Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where the blogging has become as sporadic as dry trails and the beginning of summer would make it. There has been mountain biking every spare moment. I stayed off the remote trails while B was gone (he spent ten days away, helping his brother cut wheat in Buffalo, Oklahoma) because I was a bit worried that if I had a crash, nobody would miss me. There has been some work, but we have not been actually busy, at least not by winter's standards, until today, when I finally got on reservations and looked up the arrivals for the coming week- thirty of them for the week of July 4. I inspected eight of them today, an unheard-of amount of work for me lately, but a perfectly maneageable day if it were the middle of March.

B had been bidding on a camper trailer on ebay before he left for Buffalo, and bidding ran out right at his maximum bid, so he got it after we had already decided we were glad to not have gotten it. It was okay, though. It was located a hundred miles from Buffalo, so he picked it up and slept in it while there, then brought it home. We are fairly enthused about it, mostly because of the opportunity for early-season biking out of it in Moab and Fruita. We took it on it's maiden voyage last night to a campground on Twin Lakes, and I must say, it was quite luxurious. We hung out and ate food grilled under it's waterproof awning and ate it under a watertight roof that the rain drummed on, and fell asleep to the patter of raindrops, all dry and warm, and the bathroom was three steps from the bed and there was a warm shower this morning and Andy made himself comfortable in a spot other than on our faces. It really felt only a little like camping. Perhaps in better weather there will be more communing with nature and crickets and sparks floating upwards into the dark sky and camper camping will feel more like camping. Al lthe same, it was a night away, a small vacation that was almost effortless, we just threw our pajamas and toothbrushes into a bag, and some food in the fridge, and that was all the packing our night away required.

We went on a short hike along the Colorado Trail, all towering ponderosas and stands of aspens, white trunks in front of white trunks behind white trunks, under a lacy canopy of green, over a carpet of pink wild rose, purple lupine, yellow daisy, red indian paintbrush. We walked and wondered how we had ever felt so unhappy and antsy and malcontent this winter, and remembered vowing to not feel this way come summer, but to stay in our funk and use the negativity to propell us into a new life, new job, new selves. And once again, came to the conclusion that if we would just take a day or two off every once in a while, do something for ourselves, take some time, we might just see that our life where it is, is exactly what we want. And then remembered how we were not going to sing this song. But it was hard to imagine anywhere, Maui included, that we wanted to be more than exactly where we were. The air was crisp and the dog was grinning from ear to ear and chasing squirrels and we were almost giddy with the beauty and the freedom of being away from the phone and the being together, out where there was nothing to distract us from us.

Summer is a wonderful thing. The days have been perfect for biking, almost too hot, the rain has been staying away. I have found quite a few new biking partners this summer, mostly because of the Divas and racing. The photo is of a bunch of them. It actually should have gone on the last post, because it is the Divas group, before we all split into three categories based on our biking handling skills and took off in different directions.



The second race of the Summit Mountain Challenge was last Wednesday. The Gold Run Rush takes place on half logging roads, half loose, rocky, technical singletrack, with Heinous Hill, a thousand foot climb in one mile smack in the middle of it. I cut a tire sliding into a sharp rock preriding it, and was dreading racing it with every single muscle in my body. I was late getting to the start line, gulped half a powerbar and half a banana on the way to the race becasue I had forgotten to eat that day, tried to open a package of gel chews with my teeth as my wave surged into position but the package refused to tear and I barely got it pushed back into my pack by the time they yelled Go. I hopped onto my bike, clipped into my pedals, and started up the pavement to the point where a logging road started climbing up into the trees. By the time I got to the logging road, less than eighth of a mile, I was breathing hard. I got cut off and had to slam on my brakes and put my foot down and lost my friend-nemesis, the girl who always finishes within a few seconds of me, around the corner ahead of me, and my legs began screaming at me and I was out of breath and my heart was racing. I gave up. I settled into long-climb mode and tried not to picture my name at the very bottom of the list. I rode the downhills slowly, afraid of a repeat of my disasterous pre-ride, when I had slid out of control about five times and either baled at high speeds or left bits of my knees and hips on the trail. And then we hit Heinous Hill, and I made it through the mud at the bottom, but the girl ahead of me stopped, and I hopped off to avoid her, silently thanking her, and started pushing my bike. I had successfully pre-ridden Heinous Hill, but walked a lot of it during the race. When I finally crested the top, the cowbell-ringer complimented me on my smile. I had just enough wind left in my lungs to tell him, "It (gasp) isn't (gasp) a smile, it's(gasp) a grimmace!" Then there was a long blur of downhill, sliding rocks on Prospect Hill, aspens slapping me in the face, surprising, sudden uphills. Just before the finish line was a sharp, off-camber turn, and I slowed a lot for it. The girl behind me yelled at me to not let her catch me, I had earned a finish ahead of her, and I turned the corner and pedalled hard. I crossed the finish line and felt like vomiting, my ankles shaking as I stood on my pedals, my fingers numb from their death grip on the handlebars. It was a bad, bad race for me. I was not feeling in my game at all, let alone at the top of it.

