Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where there is no problem. Except for the fact that many of my faithful few may have stopped stopping by, because there was never anything new.

I am at home. Yes, at 3:52 in the afternoon. It would have been earlier, but I stopped by the rec center after work, for the second time today, determined this time to actually get my run in, and one nine-minute mile later, felt my face pale, and sweat pop out on my temples, and the fish tacos I had eaten two hours before began to swim again. I slowed down to a walk, aware of how far I was from an exit, and focused on breathing nice, deep breaths, and finally eased myself down to the locker room, into my street clothes and coat, and took myself out to the car. By that point, the Alaskan Pollock and black beans and corn salsa had agreed to stay down, so I went to the library, hoping to find something good to read, but the library in Silverthorne really is a tiny little affair, merely an annex to the actual Summit county Library in Frisco, and they did not have any of the books i wanted to read. So now, here i am, in my own cozy house, fire crackling and blowing toasty air past me as I sit on the end of the couch closest to the small circle of warmth. I am still feeling iffy, my head a bit light, my stomach a bit sloshy. I am pretty sure it was not the running that brought it on, because until .85 miles, I was feeling dandy, running tall and strong at 7 mph, hands and shoulders relaxed, stomach in, breathing steady, feeling like I could do this for miles yet. Maybe it was the fish tacos, or maybe a bit of a bug. Who knows.

What I do know is I love it here, in my house on a winter day, feeling not at all alone because the fire is leaping about so happily, the scent of pine and peppermint lingering from the essential oils I burned last night, hitting a bit of aromatherapy, needing a kick of clear-headed, happy energy as I resisted the urge to hit the couch and cleaned and begged Bobby to help me hang blinds over the dining room windows and shuttled two dogs in and out for potty breaks. (Yes, two dogs. We are keeping Raisin while her parents spend three weeks in Peru. They send us facebook messages in between multi-day treks. Must be wonderful.) Pine needle extract and peppermint extract are my two favorite scents, and always get my mood into an upswing, because of, if nothing else, the happy emotions I associate with both scents.

Andy and Raisin are in Raisin's back yard at the moment, leaving my house in a peaceful state of not being torn apart. Although blue shreds of what used to be an amoeba-shaped felt squeaky toy litter the floor, along with splinters of chewed-up firewood, a few bits of the bone we bought Andy several weeks ago, half of a paint roller, and, of course, the Moose, Andy's favorite tug-of-war toy. Two big dogs really are a bit much for us. One smallish Golden Retriever with a big personality fills our house just right. Add a 65 lb black lab, still an overgrown puppy herself at 1 year old, and it bursts at it's chewed-up seams. Having them gone makes me want to curl up and nap, although I am sure I would not sleep. I'd rather write, something I've been too busy to do lately.

I have been on a get-healthy kick this last week, one that I plan to make last through next summer's race season. I may only have one shot at this, since Bobby D will be turning 29 next month. He has always said that by thirty, we should be ready to put childish things behind us and start thinking about a family. And he has been saying it with more regularity the closer he gets. And I agree. But we arent in a place where we can just do that quite yet, finance-wise, workstaff-wise, and maybe not even maturity-wise. We are painfully aware of what a responsibility it is to create another soul and be responsible to guide it into becoming a well-adjusted adult, and how easy it could be to create a tiny little sociopath with just a little indifference, misunderstanding, inconsistancy, and insecurity thrown into the recipe. Hence the reason our marriage has sailed past the seven-year mark, and is well on its way to number eight with nary a thought about adding to the household that is us. But, never before have we set a date that we promise each other to stick to, and to be ready by that date. To try to be in a good place spiritually, mentally, and physically, so that we can create a safe, happy place for someone to start his or her life. That date is next fall. And whatever happens after that date, whether it even is possible to happen for us, we will try to be ready for it. Anyway, back to my original tangent. Race season. Possible last chance. Get healthy.

