Hello and Welcome to An Altitude Problem, where the problem is, winter is still here. Of course, it is only March 16. One would expect winter to still be hanging around in places much lower than 9,500 feet. But yours truly and BBD would dearly love to see winter take a hike and leave us able to take a hike- on dry trails. The weather has been taunting us lately, giving us warm, 40 degree days, and with the time change, it gets dark later and the extra hour of daylight has us itching to get out of the house, only to try it and end up freezing when the sun dips behind a cloud bank and an icy breeze whips through our thin layers that we want so badly to be able to wear.

Heather is out helping us through March, and with her help, we survived the busiest weekend since Christmas. We are 100 percent booked right now, solid at least through this week. Not a single rental turn-around has left us with a rental sitting empty overnight, so we are staying busy following the housekeepers around on back-to-back cleans.

I am quite happy that I have talked Heather and Marci into accompanying me on one cross country ski and one snowshoe excursion so far. We xc skied yesterday morning on borrowed equipment at the Keystone Nordic Center, then snowshoed South Willow Creek Trail this morning. I didn't actually snowshoe, since I lent Marci my snowshoes, I skied on my beefy xc skis up and down some extremely icy, steep hills. I have not been on that trail since we lived there two years ago, and now I remember how steep it gets in a few areas. There are also a few log crossings over streams, nice wide ones in the summer, but in the winter, rounded and icy. It got a bit treacherous at times, but I made it safely down, and much faster than my snowshoeing trail companions. Andy made new friends on the trail, two chows, one of their exuberant greetings taking place around my knees and skis as I balanced precariously on a log bridge over a small stream.

This winter has been an especially exhausting one for us. With the end of it in sight, we are feeling a little less like digging a hole and crawling inside until we are no longer fried, burnt out, crabby, and the skin below our eyes has lost it's purple tinge. Several exceptionally difficult owners, an extremely cold, dry winter, condos falling into disrepair faster that what we can stay on top of because of financially strapped owners, epically (not sure if that's a word) bad snow conditions, midnight service calls, and a cold that gives way to a cough that gives way to a new cold with accompanying achy tiredness, fever and chills has us looking at the world from under drawn-in eyebrows and pinched, pale faces. Bobby has developed a constant headache that may come from sleep deprivation and stress, or may come from his sideways wisdom teeth, which makes him growly, in spite of his best efforts to cover it with a gracious, how-may-I-help-you smile. Even getting out and riding, skiing, and mountain biking on frozen trails does not cheer me up like it used to.

That last concerns me most of all. It's like I have stopped loving it and started just liking it, if I'm not too tired. I used to live on the mountain. Once, I would eat powder for breakfast, racing from work to the slopes to work to the slopes. Now, I am beginning to fear that it has finally happened to me- the thing that happens to so many of the starry-eyed dreamers who move to the mountains. I have had the adventure. I have lived the dream for seven years. I have been so cold for so long, I cant remember what it was like to walk outside after dark in shirtsleeves and not be instantly shivering. I have lived here for just long enough to be ruined for most other places, places more flat, more ugly, more Nowhere, less nice and touristy, but I have lived here just long enough to be really sick of the Christmas and spring break throngs that make it so nice and touristy, sick of the cold and snow that come with the beauty of the snowy Rocky Mountains, sick of the three seasons- cold, less cold, and more cold.

