After a few successful experiments with harvesting small amounts of the grain and milling the grain into flour, I had to try my hand at harvesting enough to make something substantial like a loaf of bread or pizza dough from scratch scratch. I recruited the help of my nieces M and S to harvest the rye wheat heads:

A few days before finding this grain growing I had watched this video which did a nice job of preparing me to make flour at home. As luck would have it, the guy even used the same food processor I have to thresh the wheat! Here are photos threshing and winnowing the wheat, then weighing the resulting grains:

Next the grains were milled in the Vitamix blender, sifted, then weighed again. In just a few hours we have two-and-half pounds of whole grain flour!

Some of my previous experiments include eating the raw berries, making freekeh, making a tiny pizza, making a somewhat failed (by failed I just mean flat and dense) loaf of bread, and using the flour like corn meal for preventing sticking while making regular pizza. All the experiments were amazingly delicious with tons of nutty whole-grain flavor, they were just a little dense. Using the whole grain flour like corn meal was amazing, it imparted a strong and delicious "whole grain" flavor to the pizza without getting in the way of the rest of the process of kneading and rising the dough.

Finally I think I'm ready to try my hand at pizza dough. The whole grain flour is challenging to work with because it doesn't behave like all-purpose flour. Specifically it doesn't want to form into a cohesive mass, instead it becomes more of a peanut-butter-like paste. Most recipes call for using something like 75% all-purpose flour and only 25% whole grain flour to avoid these problems, but I'm determined to avoid mixing in any supermarket flour and use 100% whole grain flour, to see what happens. I tried the best I could to knead the dough, but it defied kneading by hand. It was too sticky. I put it in the food processor and added a little oil which seemed to do an ok job of kneading the dough, although it still didn't develop into a gluteny stretchy dough. I formed it into a ball, put it into an oiled bowl, covered it with a wet towel, and stored it in a warm place for a few hours to rise.

The dough rose nicely, doubling in size. With a little care, it stretched nicely into a pizza, although it lacked elasticity. It was more like working with play-dough than a stretchy dough made from white flour.

The pizza came out good, except it lacked the light, air-bubbly quality of dough made from all-purpose flour. Also it was definitely doughy, which as I understand is a quality typical of bread made from rye. I have read that for this reason, it's typical to let rye bread sit for a day after making it, but I'm not sure that would translate well to pizza-making.

I have a little more of the flour left. I think the next pizza will be made with 75% white flour and 25% whole grain flour. I'm curious to see how that turns out.

Questions:
- How can I make all-purpose flour from wheat? (I think a fine sieve might be able to sift out the all-purpose flour)
- When all-purpose flour is made, what do they do with the remaining bran, etc.? (Wheaties are made, for one.)

Upon reaching Lake Arnold five miles in we dropped our packs and ate some food. To our right, the trail to Mount Colden was nothing but a deep pool of water filled with slush. Our body temperatures dropped a little while standing around, and we discussed the possibility of abandoning the trip to Skylight and Gray, considering the heavy rain that was predicted. Basically we gave it one last "Are we sure about this?" before proceeding. We all agreed to put our snowshoes on and stick with the plan.

We reached an area where the Opalescent River runs alongside the trail. The snow on the trail was in awful shape. The four of us marched as best we could, carefully placing snowshoes upon a pile of slush, occasionally falling through and getting soaked feet. When one person fell through, the rest of us would try to press a little closer to the left or right to hopefully avoid suffering a similar fate.

The temperatures were very warm, and the several feet of snow covering everything was turning to slush and melting before our eyes. There was no stopping the imagination from seeing visions of a big ice dam breaking above us and suddenly washing us down the side of the mountain.

We reached a point on the trail where a stream was running by. We had to cross it. T made his best efforts to leap across, but got soaked, and announced "you're going to get wet, just go for it". I went for it, while V and H went upstream to search for an easier crossing. T and I continued on the trail, and V caught up, and we pressed on. After a bit we stopped and asked, "where's H?". We immediately stop and start walking back, and find H walking toward us. "I jumped across and my right snowshoe slid back and then my left, and it got caught on something under the water." T yells, "Now do you see how somebody could drown in these conditions?".

At this point we are bounding down hill. I am giddy and laughing with nervous excitement. I've never witnessed conditions like these before, where water is everywhere, and tons of snow is converting to slush and water all around us. I don't know what to expect.