So, we bought Rec center passes last week. Actually, my kick kick-started on Sunday, when I went snowboarding at the Basin with a girl friend, then she talked me into a Bikram Yoga class that evening. The studio we went to in Breck was lovely, but because of the door opening to the 15 degree winter night outside, it did not get to the full 105 degrees, 40% humidity that one is supposed to do the 26 poses in, so it was wonderful for me, new to yoga as I am, I did not have to push myself, or get overwhelmed by the heat, I merely basked in the soft lighting, scent of sandalwood incense, quiet strains of music, and stretched, and balanced, and twisted, the 90 degree air making my muscles all nice and stretchy, the sweat gathering on me but never soaking me. My legs quivered a time or two, protesting having to support my weight in ways they were not accustomed to, and my balance was rather shaky, but by the time the class ended, I was feeling light and tall and at peace with the world. We drove home on sheet-ice and slush roads, then went out for half-price sushi at Nozawa, the local sushi and teppanyaki place. I came home late that night to Bobby and the dogs, starting to get a bit stiff from the unaccustomed work I had just put my body through, but determined to do it again.

I have never taken advantage of the Rec Center's classes before. I thought I had to pay for them, but this year, I belatedly discovered they are free to pass holders. Plus, it has been a long journey for this little farmgirl to realize that it is okay to take a class. No need to be self-conscious or worry about not being able to do something. No need to worry about my image. Nobody is going to redicule me. It's okay to be singled out. I had to get brave enough to join a mountain bike club first, and ride with it for two years, and find that people less athletic than me do these things and I am not holding everyone back. Then, I took the huge step of entering a race. And again, discovered I didnt suck. And now, with my rec center pass, I have entered a whole new world of fitness community, where I can sweat and grunt and push myself beside others who are doing the exact same thing, feeling the exact same pain, and in that hour or two, we have everything in common. Pilates class once a week. Cycling class up to four times a week, as long as I can be there by 6:00 am (which I haven't managed yet). Yoga every other morning. I am hooked. Especially on the yoga. It is an excuse to actually ease into my day, in a darkened room with a wall of windows framing the Gore Range and it's snowy peaks, washed in early light. An excuse to push all of my manic overthinking out and focus on happy feelings, and the way those feelings affect my body and mind. To visualize, with each deep breath, the values I wish to internalize- peace, joy, love. To close my eyes and breathe deeply and relax, gently manipulating and working my joints, muscles, and tendons, easing them into alignment and strength. And apparently, it works. I show up at my job in a strangely good mood, feeling all warm and glowy, loose-jointed and mellow. And get mocked for being all happy and peaceable, when I am normally full-steam on some rant, tear, path, or tangent from the moment I crash through the door.

Hmm. Now I look at the clock and notice it is 5:30. Where have two hours gone? Since I started this post, Bobby has been here, gathered his own workout clothes, I planned our dinner menu with him, he left for his workout, I got distracted a time or two by other matters, forgot I was blogging and got to googling. And now, I have two very hungry dogs waiting for me on the other side of the Cove. I should go them and feed them. And my mom just called me to chat, I am typing while talking. gotta run...

Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, fresh back from a mountain bike ride, hacking and coughing from the big, wonderful gulps of 19 degree air. It felt so good. I can breathe again. I can take as deep of breaths as I need to, stretching my lungs without having them feel as though they are going to burst. A lovely sunrise, and meadows bejeweled by frost, just enough snow on the ground for Andy to roll in, stream crossings covered by thin sheets of ice. It's good to be home. Just a few pictures from this morning, since I just finished posting from our trip.

Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, posting from the airport after ten days of heat and sun and humidity and carnivorous crawly things and long-necked waterfowl and sunsets in hues of coral and tangerine and bruised purples and blues, angry reds and soothing grays, the sun a glowing orb sinking into gulf waters reflecting the same colors in shards broken by waves and foam and splashing gulls and pelicans.