Is it just the season? Maybe. But maybe not. Summers in the mountains are idyllic, cool and green, smelling of pine and sun-warmed earth, fresh breeze and running water. For twelve beautiful weeks, it is impossible to be unhappy. Twelve weeks. Out of fifty two. And only one month- August- that does not usually see snowflakes. It's just not proving to be enough to sustain us through the nine cold months anymore. I am no friend of the heat, especially not the oppressive heat that usually accompanies beaches, which is where B wants to spend the next phase of his life. But when it comes down to it, I have had my day in my place, my snow sports, and I probably would not have to give up my true love, mountain biking, even if I did give up my beloved Summit County trail network. I have often dreamed about raising kids on the slopes, giving them the head start on health and social development that outdoors activities with other kids gives them. But it's not something I would fight for. They can also spend their summers on boogie boards in the salt and sand and they would be none the worse for it. I would be none the worse for it, either, as long as it is not Florida. B rolls his eyes when I say that, and ask what is wrong with Florida. I reply that it is just too Florida-ey. I think California would be alright with it's coastal cliffs and endless vistas, but he says it is just too California-ey. We agree on only one place that combines all of our requirements, and possesses only one major drawback. And you're not gonna like it.

Maui.

Go ahead, gasp, roll your eyes, groan, shake your head, ask us if we are insane, and tell us why you could never live on an island in the middle of the Pacific. Mention rock fever in a conspiratorial whisper, and accompany it with dirge-like dark strains of music.

Yes. It is halfway to Japan. It is at least a six hour flight. It is touristy. We would be isolated from our friends and family. But it is also the sort of weather that is not so oppressively hot as to make outdoor activities all but impossible, wages are similar to Summit County, and housing is cheaper. B could have his beach, I could have trails to ride between sea level and 10,000 feet. We have decent resumes in tourism and hospitality, and even though we do not love the work, it would, at the very least, be a change of scenery and temperature for our days off. The people are an extension of the rugged, easy-going type that we have grown used to in Summit County- long hair and deep tans and big dogs and flip flops. And how often do we escape Summit County? About twice a year, for a week at a time. We could most likely manage to come back to the mainland at least twice a year, and instead of spending vacation time on a beach somewhere trying to forget the stress of our job, we could actually spend it with family and friends. And we would not move thinking to make it a lifelong home- just a year of two or three, an adventure in a life too short to spend it in one place.

But just the same, I lie awake at night, once it is quiet and dark, and ask myself what the heck I think we are considering. We can't possibly move that far from my parents. (We sort of expect B's family, except the brother, to move with us.)

As we consider options, we also consider the option of school. We have worked while our peers are in school, and now, to show for it, we have a decent resume, but no degree to make us marketable. I am thinking in several different directions, pulled toward possible future careers in several different areas. One is culinary arts, because of the demand in the tourist areas we will probably always live near, and the culinary arts programs available in most schools close to those areas. Another is early childhood education and sociology, social work, and/or child psychology. And the last, and probably least viable option, is animal husbandry and/or outdoor studies. B, on the other hand, does not plunge into new things as readily as I do. He needs to get his GED first, and then would like to take a few business management courses to polish up the resume, but is not convinced he wants a degree.

Fear not, faithful few. We are not moving to Maui. Not yet, and maybe not ever. We are already committed to another season in the County. Another season will finish the five we agreed to four years ago, when we agreed to management positions in our company. And anything could happen in the year ahead. Anything could happen in just the day ahead. There are no guarantees that we will even still be alive and well a year from now, which is why I am shaking the cobwebs and grouchies off myself and vowing anew to live well, and live hard, and wring all the life it is possible to wring out of each cold, icy, gray day and enjoy them while we have them.

Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where yours truly is hoping the eggs weren't too bad. More on that later.

