Another month, another half-marathon!

In the least unflattering photo of several taken during the race, I'm about to cross the finish line.

It was a few days ago now. But this is to note that I ran in and finished the half-marathon version of this year's Manchester (N.H.) City Marathon.

The race, held Sunday, Nov. 1, 2015, attracted 344 entrants for the half-marathon of 13.1 miles, vs. about 200 for the full 26.2-mile marathon.

In a race this long, most of my effort goes into carefully pacing myself so as not to become hobbled prior to finishing.

The Manchester course contains quite a few ups and downs, and I have to be very careful not to overdo it on the downs, as this is where bodily stress accumulates fast.

Also, there's a short section of trail running in Livingston Park, which is beautiful to look at, but can trigger problems as my feet hit the rocky surface. So I take it especially slow during that stretch.

But I did manage to keep stride the whole time, not stopping once. I finished at 2 hours, 43 minutes, and 41 seconds, for an overall pace of 12:29 per mile.

That was good enough for 323rd place out of 344 finishers, which is a victory for me in the sense that avoided coming in dead last.

It was my slowest half-marathon yet, but the silver lining is that afterwards I felt only minimal soreness in my feet, ankles, and legs.

After two half-marathons in the last month, could I be building up my ability to run longer distances?

And could that possibly lead to trying to run a full 26.2-mile marathon one of these days?

Time will tell.

Next up: an attempt to add Nevada to the list of states in which I've run a minimum of 10K.

I was hoping October would allow me to add Vermont, but a flat tire and other misadventures during a swing through the Green Mountain State prevented that from happening.

And also, I find I've been missing races in N.H. towns that I could still use.

Just this past month, 5K races were run in Walpole and Holderness, two towns I've wanted to get for a long time. Grrrrrr.

I used to rely on www.coolrunning.com for race listings, but a recent "upgrade" to the site has rendered the "upcoming events" much harder to use and a lot less comprehensive, apparently.

However, the site still carries results of races, which is how I found out about the ones I missed.

So I'll have to reverse-engineer the process, reviewing results from this year and then searching to see if the race will be run next year.

No one said this was supposed to be easy. But sometimes it's harder to find out about races than actually run in them!

Bagging two Connecticut River valley towns: Orford (#141) and Lyme (#142), plus a flat tire

A swing through the Connecticut River Valley this past weekend led to the latest trophies in my quest to run at least 5K in every New Hampshire city, town, or unincorporated place.

On Saturday, Oct. 17, I bagged the small rural communities of Orford and Lyme, making them #141 and #142, respectively.

It's a beautiful part of the state, and the run took place along a lonely stretch of Route 10 that saw very little traffic.

To get there, I came up I-91 from White River Junction, Vt., crossing back over to New Hampshire via the Samuel Morey Memorial Bridge. It's a classic green steel arch span built in 1937-38 after the great floods of 1936 washed away its wooden predecessor.

The bridge was recently rehabbed and looks brand new. Here's a photo from the Valley News, a daily paper that circulates in the area:

I assume unicycles aren't commonly seen around here.

My aim was the Orford/Lyme town line, from which I'd measure off 1.6 miles in either direction. Conveniently, the spot is served by a school bus turn-around, allowing for easy parking.

Here's a view north on Route 10 into Orford.

And here's a view showing the other direction, south into Lyme.

A cold front was pushing its way in from the west, making for cool and changeable conditions. Temps were in the mid-40s, with occasional breaks of sun balancing off chilly winds. Still shorts weather, but just barely.

I started at 1:20 p.m., heading north into Orford, where the highway runs through the relatively rich farmland (for New Hampshire, anyway) of the Upper Connecticut River Valley. My route took me right past a large and active dairying operation, which on the wind smelled like wet leaves being rubbed in my face.

Looking south from the Orford turn-around point.

One big up-and-down took me to my first turn-around point: Tree Farm Road, exactly 1.6 miles from the town line. I touched it and then headed back, ready to smell more "wet leaves."

Traffic was so light, and the shoulder was often so crumbled, that I found myself gravitating into the travel lanes along the long straight-aways, which offered a better surface. Yes, Route 10 is a major state highway, but often the only sound I could hear was of my shoes scuffing the pavement.

While passing into Lyme, I checked the car's dashboard clock: 2 p.m. exactly, or 40 minutes to do maybe 3.4 miles. Pretty slow!

The route into Lyme consisted of a pretty significant downhill stretch followed by a flat road, then a pronounced up-and-down dip as the highway negotiated a swale.

It was this spot where I encountered a deer leaping across the highway in broad daylight as I was measuring off the distance. But all was now quiet as I ran through this area.

Turn-around point was this "Bear Left" sign, which I touched and then turned around.

Facing north, you can see the dip in Route 10 in the distance.

The way back included a nice slog back upthe grade I'd descended earlier. But everything held together as I reached the starting point at 2:40 p.m.—so 40 minutes for the Lyme leg, exactly the same as Orford.

So that allows me to color in two good-sized adjacent communities on my big New Hampshire map: Orford as #141 and Lyme as #142. Even though the weather is changing, I hope to keep the momentum going and bag a few more before the oncoming winter buries us.

Alas, I returned to find my rear driver's side tire nearly flat. The car was still driveable, though, so I rolled slowly until the first air pump, which I found across the river in Fairlee, Vt.

That was enough to get me to Rutland, Vt., where the tire went completely flat. Swapping it out for the "donut" spare required me to unload all my musical gear into the parking lot of a Days Inn, leading to the discovery that my Subaru Forester is missing its jack!

But I was able to borrow one from some leaf-peepers from New Jersey, which allowed me to complete the swap and make it to my silent film gig that night in Brandon, Vt.

The car has All Wheel Drive, so I really didn't want to drive any real distance without matching tires. Luckily, I had arranged to stay in Rutland that might because of a show the next day in Charlestown, N.H.

