and they added an extra 1/2-mile to their journey at this point. So at 6 miles I pay very careful attention. I come out onto a gravel road, and continue in the path of least resistance, but quickly recognize that I don't see any trail markers. I stop, look around, and find the right way to go. I victoriously raise my arms, giving myself a huge pat on the back for staying on course. The trail suddenly becomes perfectly runnable. I start cruising at a very fast pace, loving life, loving how easy the trail is. I come to an intersection and quickly notice that neither option is marked. Nor is the trail I'm on. I run up and down each trail a few times just to be sure, and eventually pull out my cell phone which has a map of the trail. Turns out I am *way* off the trail. I turn back, but have a ways to go before I get back on the SR Trial. At the time I didn't know the distance, but my detour had taken me an extra mile. I pass a few runners. I see three runners ahead of me on a carriage road, one lagging behind a little. As I approach the closest runner, he stops and yells to the other two, "the trail is this way". I follow his pointing finger, and in a fraction of a second have gotten in front of all of them.

I meet a man who is running the 70-miler in Vibram Five Fingers. He says he had a bit of a rough night, getting unexpectedly dehydrated in the unusual nighttime heat, leading to some stomach issues, but he is feeling better now.

During a steep climb, I meet up with Sev and another runner. On the final approach to the top, the third runner says he's going to wait for his friend, and the two of us scurry forward. We help each other navigate this tricky section of trail. We find ourselves in a thick huckleberry maze. I think the section would be easy to hike, but the trail is full of mirage trails (presumably created by huckleberry pickers). While trying to run as quickly as we can, it seems that at every opportunity we hit a dead end and have to turn around before finding the right trail. This constant stop-and-go is slowly whittling away at my fortitude.

Up ahead on the trail I see B in his sandals. We talk for a bit. He describes his worst moment of the race, when he managed to get turned around and reverse his direction! His watch is smart enough to know better and starts politely informing him that he is turned around. "Stupid watch" he says. That is, until he finally turns around, realizes he has been here before, and curses himself for ignoring the warnings. "My new mantra became 'trust the watch'" says B.

After 13 miles or so, I reach the first checkpoint. I ask, "how far ahead are the guys in front?". He says, "11:18", which I take to mean that they are 11 minutes ahead. Ouch! I spend the next few minutes trying to fathom how they got that far ahead. During this time, my resolve to catch them comes into question. I am having such a hard time staying on the trail. I can't find any rhythm or momentum, it's just constant slaps in the face "wrong way" "wrong way" "wrong way". I think about what the checkpoint told me. "11:18". What time is it now? I switch my watch into clock mode, it's 11:26. He must have meant they came through at 11:18. Probably 2 minutes have gone by since they told me that time, so I realize that they are only 5 or 6 minutes ahead, which does not sound bad at all, but some of the mental damage has already been done.

I take off at a frantic pace. In my head, I realize that if I run at a 30-second pace faster than them, it will take me an incredibly long 10 miles to catch up. I try to make up for it by running harder. I get tired, sore, frustrated, miserable, and ultimately my soul is crushed.

I had set a goal, and was feeling the unpleasant side of putting pressure on myself. It felt so good to let go of the pressure, to let go of the goal. It is *so* nice out here. The day is perfect, the trail is amazing. How could I possibly spend the rest of the day suffering? For what? I love it out here. Or at least, I could if I just stop running. I decide that I'm going to walk the next 15 miles and enjoy it.

I hear running water in the distance. There is a bridge over an ice cold creek. I drop my pack, take off my shirt, and submerge my entire self in the waist-deep water. Taking my time, I gather my things. A man is down-stream a bit, putting clothes on and smoking a cigarette. In my new frame of mind, of abandoning all previous ambitions, I am tempted to bum one from the guy. But I am good, the downward spiral doesn't take me that far down. I continue to walk leisurely along the trail, sore as hell but very happy. With 15 miles left to go, I have no intentions of running another step today.