B used to live here. I've never been. After several years of venturing further and further from home in our last hoorays before the season descends on us and the snow buries us, this seemed the year to vacation somewhere that did not require a seven hour flight over water, or changing currency. One of our first big purchases after we were married, when we could ill-aford it and spent several years paying it off our credit cards, was a transferable timeshare, the guarantee of a free stay for a week in a condo every other year for the rest of our lives. Free if we stay in "our" condo, and about $120 a week to stay anywhere else in the world. Since "our" condo is in Orlando, and once every twenty years in Orlando is about enough, we have yet to stay in it, but have already recouped our money in savings on lodging on other vacations. It also means that instead of staying in seedy motels, we now stay in luxury resorts and vacation clubs with expansive accomodations and kitchens, whirlpool tubs and private balconies, large and varied workout facilities, pools that cover acres, with cabanas and tiki bars and rediculous landscaping, on-site stores where one can buy bottles of aquafina for $3.00, and, in this case, a private island. It matters less what there is to do off-resort when one can so easily occupy one's time for a week without leaving the premises. For a week at the Hyatt Coconut Plantation, we spent hours flat on our backs on tubes, spinning in the current as the lazy river carried us around and around, and around. I read all five novels I had brought along, including the Dean Koontz I discovered I had already read a few years ago and still remembered the ending, tucked into a hammock under a tiki hut, surrounded by happy crickets and all sorts of flowering bushes and at least a dozen different variety of palms, new-agey, bongo-ey music bouncing out of hidden speakers, water gushing loudly over the many waterfalls worked into the landscaping, cascading into the many swimming pools and hot tubs and hidden grottoes. And in such manner, I didn't notice the oppressive heat and air heavy with humidity until we actually put on clothes that were not swimwear and left the resort. And then, my hair stood straight up, frizz covering my head in an inch deep layer, and I began to sweat, and to stick to myself, and settled into a heat-induced stupor, broken only by my irritable replies to B's happy yammering, until the sun dropped behind the bank of thunderheads on the horizen in it's nightly celebration of a job well done, throwing every shade of happy-inducing color at me, and I shook myself, wondering what was wrong with me, and felt myself becoming myself again. We spent every sunset on a beach somewhere, B wading and swimming and, by all appearances, thoroughly enjoying the way the salt and the sand stuck to him.

I planned on running a charity 5k in Naples on the 3rd of 0ctober, and completely underestimated the effect the heavy air would have on my running. And I had underestimated how hot it would already be at 7:00 a.m., which was when the run was. I had envisioned a cool early morning run, maybe 7o or 75 degrees, not 88 degrees. Although I can do 10K fairly easily, if not fast, at home at 8,700 feet, running 5k on the treadmill at 5 feet nearly finished me off. By the end of two miles, I was gulping breaths that nearly exploded my aching lungs, my head was spinning, my breakfast had risen nearly to my tonsils. After a few failed attempts, I discovered that keeping my mouth shut and breathing only through my nose kept me upright by limiting the amount of air I could draw in. If I took half breaths, and expelled the last breath fully before tenatively drawing the next one, eventually the pounding headache eased and I could settle into an easy gait that required no effort or concentration, and I could watch the miles roll by with almost my usual ease. All the same, I did not feel like sweating the gallons I knew I would, even though Alzheimer's research could have used me, so I ended up leaving the outdoor running to those more inclined to sweat and stickiness and humidity.

After we left the resort, we drove into the everglades. Actually, seeing the Everglades up-close and personal was the reason I had been excited about going to Florida. Yes, I knew it would be hot, although I may have not realized just how hot, but I am big on the whole getting a feel for the Land, in it's natural state, it's natural beauty and as it's natives knew it before civilization crashed in and drained it, or razed it, or devoloped it, or mined it. And I was determined to see an alligator. No, not in a zoo, as B tried to convice me to do, thinking it was just that I wanted to see an alligator. I told him that was not an option, because in a zoo, one might see an alligator, but one could not actually SEE an alligator. It's just not the same. It had to be one in the wild.

I did finally concede and agree to not make him rent a canoe or kayak and row through Everglades National Park, because of time constraints. We ended up not going the eighty miles out of our way to go into the park at all, although I am pretty sure we will regret not doing so. Every national park it it's own unique experience, and should not be skipped over if it is possible to go see them. But we did follow a narrow highway for miles through dense jungles of trees and swamps, water as still as the sky it reflected, oceans of grass, dripping spanish moss, and birds standing on long sticks of legs, white against murky backdrops of shadow and trees, necks kinked in s-curves, unfolding to shoot out and snap up unsuspacting insects, then settling back for another long wait. And yes, at a rest stop so fetid I decided I didn't need to go THAT bad, a wooden bridge lead over a still patch of water, the opposite shore looking like just the spot an alligator might like to hang out. I shaded my eyes and studied it, and even when a fellow observer pointed out the floating log with eyes, I still didn't see it. I was staring so intently at the shadows, hoping one of them would move, I didn't see a shadow to my right creep out into the water, and begin to silently drift toward me. I did see it as it was about halfway across the water, and watched, breath held, as it swam all the way over to us, drifted to a stop and sunk into the water below us, a twelve foot alligator. I whispered to B that he should get the camera, and he did, and I got pictures of my first alligator. I know, not so much of a novelty to those who see them all the time, but to me, it was pretty cool to see the carnivore in it's natural habitat. Even though I am pretty sure the reason it came so close was it was hoping someone had a chicken wing to throw it.