So on Sunday morning, I was relieved to find that a Tire Warehouse place in Rutland was open. And it took them just a few minutes to find a nice piece of heavy gauge metal wire than had somehow pierced the tire. It was easily patched for $25, saving me the unplanned cost of a full set of new tires.

Alas, this adventure got in the way of plans to run 10K in Rutland that morning, which would have added Vermont to the list of states that I've run in.

But Vermont is close by, and also it was actually snowing on Sunday morning. So both factors figured into the decision to hold off.

On the upside, the morning overcast blew out to reveal an autumn riot of vivid colors in the landscape: blazing foliage on surrounding slopes, topped with brilliant white snow on a few higher peaks, all under a bright blue sky. It was like one of those idealized postcards of New England, but it was real.

The brilliant sun also lit up Jones' Bakery, a place I'd always wondered about. I'd never been in Rutland when it was open, but that's because it's only open on mornings.

A visit found a real throw-back: a local bakery in operation for 93 years, I was told, with everything made from scratch.

So I celebrated my new tire patch with a couple of real donuts: a plain and their version of a Boston Creme. Both were just fantastic, prompting me to get a dozen to bring to work the next day.

Next big adventure: the Manchester (N.H.) Marathon on Sunday, Nov. 1. I'm running the half-sized version. Lots of ups and downs in this one, but still hoping to beat my time of 2:39:38 earlier this month.

Back in the half-marathon business: What a difference a single second makes

>A vintage postcard of the route to make up for my lack of photos.

It's been a couple of years since I last ran a half-marathon.

But the drought's over as of yesterday (Saturday, Oct. 3), when I joined in the half-sized version of the New Hampshire Marathon up in the Newfound Lake area of our state.

Time: 2:39:38. Nothing to brag about, but I did achieve my twin goals of:

• Finishing.

• Not being last.

Actually, I placed 199 out of 239 entrants overall, and 15 out of 18 in my age group, which has now ratcheted up to the 50-59 category. Not bad.

I still think road races should group runners by inseam, not age, but that's another issue.

The one unexpected triumph was that for the first time ever, I completed a half-marathon before any of the full marathon entrants.

This is unusual because generally I run at about slightly less than half the pace of an elite runner.

Do the math, and this means that in any race, at least a few full marathon runners will complete the 26.2-mile course before I plod across the finish line after 13.1 miles, or half the distance.

But not yesterday. I came in about 90 seconds before the full marathon winner, Jim Johnson from Madison, N.H., who finished in 2:41:06.

His pace: 6:06 per mile. My pace: 12.11 per mile. If I'd been one second slower per mile, he'd have caught me. How's that for Wide-World-of-Sports-worthy drama?

So for the first time in a looooong while, I got to see a runner finish a race by breaking through a tape. Nice!

Still, I wasn't sure about attempting 13.1 miles because I hadn't entered any races of any kind all summer. And I'd been following nothing like any kind of training regime.

But I have been running with the dogs pretty regularly, doing distances ranging from 3 to 7 miles and without much trouble.

And the New Hampshire Half-Marathon's point-to-point course is mostly downhill. And I'd already paid $60 to register.

And the weather yesterday morning was perfect. So off I went to see how I'd fare.

Home base was Newfound Memorial Middle School in downtown Bristol, N.H., where the full Marathon started and finished. The 26.2-mile course makes a complete loop around Newfound Lake, much of it running right along the shoreline and showcasing classic New Hampshire scenery in every mile.

For the Half-Marathon, runners were taken by school bus way out to the far end of the lake, to a starting line at the half-way point of the full marathon.

We then basically ran the last half of the full race, mostly along the western shore of Newfound Lake and then to the finish line back at the school in downtown Bristol.

A highlight of the course was several miles on West Shore Road, a ridiculously scenic route that hugs Newfound Lake. Sorry, no pictures—although a woman ahead of me for much of the race kept stopping to take shots with her phone. Actually, a company was on the course taking photos, and they'll be available next week.)

An east wind coming off the water was enough to make flags snap in the breeze and nicely balanced the October morning sunshine.

Although much of West Shore Road is lined by lake cottages and condos, there's one stretch where it runs along the base of rocky cliffs where there's no room to build anything.

This was around Mile 7, when runners had spread out enough so that I was pretty much on my own. Traffic was sparse.

So for awhile there, it was just me and the road and the water, and the wind off the lake and the sun on the cliffs, lighting up everything like it was a stage set.

I felt twinges of serious pain only twice. At about the 4-mile mark, the bones of the middle toe of my left foot felt like they were on fire for a short time. This was alarming, coming so early in the race, but I ran it off by modifying my stride and slowing the pace a bit.

The same thing happened at the 8-mile mark, although with the right foot. Once again it faded away, but I had to be mindful of these hotspots.

After the race, I was somewhat sore, but nothing terrible. Very stiff the morning after, but I've been functioning okay. Not too bad for a 13.1-mile exercise in bodily destruction.

One reason the New Hampshire Half-Marathon was on my to-do list is because the course touches a trio of obscure Granite State towns that I haven't yet run in: Groton, Hebron, and Alexandria. (I already got Bristol some time ago.)

So now I can color in those three on my big state map, which is how I keep track of my ongoing quest to run a race (or a minimum of 5K) in every single one of the Granite State's cities, towns, and unincorporated places.

This has been going on since 2001, when I started running again after a long intermission.

I haven't made much progress lately, for two reasons.

First, I haven't been running a lot of races, mostly because of time. It can take pretty much a full day to get out to a race, run it, and then get back home.

And also, I've already run races in pretty much every city or town that hosts them. In New Hampshire, very few "virgin" towns come up on the running calendar for me.

