Hello and welcome to the new Altitude Problem, where your blogger looks like a roasted, red racoon. One should never assume, just because the sun is well hidden behind a milk-white sky and blowing snowflakes, that it won't be out by the time you are far, far away from your sunblock.

It snowed yesterday and last night. Actually, snow might not properly describe what happened here in Summit County. Snow could mean simply that the sky had a little dandruff, a few drifting flakes. That is not what happened here. We got buried. For a day, it was like the dry Oro Grande trail of the last three days never even existed. It could have been Christmas eve, it could have been any one of the many, many gray days in the last six months in which the snow blew sideways. I took advantage of the weather to take the bikes to the shop, and put them on the roof racks in a blizzard, holding them up with frozen fingers while I fumbled with latches and locks. When it let up, we measured 17 inches on our front deck.

I decided to take the morning off, since I had not had much exercise in the last two days, and snowboard. I stayed far away from the two resorts still open, Loveland and A-basin, since both were hosting fundraisers today. A-Basin had the Marmot Grind, in which skiers make laps on the mountain without using the chairlifts, and Loveland had the Corn Harvest. Not sure what all that involves. I started up Keystone with about a dozen other hikers, most of whom were there because they had been up to A-Basin and Loveland, taken a look at the full parking lot and long lines, and turned around.

I really should have started earlier. It took me almost three hours to reach the summit because of the heavy, deep snow. Andy bounded along ahead of me, barking at other hikers, diving into the snow, racing downhill until his legs could no longer keep up and wiping out spectacularly. About halfway up, he found a splintery bamboo pole buried in the snow. He got ahold of it and it split down the length of it, leaving a jagged edge of the orange plastic tape wrapped around it. I did not realize the edge was sharp, and, instead of stepping on it, grabbed it and moved it out of the trail. Andy dropped the end he was holding, and the snow under it was red. I looked at it, puzzled, wondering if it was flakes from the tape, and then at Andy's mouth. Blood was dripping out of his mouth and along his chin. I grabbed his mug and forced his mouth open while he struggled to get away, and the blood covered my hand and ran off my wrist, down my snowpants and splattered on my snowshoes. He apparently thought that wherever it dripped needed to be licked, and before long, his front legs were covered in smeared blood. It took some time, but I finally determined he still had his tongue and all his parts, it was just a cut on his bottom lip, where his top canine pressed against it, which kept it from clotting. We left a lot of carnage, crimson splatters in the snow along the skin-track leading uphill, but it ended up being okay. The snow was so sticky and wet, it stuck to the long, feathery hair on his butt, and hung in massive snowballs that swung and clattered together as he waddled with a hunched, unnatural gait, the heavy ice balls pulling his butt hairs uncomfortably. I would bet he had five pounds of ice and snow balls hanging off of him by the time we got down. Now that they are melted off, I think I am going to have to cut off the dreadlocks they created. Poor Andy and his beautiful butt feathers.

By the time I started down, the snow had compacted, and it was incredibly heavy. I took the steepest line I could find, and straightlined it as I practically sat down over the tail of my board, my exhausted left thigh taht had just climbed 2,300 feet in three miles burning and quivering under my body's weight as I struggled to keep the nose of my board afloat and Andy raced along behind me. It was not the fun ride down that it would have been had I started early and come down while it was still cold.

I was almost up, in the last quarter of the climb, when two tele skiers came practically floating up the hill, taking long, jaunty steps. We exchanged pleasantries and I watched their retreating backsides in dispair as I trudged uphill in my snow-weighted snowshoes, every step impossibly hard. They reached the summit, turned around, and flew down past me. I reached the summit about a half-hour later, sat for a spell, ate a granola bar, put my snowshoes in my pack and my snowboard on my feet, and started down. I was in the last fourth of my descent when I met them again, starting their next lap. I almost wanted to cry, and not just from exhaustion.