Frankly I am shocked by how much time passes before any other runners catch up. But finally three runners pass me. I tell them all that I quit, I'm done running for the day. Sev, then another runner, and finally the Slovakian wearing cotton camo cargo shorts. "Don't vorry, you'll pass me again" he says as he runs past. Nobody is free from trouble at this point, including leg cramps, dehydration, etc.

Less than four miles separate the first and second checkpoints, but it takes an hour and 20 minutes to reach the second one, about twice as long as it should have had I been running at a reasonable pace. Just after the second checkpoint is a parking lot with an attendant. He has a giant 5-gallon jug of spring water for people to use. I know that I am going through more water than I had planned to, and I don't have any purification pills so this is a big relief. I ask him, "do you mind if I take a little bit of water?" He says, "I don't mind, but just so you know, I was told that it's a self-supported race so if racers take any water they could be disqualified. But I won't tell anyone." Son of a... I was just going to support myself with a little bit of free public water. But I guess my choices are: risk disqualification, get dehydrated, or risk getting giardia. Hmmmm. I definitely lean towards option two, carefully provisioning what little water I have. I can deal with that.

A little further along, at a place called split rock at mile 19 there is another great place to take a swim. Again I drop my pack and take a pleasure stroll chest-deep in ice water through this magnificent natural feature.

Back on the trail, another runner passes by. A sudden compulsion makes me fall in behind him. I am running again! I talk the poor guy's ear off. I am so happy to be out of my negativity-filled head, and just sort of hanging out and covering some ground. His name is Tom, he ran the 70 miler last year, and is running a 100 miler in a few weeks.

Tom and I ask a seated 70 miler (a previous winner), "how's it going?". "Not good", he responds as he gulps down a shot of 5-hour energy drink. Tom says encouragingly, "only six-and-half miles to go!" but after 63.5 miles, somehow I don't think this had the intended effect.

After running together for 8 miles or so, we climb a long steady hill past the final checkpoint. They, too have a jug of water and offer us some. "I heard we could get disqualified because it's a self-supported race!". "Who told you that? We won't tell anyone!". But I have already resolved to decline. Tom, also declines. He tried to refill his water at one of the swimming creeks using a filter, but found it nearly impossible, so he is now risking giardia and drinking unfiltered creek water. He says he got away with it last year, so expects it to be fine.

He says, "go on ahead if you feel like it". I am feeling pretty good at this point, so I do.

This area is fairly populated. And for some reason everyone on the trail seems to be familiar with the SRT race today, including the course itself. I can't tell you how many times I would start following a trail and hear a random voice in the far off distance yelling, "that's not the right way, it's that way". On one such occurrence, it's from a woman with her family. She is just hiking today but completed the 30 miler last year. I stop and walk with them as she describes where I need to go next, and we talk for a bit about the race. Her husband ran Manitou's Revenge this year. She points me toward my next turn, and I run ahead down a steep hill. I quickly come upon a sheer rock wall. I recall B&T mentioning having to climb a wall like this during their race last year, so I assume this is the right way and take a deep breath in preparation for climbing this beast.

"That's not the right way, you have to go to the left!" comes a voice from above. Fortunately the woman from earlier saw me miss the turn and corrected my course once again.

I run up and over the hill, which is followed by a fair amount of downhill. I come across a couple with a small child. As I run past they ask, "do you know where the yellow trail is?". "I'm sorry I have no idea". After heading down the trail a little bit, I stop, turn around, pull out my phone and show them the map that I have. I don't think it helped them much, but at least I tried. And while I have the map out, I make sure I am still on course, and assess the remainder of the run. I have about 4 miles left, and the last half mile or so is along a flattish rail trail.

I catch up to the Slovakian, just as he predicted. We trade a few words before I continue on. Pink markings indicate a mandatory right turn. I take it, check the map, and confirm my location and that it's the correct way to go. Everything is adding up nicely. I come across a couple sitting on rocks who are running (to use the term loosely) the half marathon. They say to me, "this isn't the right way, is it?" I tell them "I am confident that it is the right way." As I continue on, I hear repeated echoes of "that man is confident this is the right way" as word spreads to other lost runners.

Tom catches up and is disappointed to see me. He says, "I had it in my head that you took off and were finished with the race by now!".