But these three can now be added to the list, bringing the total to something like 135 or so. (I have to check—it's been awhile since I've added to this list.)

I do think that my self-imposed deadline of May 14, 2016 to complete this quest will slip by at this point. I still have about 100 locations to go, and many of them are up north and not exactly easily accessible.

And then I have other quests, which include hiking to the top of all 48 of New Hampshire's 4,000-footers (I'm up to 33) and also running a minimum of 10K in all of the 50 states.

On the "50 states" challenge, I'm up to 16, but plan to add two more this month and then another in November.

At this point in the season, I won't tackle any mountain peaks until next spring, unless I go skiing. But there's still time to bag a few more Granite State communities by running in them before the snow flies.

See you on the roads!

Ascending into the mists: Leading a group up to the summit of Mount Washington—and yes, back down!

Shirley Merle followed by Patsy and Dave Beffa crossing the headwaters of the Ammonoosuc River on Mount Washington.

For some in our group, the planned climb up Mount Washington would be a matter of faith.

This was not due to any lack of ability or desire. Rather, they couldn't be really sure the mountain was actually there.

Yes, last Saturday started out with a low, thick overcast—one of those mornings where even the trailheads were socked in by a wind-driven fog. The "Rockpile" itself was completely invisible—its existence a matter of conjecture for those who'd never seen it before.

Thus began my first-ever experience of leading a group of hikers on a round-trip summit adventure in New Hampshire's White Mountains. To prepare, I actually put together a basic medical bag, including Band-Aids, my Swiss Army knife, and some Gold Bond Medicated Cream. I was ready for any minor cut or bruise!

Would we make it to the top? Would we make it back alive? Read on.

Our route was one I'd taken before: up the very steep Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail to treeline at the Lake of the Clouds Hut, then the historic Crawford Path to the summit. Going down, we'd follow the Great Gulf trail to the Jewell Trail, and from there make our long descent, circling back to where we started.

All in all, about 10 miles. With a planned start of 9 a.m., we expected to be back in the parking lot by 7 p.m. The forecast: fog and overcast to start, but a good chance that a cold front coming in from Canada would clear things out by mid-day. This, however, promised stronger winds and colder temps. In other words, it would probably still feel like winter up there.

In our party: David and Shirley Merle from Yonkers, N.Y., David and Patsy Beffa-Negrini from Nelson, N.H.—and me. We were all veterans of a successful trek to the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro in Africa this past January, and also an epic trek to Annapurna Base Camp in Nepal in 2011.

But in all their adventures, the Merles had never hiked Mount Washington. So their suggestion last month to come up to N.H. and do so set the wheels in motion for our one-day mini-expedition on Saturday, June 6.

Dave and Patsy are veteran hikers as well, but it fell to me to organize and lead this one based on my prior experience.

In fact, I had hiked this exact route five years ago, in July 2010, when I brought two of my dogs along. It was hot and sunny, and way too much for them. Also, Abby (then only 11 months old) cut her paw on the jagged upper slopes. When we finally made it home, she stayed under the bed in an air-conditioned room for four entire days.

Our 2015 adventure began on a positive note: we hit the trail slightly before 9 a.m., and made good time for the first mile, which covers relatively flat ground.

Though in the woods, the trail runs not far from the base station of the Mount Washington Cog Railway. From off in the mists we could hear tweeting and tooting of the railway's early morning steam-powered run (the rest of the trips use diesel locos), and it was no surprise when the wet air suddenly carried the pungent odor of coal smoke.

The rain held off. But a cold fog persisted as we pushed up the ravine, with occasional blasts of chilly wet air from the northwest blowing in behind us. Alongside us, the headwaters of the Ammoonusuc River gushed and roared, swollen from recent rains. It was a wet morning. The mossy, dripping environment brought to mind the landscape of Middle Earth: I expected Bilbo Baggins to come down the trail any minute.

Dave Merle and Dave Beffa at Gem Pond, with its scenic waterfall in the background.

But we had the route pretty much to ourselves until Gem Pond, where the steep section begins in earnest. Stopping there, we met several groups of hikers coming down and up, and so suddenly things got a bit crowded.

Not a problem, except when we started up the steep section, I was surprised to not find Patsy among us. Dave Beffa thought she'd gone ahead so as not to slow the rest of us down, but no one was really sure.

So on we went, but with no sign of her. After awhile, I became concerned enough to stop and suggest I go back in case she was still down at the pond and had missed our departure. As leader, however half-assed, I kinda felt responsible for keeping track of where people were.

But Dave was right: a bit further on, we soon caught up with her, and onward and upwards we all went.

Scrambling up the upper reaches of the Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail.

As we ascended, the fog showed no signs of lifting, while the wind was picking up and making things seem getting noticeably colder. After crossing of the Upper Ammonoosuc, we all donned some cold weather gear as we began scrambling up ledges leading to the Lake of the Clouds hut.

We got to the hut at about noon, and stopped in to further adjust gear for continued cold weather above treeline. My big move was to replace a soaked t-shirt with my hooded fleece jacket. Inside, I produced enough steam for Dave Merle to remark that I looked like a tea kettle.

Dave Merle's photo of me in all-green cold weather get-up. I look like the figure on a walk signal who tells you its okay to cross now.

Dave Beffa pulled out a guest book from 1975 and found entries from when he was part of a group that through-hiked the Appalachian Trial that year. Crazy that it could be found right there, 40 years later, as written by a much younger version of himself.

Blowing clouds and fog persisted, and some of our fellow hikers seemed dressed for full-on Arctic conditions.

We bagged a possible side jaunt to the summit of Mount Monroe. Instead, we pushed on from the Lake of the Clouds Hut to the summit through steady winds, staying close together and navigating by cairn, the blowing fog limiting our visibility as we rock-hopped our way up.