I made Andy stand with his butt to the firepit in River Run, and let the roaring gas flame warm up the snowballs. In the end, we gave up on getting them off him before we got in the car.

I decided my work for the rest of the day could wait until tomorrow. I got home, cleaned house, ate a late lunch, and went horizontal. I concede- today, Keystone schooled me. I have no plans to leave this couch. Andy has no plans to leave his windowsill. My face and neck are raw from sunburn, my legs feel heavy and tired. And it was all in the name of fun. How ironic.

Hello and Welcome to An Altitude Problem. I sit here when I should be at work, and I did try to go be useful, but I was banished until after the storage unit was cleaned out and all the excess stuff inside taken to the dump. Apparently, I am a little too committed to keeping things out of landfills. I immediately start separating a pile for Goodwill, a pile for Yahoo Freecycle (a local forum dedicated to keeping things out of landfills by getting the word out where such items can be had for free) a pile for ReCycle Ski and Sport, a pile to donate to my mom's sewing circle and a homeless shelter. This annoys B, the anti-hoarder. I am trying hard not to think about all the towels and sheets that could have been used by the homeless, all the stuff that someone, somewhere, could have used that is now buried forever, taking up space and completely useless.

I spent a little time of my own at the landfill this morning, but it was not landfill-related. I saw a friend had posted on facebook that Oro Grande was dry and ready to ride, so I loaded up bike and dog and drove to the Dillon Trailhead, even though the other end of the trail is much closer to my house. I was not sure if the trail would be dry in the trees behind the landfill. turns out, it was, and I rode the entire length of the Oro grande trail, only finding about forty feet of trail muddy enough to stick to my tires and flick onto my legs. Even there, it was not deep enough to make my sidewalls muddy. I am completely ecstatic that mountain biking is already possible in Summit County, even though it is on the most tame trail around. I'll bet it's another six weeks, though, before the Ranch is dry enough. I pretend I am already racing, that tough broads are ahead of me, and I feel terribly inadequate as my burning legs churn to keep up, catch up, and my breathing becomes more strangled gasps than rhythmic inhales and exhales. I do not know why I do this to myself. But I have come to the conclusion that I must have a terrible inferiority complex, because everything must be a race with me. Even when I am the only person in a five mile radius, I still race. I do not like being last, even in an imaginary queue. I don't even like not being in the lead. Deep down, on a barely conscious level, I believe that failure in any area at all must certainly mean that I, myself, am a failure. It leads me to alienate others by my fierce competitiveness, makes me have the worst crashes. And even though I know this, I can not bring myself to relax and just enjoy the ride and slow down to let the burning ease out of my thighs and calves. At least not until I am a safe distance in the lead.

Speaking of Yahoo Freecycle, I scored a bike trainer for free the other day that I am trying to learn how to ride. It is the type that consists of three rolling drums that I am supposed to balance on top of while pedaling. So far, I have not moved out of the doorway, so I can catch myself when I start to fall over. B makes fun of me, because I am riding indoors wearing protective gear. In my defense, my elbows would be rather bruised if I were not wearing the elbow guards, because of all the bracing myself against the doorway. I suspect I will be a much better rider once I get it mastered. In the meantime, I am actually having a lot of fun. There is nothing boring about stationary biking if there is nothing to hold one upright. At least not yet. My knuckles are white from the time I climb on until the time I dismount.

Until later...I suspect the deed is done by now, the trip to the landfill is over, and my help would probably be appreciated again.

Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where spring just cannot come fast enough for the green-starved citizens of 9,350 feet. Keystone is a ghost town. Quiet streets, the few employees wondering aimlessly, the shock of the sudden exodus evident in the way they force conversation with the one or two people who stumble, lost, into the quiet, empty village square. Restaurants and bars still have drink specials on chalkboards and whiteboards in front of dark, quiet windows displaying closed signs. The distant roar of snowmobiles on the mountain seems loud as the resort holds it's breath, afraid to move, lest the madness start again. Five story buildings tower, almost menacing in their emptiness, over pedestrian walkways that suddenly seem too broad in the absence of clattering ski boots, dragging metal-edged equipment, skis and snowboards lining the edges while their owners down shots in the bars, loud music, loud children, loud adults, loud clothing.