I was a dejected child, and wondered why I had ever thought I could be a racer, and called Bobby to tell him that I had finished, but I was pretty sure I would not be any better than ninth or tenth. At the after party, I ordered my free beer and sipped it, feeling it sit heavy on my stomach, empty and trying to settle itself after having ridden so hard. They posted the results, and I made my way through the crowd, and had to squint at the paper to make sure I was reading right. I was fourth place. One under podium. How on earth...?

I got bumped down to fifth after they realized a typo had left off the second place finisher. The girl I compete with the most finished three minutes ahead of me. I am still not sure how I came in fifth, because I do not remember passing anyone, and my speed check at the beginning of the race had caused most of the pack to pass me. But hey. I'll take it. I do not think it will be possible for me to podium this year, because the girls who consistantly take first, second and third are finishing about ten minutes ahead of the rest of us. I guess there are sandbaggers in every class. So fifth is like second loser. If I can just keep it in the top three losers this season, I will consider it a success. Watch a video of the race here.

Okay, faithful few, your blogger needs to go do something useful. If nothing else, I need to go to bed so I can be worth something tomorrow. This whole having work and making money thing is somewhat of an exciting new concept, and halfway agreeing with me, at least for a few days. I have spent so much money on my bike lately, I am feeling the pinch. I am also feeling a bit blue because yet another cousin got married yesterday and I wasnt there to see it happen. I tried, I did, but things just did not align. But I wish the newlyweds every bliss. And now, off I go. Goodnight.

Hello and welcome to An altitude Problem, where the "w" key was victim to an Andy-style spaz out, and flailing doggy toenails raked across the keyboard. "W" has to be hit twice as hard as the rest of the keys. It's frusterating. I am tempted to not backspace to fill in all the missing "w"s. But then no one ould kno hat I as riting and I ould sound an idiot. I am used to typing on my own computer, but I am stuck using B's old one until my power cord arrives in the mail. I left it in Kansas on my last trip back, and this one is small and compact, and I tend to overshoot keys. So we will see how long this lasts.

So, what has happened since I last posted?

Nancy and the kids (who are not such kids) came through, stopping for night. We spent the evening out at Green Mountain Reservoir, hiking around Lower Cataract Lake, then cooking out on the shore of Green Mountain. B and Marci met us out there and had the charcoal heated by the time we got down from our hike. It was a late evening by the time we dragged our smoky selves back to the house and tried to stay awake long enough to all take showers and wash off the black smudges.

I went to Kansas on Sunday to see all of my mom's family, the entire family was represented except three of the Idaho cousins and, of course, Grandpa, Grandma, and Allen. Got to hang with old friends, and it was good. The drive home was the worst part, fighting sleep through the flatness between Goodland and Denver.

The drive out there was one of the highights, because I left here late enough to hit the lonely highway between Goodland and my parent's place about sunset. It's strange, but after I turn south off the interstate, I always feel the strangest transformation taking place. I begin to shed who I have become over the last seven years in Colorado, and I begin to feel...well, it sounds stupid. But I feel almost one with sunbaked earth and wide open expanses and jackrabbits. I think it's all the native shortgrass pasture ground out there. I feel a sense of place and timelessness and respect, and that night, the usually obnoxious local country station, the only station I could pick up, was playing the classics, so I turned up Waylon Jennings, George Jones, Dolly Parton, and it all fit, and the sun dipped low and bathed the high plains in a warm glow that worked itself into my soul. Then the glow faded and it was dark and I stepped on the gas pedal and flew through the flat, black night. Going to Western Kansas does that to me. It is what I know, it is who I am, and that does not mean that I need to move back, but always, when I drive out there and the mountains fall away in my rearview mirror and the land gets that particular shade of gray-green and the sky just above the horizen looks brown and dusty, I can't help it. We all need roots, no matter how far we branch, and mine are dug firmly into the shortgrass prairie and gyp-rock bluffs of Ladder Creek. It matters not how much I enjoy living far away from it, I will always be just a little bit barefoot farmgirl.

I came home and scaled back my plans for my greenhouse, cutting out my planned 24" deep hole under it, filled with compost for heat. I was getting nowhere with all the rocks buried in the ground. I finally quit when the blisters got too big to ignore and I began to rue the dy that I ever thought a greenhouse would be a good idea. So I lay down the wire mesh required to keep out the voles, little garden-wrecking vermin, and now the project requires some materials I cannot get in Summit County, so I am awaiting a trip to Denver to load up.

Last night was the first Diva's ride, a good evening. I got stopped by my nemesis mud-hole again. Here is the story of me and this mudhole and the Divas.

