It's hard to deny I've rounded the bend.

See, some of us are floaty-woaty by nature. No score keeping, no rules. It's all about the journey.

We tend to do well with imaginary friends.

This all started last winter with my first backcountry skiing attempt. Randonee sounded so great: Hike up a mountain on skis and glide back down untouched snow.

Wow. That hill spanked my weak ass. Blisters and bruises formed right away. The sobbing began at mile three. Dry-heaving at mile four. By the top, my legs gave out every 10 steps.

I collapsed onto the cold reality that, in the mountains, being adventurous is not enough.

You also have to be sporty.

Boooo.

I reminisced on a simpler time. Back when I played french horn and had a crush on the debate team. When jocks were dumb. When I lived in Iowa, and all that I hoped for was at sea level.

But things changed. These peaks, man. I'm addicted. Especially in winter. I really want to try backcountry skiing again.

And so I must do something that horrifies me.

I must train.

This will not happen in a gym. Gyms smell like rubber, and there is no scenery. The gym is not fun. I hate the gym.

I talked to seasoned backcountry skier Robert Athey, who says he is "neither an athlete, nor a gym member." Perfect.

Robert mostly bikes and hikes in the off season, always carrying two cameras and at least 100 ounces of water. "Do whatever you enjoy doing, as often as possible," he advised.

I tried hiking with extra water, but I just "spilled" to unload the weight. Oops. So then I packed rocks from the trailhead. But I just dumped them next to the trail whenever my legs started to strain (immediately).

I needed something I couldn't dump.

Enter Bjorn. My cinderblock.

No level of zonkage would excuse leaving a cinderblock on a beautiful mountain. Pack it in, pack it out.

I took the block on a few hikes and hated it.

HATED IT. I got grumpy every time I hoisted my daypack.

So I named the block Bjorn. I always liked that name. Then I drew a face on him. Now Bjorn is my "trainer."

Whatever it takes, I say.

I was pulling Bjorn out of my backpack for a break at Lake Blanche last week when a teenager named Jake happened upon us. For this rugged, snowy 2,700-foot elevation gain, Jake had worn a leather jacket and a fedora. Not usually what you see on a mountaintop.

But there I was with Bjorn. We're all finding our way in this world.

"What's that for?" Jake asked, walking closer. Then he saw Bjorn's face.

"Oh, I understand."

He understood.

And I wondered, of all the really understanding people I know, how many were at some point high school kids with fedoras?

A lot, I'm thinking.

At that point, I was certain that Bjorn is the best fitness hope for a floaty-woaty nerd like me.

Erin Alberty has more Utah adventures and musings on her blog, poorpenmanship.com.