B, Andy, and yours truly stayed in the county exactly one and one-half days after Keystone closed. I spent the morning of the day after working, then climbed Keystone in the evening instead of staying home and packing for our mini vacation we had been looking forward to for two months.

I hit keystone with perfect timing. I started up River Run hill at 4:30 ish, and was drenched in sweat by the time I reached the Gondola Midstation. I unzipped the bottom half of my hiking pants and let the legs fall around my boots, keeping the snow from falling down inside my boots as it was kicked up by the tails of my snowshoes. As I was doing so, Andy found a big pile of poo to roll in, to my horror. I actually doubt it was from an animal. He rarely rolls in animal poo, but find something in the woods that a liftie left behind, and it's the creme de la creme of poo-rolling. I followed him to the top, 2,350 feet in two miles, gagging when the wind blew past him and toward me. By the time we got to the top, he had most of it scrubbed off from rolling down hills in the snow.

About a half-hour after we started climbing, I heard snowcats grinding up the hill below me. Sure enough, while I climbed, they groomed the mountain. The snowcat passed me a half-dozen times, the driver waving, probably glad for at least two other living things on the empty mountain. I hit fresh groomage for the last quarter of the climb, crested the top, took some pictures of the deserted slopes and the weird, hazy sunset, jammed my snowshoes into my backpack, strapped into my board, which cut painfully into my ankles since I was not wearing snowboard boots, took a few more pictures, and started down on fresh corderoy, not fifteen minutes old. Andy kicked his pace into manic high gear, racing along behind me, his tongue lolling out of the corner of his big grin, thrilled beyond thrilled that he got to run without being held back. The dog loves four things the very most- running, having his collar romoved and getting his neck scratched, a fresh rawhide, and rolling in disgusting things.

We got home about 8:00, after speeding a bit and constantly watching Andy in the rear-view mirror and yelling "up-up-up-up!" every time his head drooped and his front legs started to buckle, since keeping him in a sitting position was the only way to keep his still-soiled self from rubbing off on the back seat. B was dancing impatiently in the driveway, a bit squiffy that I felt the need to go on a four hour trek to exercize the dog when a 30 minute bike ride would have sufficed, and that I had not gotten more accomplished to prepare to be gone the next three days. I tied Andy to the deck while I cleaned out the car, picked up Andy's leavings from the yard, took out the trash. Finally, B left to take a load of stuff to the office and make a quick run to the bike shop for a strap for the bike rack, and I gingerly took Andy inside and made him sit in the shower while I scrubbed his neck and the sides of his face with an insane amount of shampoo and a rag that I immediately threw away, soaked his soiled collar in a detergent and bleach solution, washed him again, and then again, towel dried him, and booted him from the bathroom while I turned up the hot water and took my own long, hot shower.

That night and the next morning, we attempted to clean the disaster that has been our house for the last six weeks, packed our gear, changed out ski racks for bike racks, loaded up the bikes, all of our backpacks, water bags and water bottles, Andy's food and toys and rawhide bones and bed, and, once it was all in the car, hit the road...to the office. We worked in the office for several hours, technically making that day my 44th consecutive day without a day off, then, finally, hit westbound I-70.

The tension melted away as the landscape got greener. We checked into our motel at Moab, unloaded our bikes and a very clean, soft, fragrant Andy, and went for a leisurely ride around town, Andy trotting along beside me, leash looped over my handlebar. Dinner was beer cheese soup and pizza at Zak's, where B thinks no trip to Moab would be complete without, and we crashed in our bed at the motel, Andy vying for space between us until he was unceremoniously ousted and told to sleep in his own bed on the floor. He knows that our bed at home is most definitely off-limits, but any other bed, he is happy to invite himself into.