And then, even as the winds kept up, the light suddenly changed. We looked up, and there it was before us: the summit, sparkling in the bright sunlight and framed by a deep blue sky!

And then the clouds rolled back over us—and it was gone.

Still, the glimpse was enough to prove that there actually was a summit, and we actually were heading in the right direction.

As we rose, we gradually emerged from the rolling cloudbank we'd been in since the start, and found ourselves in bright sunshine for about the last half-mile.

We reached the summit at about 2 p.m. To the east, skies were completely clear, offering spectacular views all the way to the Atlantic Ocean. It being colder than usual, the place wasn't nearly as mobbed as I expected on a Saturday in June, which was a nice break.

Dave Merle snaps a summit shot for another group of trekkers.

There was some discussion of taking the Cog Railway back to the base, but the improving weather (and the $46 one-way fare) prompted us to stick with our original plans.

The official summit photo of Patsy and Dave Beffa.

After a meal of chili in the summit cafeteria, we geared up for the cold march down the Great Gulf trail and across the exposed ridge to Mount Clay. After crossing the Cog Railway tracks (look both ways!), we ambled along the dramatic cliffs overlooking the Great Gulf Wilderness far below, as the Northern Presidential peaks stood guard. (Some slopes still harbored patches of snow!)

I had the camera out and accessible during this stretch, which offered the day's most dramatic scenery. So here are some pics.

Just a few steps back, Shirley, and it's the perfect shot!

And then it was down, down, down on the endless Jewell Trail, made longer by the sight of our parking lot far below never seeming to get any closer.

Despite the knee-rattling descent, all went well, and I thought we would make it without incident.

And then Shirley had to use the bathroom.

Because we were close to the Cog Railway base station, I suggested that she and I take a side path over there (for modern indoor plumbing) while the rest of the party continued to the parking lot. Shirley and I, after using the facilities, could then march down the road and meet everyone.

And so Shirley and I broke off. The trail seemed longer than I thought it would be, and then we encounted a crudely made and barely legible wooden sign saying "Trail Closed Bridge Out."

"They can't be serious," I said. "If the bridge was really still out, they would have posted that at the junction," I said.

Famous last words. On we went, on and down, only to find the bridge really was out. And not only that: the gushing Ammonoosuc River was clearly uncrossable, cutting off access to the Cog Base station and civilization just on the other bank. To add insult to injury, a couple of Cog visitors stood on the other side looking slightly amused.

So, in a move that might have dire consequences, I suggested we try bushwhacking upstream to find a spot to get across. We did this, only to find the brush thickening and the ground rising to the point where we were on steep cliffs probably 40 feet above the river, which at this point was a roaring cataract below.

Undaunted, we circled back and tried downstream. Not far below, we came to a spot that almost looked passable. Trying a one-rock-at-a-time route, I found a spot that required a single mighty leap to make it across the widest spot. I jumped and made it, landing on all fours.

What about Shirley? She got as far as the "launch" rock, but then showed good common sense by hesitating.

She finally decided she would try. But to increase her chances, she first threw her pack over to me.

And then she leaped, and she made it as well! Phew!

We then had to scramble up the banks and climb over a massive pair of pipes to emerge on the Cog's manicured lawns—only to find the base station building closed and locked up tight!

A short stroll on a paved road got us to the parking lot, where the rest of our group had arrived about 15 minutes earlier. (Thankfully, the trailhead parking lot also has bathrooms.)

The time was 6:30 p.m. Behind us, the summit of Mount Washington loomed, its western slopes in the clear and glowing in the warm sunlight of an early June evening.

We'd been up there, and made it back. All of us!

Not sure if anyone will be looking at the summit guest book 40 years from now, but if they do: we did make it to the top, and down.

And a good time was had by all.

And here we all are!

Zahnna summits Mount Hale (#33), plus other outdoor highlights of the past month or so

Zahnna shows serious tongue at the summit cairn of Mount Hale on Sunday, Sept. 28.

Okay, two months to go until I find myself trekking to the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro. Here's a brief round-up of recent outdoor activities.

• With cold weather pushing in, the bike is increasingly mothballed in favor of plain old running.

So in recent weeks, I've been out with the dogs as often as possible, but not often enough due to a typically packed schedule.

The one note of progress here is that our standard home route has evolved into five-mile circuit, considerably longer than what we were doing in the summer.

This is possible because the cooler weather allows the dogs to go further without being overheated. (Me, too!)

On the down side, every run is followed by considerable stiffness and pain around my right ankle. There's not much swelling, so I'm not really sure what's going on down there.

It usually goes away by the next day, and off I go again. I'll monitor it; right now, the plan is to check with my doctor when we get back from Kilimanjaro and see what's up.

Inca enjoys a little window stretch after climbing Mount Hale.

• Now that it's November, I think the season of serious local hiking is over for this year.

Since the last update, two things to report. On Sunday, Sept. 28, Zahnna the German shepherd made it to the top of Mount Hale, #33 in her quest to summit all 48 peaks over 4,000 feet in New Hampshire. (She was joined by her sister Inca, and me as chaperone.)

At the enormous summit cairn atop Mount Hale. Scrambling to the top of this is about the only way to get a good view over the tree that ring the summit clearing.

We tackled Hale because I had to be back to home base by mid-afternoon for a silent film screening, and it's generally regarded as one of the easiest of all the 48 highest.

And it was. We roared up the trail in about two hours, spent a half-hour on the summit with some fun and interesting people, and then actually ran most of the way back down. Kind of a Reinhold Messner approach, but that's what was needed.

Among the highlights: encountering an 84-year-old hiker who'd been on Hale as long ago as the 1950s, when he bushwhacked up the southern slopes to the summit, which at the time had a much better view.