We arrive at a crossing over the Opalescent River. A group of backpackers just finished precariously scootching across an icy log over a river. They say that the folks at the Loj had scolded them for going out in these conditions, but they went out anyway. And during the day, they watched this little creek rise from almost nothing to the rager that it is now and decided it was best to get the heck out of here. I was thankful to meet nice folks in the woods who weren't here to judge or criticize us. This is all-too-rare. I guess these are the nice people you meet when hiking in conditions you're not supposed to. I should do it more often.

All of us are looking at each other hesitantly. It's already warm, and soon it's supposed to pour rain. The situation is bad now and is only going to get a lot worse. I express my opinion that it makes sense to forget it and turn back. I am immediately outvoted and we press on. I'm a little dumbfounded, it's been a long time since I felt like the overly prudent member of a large group. So I straddle the icy log and scootch fifteen feet across, with the back of my snowshoes splashing playfully in the water. I grab my phone and take a video of the others as they cartoonishly make their way across.

After another quarter of a mile of hiking over a snowy, slushy wet mess, we reach the next obstacle. The Feldspar Brook is running swiftly across the trail. Fifteen feet downstream it joins the much more significant Opalescent River. It might be possible to barely leap over the creek, but the other side consists of a ten-foot by ten slab of... Who knows? Is that ice? Or slush? H tosses a tree branch across the brook and it sticks into the substance a few inches, confirming that it is too soft for us to jump onto. Falling into this brook wouldn't be so bad except that there's a good chance it would wash us down into the much more dangerous Opalescent below. Three of us stand around discussing options, most of which look pretty bleak. If we cross this creek and the rain comes, there is no turning around and coming back through this way. It's just going to be too much water. So the worst case scenario is... really bad. V points out that we can probably continue this way, but we will need to take an alternate route back to the car by going over Mount Marcy. I have a lot of things making me nervous, not the least of which is the fact that we are crossing a point of no return, and our safety net is to climb over the tallest mountain in the state during a deluge.

H grabs a long log of soft and weak wood and lays it across the river while the three of us look at each other wondering what he's thinking. The log sinks deeply into the ice on the other side. "That's not going to hold us". H disappears back into the woods a few times. He ingeniously tosses a log across the creek so that it lands parallel to the water's flow. He places a similar log on the side we are on and tosses a lincoln log across the two parallel logs, which helps to float the cross-log on top of the soft ice. We can start to see that H's plan is going to work. T says, "look! the water level has risen in the short time we've been standing here!".

Next H finds a few more big logs, and builds a bridge of four logs across the creek, held floating on top of the weak ice by the parallel logs. Nobody can disagree. It's going to hold!

V goes first. He walks carefully with one snowshoe on two logs, and the other snowshoe on the other two logs and makes it safely to the other side. I cross next, followed by T. One of the logs breaks under T's snowshoe but he scampers to the supposed safety of the ice sheet on the other side. The entire platform we are standing on is sinking as the turbulent brook washes over the ice sheet taking large broken pieces of it downstream. Much like the crumbling stairs of Khazad-Dum, our ability to return safely home is disintegrating with every step toward our destination. With H stranded on the other side, we start yelling at each other and making immediate decisions. "This is ridiculous we gotta turn back". H, not entirely eager to cross the bridge finally gives up and says, "get over here then, hurry!". The three of us nearly trample each other trying to get back across before the ground underneath us washes away entirely.

As we make our way back past the icy log bridge things immediately feel a little less dire. Did we make the right choice? "Yes we did", V confirms. As if to reiterate this approval, the next section of trail is washed out by flowing water forcing us to dunk our feet to get across. I ask V, "It wasn't like that before was it?". "No." As we make our way down the snowy trail, the river water breaches the riverbank and starts flowing down the trail toward us.

Once we get out of the valley of the Opalescent River, conditions are much nicer and we are back to safety. We all agree (except H maybe) that we might as well climb Mount Colden while we're here. For the first tenth of a mile, the trail is a deep wet mess so we avoid it entirely. After that the trail improves considerably and we make quick work of the climb to the top. I ask H if he has climbed Colden in the winter before. He says, "I dunno, I hope not. If I did I'm going to be really pissed off!". The top is downright disappointing. It hasn't rained all day more than a tiny sprinkle, and the wind is gusty for sure but nothing like the 100 mile per hour winds I was originally expecting. At this point we are hardened and ready to face mother nature at her most brutal, and yet it's mostly just warm and windy.