Two years ago, this trail was one of the first rides of the season, as usual. There is one extremely boggy, muddy spot on it that does not dry until late in the season, if at all, and it always presents a dilemma to trail-conscious mountain bikers and hikers. Last time, I was in the lead, it as my first time on this trail when it was muddy, and there as a well-defined trail leading just uphill, bypassing the big muddy spot. I took it, and from behind me, heard, "SUSAN!! NO!! NEVER, EVER, EVER RIDE AROUND THE MUD!! It causes unneccessary erosion!!" And finished the ride with my tail between my legs, feeling stupid for breaking a cardinal rule of mountain biking. Apparently, the bypass trail was a maverick trail and my trail monitor behind me did not think it should be there and was horrified that I should add one more tire rolling over it. Cut to this time. This year, there have been a lot of postings on mountain biking websites, town websites, Mountain biking club's facebook pages, and public awareness meetings about trail maintenance, brought on in part by new wilderness area proposals that cut into mountain biking networks, and they all say the same thing- a hole in the trail because of wheel tracks is not a good thing, but widening trails to ride around the mud is worse and causes more widespread erosion. Ride through the mud. Ride through the standing water. Not around it. So this time, confidently in the lead, I picked the line with the most standing water (riding through standing water causes less damage than riding through mud that will not flow back and smooth your tracks), and about halfway through, I heard, "NO, NO, SUSAN, YOU BAD GIRL!! NEVER, EVER, EVER RIDE THROUGH THE MUD!! It ruins the trail!!" And the entire group nodded with judgement eyes as I stood there balanced on a rock in the middle of the giant mud puddle. This time, I called her on it and asked okay, what exactly should I be doing? If riding around it was wrong, and riding through it was wrong, what options did I have? Apparently, the trail around it was the way she thought I should go, so I obediently shouldered my bike, hopped from rock to rock over to the maverick trail, and remounted, internally rolling my eyes and wondering if I will ever be able to finish this ride without being yelled at because of my mud-puddle practices. By this point, my tail does not have to go between my legs quite as far, because I am beginning to realize that everybody has their own idea of how to navigate mud puddles, and everybody thinks they are the sole advocates of trail care, and everybody will yell at those they do not think are caring for the trails the way they would. And anyway, mud puddles are not my particular pet peeve. They are an issue, yes, but with each mud puddle I decide what it is I should do, and if there are rocks in deep mud, I carry my bike and step on the rocks, and if there is water over the mud, I ride through, and if there is room to squeeze around it without widening the trail, by all means. There is no one right way to navigate a mud puddle. But sliding your tires, on the other hand...definitely my pet peeve. There is nothing I hate more than a slid-out corner, all loose rock, that won't let me make a clean, fast turn because it is all loose sand and rough holes. There is no reason for it. Just a little control, and a little more front brake and a little less back brake, and the switchbacks and steep hills would not be such a loose, sliding nightmare to ride.

Bookings are starting up for the summer. There are seven arrivals today. I have not had more than four since the ski slopes shut down. It is starting- the summer rush. Lazy time is over. Our two months of finding busy work so we can make a little money, and spending lots of time at home is almost passed. We have needed every minute of it to start liking our lives again. Yes, Summit County and us, we are a tentative item again, at least until the next snowfall. I fear that the next ten weeks, until the aspens start to turn and the nights get frosty again, will not be long enough for us to fully forgive this place for last winter, and then we will be in the sequel. And it will be cold, and dark, and the people will be demanding, and the phone will ring, and the snow will blow, and we will be even les in the mood for it as we were last winter.

In the spirit of enjoying summer, B's snowmobiles are for sale. Last winter took us to new levels as far as how us how difficult it is getting to break away. Even one day out of cell-phone range can end in catastrophe. Maybe we need to rethink the mini-getaways and days spent in the backcountry (all of two last winter, and those we payed dearly for) and just take more actual vacations, getting away late into the fall and early in the spring. He bought a small used camper on ebay the other day, which we will totally justify after the snowmobiles are sold, and have plans for many more Moab and Fruita trips now that we do not have to worry about having to stay in motels. Most campgrounds do not allow dogs except in campers. It just seemed like a good compromise, since I think we should always camp, to save money, and B thinks we should always stay in a motel, so he can be warm. Now he can be warm and we can pay much less than a motel would charge us to keep him warm. And we can bring the dog along.

And now, off to do my thing. There is work, and babysitting this evening, and cleaning my house, and it is a gorgeous day outside.

Hello and welcome to An altitude Problem, where yours truly is catching her breath after a day at work (yes, truly!) a trip to one grocery store once, and a trip to the other one three times.