We also spent time with a guy named Jon Chase who turned out to have a background in newspapers and now works as a staff photographer at Harvard University. Small world! Now that I'm doing accompaniment work at Harvard, I might someday get in front of his lens. :)

Jon Chase at the summit of Mount Hale with his dog, whose name I can't recall. Sorry!

The only other significant hike took place in the area of New Paltz, N.Y., when I took part in a spur-of-the-moment excursion into and over "the Gunks," short for Shawangunk Ridge, a popular area for rock-climbing.

College pal Dave Merle and his lovely wife Shirley have a place right at the foot of some very impressive cliffs. And on the Sunday of Columbus Day weekend, Inca and I made the four-hour drive to join in on a looping trek into and through and out of the woods.

Inca looking cute in her co-pilot seat.

The weather was warm and sunny, and foliage was just about at peak, making for a spectacular day to be outdoors. We weren't the only ones thinking this, apparently, as the country roads west of New Paltz were absolutely jammed. Local pumpkin patches and cider mills were mobbed.

Thankfully, the trails weren't. After playing with Dave Merle's new drone (controlled by iPhone), we embarked by just cutting through the woods and then scrambling up an enormous talus field until reaching a trail at the base of the cliff.

Highlights of our partially bushwhacked walk-about were ascending along the edge of the main ridge and stopping at a vertiginous point overlooking a vast expanse of the Hudson River Valley to the east.

It was here that James Russo, son of another college pal, Mike Russo, idly tossed a handful of leaves over the precipice. Down they fluttered—until they were caught by an updraft that we couldn't see or feel, which caused them to float back up past us and dance about in the void beyond us.

This led to a good-half hour of experimentation, in which everything that could be thrown off a cliff pretty much was. And I'll be darned if a lot of it didn't rise up and dance before us!

Inca and me somewhere on the trail near New Paltz, N.Y. on Sunday, Oct. 12. Photo by Michael Z. Russo.

James is one impressive young man, by the way. It's not every 13-year-old who can quote large parts of the dialogue from the Marx Bros. classic "Duck Soup" (1933), but James certainly can. Hey, at this point, I'll take hope for the future anywhere I can find it.

• Back to the gym: With the bike not in use, I'm making an effort to get back to the gym, which has been ignored all summer. I'll concentrate on low-impact stuff like the elliptical trainer and strengthening exercises to keep the momentum going even as winter looms.

• In terms of running, the ankle issue has prevented me from being too ambitious, but perhaps that's a good thing, given my tendency to overdo it. Right now, the Manchester (N.H.) Marathon is being run, and I'm not in it, despite my desire to do the half-marathon version again.

Instead, I'll keep things a little more modest, in part to prevent any kind of serious injury or condition developing prior to Kilimanjaro.

We're going to San Francisco this week for a few days. If I feel up to it, I may scoot across to Nevada and try to do a 10K there, thus adding that state to my 'Running in All 50 States' roster, which has been pretty quiet of late. We'll see.

And I've been extremely lax (if not downright lazy) in pursuing the project of running a minimum of 5K in all of New Hampshire's cities, towns, and unincorporated places.

In the past 10 years, I've pretty much exhausted the list of communities that hold official 5K races. So now I have to resort to "do-it-yourself" runs where I measure off 5K and then do it on my own.

Sounds easy enough, but I haven't done a single one all this season! And the long-anticipated completion date of May 14, 2016 (when I'll officially be older than my father when he died at age 52) looms ever closer.

• In a sign I'm finally taking serious things more seriously, I've collected all my health-related paperwork into one large three-ring binder. Now the trick, of course, is to actually use it and refer to it often, or at least not lose it.

I have it with me here right now. So far, so good!

• In the binder is a timely story from the New York Times about the dangers of eating things late at night, defined as three hours before you go to sleep. This is my one big unconquered bad habit, so I hope clinical evidence like this will help break it.

As it is, I've tried. And it's easy enough to say, "after X o'clock, I won't eat anything." But it's such a reflex, borne not out of hunger but emotional issues, I believe, that it's been more difficult to correct that I could have ever expected.

It's like you're under hypnosis, with your body (and mind) acting in ways that someone else is controlling. Strange!

• In another sign that things are changing, I'm no longer short-changing sleep.

Until recently, I would regularly force myself to go without adequate sleep. This, of course, has all kinds of long-term consequences. But it seemed to be necessary to just keep up with everything going on.

But no longer. I find I simply am not willing to go through the day feeling lousy anymore. And, in what will probably not be a surprise to any sane person who encounters this, I find I can generally be more productive by getting adequate sleep. And I feel better, and so on.

There's still not enough time to do everything I'd like to. I have to keep working on time management and focus and all that.

But doing without enough sleep is no longer an option. Progress, I think!

Alpine Adventure: Getting lost on epic day hike to Switzerland's spectacular Lake Macun plateau

Switzerland's 'Lake Macun' plateau from an overlooking ridge.

I've been hoping to post notes of a day-long solo hike high up above treeline in the Swiss Alps, a highlight of this summer's visit to Switzerland.

Of special interest: way above treeline, I lost the trail, nearly went down the wrong valley, and had to embark on a high-altitude bushwhack that was unnerving if ultimately successful.

Now it's Labor Day weekend, so better get something up before it all fades. So here goes.

Please note that many of the photos are of scenery on a grand scale. I encourage you to click on the images and view them as large as possible.

Wednesday, July 23: Dawn at Zuoz, a small town in the postcard-perfect Engadine Valley of southeast Switzerland. The weather? Rain all week—tough luck for an area that boasts more days of sunshine per year than any other part of the nation.

But this morning, the sky is blue. Sunshine kisses the bare peaks high above. Updated forecast? Broken clouds, with rain moving back in by mid-afternoon.

So it's a go. I throw on my pack and head out, descending cobblestone streets to the small town's train station. But then I realize I don't have my raincoat.