The descent goes quickly and I think we're all wishing for some pouring rain to justify our decision to bail out of our primary goal of visiting Skylight and Gray. At the base of Colden, I've had enough of all this comfort and niceness so I tromp directly along the deep, wet trail, soaking myself up past my knees. My snowshoes make a very satisfying sploosh with each step, and I get a much needed taste of some of the challenges I came prepared for.

H sucks down a caffeinated gel and charges boldly ahead of even V, who is the fastest hiker I've ever hiked with. We make quick work of the five-mile exit back to the car. We witness one brief shower, but otherwise the rain holds off. We head to Big Slide Brewing for some food. As we eat, the downpour outside begins at which point none of us are wishing to be out there still hiking.

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 wouldn'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". She 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 begin 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 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 catch 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 feed myself. 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 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 am feeling tired and hungry and I work my way back to the fire pit. I build 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.

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 mile
• B's report from the 70 miler
• The race website
• The race director's blog with more race reports
• Comparison of SRT 30 elevation profile to Wakely Dam Ultra

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.

The climb is easy going, mostly a walk with a little bit of running mixed in. Everything is covered in snow, but there is no ice to speak of thankfully. Regardless, when I step on certain rocks, my sneaker instantly slides off. It is enough for me to decide to stop and spend several minutes switching to snowshoes, which have sharp metal crampons to prevent such sliding.

I make my way up and up. I'm a little annoyed with the snowshoes. I clumsily trip and fall on my face on occasion, and they constantly flip snow at my back. It's like having an annoying brat behind you laughing and jeering, throwing snowballs every second of the entire trip. I find myself wishing for something in between sneakers and snowshoes - maybe microspikes or crampons. After a while I take the snowshoes back off again, it just isn't worth it. So I stop and spend another several minutes fussing around, something I hate to do.

Three quarters of the way up the mountain, the man who created the snowshoe tracks I am following comes down the hill towards me. He climbed to the lean-to at Fifth Peak but now has to hurry back to regular life. I tell him I have big plans, but am already struggling a bit so I'm not sure if I'll follow through on them.

I continue up the hill for a while and notice that the scenery looks familiar but wrong. I realize I'm looking at the terrain surrounding the lean-to at the top, where I camped with friends one night several years ago. I must have blindly followed the snowshoe tracks and missed my turn. Sure enough, before long I reach the old encampment. I stand around in the lean-to to assess my situation. Over the last hour my optimism has turned to frustration, and I'm having second thoughts about the trip and hiking another 9 miles or more like this.

I explore the lean-to. On the indoor shelf along the wall stand various items including a whisk broom, a can of tuna, one unsmoked mini cigar with peculiar incisor bite marks on the filter, and a small bottle of whiskey, with only the last few ounces remaining.

My resourceful side kicks into gear. I'm not sure there's much I can do with that tuna. But not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I have a small taste of the whiskey, and dig through my bag of limited survival gear. Boy am I glad I brought these matches! There's just something about finding this little geocache in the middle of the cold, dismal wilderness that reawakens something inside me. I light up the cigar and bound down the trail with a renewed vigor, feeling a little less alone out here, with the taste of my rebellious Boy Scout days on my breath bringing an element of childhood nostalgia to the trip.

Before long I reach my missed turn, and head left. There are no tracks whatsover, so I will be breaking ground for the rest of the trip, until I meet up with those other tracks at the end of the loop. It's noticeably less pleasant without the luxury of snowshow tracks to follow. Rather than have my feet constantly under 5-6 inches of snow I stop and put the snowshoes back on again. They work well, and over the next few miles become very comfortable with them, they might be the ideal footwear for today's trekking.

On my legs I'm wearing wool tights and running shorts. With every single step, the small flip-flop-like snowshoe scoops up a big pile of snow and then catapults it right up my skirt (so to speak). Talk about snowballs. For this reason, during the trip, the coldest part of my body is my ass leaving me constantly wondering, 'Is this ok?', and, 'Should I put on the pants I have in my bag?'. I've never really dealt with this particular cold buttocks problem before. I end up just dealing with the cold butt for the rest of the trip. And also my knees. Snow sticks to my knees and melts, and at the tops of some of these peaks where the wind is howling, my kneecaps freeze. It's a little unnerving, is there such thing as frostbitten kneecaps? After a little research, it turns out that kneecaps (and elbows) have little blood flow and are in fact susceptible.