We kept driving, and got to Key West late that afternoon. I was feeling a bit queesy from reading my book, and one corner of my lip had swollen to grotesque, purple proportions, thanks to me trying to eat it along with my sandwich at noon. And it. was. hot. And humid. We checked into our frosty hotel room, which had my sweaty self shivering before I had changed into swimwear, and headed to the beach, as south as we could go in the U.S., and waded into the tepid water, mud, not sand, squishing between our toes. We didn't spend a lot of time there. I got hot. And sticky. And asked if we could go back to the motel. Which we did, and I spent the rest of the afternoon in the gym, where it was cool, and the only sweat was induced by work, not overwhelming heat.

And now we are boarding, I will go ahead and publish this for now, but there will be more- I promise.

..And now, more. We are home. It feels amazing.

That night, we hit Key West, went to the pier to see the sunset and take in the Sunset Celebration, street performers and vendors jostling for attention in the crowds pouring off the cruise ship docked there, the sun worshipers and tourists, all gathered to soak up the last few rays and take pictures. I missed my bike, because it seemed everyone except me had two-wheeled transportation, either on a scooter or a bike. I had my new Teva wedges, but still. I wanted to pedal.

We walked down Duval street and found a place to eat outside in a courtyard, where we sat and watched the varied flow of humanity pedal, ride, drive, walk, stagger, stumble, swagger and sway past us. After which we joined them. At one point, I looked ahead of us and noticed an especially perky backside in an especially short skirt, sporting especially big hair, and halfway through my raised eyebrow, she turned around, spotted Bobby, waved a manicured hand, and said "Hi, Gorgeous...you here for the show?" in a decidedly male voice, which caused us to do a double take and realize that half of the bodacious, jostling girls around us were definitely not one hundred percent female. How were we to know that? We're just farm kids. Oh, we recovered quickly, and added it to our trove of stories from that night, but we felt a little betrayed by our small-town roots.

We got back late that night, loathe to leave the lights and music and hot summer night, but booked on a snorkel cruise early the next morning. We needn't have worried. We passed out as soon as our heads hit the pillows, but a few hours later, both of us were awake. The air conditioner was loud. Shake the walls loud. And it ran in short bursts. And B did not turn his phone off, since he was using the alarm clock feature, so every time someone posted something to his facebook or sent him an email, it vibrated on the bedside stand, which he didn't hear, but it woke me up every time. Never have we been so glad to see six o'clock. We had a carb-tinental breakfast, checked out of the hotel, and were at the pier, a hungry parking meter fed, at 8:30. We spent until noon seven miles offshore, over a reef, spotting dozens of kinds of fish, yellow, blue, silver, red, striped and spotted, dodging jellyfish. We went out on a smallish catamaran, only us and two other couples, with two stops. On the second one, schools of yellowtail snappers flitted around us in the hundreds, staring into our fat pink faces. Another school of great barracuda drifted below us, and angelfish, butterfly fish, and parrotfish poked along the reef. After two hours of being tossed around on the surface of the water, except of our brief dives that only lasted until we ran out of air, we were feeling extremely mellow. The waves were high, high enough that I had to wait till the crest to look around and find Bobby. We got back to shore, and I did the beach shimmy, simultaneously changing peeling out of my wet swimwear and slipping into a dry tank top, skirt and underwear in layers in the simmering parking lot. I brushed the salt from my skin as it dried, then B found a beach shower, so I rinsed out my tangled mop of hair and washed the salt from my legs and arms. He showered all of him, then, after a Taco Bell burito, we hit the road for the four hour trip back to Ft. Lauderdale.

