Backyard Park

We shoveled snow all day again yesterday. Apparently, that wasnt too much, because we girls came home in the evening and shoveled the yard as well, using the snow to make two large piles, one for and approach, the other for a jump. We needed a break from the trilogies. The next door neighbor suggests a half-pipe when it snows again. Can't do it this time, considering we only have a few cubic feet of snow left on the yard. After the warm temperatures today, we are the only yard in suburbia with green lawn. Everyone else's yards are still covered with a foot of snow. Was it a slightly psycho thing to do? yes... were we pathetic and desparate to snowboard? yes... Did we have so much fun doing it we nearly wet our pants from laughing? that too... And the one I know you are all asking, did anyone hurt themselves? Not seriously, but I'll bet it takes long enough to melt that there is always a good chance.

Backyard park

...So we scramble to the top of "The Pile", strap in, and drop off. Considering the length and height of approach, the time spent aloft is not great. But it provides enough lift to be able to try a few tricks that are scary when one is ten feet in the air, landing on rock-hard ice pack, as is the case with the mongo kickers in the terrain parks. Oh, the music? It is a well-known fact that the best tricks are performed in time with punk-rock or raggae. Not a big raggae fan, I am only left with misunderstood punk-rockers and their surprisingly upbeat summations of their crummy lives. Works for me.

In parting, I must quote a sticker I saw on a snowboard the other day at A-basin. "Stupid should hurt" Fitting. After all, if it didnt hurt, how would we know that it was stupid enough to merit doing in the first place?

Too many, too much

We woke up this morning to a foot of snow. God spent a few hours last night covering Summit County up, and we spent all day shoveling back-breaking, dense, heavy piles of the stuff. By turns, I have felt exhilerated by the fact that I am out in it, physically fit enough to be able to do it, glad to be doing a job where the results of my efforts are so readily apparent, and cursing the man who first thought to wrap a horizontal apron of wood around the second story of his house (yes, it would have to be a man) so he would not have to walk downstairs to pop a top and position himself in a cool, breezy spot. Ok, maybe it was a woman, but if it was, it was one of leisure, not one who ever had to worry about falling kids, maintaining the thing, keeping it clean and clear... in places, it was two feet deep, some of the heaviest snow I have moved in a while.
But now we are home, and tonight is a big night. Every year, when the weather moves in and nobody wants to do anything but sit and vegetate in the evenings, we have our trilogy marathon. We start with Star Wars, a movie an evening for a week, then move on to The Lord of the Rings, then Indiana Jones. For comedy, we will force ourselves through the three Austen Powers movies, then for contrast, watch the Terminators, although the first one is the only one actually worth our time. Then, in the spirit of really bad sequels, Scream 1, 2, and 3. Then, we may even move on to the...two-logies? The Mummy 1 and 2, Men in Black 1 and 2, The Borne Identity and The Borne Supremacy, American Graffiti 1 and 2, even though the second one is really a waste of time, sometimes you have to suffer through a bad movie for the sake of continuity... The Man from Snowey River 1 and 2. (The ones who grew up watching them say they're wonderful movies. I've never been able to sit through the first one, let alone the second one. Maybe it's time.) and by then, it is Thanksgiving, and the Thanksgiving Bond-a-thon is on cable, a week that the girls in the house spend in mockery, and everyone tries to imitate Roger Moore's accent. Then, if no one has begun having seisures from too much TV, we may watch TV seasons on DVD, Alias, Lost, 24, Scrubs... and by then it is Christmas, and the twelve days of Bond are back. And this very evening, my friends, is where it all begins. R2D2 is beeping his displeasure from the surround speakers downstairs, the theme tune in the background is one that, after last year's trilogy marathon, is finally no longer running through my head with maddening insistance. For a week, we will be doing really annoying Darth Vader impressions and humming that dang song. I told them to start without me, while I finished up on the computer... almost sacriligious, not being present for the opening of our winter tradition, so I must get downstairs and fight for a spot on the couch. I have included a picture of this cold, miserable place, just in case anyone is wishing for snow at the moment. It is a small portion of the wrap around deck we shoveled before coming home this evening, and the main reason my back is screaming at me to go find a couch and stop hunching over the keyboard. So, goodbye for now! And may the Force be with you...