I come upon someone running the 70 miler. "Less than two miles to go!" I tell him. He immediately perks up. He tells me after the end of the race how much I helped him, that hearing that there were only two miles left really got him moving again.

In the last mile or so, the course becomes a little less steep and I can finally comfortably get into a fast pace. Too fast! Once I hit the flat bike path I take off running at nearly a full sprint. I am relieved to run on flat stuff like I have been training on so much this year! I fly over the giant bridge and to the finish line which is right before the trail crosses a busy road. Someone actually grabs hold of me to make sure I don't fly into the middle of the road.

Upon arriving at the finishers tent, I find T laying down smiling next to his Tomahawk, the prize for 1st place. It turns out he ran the 70 miler and crushed the old course record by almost 4 hours with a time around 18 hours! Sev and many others are there as well, and it's not long before Ivan (the guy I've been calling the Slovakian), Tom, and B join the group of finishers for pizza, beer, Coca-Cola, water, grapes, mini cupcakes... and awesome stories from the last 24 hours.

Related Links

* T's report from the 70 miler
*
B's report from the 70 miler
* The race website
* The race director's blog with more race reports

Wakely Dam Ultra vs. SRT 30

According to Strava, Wakely has a total of 3,377 feet of elevation gain over 33 miles, and the SRT 30 has 3971 feet over 31.3 miles.

Escarpment race: 4,881 feet over 17.1 miles.

Devil's Path vs. Escarpment

Escarpment total elevation gain: 4,695ft
Devil's Path total elevation gain: 8,707ft

Escarpment Run

So far this season my running has been almost entirely focused on road running in preparation for several race series. Ideally I'd like to also keep up with trail running and longer distances in between all the shorter distance races. I have a weekend without any races, so I thought I would sneak in a long and difficult trail run.

Among local trail runners, this route is well known for the annual Escarpment Trail Run, an 18.5-mile race over 3 Catskill peaks, 2 of which are taller than 3500 feet.

I eat my usual breakfast of oats, nuts, milk, and Lucky Charms cereal while I drop my bike off at the finish line. I will ride the 17 road miles back to my car at the start when the run is completed.

The trail starts off with 2,000 feet of elevation gain in the first three miles to the top of Windham Mountain. It is pretty smooth sailing. Not as fast as I might have hoped, but I figure I can make up for lost time on the downhill. That is, of, course until I get to the downhill and realize it's not any faster at all! The trail is very technical, which means stepping on deeply rutted roots and rocks the entire way. Along the way I am amazed to think how fast people run the annual race!

After 9 miles or so, I approach the top of the highest point in the run, the top of Blackhead Peak. The trail is covered in snow and ice. The snow is very close to having completely melted away, so when I take a step, I never know if it's going to be solid slick ice, mushy and sticky snow, or an unsupported icy structure that will collapse as soon as I make the mistake of trusting it. A few times I slip and slide down the ice, luckily grabbing a tree or rock before I get too out of control. I have microspikes in my pack which could give me some extra traction, but I'm still holding out hope that the ice and snow section will be over with very soon so I make the mistake of keeping them stowed away.

There are rocks and stumps sticking out of the ice that I can hop between on my way up this last stretch to the peak, the steepest section of the trip. I hop from one rock to another. The next hop is a far reach onto a 15-foot log. I leap as far as I can up the slope, landing both feet securely on the log. As soon as I do, the log tells me, "ha ha ha sucker, you thought I was stable but I most certainly am not!". The entire log immediately careens down the icy flume of trail as smoothly as a fairground ride on a carefully engineered track, with me as its passenger.

With no time for anything but to rely on instinctive reflex, my feet plant firmly on the moving log, aim for a passing circle of rock surrounded by ice, and leap. It's my lucky day. Both feet land safely balanced on the 6-inch round bit of rock. I am surging with terrified adrenaline as I watch the log make it's way swiftly down the side of the mountain. The odds seem pretty slim that a log that size could possibly stay pointed straight down the hill, but I'm watching it happen, dumbstruck.