That night, B asked me where I wanted to eat, and out popped the last place I would usually suggest- Olive Garden. Don't ask. I just wanted carbs- a lot of them. Oodles of noodles. And white, pasty bread. I am usually loudly opposed to the wanna-be Italian chain with it's red and yellow interiors that everyone wants to emulate in their own homes and wanna-be snooty atmosphere that says, lets pretend that this fettucini is better than the Ragu you dumped over your pasta the last time you wanted empty carbs without a hint of healthy veggies or whole grains. Okay, it is a pet peeve. Maybe I'm just tired of the hype and everybody always wanting to go there when they go to Denver, to the exclusion of privately owned, more sustainable restaurants. And maybe it's just me, but I've eaten at one maybe three times in six years, and all three time the waiter seriously creeped me out, asking for our order in a conspiratory library voice. And twice out of the three times, the two of us have been seated at a table set for eight, which just added to the whole creeped-out feeling I got. So if you are ever out with us, and B or I snorts, then quickly tries to cover our inapropriate response to the suggestion that we eat at Olive Garden, think naught of it. We will still go there with you, and it won't kill us. At least the food won't. We're not so sure about the waiters...

And today, eight hours of airports, and airplane, and wrong busses, and right busses, and driving, and here we are, back at home with Andy and the kitties. It is wonderful. And I thought I would get the chance to post pictures tonight yet, but now B has proclaimed it bedtime. Maybe tomorrow.

Well, this post sat in my "drafts" folder for the last several days, because it felt like a recitation. A report. A convoluted one with too many commas and run-ons. I was going to dress it up, disasemble the timeline, fix the sentences that my fingers tapped out while I was half asleep, but finally realized it was never going to get done. But hey. Not every post can sizzle...I was just a little reluctant to post so many of them that lack said sizzle. So now, without further edits, I give you...

Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, the blog hoping to wake up to snow. Not that I want it to be snowy from now on, but if I could get out my skis in the morning, that would be a little bit exciting. It has been snowing, but not seriously, for the last two days. I have also been riding my bike to work since I have been spending my days in the office, feeling the cold air in my lungs, arriving feeling invigorated. Aspen leaves litter the ground like lost gold medallions, fat snowflakes drift down, whispering in the windstill silences, scurrying along the ground in swirling ribbons when the wind blows. Dry grasses rustle, and Andy, loping along bedside me, bounds through them in search of birds, his golden head dusted with white, grin revealing a lolling tongue. This morning, to my horror, he followed several birds when they flew over the lake, landing with a splash, scarcely noticing the water and he raced through the waves splashing on the shore, then plunged into deep water, steaming into air colder than the cold water, and swam in circles. I left the rec path and rode down to the water's edge, coaxing him out, telling him he would catch a cold, that no bird was worth pneumonia, but he heard me not, instinct having taken over. After he had finally splashed ashore and shook cold water all over me, I caught his collar and attached his leash to it, and rode along the lakeshore toward the Marina, Andy straining against his collar, trying to pull me into the water with him. I was hard-pressed to keep my bike on the shore in the soft, damp dirt, and by the time I hit pavement again, my tires were carrying a thick layer of clayish dirt. I dropped Andy off at the office and rode down to my LBS (local bike shop), where I had seen a bike wash, but the hose was frozen. I parked my bike, heavy with all the mud, in the office for the day. The ride home knocked off some of the mud, and I kept Andy's leash on and rode slowly, to keep from running him too hard. Making him commute on foot keeps him very well behaved. He spent the day on a futon in the office, occasionally barking at strangers visible through the door before flopping back down and sleeping again. And now, he is asleep on the living room floor.

It has been a wonderfully active week for me. Well, except for those three days last week... I did spend Tuesday night on the bathroom floor, thanks to either a bug or a bout of food poisoning, too weak from all the vomiting to move any farther than a few feet from the toilet. BBD brought me a sleeping bag, and I spent sixteen hours lying on it, using the backpack that held my dirty laundry from Kansas as a pillow, sitting up every half-hour or so, my body, against my will, attempting to get rid of whatever it was that had made me so sick. The next two days, forcing food or drink past my lips was risking another violent reaction, so I spent all day Wednesday on the couch, answering the phone once to make plans to go hiking on Friday, and hoping I would still be alive by then. On Thursday, I wobbled my way to work, held down half an apple and a dry slice of toast, and by late afternoon, attempted, and succeeded in holding onto a bowl of soup that my friend made for me. And as soon as it became clear that food was my friend again, albeit a friend I still wasn't crazy about, I started guzzling Gatorade, preparing for Friday.

