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.