Up and back, and already I'm feeling winded. How do I expect to make it to 9,600 feet? Same as always: one step at a time.

Today's journey is a through-hike up to an area called the Lake Macun plateau. An unusual basin above treeline, it's home to a network of high-altitude ponds and tarns fed by snows and run-off from surrounding peaks.

The trail through it—starting in Lavin and ending in Zernez—is 23 kilometers, or about 14 miles, and includes an altitude gain of about 5,000 feet along the way. A guidebook's one-word description: "Challenging."

A chart showing the altitude profile of the trail. Like everything else, I did it backwards, from right to left.

The red train of the Rhaetische Bahn (a private narrow gauge rail line that serves this part of the country) pulls into Zuoz right on time: 7:27 a.m.

And off we go, rolling across the verdant valley floor. Craggy peaks tower above us on either side, their rocky and snowy high points catching more and more of the morning sunlight. I'm feeling hopeful.

Sometimes the train acts like a streetcar, such as here in the town of Poschiavo.

Though we're in rural Switzerland, the train functions like a subway, stopping at all small towns along the line. (Hourly service, no less!) We pass through Zernez, where I will catch the train back tonight if all goes as planned.

The Lavin Train Station. Not exactly bustling this morning.

At 8 a.m., I step off at Lavin, which seems deserted. Signs direct me through the quiet village center and down to cross the Lower Engadine River on a covered bridge, of all things. Wow, just like home in New Hampshire! Except for the public transportation and good signage and...well, don't get me started.

Lavin's covered bridge.

Now begins a steady climb that will fill the entire morning. Roads give way quickly to footpaths that ramble through pastures and forests. It's a working landscape: occasionally I pass through gates to keep livestock penned in. But I encounter no one—neither human nor cattle—this quiet morning.

The path in the early stages—all quiet!

Not far above Lavin, a white ribbon across the path steers me up a steep rocky ravine. I get far enough to realize this can't be the route, and if it is, I'm done.

Back down at the path-blocking ribbon, I now see that the trail continues (obviously) beyond after you unhook it and pass through. It takes a while to understand the etiquette of hiking through a working landscape.

And up we go, steadily ascending on what I would call a "Class VI" road, meaning a road in New Hampshire no longer maintained as a public way. Whatever you call it, it's still way better than most trails in the White Mountains back home.

I pass a summer upland cabin that appears unoccupied, then a hairpin turn reorients me back toward the valley I'm supposed to be headed for, according to the rudimentary map I've torn out of the Lonely Planet guide.

And up I continue, ascending through a mixed hardwood forest, occasionally dodging cow flop on a path that maintains a steady grade, even if that requires the path to be hewn from bedrock in some places. Good engineers, the Swiss.

Typical backwoods gate found on Swiss trails.

I stop for a water break only to find that the two two-liter bottles I bought the night before are not plain water, but sparkling (and salty!) mineral water. Ugh! A prolonged shaking removes only some carbonation, but I eventually drink, as hydration is important. For the rest of the day, I feel bloated and ready to belch on command.

The rising sun now reaches into this side of the valley, causing flies to stir. After a week of damp overcast, they're especially lively, and I soon attract a sizable swarm. So I stride along, using my hat to continually swat the top and sides of my head, giving myself an unexpected arm workout.

So far, I've been accompanied by the sounds of Lavin from below: church bells, a tractor engine starting, a train rolling through town. Now I notice that all is quiet as the trail levels out and enters the mouth of the high valley leading to the Lake Macun plateau.

Bridge PLUS gate.

After crossing a brook via a wooden bridge, the trail—surprise!—hits a fully maintained gravel road. Above is a rustic farmhouse. I'm a little non-plussed to see a van parked right in front. After two hours on foot, just how remote am I? And did I just take the long way? Thanks, Lonely Planet!

Hey! Who put this farmhouse in my landscape?

Also, coming up the road is a group of three hikers, clearly headed the same place as me. They pass while I stop to photograph the farmhouse, all the while under attack by aggressive flies. As they pass, I use my high school German to try joking, referring to the flies as the "Luftwaffe," to which the three do not react at all. Oh well!

Hey! Who are these people crowding my landscape?

With them ahead, we pass the farmhouse (again, deserted) and make our through a series of muddy upland pastures, home to a sizable herd of cows—perhaps a hundred in all, and all wearing those tinkling cowbells, making it sound like you're hiking through an area filled with pots and pans catching raindrops.

Heading up into the cow pastures, things begin to open up.

Further up into the pastures. Those clouds ahead look ominous.

The trio of hikers ahead of me enters cow country.

The trail zigzags through the pasture, and seems to attract livestock with no intention of moving out of the way. So, after a prolonged cow stare-down, I go off trail and climb directly up the slope, ending up way ahead of the group of three, who get hemmed in on a switchback.

We now bring you Close Encounters of the Bovine Kind...

In that last photo, the path is marked (like all Swiss trails) with a white and red blaze.

We're now in open area, not quite above treeline but in a landscape that's mostly grass sprinkled with the vibrant colors of alpine flowering plants: intense pinks, yellows, and blues. Above us rise craggy peaks that pierce an intensely blue sky. On the opposite side of the valley, a stream tumbles dramatically down the escarpment.

in the last photo, looking back down the valley, you can see the three hikers now behind me. Click on it to see it larger, if you want.

Though clouds are forming to the east, still no sign of rain, and no wind. It's turning out to be a beautiful day.

After clearing the cow pastures, the trail veers up a pile of scree that requires careful attention to footing. So it comes as a surprise when I look up to see patches of snow in areas below me.

Then the trail goes through an area still covered by a substantial snow drift that's frozen into a solid mass—a mini-glacier. In fact, it's been there long enough to start pulling away from the wall of ledge shadowing and protecting it. This allows hikers to pass through a narrow corridor between the ledge and the ice, with some scrambling.