First turns

It's snowing again. It's sloppy, and the roads are slick, and crusted with salt and sand. It's starting. But the good thing is, the Basin is open. I begged for an hour the other day, stuffed my gear in the back of the jeep, and made my way up there on really bad roads. I only got two runs in, and there were several hundred people on the only run open. The only chair open was the Exhibition lift, taking us halfway up, dropping us off only a few turns from the bottom. But it was good, feeling snow under my board, slipping from edge to edge under a bluebird sky. Scarlett and I went back today. Since we have some extra help in the county right now, we all had the entire day off. The last several Sundays, we have gone to church before work, but today, after nearly thirty days of work for Mr. B, we stayed in bed long after the sun rose, asking eachother just what we were going to do with ourselves, getting greedy with our time off, tempting ourselves with various scenarios. We could go to Denver, we could ask for tomorrow morning off as well and go to Moab, we could sit and veg, and accomplish nothing, or stay in the house and do laundry. It's been three weeks since I last wore my favorite shirt, a soft, thin black teeshirt with a faded sillouhette of a long-haired headbanger on the front, and the words "if it's too loud, you're too old". It's the only skinny shirt I have that is also nightgown-comfortable. It spends no time on the hanger. I wear it the day after laundry day, then it lives in the hamper until it can be washed again. Ok, I admit. I am one of those instant gratification people. I dont mean that to sound dirty in the least, I just see absolutely no reason to push off until later anything that would make me happy right now. Like leaving my favorite clothes on the hanger while I wear something that makes me feel ugly. Anyway... I digress. The one thing that really tempted me to get happy was the thought of more sun, more outside, more snow. I waited until Scarlett got up and offered to take her along to A-Basin. She got a good start last March, got the feel for making careful turns without catching her edge and slapping herself to the ground, and couldn't wait to see if she could pick up where she left off. We got there right in the middle of the late-morning rush, and spent 45 minutes in line before getting on the chair. By the time we got back to the bottom, the line was longer, so we shouldered our boards and hiked up a side run with twenty other people, to the chagrin of the ski patrol. They tried their best to control several hundred powder-high skiiers and snowboarders, threatened a thousand dollar fine and confiscation of ski passes for closure violations, but in mid October, the delight of forbidden turns in eight inches of fresh powder outweighed the threats. Hundreds of tracks led under the ropes and through closed terrain. Another forty-five minute wait, another fifteen minute descent, and we headed home, cold, exhausted and hungry. It was a wonderful feeling.
Too bad our lives arent more about such play and less about running around, frantically trying to get ready for the looming date of December first. Keystone opens on the tenth of November, but the first big event is on the first, when Keystone kicks off it's season with thirty-six continuous hours of skiing and riding. It gets bigger every year. Last year, I actually attempted to snowboard at eleven o'clock at night, as late as I dared to be out, and never made it to the lift. After standing for an hour in line between the progressively more obnoxious man nursing a flask and the comfortably introspective one smoking a bowl, and studying the fake-snow ribbon of death that was the main run down to the chair, I changed my mind and walked back home. In theory, snowboarding all night sounds fun. In reality, it may not be the smartest thing to subject one's self to. I know, that sounds odd coming from the original adrenaline junkie. Make a note of it.
Tomorrow is another day, a big day, back in our real life. Just to show you what you all missed by not being at the Basin today, the picture at the top is of the lift lines.

hiking pics

The weatherman says more snow. We are not ready. The last of our last snow is almost gone from all but the highest peaks. But, everyone says, it is perfect timing. Maybe a few flakes will be visible falling in Denver on monday night, and will be caught on camera, and everyone who watches the Bronco's game will be reminded that ski season is right around the corner, and reservations will flood in. Traditionally, the day after a snowy Bronco's game is a busy day for Reservations.

We are down to five people in the house right now, a slightly more manageable number than six. Now, there are many houses with six family members living together, but not as many with six full grown, well fed adults. We have all been caught off guard by the sheer amount of money that goes into feeding six well-fed adults, and that's just the staples, nothing fancy, no big splurges. A batch of bread lasts a day. A box of cereal, two. Out toaster quit a week ago, and it's almost a blessing. No one eats toast in the morning anymore. After living almost entirely on our guests left-behind food for three years, we had forgotten what it was like to feed ourselves. And we have a month or two yet until tourists start flying in, and have to leave their food behind when they leave. Oh, well. We are adjustable and adaptable.

This last week may have been all the Indian Summer we get. The Yost girls and I went hiking last week. About four miles into the Eagle's Nest Wilderness, by way of the trailhead above our house, is a charming series of waterfalls, pouring over a granite ridge that separates Red Mountain from Buffalo Mountain. After lunch, granola bars and water, eaten with a bit of disapointment that our idyllic spot was suddenly shared by a group of about eight obnoxious young shirtless males and their dog, by far the least obnoxious of the group, we headed up the trail again, anxious to get through the gorge between the two mountians and look out the other side, as well as to put a bit of distance between us and all the coursing testosterone back at the falls. When we got there, a grueling, uphill mile later, we reallised that Red Buffalo Pass lay between us and our view, all that lay before us was a large basin rising up to a snow-covered pass. We shrugged, and left the trail, climbing up the side of Red Mountain to our right, until we reached treeline. (see the picture at teh top of this post.) Amber was determined to go on to the top, Scarlett had had enough. Considering that it was beginning to cloud over, and we had several hours hiking ahead of us to get back home, S. won. A good thing. By the time we dragged ourselves back to civilisation, we were stumbling with exhaustion. It didnt help that we were passed both ways by an especially spry trail runner, sprinting over boulders, carrying running weights, accompanied by a dog that must have been on the same steroids as his owner. We threw a few choice words at his back as he bounced past us. He greeted us with a cheerful "hello", not breathless in the least. I stand by my original observation, there is something not quite right about some of these people up here. Maybe the alien invasion so long feared has started in the high country. Maybe they spend their time in another dimension, where it is possible to run and not be weary, walk and not faint. Maybe they love pain and arew just plain psycho. Whatever it is, I want some.