The next morning, we drove Andy to Karen's Canine Campground. We left him in Karen's care, in the company of two giant, lazy Burmese Mountain Dogs, various other dogs, and a six month old Golden Retriever, with whom, we later heard, Andy experienced love at first sight. The two of them reportedly raced in circles for hours on end, pogo-ing through wading pools, and expending all their puppy energy, all their reserve energy, and still kept going. We decided to pay an extra five dollars to leave him there overnight so we would not have to be back by 4:30 pick-up time.

B and I had breakfast burritos and drove to Poison Spider trailhead, where we unloaded and lubricated our bikes and hit the uphill. We hit the weather right on the nose, an absolutely gorgeous day. Seventy degrees, no wind, we pedaled through cool, crisp air and warm sun for four hours. The top of the mesa, other than all the sand traps, was a series of slickrock knobs, fast descents carrying momentum into sudden, steep ascents, hundred mile views in shades of reds, blues, purples and greens, reaching to the backdrop of the snow-covered La Sal mountains. Thanks to the fact that not a month has gone by this winter without at least a bike ride or two on either snowpacked trails or pavement, I did not have to wait for my balance to return after a winter out of the saddle, as did B, nor did my quads start burning quite as fast as his did. Nine miles into the ride, we hit the end of the Mesa, and stood at the top of the Portal trail, which would complete our loop back down to the car. We were lucky to catch up to a group of bikers who had ridden Poison Spider before, which kept us from taking a few pointless spurs. As we all stood at the top of the Portal trail, another group rode up, and their leader began discribing the descent.

"It gets a little narrow a time or two. You can ride it it you really want to, but it's a long fall. I'm gonna dismount at the overlook, there's a little wider spot just before the bottom drops out."

I looked at B. "Well, that sounded encouraging."

The bottom did drop out. At one point, I stopped because I was becoming acutely aware that the view ahead and below me of the Colorado River and Moab Valley was demanding more of my attention than the trail could safely spare me. I turned to B. stopping behind me. "Oh, my freaking wow", I mouthed.

We walked down a good portion of the Portal Trail, (I strongly suggest you click on this link and watch this guy's Youtube helmet-cam of the trip before you decide to do it yourself...knowing what to expect may save your life) aware that we were portaging ledges and rocks that we would normally ride over, but in our state of first-ride-of-the-year exhaustion, an endo into the afterlife was a possibility. Even at the bottom, after the trail had left it's several-foot-wide ledge and wound into boulders and junipers again, we still dismounted often, our nerves raw and our legs jellied with exhaustion. I did endo at one point, my knees not clea

ring the handlebars and dragging my bike between them as I windmilled downhill. They were instantly purple.

At the bottom, we rode up to the trailhead to cheers of fellow riders, fresh off the trail and bragging that they had ridden the entire thing. Idiots.

We hit the hot tub back at the motel, scalding my raw knees and fresh sunburn, then had dinner at the Slickrock Cafe after walking Main Street twice trying to decide what we were hungry for. After dinner, we headed out of town to catch the sunset from La Sal Loop Road, taking a gravel road the back way into Sand Flats Recreation Area and back down into town. Another trip to the hot tub, and we hit the sheets and died for eight hours.

The next morning, we checked out of the motel, grabbed another breakfast burrito, and picked up Andy. He began trying to jump through the office window the moment he heard us talking inside. Karen gave us glowing reports about his behavior while he hung close to mama's legs. He was sleeping before we even got out of the yard.

Apparently his night away from his people, while he had fun with the other dogs, turned him extremely dependant. He cried and whined when his daddy got out of the car to fill up with gas. He refused to let us out of his sight. He lay his head on whoever he could get closest to, stretching his head from the backseat and pressing his nose against our arms to smell us while he slept.