I find my way to the nearest safe zone, and pull my microspikes out of my pack and put them on. It was obviously microspike time as of about 60 seconds ago. Better late than never.

Moments later I am at the top of Blackhead Peak and coming down the other side. Once the elevation drops a bit, I see the last of the trail snow I will see for the rest of the trip and put the microspikes away. Meanwhile, as I approach the third and final major climb up to Stoppel Point, I am completely exhausted. I have nothing left in the tank and I am a long way from being done. I stop and grab a hummus and rice pita from my small pack and walk as I eat. When I am done eating, I continue to walk. And walk. At this point I would love to stop, but know that the best thing is to keep going and going until the trip is completed. I find myself drained of whatever magical force keeps me going through these things. Probably endorphins which act as the body's pain management system. Without this magic I can acutely feel pains in surprising places. For example the bottoms of my feet feel every bump on the trail through my running shoes as if I were running barefoot.

I make my way down the 4.5-mile final descent. During the last 2 miles I meet many passers-by as I go. I enjoy the conversations but I don't feel like I quite belong so would be happy to slip through unnoticed like I have for the previous 16 miles. "Are you a trail runner?". "Did you go all they way to Stoppel Point?" Hikers understandably assume I started where they did and went up and down the local peak. I don't honestly know where I am or where I've been, not by name anyway, and to describe my entire circuit including the bike ride is a bit too much information for trailside chatter. Another couple sees me staring, confused, at a broken pile of signage, now pointing every which way. They ask, "which way did you come from?", assuming that I'm doing an out-and-back. I say, pointing from whence I came, "from the start of the Escarpment trail". The man gives me an odd look as his companion giggles nervously. I see blue markers on the trail which I have been following the whole time and tell them I will head that way.

The last few miles are amazingly beautiful with intense terrain and running alongside sheer cliffs. I reach North-South Lake, and find my bike. I stop and eat a little, not sure if I will have the strength to ride 17 more miles. I hop on the bike. The first 3 miles are straight downhill which leaves me shivering and concerned that "what comes down must go up". Given a few minutes to store up energy, my legs have enough power to pedal up a short hill. Fortunately it is just enough energy to make it up each of the small hills along the way. I stop often to stare mindlessly at my map with people driving slowly by asking, "are you lost?". Each mile is a cheer-worthy victory, and after 1.5 hours I reach the car, but I am not done yet. Driving home is easy, but I still need to summon the energy to walk into the house, take a shower, go to sushi, and chew and swallow many pieces of food. At this point, this is no simple task. With my last bite of food I heave a great sigh of relief. I can finally lie down and pass out, an urge I have been battling with for the last 6 hours.

Winter Hard Cider

I have had the seed of an idea in my head after making a successful cider last year that I would love to try it again, I just need to secure some apples. I woke up in the morning with some spare time, and contacted DeVoe's Orchard to ask if they have apples for making cider available in winter. Much to my surprise they do! So I stopped by the orchard and within minutes had 2 bushels of "animal apples" (small apples, not great for eating) for 28 bucks! I cleaned and sterilized my equipment, then removed leaves from the stems, and rinsed the apples. I grinded 1 bushel, filling a 5-gallon bucket, then squeezed the cider through a nut filter bag (a slow and effort-filled task). Then did the same with the second bushel. After maybe 2-3 hours I had over 5 gallons of cider in the glass carboy. I ended up transferring it to a plastic fermentation bucket because it has more space than the glass carboy, and I was concerned that if there wasn't enough headroom during primary fermentation that the foaming cider would overflow. I added some campden tablets (sulfites) and waited 24 hours before sprinkling a packet of dry cider yeast (which comes with yeast nutrient) and putting under airlock in a lidded bucket.

C7

Specific gravity: 1.06+
Alcohol potential: 7.5%+ (wow! previous cider potential has been more like 5.5%)

1/2 bushel = 1 giant metal bowlful (overflowing)

The plain cider tastes very sweet, and is not dropping nearly as much sediment as my previous apples. My current (probably wrong) theory is that the sediment is mostly starch, which, given enough time converts to sugar. So maybe these apples have been sitting for long enough to convert all the starch to sugar. I think I can test the sediment next time around using the old iodine trick from elementary school.