Along the way there are three short but very steep sections of the trail, and the ice and snow is a little sketchy with (or without) snowshoes. Each downward climb goes smoothly, I try to just get through them without any fuss, but those are the moments where I rely a little too much on luck. I think it might make more sense to follow the loop in the opposite direction, because those sections would be a lot easier to go up rather than down. They would also be easier with more snow to fill everything in and make any crash-landings softer.

After several hours of ups and downs, I reach the last peak from which I can see "The Point" at the end of the tongue with no more mountains between me and the point. This is another highlight of the trip where I am effortlessly jogging down the slope, excited to reach the flatter final section of the trip, happy that I won't need to deal with the mountain peaks in the dark. At the bottom is a sign which reports '5 miles to Clay Meadow'. That's on the way back to my car. Ouch! That sounds like a long way! I check my GPS watch which says I've gone 8 miles so far. The round trip is more like 12 miles, which means that I have walked an extra mile taking wrong turns and meandering around in search of the trail! It's after 3 o'clock, and at this moment it feels like forever before I will get done. I send a quick text message to M to let her know my status.

I might as well cover as much ground as I can before it gets dark. The snow cover is thin again, so I strap the snowshoes onto my back and jog along the trail when it's easy to. I'm a bit chilly all over, so it feels really good to warm up this way. I'm starving so I stop again to fill my pockets with food to munch as I move: some Boy Scout Trails End Trail Mix, and a pb&j english muffin. I quickly finish the sandwich, then eat trail mix to excess, cramming handful after handful into my mouth until well after I've had enough.

I am making my way on the trail alongside Lake George. It's a big lake and consists of completely unfrozen water. It's very disconcerting (and at first I can't really explain why) to be walking in icy, snowy, winter conditions with lots of pure, cold lake water lapping the nearby shore. Then, my foot slips on the trail, and there is nothing but a steep slippery 10-foot slope into the drink to the left. Aha, that's why it's disconcerting. As much as I love Lake George summer fun, I need to be careful and avoid taking a swim.

Roughly halfway along this last 5-mile leg, I encounter the 2 pairs of footprints of the hikers. At last! It is a big relief to have tracks to follow because I don't expect daylight to last much longer. The tracks make it easier to run because I don't need to stop at every trail marker in search of the trail hiding under the snow. After following the tracks for a bit, they descend to the ice-covered marshy area, and as always I mindlessly follow. The tracks make their way into the distance along the ice-covered area, and I think to myself, "Idiots! Do they even realize how unfrozen the rest of the lake is?". While the word "idiots" repeats in a loop in my head, I follow along, barely recognizing my own hypocrisy. My only saving grace is that they went first, have giant feet and are therefore much heavier than myself, and at 128 pounds I have never been the first one to break through the ice. And it's ok, I have a plan. If I fall through the ice, I will hold the snowshoes in my hands and use the crampons as ice-grabbers to pull myself out. What could possibly go wrong?

The snow-covered ice is so much faster than the trail! It's like running on the roads. I fancy myself setting land-speed records as I trot along, covering ground on this last leg of the hike faster than would be possible if it were any other season.

Within short minutes I am on the 0.2 mile trail back to the car. There is still a little daylight, I'm dry, warm and toasty, and will make it home by dinnertime!

Earlier that morning

The previous 2 days had called for pleasant weather and mediocre fishing at sunrise, which led us to not bother setting an alarm for pre-dawn. We slept in and took the day as it came. However Monday was calling for a perfect fish-catching combination: Simultaneous outgoing tide, sunrise, moonset, and "gale force winds" blowing out to sea so we made sure to wake up early so as not to miss our best opportunity. The first two days of scouting had given us a good idea for where to plan our stakeout: the north end of the boardwalk, where a nice sandbar revealed itself as the tide went out. I hiked out to the bar and took a few casts, and quickly made my way to the edge of the bar where I could cast to my left into a deep pool of water. The flat mirror-like surface of the predawn water reflected the foggy mist above, whose calmness was suddenly shattered by the violent splash of a feeding striped bass. I could hear J's voice in my head. "These are pencil poppin' conditions". I pulled out my new lucky pencil popper which I had found washed up on shore the day before. This is a style of lure I have never caught anything with, but I know many of J's most epic fish stories involve this magic lure so I am dying to catch a fish on this lure and discover the faith for myself. It's one of the most labor-intensive lures to use. It's big, heavy, and as legend has it, "if you're not making love to the pencil popper it's not going to have the right action". A saying which never made any sense to me until today with the fish crashing on the surface. Are you getting spastic? Make love to it... It's a rhythm thing. Like Isaac Hayes, smooth buttered soul. Ohhh yeah, there it is. WHAM! A big striped bass rose out of the water and nailed the pencil popper in plain site.