We drove out to Ken's Lake, a few miles out of town, even though Andy was already exhausted. We had been promising him a swim for weeks, and had to keep our word. Sure enough, as soon as he saw the water, he completely forgot how tired he was from his day, night, and morning at doggie daycare, and bounded into the water, chasing birds, pouncing on waves. We let him play for a half hour, then loaded him up again. We did not hear a thing from the backseat all the way to Fruita.

At Fruita, we drove up 18 road to the trailhead for the Bookcliffs. We unloaded our bikes, gave Andy a drink, and tried to ignore the crying coming from the car's open windows as we pedalled away.

Halfway up the hill, B discovered his front wheel wobbling. Further investigation revealed a bad front wheel bearing. He decided to keep riding, hoping it would not go completely out until after the ride. We took Joe's Ridge down to Kessel Run, the shortest loop available, just five miles. The way down is arguably one of the most fun, few rocks, all sudden, steep descents down razor-thin ridges and swooping, rhythmic turns, banked for speed, through dry stream beds.

We wondered, until the next morning when Andy woke up in his own home with his usual morning routine of throwing himself against the bed, licking our exposed skin, and rolling and flailing against the wall until sleep is impossible for his humans, if he was even okay. We have never seen him sleep so hard. Even absent minded belly rubs from his human's toes as they sat on the couch above him caused him to heave to his feet and drag himself a few feet away so he could sleep in peace.

And now, back to cleaning my house. I think I have the rest of the day off. It probably had better look as though I spent it productively when B comes home.

Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where your blogger is trying to work up the energy to go for a six mile run. Maybe today will be the day. I have been holding at 3 miles lately, did 4 1/2 miles day before yesterday, and today, I want to find some sort of mental strangth that will push me past the intense bordom that forces me to focus on every twinge of sideache, every twitching leg muscle and makes me believe I am tired, just can't do another mile, when in truth, I have many more left in me.

It's boring because it's at the rec center. Eleven times around the indoor track makes one mile. I hold down my fingers to count- left hand pinkie, one. Ring finger, two. Middle finger, three. Index finger, four. Thumb, five. Switch hands, right hand thumb, six... and so on. We'll see if tonight I can make it sixty-six times around the track. My record is forty four without stopping.

We are in the home stretch at work. Six days from today, Keystone Resort will shut down for the spring. Today was my last actually busy day, and I am home fairly early because of the mad rush guests requesting early check-ins put me in for the five hours I can bill for. For the next week, I will still be working, but my pace will slow from the manic one it has been for the last month. My last day off was 26 days ago. And in 6 days, I get to take another one. I honestly don't know what to do with a day that I simply don't go to work. Whatever will I do with myself? Most likely, I will squander it, and before I know it, it will be about the time that I normally get home from work, and I will look around me and realize that it was no more fulfilling of a day that one spent at work.

It has been so long since I last posted, and I could recount a lot of details, but I get bored myself reading that sort of thing. We can fast-forward and still hit the highlights.