I am at home waiting for the first of the back to backs to be called in by housekeeping, so I can go ready them for the guests checking in this afternoon. Since my last post, I have... let's see. Had yet another close friend announce a pregnancy, effectively removing her from my go-to sking/riding/biking partner list, gotten Lasik surgery on my eyes, can see without glasses or contacts for the first time since I was eight years old, undertaken a massive house-cleaning campaign, all but won the battle with the most horrible four-week cold in recent memory, fixed my massive shades on the front bay window of my house so Andy can no longer strangle himself on the loops of string while he is sitting in the bay window behind them, exhaustively (and, most likely, pointlessly) researched all foreseeable facets of a move to Maui, met another girl who's husband "created a monster" by moving her to the mountains, climbed A-basin with her and skied down under warm sun and bluebird sky, painted a mural of a beach and waves on the bathroom wall, painted another snowboard, swept and vacuumed nearly the entire coat of a shedding Golden Retriever off my floor, gave him a shower, attended three dinners at friend's houses, inspected over sixty arrivals, put 40 eyedrops in my eyes, eyedrops that promptly found their way from my tear ducts to the back of my throat, where they caused five days straight of a vomit-like burning taste in the back of my throat that completely removed my appetite and ruined every single meal that I could finally taste after my cold, coughed until I thought I was going to pass out, took the dog for walks in cold air and coughed even harder, ate lots of Hall's cough drops, fell on the ice and slid under my car, lay under my car gasping and thinking about how Maui never has ice, and went to Denver four times for pre- and post-op eye appointments.

This morning was actually the morning we did the A-basin trip. I got up at 6:30 this morning, grabbed an apple and some gatorade, picked up my friend, and we made our way up Highway 6/Loveland Pass, where we parked and joined the trickle of people who were strapping on snowshoes, tele skis, splitboards, back country XC skis, and AT skis and heading up the mountain, an hour and a half before the lifts opened. It was good. After we topped the first brutal uphill, the sun rose above the East Wall. We turned around three quarters of the way to the top, and I took my snowboard off my backpack, replacing it with snowshoes and poles, while my friend removed her skins from her tele skis. I had decided against wearing snowboard boots, wearing my rubber and canvas snowboots instead, and strapped them into my board, wincing at how the straps cut across my toes and ankles, and how the back of the binding dug into my calf, and how much movement my heels were allowed. I got more comfortable with having no ankle support halfway down, in time to hit a bump run, and by the time we were down, the lift was running, so we pulled out our passes and made two more runs down on the steeps and bumps, the backs of my heels and calf muscles bruising more deeply with each jump turn and trough, with me ignoring the pain of having no foot and ankle support in the thrill of the moment. I must have been riding okay in spite of it, since I did garner a few compliments on my method from the chairs a few feet above my head as we rocked and slammed and beat ourselves up as we rode and tele'd, respectively, down the bumps on Exhibition.

I got home starved, and decided I needed a breakfast of champions- potatoes and protein. I got out a potato, peeled and diced it, and put it in my six inch cast iron skillet to cook. Then sat down at my computer and check Facebook, my email, etc, and forgot about the potatoes until I smelled smoke. In chagrin, I scraped the blackened chunks into the trash, rinsed the pan, and started over. Almost did it again, but caught it just in the nick of time. I rummaged in the fridge until I found a tortilla and an egg, and cracked the egg into the pan over the potatoes...and gaped in horror at the hard, grayish yolk and chunky, gelatinous white. Rotten. Very. I grabbed the skillet off the stove and scraped all the potatoes that had come into contact with the egg into the sink, returned it to the stove with just a few potatoes and bits of green pepper, and cracked a second egg into a measuring cup. Also rotten. The third egg looked healthy (as healthy as something that comes from a bird's butt can be), so I dumped it in, and tried not to think about the now scorched bits of rotten egg that still clung to the edges of the skillet. Finally got it all cooked, dumped it on a tortilla, and grabbed the massive jug of picante sauce from the fridge, and was ready to dump...and stopped just in time to keep the big, fluffy, white spots of mold from landing on my already iffy breakfast burrito. Then I threw away the jug of moldy Picante sauce and ate a very bland burrito.

And that is the tale of my day so far. Now I need to go to work, and it is an absolutely gorgeous day today, as long as the wind can stay down. This afternoon, I need to take Andy skiing or on a bike ride, or something, because nothing is more destructive than a one-year-old Golden retriever who has not had enough exercise lately, because his people have been too busy coughing and wheezing and blowing their noses to take him out. Unless, of course, it's a less-than-a-year-old Golden Retriever. He is maturing, be it ever so slowly.