After a bit of a fight, the fish and I made our way to dry land. He measured just over 28 inches. A keeper! Losing my mind with excitement, I wanted to get back out there and catch some more. I carried the fish back to the surf and let him go free. As soon has he swam off, "stupid! why did I do that?" I thought. I don't have too many opportunities to keep a fish like that and I may have just blown it for the trip. Lucky for me, a few casts later, I caught his brother which was also over 28 inches. After a total of 3 fish, soaking wet in my leaking waders and the strong, chill wind, I went and found J. We returned to our hotel, and cooked up an early breakfast of fish. Yum!

Monday Afternoon - Round 2!

Tired by noon, conditions and reports were still looking good so we headed straight back out again. And that's when things really got intense! We made our way up the beach stopping every half mile or so to look around with the binoculars. We find a promising spot, and gear up and start fishing. Before long, J battles a gargantuan bluefish to shore! Followed by another!

Here's a quick look at the lures that were successful for me on this trip (SP Minnow in bunker color, a bomber, a snag hook, and the pencil popper):

2013-09-07

Recently I've been trying to identify berries that I see around the area. Pokeweed is common, including a large plant growing on the side of my house. The bamboo-like stalks grow very tall. As a kid, stick-in-hand, it was always great fun to have at a large patch of the plant. A swung stick slices through the thick stalks like a machete, and a 10-year-old could make quick work of a thousand weeds in a few short minutes.

Dark purple berries grow on the plant, however they are apparently dangerously poisonous. However! Juice from the berries can be made into temporary ink. Fermentation makes the ink permanent. Click here for more details about making the ink.

The run couldn't have gone better. The four of us made good time dancing over the rooty, rocky terrain. We spotted a really nice pile of Chicken Mushroom early in the run. We tried to miss all the turns, but someone always corrected the mistake before going astray.

It was an amazing feeling to be in a group of four bounding through the woods, not a fear in the world. We took the easier 5 miles first, then the extremely steep roller coaster of peaks, and finally the long and joyous (and a little harrowing) descent. As we ran down the last long slope, I smelled the perfectly distinct, crisp, cool, smell of freshly cut cucumbers.

Me: "Hey, does anyone else smell cucumbers?"

S: "Yeah! I smelled it a few times during the run."

B: "That's my new vegan cucumber after shave I'm wearing."

(long pause as we run)

Me: "Are you seriously wearing vegan cucumber after shave?"

B: "Ah ha ha... I'll let you figure that out for yourself."

And that was the end of it. We ran back to the car, drove south, and dispersed back into our daily lives.

A few days later, I typed a quick Google query into my phone. As I started to type, "cucumber smell..." Google auto-suggested, "cucumber smell in the woods", which I selected.

The very first search result is a question starting with, "I have been told by more than one person that if there is a rattlesnake in the area there will be the strong smell of cucumbers in the air near where they are resting."

Which brings me to the second of the unique features of the Tongue Mountain Range. It is well known for being a rare New York State ecosystem where large Timber Rattlesnakes thrive. B has seen them here before on a hike with his family, and others have posted youtube videos. I distinctly remember visiting the Utica Zoo on a field trip as a kid and seeing a rattlesnake behind glass. They explained to us that rattlesnakes exist in rare places in New York. I would never have believed I would ever see one (which I haven't) not to mention discover them by their smell. Of cucumbers no less!

I have since read several online discussions about the smell of cucumbers being associated with rattlesnakes (and copperheads). 95% of the comments from self-proclaimed experts say that it's a myth. While it does not prove anything, I find it hard to accept that the following three facts are a coincidence:

1) A myth exists that a cucumber smell comes from rattlesnakes
2) The Tongue Mountain Range is known for harboring rattlesnakes
3) The only place I have ever smelled random cucumber is the Tongue Mountain Range

Which leads me to believe the tiny minority, that rattlesnakes do in fact give off a cucumber smell. What's exciting (kind of like seeing evidence of Sasquatch) is that there seems to be no proof of the smell. However, here are a few comments that give some credence:

"I had heard this also several years ago - Rattlers give off cucumber smell. I can't add much in favor or against this belief, but it had been told to me about 10 years ago."