Click on this photo to see the people climbing the ridge above.

A couple ahead of me have just negotiated the first snowdrift of the day.

But this much snow already? What have I got myself into?

The trail keeps climbing regardless, over a series of barren scree piles. It eventually levels out, the valley walls fall away, bringing me into full-on bright sunshine as I stride along the brook, now right alongside the trail. The air is warm, the wind light, the sky bright blue.

Several of these photos, if enlarged, show the tiny figures of the hikers ahead of me, which provide a sense of scale.

We're there. All around me, the landscape looks like the most barren part of the Scottish Highlands, or perhaps New Hampshire's Presidential range above treeline, but surrounded by dramatic rocky peaks that look like they're from a rendering of Middle Earth. Snowdrifts persist in shady places, but the blamming sunshine lights up the rocky peaks like they're on a movie set. Everything seems to sparkle.

Why don't I let the landscape itself do the talking?

Above is where I came from...

...and this is what lies ahead.

I rock-hop across the brook, then arrive at a sheltered signpost that looks like a bus stop in the middle of nowhere. It marks the official boundary of the Swiss National Park, which the trail now crosses into. A couple that I've been slowly gaining on depart just as I arrive.

Some color is still present, but not for much longer.

With them leading the way, the trail meanders through a treeless alpine moonscape that would surely be forbidding if it weren't so open and well lit, and if the weather weren't so warm and welcoming. As it is, I feel almost giddy. It might be the thinning air: we're already above 8,000 feet, and heading higher.

We follow the course of the burbling stream, then veer to the right and up to reach the official Lake Macun plateau stop: a stretch on the alien shore of a perfectly still alpine tarn that I recognize as the classic Crayola color of blue green.

It's exactly 11:30 a.m. A signpost, with typical Swiss precision, says it's 4¼ hours to the Zernez train station.

The couple ahead of me had already found a spot on one side of the pond, named "Lai d'Immez" in the native Graubunden dialect of this part of Switzerland. (They're in the second photo above.) They seem to want to be on their own, so I stand away and embark on a 360-degree series of shots. These were later stitched into a single wrap-around panorama by Andrew Mason, a talented colleague at work. Click on the image to see it large:

I also snap this very limited self-portrait while taking off my boots and changing my socks.

The bump is where I broke my big toe years ago. There, now you know everything.

And then it was over a small wooden footbridge and up, up, up. Though the air was mild and the sky above was still blue, a gray and white overcast continued to boil in the east. Time was now a factor: if I was going to get socked in by clouds or rain on above treeline, I had hoped to get up and over the ridge (and the day's high point) that I still had in front of me.

I begin to encounter people coming the other way, off the ridge and headed toward Lavin, where I started. Most are dressed for colder weather than me, it seems, but they say the ridge is fine.

The trail is now up-and-down as it traverses the rocky plateau. Surrounded by barren peaks on all sides, and with none of the green lower valleys in sight, I really have the sense of being somewhere other than Earth. The Planet Macun, perhaps. After awhile, all color vanishes. I was now in the black-and-white (but mostly gray) world of rocks and gravel and shady spots that sheltered snowdrifts that survive in late July.

In that last photo, you can just barely see the little "T" on the ridge.

After crossing several deep snowdrifts, the trail begins a grinding final ascent straight up a steep embankment of loose rock. Way, way up above, sticking up from the ridge top, I can see a little "T" silhouetted against the overcast. If that was the ridge, then that was another signpost, probably marking the trail's exit from the national park. (At this point, I find myself kinda hoping it's the top of a chairlift that I can ride down.)

A view directly up the final climb.

With the thinner air at this altitude, each step takes all my concentration and quite a bit of effort. Plus, I had just arrived from the U.S. two days ago, making jet lag was a factor as well. So I stop frequently, to the point where I'm taking only a handful of steps before having to rest for at least a moment.

Here's the part I expected would come: when I ask myself what the hell am I doing here? Of course, I had no good answer. For now, my whole world was focused on getting to that "T" up above, and then coping with whatever challenge would follow.

The final push seems to take forever, but when I finally reach the "T," the world opens up. It is the ridge, and the "T" is a sheltered sign marking the national park boundary. And all around me, the earth drops away: behind me down to the rocky plateau I just crossed, and ahead into deep green valleys far, far below, and then snowcapped peaks to the horizon.

It feels like I'm looking out the window of an airplane. It feels like I'm flying. One word comes to mind: vertiginous.

We're at a place called Fuorcletta di Barcli. It's 9,120 feet above sea level, and a good solid one mile above the valley floor below. The clouds have withdrawn, the sun is shining, and I feel like I can see forever. And I now have a good answer as to what the hell I'm doing here.

I drink some salty water, and make small talk with a middle-aged couple while holding back the urge to belch. They came up from Lavin, and that's where they're heading back to now. Really?

"Yes," says the man. "To go further, it is much too scary for me."

And yes, I'm not done yet. To continue requires one to go higher, up and along the narrow ridge crest for about a quarter-mile, finally topping out at 9,660 feet at a summit called Fuorcla Baselgia.

The trail is no longer a trail, but a series of rock scrambles over a narrow and completely exposed ridge. A sudden gust of wind could turn me into a human kite!

But a large family is making its way down towards us as we speak. How scary could it be?

There's virtually no wind right now. The rain is at bay. The rocks are dry. The worst thing that could happen, I think, is that I could trip or get a sunburn.

So up I climb. As the altitude increases, packed snow persists right up the lip of the ridge's shady side, sometimes forming a shelf as high as my shoulder.

It takes a half-hour, but I finally reach the high point, which I have to myself. No one else is around.

And I have one of those moments where I can't believe I'm actually standing where I am, on perhaps one of the five days of the entire year where the conditions are like this: warm, dry, calm. Pleasant, even! Remember, this is a totally exposed ridge studded with avalanche barriers high above the town of Zernez. Blizzard conditions probably prevail here nine months out of the year.