On Friday, I woke up four minutes before my alarm rang at 5:00. I can do that, for some weird reason. All I have to do is go to sleep focusing on the time I want to get up, and almost without fail, I will wake up then. I still do not rely it, though, because the moment I do, it will let me down. But it is handy so that B does not have to awake from a dead sleep when I get up early. He says things that he does not remember the next day, and would never say while awake when awoken from deep sleep. And then wonders why I am offended the next morning.

At six, I picked up my friend from Frisco, and we both had a brief moment of panic when she walked outside into the early dawn gray, and realized her car was not in the driveway. She stood there staring at the spot where it should be parked, then went inside to check the garage, just in case it had gotten moved, then came back outside, laughing at herself. Since she lives so close to Main Street in Frisco, she often walks to shops there, and after spending the afternoon in a bookstore, she left and walked home, forgetting that this time, she had driven there. We retrieved her car from Main Street, dropped it off at her house, and finally, Andy still asleep in the backseat, hit the interstate, looking east, where Gray's Peak and Torrey's peak were silhouetted against a pink sunrise.

At seven o'clock, we started hiking, Andy springing around us, excited to be outside and hiking when he is normally just waking up. We were planning on climbing Gray's first, then Torrey's, but we took a wrong turn and ended up doing Torrey's first, which we later decided was probably the best route, steeper, but shorter. Since one of us (me) was still a bit gaunt from a thirty-six hour crash diet, and one of us (not me) had just had the stitches from a bike crash taken out of her knee, we didnt set any speed records. On top of Grays, at 14,270 feet, we sat in the sun on an absolutely windstill, warm morning, and marveled that it was past mid-September. Andy fell asleep and began snoring, we ate some granola and felt a little drunk on the view.

Back at the Jeep, after nine miles and 3,600 feet of hiking, I peeled off my backpack, unzipped the pocket that held my jeep keys, and my fingers, instead of closing around the key, slipped through the mesh lining. I stared stupidly at the pocket Andy shredded last winter looking for treats, the last time I wore the jacket, once holding my keys and ID, now holding only my ID. Fought a surge of panic, and quickly checked all my other pockets, just in case. Finally reluctantly opened my phone to call B to come rescue me. No service. By this time, we had attracted a bit of attention, other people at the trailhead noting that while they could break into a vehicle, all lacked the criminal know-how to hotwire it. And then, the person parked next to us, until then absorbed in whatever it was he was doing, suddenly turned around and asked if we might be looking for our keys? Because he had found some about halfway up Torreys, and had put them on top of a rock at the trailhead. We checked the rock, and sure enough, they were mine. Relieved, we hit the road for home, bouncing over the rough 4wd road back to the interstate.

On Saturday, B spent the day at home. It was strange and wonderful. I cooked mahi mahi in a cajun glaze and served it with bourbon sauce and mashed potatoes and salad, lunch at home such a huge novelty that we even ate at the table. Early evening, we were done cleaning, stacking firewood, all our jobs for the day, so we drove up to the top of Loveland Pass and hiked to the false summit of Mt Sniktau. It was too late to hike another mile to the actual summit, but we were still rewarded with a beautiful view, sun dipping low behind rainclouds gathered over the ten mile range.

Sunday, we attempted to go to church, that's another story. We never got it done. We did spend the day waiting for the rain to go away, watching football, and finally went to work and stripped blankets, bedspreads, and dry cleaning from several units to be cleaned and returned later. Monday and Tuesday we both worked long hours, and I commuted by bike, oddly enjoying the snow, which brings us to tonight, and my having spent far too long at the computer intstead of readying the house for us being gone next week on our fall vacation to Florida, since Marci will be staying here for several of those days with our animals.

Welcome to An Altitude Problem, home of a blogger who is tired and achy after a flying trip to Kansas, minimal sleep, and a long, long day of work. I ran last night, since my bike tires are still flat, thanks to several "goatheads", Kansas's most common thorn, and used muscles I have not used for several months. I should do that more, since my legs are a bit stiff from it.