Painted another snowboard, for a liftie and his girlfriend who wanted an authentic Keystone souvenir from their winter in the mountains. Went to the tax accountant. Took the dog to the vet. Snowshoed with Heather, Marci, and Andy. Had a few beautiful days. Sunbathed on my front deck with a book and ignored the chilly breeze. Used my new pressure cooker for the first time, and in about ten minutes, turned a sweet potato to mush. Bobby put his snowmobiles, snowmobile trailer, and shiny red pickup on craigslist. 18 hours later, sold the pickup. Gulped. No more pickup, but able to afford taxes (having to pay self-employment taxes for the first half of the year, before we set up an s-corp. Shoulda done that years ago.) Enjoyed having only three vehicles in the driveway. Picked up an entire trash can full of dog poop. Bought a new pooper scooper. Booked a "medical tourism" vacation in Cancun, to get an opinion on B's wisdom teeth. Tried to get somebody, anybody, to go with us. Gave up and booked a one bedroom for the two of us, since apparently nobody can go to Cancun when the lodging is free. Marci's pickup developed serious steering issues, on top of its other issues. Sold her the 4-Runner. Bought a green Toyota Tundra with lots of miles. Went to Boulder to pick it up. Car developed issues driving it back- almost didn't make it up the pass and through the tunnel. Stopped at the gas station, only to realize that three of the Tundra's tires were extremely low, and one was completely flat. Followed Bobby to the tire shop in an out-of-gas Jeep, then went to the gas station and could not find the key to the locking gas cap. B searched high and low while I waited at the office, found it, and I eased the Jeep, now running on fumes, to the gas pump. Rolled our eyes at the irony that out of five vehicles in the driveway (the red pickup still sits here, waiting for it's new owner to come pick it up) not a single one of them was driveable. Woke up one morning and my wedding ring was not on my finger. Still looking. Made B promise to never buy me anything ever again, because every sentimental, shiny thing he gives me, I lose and have to go through feelings of embarrassment, feeling like I betrayed him, of not being worthy of pretty, shiny gifts. Winter moved back into the county. The wind blew like it had something to prove. I listened to Israel Kamakawiwo'ole to drown out the howling and banging. Andy got no exercise because nobody had the mental fortitude to face horizontal snowflakes to take him out. We bought rec center passes for the month of April to help us get in shape for mountain biking this spring. I downloaded a couch-to-10-k coaching program on my ipod to help me. I weighed myself and make the startling discovery that I weigh as much now as I did working the night shift at the Leoti Hospital, when all we did was eat all night and I never exercised. Started doing yoga again, following a dvd filmed in Maui. Got taken by an April Fool's joke, but then played a succesful one on the perpetrator that involved official jargon and scary looking paperwork, until further reading revealed it could in no way be serious.

And now, here we are, in the last week of the Season. In truth, Thanksgiving does not seem that long gone. That is, until I start remembering all the individual, crummy, stressful days that happened between November and April. Then I want to run and hide, because the countdown to next ski season is starting in three, two, one... and we have one more to survive before we are free to go anywhere else. One more month of deep cleans, one more six months of summer long-term rentals who don't pay and trash the units, one more two months of inventories, purchasing, carpet cleans, dry cleaning, one more thanksgiving rush, one more Christmas/New Years, one more January/February accordian season where we are empty midweek and get slammed on the weekends, one more President's day rush, one more spring break. One more season of night riding with friends, bluebird days and slushy snow, powder days and runs stolen in the middle of my workday, when I try to disquise the fact that I am out of breath and the wind is blowing in the phone when I answer it. One more summer of mountain biking under towering pine trees and through rivulets of running water. One more fall filled with glorious color, aspen leaves littering the rocky ground like a shipwreck of gold coins across an ocean floor. One more chance to really Become- hardcore, a mountain biker, a runner, a mountain climber, whatever it is that I want to be able to say, someday, that I was. One more never-ending mud season. One more windy, miserable April, when the rest of the country is seeing daffodils and green shoots of grass and all we see is more sideways snow. One more year with the fiercely loyal friends we've made. One more spring and fall punctuated by trips to Fruita and Moab for the most epic mountain biking around. Hmm, not all of those were bad things. If fact, there is a chance, and not a small one, that I will spend the rest of my life missing some of those things after we leave the mountains.

And now, after a long phone conversation with my mother, a trip outside with Andy (during which his mama told him to "Go poop" and he promptly stopped sniffing and squatted- was that just coincidence?) and writing this blog, I am not feeling at all like the rec center. Perhaps it can wait until tomorrow. Morning. Tomorrow morning. If I wait until the afternoon, I may run out of steam again. But if I only put it off 14 hours, it won't count that I skipped today.

So faithful few, here's to "one mores". May we enjoy them and take them not for granted.