There's Zernez down there, where I have a train to catch.

At the same time, I am listening to the part of me saying: You're hiking alone in a strange country, and this part of the journey is where you're most vulnerable. I mean, I'm standing there in shorts and a t-shirt. Sir Edmund Hillary didn't relax at the top of Everest. Neil Armstrong didn't dawdle on the lunar surface.

You know, it kinda does look like Mount Everest or the the lunar surface up here. The last pic is of the actual summit of Mount Baselgia: self-portrait of me and my bag, excluding me.

In other words: take in the view, but get down while the getting's good. Which is what I did.

And therein lay the seeds of my coming misadventure. Once I began descending, I might have been going a little too fast. Because of that, more than ever I was watching where my feet were landing, as the trail was extremely steep and full of loose dirt and gravel.

So it was with a slight sense of alarm that I looked up and could not find any evidence of a trail ahead of me. No marker. No red-and-white blaze painted on a rock. Nothing.

A trail seemed to continue down further, but the slope around me was full of worn and washed out sections that might (or might not) be a path.

Unwilling to drag my aching feet and legs back up the steep grade and crumbling turf, I pressed on, gradually realizing that yes, I was not on any kind of trail at all.

In fact, I was in the wrong valley. Far below me was not Zernez, but—well, nothing. Steep open slopes disappeared into what looked like trackless wilderness.

So what to do? Climbing back up from whence I came seemed unsafe and dangerous. And I knew, from dead reckoning and a map I had, that the trail (and the valley to Zernez with the avalanche barriers) was somewhere to the right of me.

So I would go right. But first, I had to go down farther, to an area that looked a little more open and easier to navigate across.

All the while, I'm on a 45-degree slope that's either tufts of grass or crumbling rock. There's nothing below me for maybe a couple thousand feet, so one false step could have serious consequences.

So I take it slow, knowing that if something happens, it will likely be a long time before anyone finds me.

(Please note the lack of pictures of this part of the day's activities, as I was using both hands to hold on for dear life.)

And I make my way down step by step, further postponing my turn to the right as steep ledges persist on that side. I begin to wonder: will I ever get out of this chute?

I finally come across a reasonably safe route that unfortunately leads me straight into a thicket of weird spiked weeds that rise to my chest.

I back out, but decide it's now or never. Unwilling to go any lower, I clamber above the spiky weeds, using all fours to brace myself on a crumbling shelf with no clear footing. The phrase deep shit comes to mind, but I make it.

I then cross a field of loose scree at a steep angle. Nothing moves. I feel like I'm playing the old board game "Avalanche."

Just as I'm saying "that went well," I step onto what seems to be a solid tuft of alpine grass. The whole thing gives way, sliding out from under my feet and sending a flurry of rocks and gravel bounding down the slope below. I slide with it, but fall on my ass and grab at a branch to keep from going further.

I stop and listen to the rocks still tumbling down the slope below me. A large one hits something solid and bounds up in the air before rolling down to infinity. I almost wish there were someone below there that I could yell at, because I've never felt quite this alone.

How far to the trail? Did I go too low?

Over yet another ledge, and then another pile of scree, then along a very steep and uneven grass embankment. I lose my footing again, this time landing on my ass without sliding. Turning onto my stomach to get up, I find myself staring straight into an enormous black hole in the turf. And my right hand is on a pile of freshly dug dirt outside the entrance. There is animal scat in the grass next to me.

So I'm up and out of there before I have time to think what comes next.

And what does come next, to my great relief, is the trail, right there basking in the sunlight. Yes!

I remember it was Winston Churchill who was quoted as saying there is no more exhilarating feeling than being shot at and missed. Back on the trail to Zernez, I kinda know what he meant.

The trail now zigzags among the avalanche barriers on the open slopes high above Zernez.

These look small, like little fences, from down below. Close-up, they're massive steel structures—anchored in concrete and as big a row of two-story houses. Dozens are set up at strategic locations to keep the town from being wiped out.

The trail switchbacks among these curious structures, and in some cases directly through them. And I was surprised to find that on warm afternoons, they produce noise!

Really—the heat of the sun makes the metal expand, causing a series of popping sounds at the time I happened to pass through.

Multiply this over several dozen structures, and it sounds like a popcorn machine. I found myself wondering what movies were playing in Zernez.

With the sun still blasting away (no clouds at all now), it takes awhile to reach treeline and its promises of shade.

But treeline also finds the trail morphing into a maintained dirt road that offers no less than an on-call taxi service down to Zernez, which a sign said was still two hours away on foot.

I'm tempted to call, but that would be cheating. Sore feet or not, my plan was to hoof it all the way.

But the trail now follows the road, which makes absurdly leisurely loops through the forest as it winds its way down the slope. I think it adds at least an hour to the hike! And it doesn't help to have to occasionally get out of the way of the "taxi service" (actually a van) plying its way up and down the road.

I was never so glad to find the trail finally breaking off from the road and heading straight down to Zernez. Still, the last part of the hike seemed to take forever—I'd walk for a half-hour, and be no closer to Zernez than before.

Finally, at about 5 p.m., I marched through a field and into the courtyard of Zernez's Catholic Church. After skirting the cemetery (how poetically appropriate), I was now on the tidy town's sidewalks and crosswalks. The rest of my journey I would complete as planned: by train.

Tramping up to the Lake Macun plateau represents the limit of intense day hikes—at least for me. So I think I really lucked out in being able to make this journey.

Consider: The weather held for the entire day. (It would turn out to be the only day of our stay that it didn't rain.) Conditions way up on the ridge were superb. The salty mineral water didn't taste great, but probably aided in hydration.

And I didn't kill myself.