After 4 weeks of fermentation, the airlock is bubbling once every 10 minutes. The hydrometer reads 1.000, a good sign that it has fermented completely. At this time it mostly has a bit of grain-alcohol taste. It's very cloudy, and dangit, I forgot to put the cap on the end of the auto-siphon, so I slurped up more sediment than necessary.

Tongue Range vs. 7 Sisters

How does a Tongue Range out-and-back compare to the 7 Sisters trail race?

It looks like Tongue is a pretty over-the-top training run for 7 sisters. Why then is 7 sisters so darned tough?

(Note that I have not yet had the guts to head out on the Tongue Range and turn around and come back.)

Netflix

Oh, Netflix, you know me so well.

Cider 2016

It was an interesting year for apples. In my neighborhood, none of the wild apple trees produced any apples at all. Luckily at my friends A and H's house, they have 3 beautiful apple trees that had plenty! They were kind enough to let me come by and fill up several giant bags, which I brought home and plopped onto a blanket in the chilly spare room of our house.

The first batch (C5)

After carefully cleaning half the apples, they were then grinded using an old garbage disposal and squeezed through a big nut filter bag to fill up a 3-gallon carboy. I added some sulfites to kill off any bacteria and natural yeasts, waited a day or so, then added some cider yeast. A few weeks later, I bottled half of it and transferred the other half to a 1-gallon jug to continue fermenting. The first preliminary batch was pretty good, but had a lot of sediment because of my sloppy bottling process. When the gallon jug finished fermenting, I roughly calculated how much honey to add to bottles to carbonate the cider, and poured (again very roughly) some honey into each bottle before bottling. After a few weeks, I ended up with this beautiful, clean, refreshing cider:

I wish there was more of this, it was perfect. I was able to share it with a few friends. Luckily the process was straightforward - I basically just followed the rules by adding sulfites before-hand, so I am hopeful that this process will be reproducible.

The second batch (C6)

Time passed by quicker than I had control over, and eventually I was left with a pile of aged, softened apples in the spare room. I occasionally picked through them and tossed out any apples that had rotted. When I finally got around to it, there were still plenty of mediocre apples to experiment with. It seemed pretty hopeless, but I said screw it and got to work making a very bold batch of cider. Sort of a 'worst case scenario' cider. Without really rinsing or cleaning, I grinded and squeezed the apples, half-filling the 3-gallon carboy. Before long, some black spots formed on the surface followed by a thick gelatinous skin. (The second picture shows the pellicle after bottling):

I had expected there to be a lot of natural yeast on the skin to help the fermentation process, however it really struggled to ferment, but did so slowly. The skin that formed is apparently called a pellicle, which I believe occurs when making sour beers where bacteria is intentionally included during brewing. I haven't found much information about this occurring when people make hard cider, so we are now in unknown territory.

After a few weeks, worried that this bottle of bacterial disgustingness was going to infect my house and family (like some of my over-ambitious cheese-making experiments have done in the past) it was time to take the next step and bottle the stuff.

I'm not sure I had the guts to taste this stuff, but in my half-assed bottling technique, I have to suck on the siphon to start the process, and my siphoning skills are atrocious (but improving), and I ended up swallowing several big gulps of the cider, and didn't die! Bonus!

After a few days and still not dying, I cracked open a bottle and pretended like it was an ok thing to drink. Much to my surprise it tasted amazing! It has an otherworldly sweetness. Much more intense and sweeter tasting than regular cider. (The second photo is backlit):

Because the cider is sweet, I expect it has the potential to continue to ferment quite a bit and create bottle bombs. Also, the lack of yeast-based fermentation likely really opens the door for bad things to take over. But so far, the cider is really really tasty in my opinion, and has barely started to carbonate in the bottles. The best bet might be not to let it sit for too long, but who knows?

I would call this a successful experiment, but not something I would want to do again. A few weeks later I drank some kombucha (which is slightly fermented by yeast and bacteria) at a cafe, and it had a similar taste.