I finished with my work in Keystone about 1:00 this afternoon, and headed back to the office to type out an inventory list and unload a trunkfull of sheets and towels, and on my way past City Market, stopped and bought lunch- a cup of soup and dessert- a package of sweet, ripe organic strawberries and some Hershey's Hard Shell to dip them in (yes, this is my latest guilty pleasure.) I drove down tot he office and ate my lunch, finished my workday, and then drove to Natural Grocers to check their dollar bin (one never knows what one will find in the dollar bin, but on a good day, one can have organic, slightly overripe fruit and veggies for a week for five or six bucks). The dollar bin was bare, so I bought a few essentials and left. Since City Market has shrimp on sale, B has been pestering me to go buy some, and I had forgotten earlier, so I swung in again. Emerged $45 later. Drove home, unloaded my groceries, and puzzled over where the shrimp might have gone. Turns out, I had left it at the register, so I made a panicked phone call to find they still had it, so back to town I went.

Yes, I feel not-exactly like a rocket scientist.

The picture at the top of this post was taken by B, catching me by surprise at the end of a bike ride the other night, as I was coasting down the ridge above our house. He surprises me occasionally by taking some really great pics. This may be one I have to print and frame.

And now, off for a ride, then back to clean house. Of all the people I have not seen for years, and often think about, guess who should call and ask to drop by tomorrow? Nancy and the kids, who, I suspect, are not such kids anymore. Goodness, what is Anne by now, like 19? She is still the little pigtailed farm girl with enormous blue eyes that she was when she was five, to me...

Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where we may be going for a record number of posts this year. It is an indication of our state of mind when I post a lot- I am either whining, or have nothing better to do, or are procrastinating doing something I would better be doing. Lately, it is that I have had the time.

The 2nd was B's and my 8th anniversary. After a few rather blatant hints on my part, he did everything right for me. He came to the race and the after-party, he whisked me away to a warm, beautiful place the next day, got a motel room so we would not need to rush home.

He didnt especially enjoy the race, because it meant standing around for almost two hours under skies threatening rain, just to see me start, ride past once, and cross the finish line. And then hanging out at the noisy bar (noisy bars really aren't his scene) and driving me home late, when I was exhausted, dusty, stinky, and my lips were slightly numb after only one free beer.

The race went better than expected. I came in 5th out of 12 riders in my class. I feel good about it because I gave it everything I had, didnt hold anything back, rode on the edge of control downhill and ignored the burn in my quads and pulled the uphills as hard as I could, and still watched several women pull away from me. I did miss one corner twice, each time around the two-lap course, and wasted precious seconds that I could not make up, and came in 9 minutes, 57 seconds behind the race leader. I honestly do not think I physically could have ridden it almost ten minutes faster, the winner won it fair and square. Now I have two and a half weeks to be ready for the next one.

The next day, we left Andy in the house to be picked up by the dogsitter after she got off of work, and we hit the road for Steamboat Springs. All the cabins at Strawberry Park Hot Springs were booked, so we got a room in town, then headed up to the hot springs. It was an amazing, relaxing day. Strawberry Hot Springs is far and away the most beautiful, natural hot springs we have ever been to. The water smells very good, not at all sulfuric, just natural, 104-degree stone-walled pools cascading into each other, separated from the swollen, icy stream a few feet away. We hung out in the water most of the afternoon, moving to a cooler pool after we began to feel overheated, lying in the water, heads propped on convenient stones, arms and legs floating weightlessly, rising and sinking with each inhale and exhale. Today, my skin feels silky, my muscles are not at all sore. It was the perfect way to end race week. We ate dinner at a bistro in town, eating our meal at a patio table on a lawn a few feet away from the raging river, pushing at it's banks. We walked through town, under flowering trees, warm breeze whispering to us, got ice cream, and finally returned to our motel and fell asleep, feeling like we had been on vacation for weeks. The only unpleasant part of the whole trip was the looming ski area and condo town. Every time I looked up, I saw it, and I did not like how it made me feel. Ideally, our escape should have not been to anywhere with a ski resort, so as to not remind us. It revealed something to me about my current feelings about resort towns. I do not see fun and recreation anymore when I see ski runs, I only see stress and demanding guests and entitled tourists and the need to juggle an overwhelming work schedule so I can go through the motions of skiing and snowboarding and being cold and having snow down my pants so that I can keep my sanity, when what I really wish for is a dry, lonely trail to nowhere, everywhere, anywhere disappearing under a mountain bike or a sturdy pair of shoes.

Back in Summit County, we remembered who we are. We got back into town at 10:30 a.m., picked up Andy, and came home. B immediately left for work, and I spent the afternoon dreaming of the day when we can live somewhere that has flowering trees, when I can have a garden, maybe even a greenhouse, where we can live off of the fruits of our land. I took my greenhouse drawings to the trailer park manager so he could peruse them before he tells me I can't build one on our lot, and dug dandelions and pretended that I was gardening and that summer was here to stay.