"My Grandmother swore by this cucumber smell = copperhead thing. I went with them to their summer place on French Creek many times as a kid. On one trip we arrived and as soon as she got out of the car she told my Grandfather that she smelled cucumbers and that copperhead was nearby. My grandfather mumbled some words of disgust through his lips and around the stem of his pipe and trudged off to unlock the cabin door. He came back to the car faster than I had ever seen him move. There was a copperhead curled up on the front door stoop. A good time was had by all (especially my grandmother and for a long, long time afterward). This incident became official family folklore."

"...I hate to tell you but it is true the smell of cucumbers and the smell of stinky sweet Lily of the valley. I physically have traced the smell directly to the snakes multiple times on my property. I don't care that people say it's a myth, I'm crazy, etc...I have smelled the smells and found the snakes. I wouldn't panic, I never do, it's just an extra warning to avoid that area right now. You could put a plastic owl on a stake near the areas and see if that helps."

"I was working with a USGS survey team one summer and we unearthed a nest of copperhead young (eggs and some newborns) - the whole area smelled like cucumbers. I don't know if the same would hold true for rattlesnakes or not."

So maybe it's the smell of *hatching* rattlesnakes.

Or maybe B really was wearing vegan cucumber aftershave.

I joined some friends for Utica's Thanksgiving Run for Hunger 5k race. The run is very close to my parents' house where I would be feasting later in the day. I struggled to decide which footwear to run in. The temperature was 19 degrees with snow, ice, and road salt covering the ground and clouds blocking the sun. I am comfortable running barefoot in 20 degree sunny weather on pavement, and running for a bit through snow has not been a problem. So I decided to run barefoot despite the fact that it was a little outside of my comfort zone in several ways. The plan was to run the race in 20 minutes and scurry back to a warm place in case my feet got cold. How cold could my feet get in 20 minutes? As it turns out they could get pretty cold and freeze solid in just 20 minutes.

On my way back down the long steep hill, I zig-zagged through crowds of people running up. In all my barefoot running I had never before heard comments like what I was hearing now. Nearly every comment included an f-bomb, so things like "omg wtf" were coming at me at regular intervals.

My adrenaline was pumping from the excitement of the race. My feet felt cold for a bit, then I suspect they went numb and so I didn't notice anything unusual. I was all alone as I approached the bottom of the hill. I noticed that the sound of my feet touching the road no longer had the usual barefoot soft and silent quality to it. Each footfall produced a sound like hard plastic hitting the pavement. There wasn't much I could do about it at this point besides finish the race, so I made a mental note and ran towards the finish line.

A doctor reamed me out pretty harshly after which a nurse told me the doctor was crazy and I was going to have a full recovery. I went home with a prescription for pain medications and antibiotics, but otherwise my feet had their color back and looked normal, so I expected everything was going to be fine.

We enjoyed a wonderful Thanksgiving meal and had lots to give thanks for. At the end of the evening I went to change my socks so I could put shoes on for the ride home. Upon removing my socks, I let out a huge gasp. I was not counting on the giant inner-tube blisters surrounding most of my toes. I quickly put them into socks and shoes and we drove home.

Here's what they looked like later that evening. Blisters yes, but the undersides of my feet looked perfectly fine:

Day 5

The condition is slowly progressing. After a long day of sitting at a desk my toes feel dead, but after spinning on an exercise bike for 25 minutes they feel great. It seems like moving really brings circulation and life back.

The tops of all toes feel basically perfect except of course where the big blister is. The tips of all toes are a little numb but actually seem to have some direct sensitivity to light touch. The rest of the foot besides the toes is totally fine. The pinkie toes are a little dry and beat up but otherwise feel normal. The middle toes are slightly numb and tingly along the bottom with hardened toe pads, and the worst fourth toe is hard and most of the surface tissue has turned soft with with a ghostly white color. The big toe seems totally fine except for a bit of white flesh where the fourth toe was touching the big toe.

http://arcticglass.blogspot.com/2009/03/frostbite.html
http://arcticglass.blogspot.com/2009/03/new-skin.html

Day 6

After spending countless hours fruitlessly searching Google to try and find out if I was going to survive, I realized that I had no idea what I was looking at. The blisters on the tops of my toes didn't seem like a big deal, but I started panicking that the ghastly white zombie flesh on the bottoms of my toes was gangrenous necrotic flesh which sounded pretty scary. (Turns out they were pretty much just blisters, they looked different largely because the foot is tougher on the bottom). I made the trip to Urgent Care to talk to a Doctor. Doc pulled rubber gloves on his hands, reached out to inspect my feet, and just before touching them said, "uhhhhm this looks bad, I don't like this. We're going to get you set up with a surgeon to take a look, I don't want you losing toes on my watch. I've never seen frostbite this bad before." A few minutes later, I had a new appointment scheduled at a plastic surgery place for later that day.