On Wednesday, the lumberyard in Scott City called Bobby to tell him his new garage door was in. This forced us to have to make the choice whether we were going to go install it now, before our real estate agent begins showing the place with it's garage door all caved in from a windstorm a few years ago, or wait until we had a little more free time in October. But who are we kidding, free time in October? We hope, but we can't be certain. Since Marci was planning on leaving for her vacation at noon on Saturday, we had to be back by then, so we finished a few loose ends and odd jobs, then, late Wednesday evening, hit the road in a very packed-full Subaru, dog in the backseat, his head out the window, his jowls flapping in the wind, drool streaming back from the corners of his wide grin. We pulled up to our house in the wee hours, in fog that only revealed about three highway dashes ahead of us, threw some sleeping bags down on the floor for padding, and crawled under a light blanket, the only bedding needed on a foggy, warm Kansas night.

The next morning, we were woken early by a deafening cacophony of birdsong outside our open window, a novelty since we moved to Colorado, and by a dog who was anxious to eat some dogfood and go outside. We went to my parents for breakfast, and i got my bike out of the car and put the wheels on it, and took it for a quick ride around Marienthal. I pulled up to my parent's house and was greeted by two yellow striped kittens, purring loudly and winding themselves around my ankles- my mom's latest rescue, after they were unceremoniously, anonymously dumped on the Heartland Mill yard a week ago. Over breakfast, mom and I schemed our day, wondering when we would get the time to get down to the state park and ride some trails, and I asked Bobby if he thought the kittens weren't completely adorable, hint, hint, while they made themselves at home on his lap. I went outside, and noticed a goathead sticking into my bike tire. I plucked it out, and for my trouble, was rewarded by a loud hiss. I had forgotten about the goatheads. Thick, heavy slime tubes are a must in Kansas. Three years without a flat in Colorado, but one mile in kansas, and and the rubber was left puddled under my wheel. As it turned out, all my plans for mountain biking in the park were not to be, since the only tubes to be found in the small-town local Alco store had Shrader stems, and my rims will only accomodate a Presta stem. Dad, bless his heart, took my tubes to Co-op to get them fixed, filled them with slime, and in the process of airing it back up, what do you know, I broke the stem. I finally had to give up, leaving my bike in a useless $2000 dollar pile of aluminum and stainless steel. I borrowed my dad's bike, late in the day, and we did go to the park, but after we had sat on a picnic table and changed both of his flat tires to big, thick tubes, we only had time for a half-hour ride, but my mom tackled the singletrack with her bike-path cruiser like a pro, big, narrow tires rolling over difficult portions without skipping a beat. We finished our ride, threw the bikes on the car, and raced the clock back to Scott City, where I needed to be by 7:00 to have dinner with Bobby and some of our friends.

The next morning Andy let us sleep until 9:00, exhausted as he was by the life of a farm dog. A quick breakfast, then I moved a cord or more of firewood from our shed to my dad's yard, displacing mouse nests, spiders, frog skeletons, and damp, moldy, heavy chunks of wood that have been sitting under the trees, soaking up the runoff from our eaves, for four years. I finished at noon, and after lunch, cleaned the house, washed windows, removed and washed storm windows, and helped Bobby clean the shed and place struts on the new garage door to sturdy it up against future 100mph windstorms. We dragged into the house and dropped into chairs around my mom's dinner table, saying hello to Grandpa and Grandma Unruh who were there for dinner, and we were tired, dirty, sweaty, and mosquito eaten, wondering how we used to work in the heat all day. It wasn't even so hot, only in the 80's, but humid and windstill, not something Kansas is used to, and neither are we.

At 6 o'clock the next morning, Andy was up, and so were we, frantically cleaning the fridge, removing all sign that the house had been stayed in lately, the last odds and ends, pipe fittings and paint cans, pushed, stuffed, and shoved everything into the car, leaving half of the backseat for Andy, and stopped by my parent's house on the way out of town. And Bobby finally gave in to my begging. When we left the yard half an hour later, Andy was not the only animal in the car. Two yellow kittens were winding their way around the back of Bobby's head, purring loudly enough to be heard over the car's engine.