At the plastic surgeon's I was placed in a small room. In it was a small table with a shot glass of disinfectant, a medical paper towel, small scissors, and tweezers. I was expecting a discussion to possibly schedule a time to take action. Instead the doctor immediately grabbed tools and got to work. She said she doesn't usually use any pain killers for this type of debridement. The assistant asked if I would be able to watch. I said, "I don't know." I can definitely be squeamish at times, but watching I felt no attachment to the awful dead stuff she was pulling, tearing, and snipping away. She might has well have been working in paper mache. Occasionally I'd let her know when something hurt a little because that meant she was getting close to healthy skin.

To her my condition might as well have been toenails that needed clipping. She said I'll recover fully. About a week for the skin to grow back, then another 2 weeks or so for most everything else to return to normal. The assistant bandaged me up and I headed home. I asked if it would be good if I removed the bandages while I slept to allow some airflow. She said no, right now what they need is to remain moist. The blisters were providing the moisture, and for now it will come from antibiotic ointment and bandages.

As soon as I got home I did some bandage readjustment to try and guarantee as much circulation as possible. It takes very little for them to feel like they have fallen asleep. While the bandages were off, I snapped a few pictures.

Day 7

I haven't been getting out much at all. The slightest bit of pressure stops blood circulation in my toes after which they feel awful: asleep or dead. In shoes I walk around like I'm crippled. In socks I can walk around like perfectly normal. So I went on a mission to find a pair of shoes so I can walk outside again. I hobbled around 10 different stores getting increasingly frustrated until I finally tried on a pair of weird rag shoes. As soon as I put them on and started moving, I couldn't help but break into a run right there in the shoe store. They are perfect for loosely bandaged feet. When I got home I walked and ran around the block a few times and felt great. The next day it was more like 4 miles. I could get used to this.

Day 8

While my toes have some feeling, there is still a fair amount of numbness. Keeping circulation going is tough. After sitting at a desk for 7 hours or so they feel dead. A few minutes of spinning on an exercise bike has worked well, and more recently going for a run with my new shoes in 40-degree weather helps get them warm and circulating. Some of the skin that I haven't lost, particularly on the tips of my toes is thick and half-dead. I expect to shed some of that skin slowly over the next few weeks. The skin under the blisters is healing really well.

Day 13

Today almost all of the thick dead skin peeled away leaving behind fairly normal looking toes. This feels like a huge step towards full recovery. They still have a way to go before they will feel 100% normal, but at least they look ok.

Day 16

I have been running for the past week. A week ago I managed to eke out 13 miles by going out on 3 separate runs throughout the day. I had to return to the house regularly to warm up my toes. It's not so much that they got too cold, but they have been very sensitive and I can't gauge how cold they are by feel. Also it has been a struggle to comfortably wear shoes. Apart from that running hasn't been problem. A few days ago my feet felt too cold while running in 20 degree weather, but today I was able to run 6 miles in 10 degrees with reasonably comfortable toes. Tomorrow I'm hoping to run 15. I prepared before-hand with a warm shower and some time on the exercise bike to get the blood flowing. Oh, and I wore regular shoes for several hours this evening which is a first. I still need to be careful, I'm keeping them moist with Vaseline twice a day, but they are improving every day and it's not much to deal with at this point. I feel incredibly lucky that within just two short weeks most of the damage has been reversed.

Day 28

Both feet are back to 96%. Old dead skin continues to peel away and needs to be snipped away every few days. The tips of my toes have only remnants of numbness. They feel much more normal and are not significantly sensitive to the cold like they were. As of only very recently, wearing regular shoes is comfortable again.

Day 80

Since my last post, my feet and toes have been almost perfectly normal except for a few minor things. My toes have often been unusually red. And as of the last week or two, my toenails have started falling off. 3 toenails down, and I expect at least one more to come off eventually. They also seem to get cold easily when they are completely exposed.

Links

* Another barefoot runner's frostbite story here, continued here.
* And another