On the way home, trying to beat noon back to Summit County, Andy slept uncomfortably cramped in the backseat, two yellow tiger-striped kittens slept in our laps, and we tried out names for the cats. They are identical, as far as we can tell, so one of them sports a permanant marker spot on it's head, put there by a big red Marks-A-Lot. That one took a shine to Bobby, so naming privilages fell to him, and I took on naming the other one. I already know the name I wanted. Max sounds, to me, like a wonderful name for a big, beautiful, yellow tomcat, as they will someday be. Bobby thought Marks-A-Lot looked like a Paco. And that is how it comes to be that I sit here with a small yellow Max draped over my arm, eyes contented slits, paws reaching up from time to time to adoringly brush my chin, purr rattling loundly while I type, Andy stretched out at my feet, farting and snoring, his paws in the air, and Paco trying his hardest to climb the clothes rack sitting in the dining room. Never mind that we are also babysitting Frau, Marci's fat brown tabby cat who is so overwhelmed by a new house and three new, high energy animals, that all she can do is hide and hiss. This place suddenly feels like a zoo. Bobby wonders if he has gone insane, allowing me to fill the place with yellow canines and felines.

Today, after locking Frau in our bathroom with all her cat-stuff, litter box, food, water, scratching post, box, bed, etc, locking Max and Paco in the guest bathroom with their own collection of litterbox, etc, I loaded up Andy in the Subaru and went to work. At noon, I was at a stopping point, so we took up our friends on a lunch invitation, and grilled, and ate on their deck, while the dogs kept themselves very distracted by the ten-pound cow femur bones given to us by the butcher in Kansas and hauled back to Colorado with us. I left Andy there, where he got to go an a walk with his doggy friend, and we went to work for another seven and a half hours, delivering clean dry cleaning back to units. And now, it is late. I am so tired I am amazed I am still making sense...at least I hope I am. It is time to let my head fall back and do what Andy, Max, and Bobby are already doing- let the eyes close. No, I should not. I should go get ready for bed, then actually go to bed. So much work, going to bed...At any rate, until next time...

Hello and Welcome to An Altitude Problem, where, two hours after I first picked my way across it in my bare feet to take Andy outside this morning, the ice on the deck has finally turned to water. I sit here in my pajamas, having a fairly leisurely morning, although I do have two arrivals to ready for guests checking in today. The last several days have been busy for me, getting ready for Labor Day weekend, but now, the check-in mob of yesterday is over, so until someone complains because I did a shabby, hurried job and missed something in my rush to get everything done by 4:00 pm yesterday, we are sitting tight and crossing our fingers.

Winter is fast approaching. After everything checks out on Monday, we start deep-cleaning units, dry cleaning bedding, inventories and purchasing and restocking broken coffeepots, crock pots, lampshades, pillow shams, hangers, irons, hair dryers, stained or torn bedding and shower curtains, repairing or replacing broken blinds and light fixtures, giving sixty units a thorough once-over to get them ready for guests who think that, although they rented a condo from us at 2/3 or even half the price of other management companies, "for what they paid" their vacation should go without a hitch. The way the downturn in the economy has most directly affected us, other than about a 20 percent drop in bookings, which we could still absorb because of our unusually high occupancy rate other years, is that people are still coming to the mountains, but only a few out of each party are skiing. The rest are making snow angels, drinking coffee, buying tee shirts, soaking in the hot tub, watching TV, and spending time in the condo with hot chocolate in one hand and note pad in the other, making lists of the shortfalls of their condo, hoping that, when presented with proof that they got screwed and paid good money for a dump of a condo, the company they rented it from will give them a discount, or possibly even a free stay. We had more whiners and refund-hunters this year than we can ever remember having in years past. Which means our condos had better be sparkling, well maintained, well stocked and well organized, and our guests had better be impressed, in spite of their efforts to find fault. Our job depends on it. And never mind several new owners this year who freak out over the tiniest power waste, like a stereo left on standby, or a light switch dimmed all the way, but not off, and, of all things, demanding that we iron the bedspreads before each guest. As if we have the resources to do that when we are spread so thin as it is over the winter. The nature of a seasonal job. Overstaffed in the summer, understaffed in the winter. We are hiring a new year-around maintenance man this winter and have guaranteed him hours in the summer, and are crossing our fingers. Oh, we will give him enough hours to keep him around all year, but it may come at the cost of our own hours. But the plan is to actually start taking days off. One day a week in the winter, two in the summer. By the three of us doing this, the company should not have to pay a lot extra for another employee. After all, paying three people to work seven days a week can be about as expensive as paying four people to work five days a week. We shall see. I predict B still working every day. He just tends to get a bit uneasy on his days off, unless we leave the county.

Speaking of which, he did do a very odd thing and take an in-county day off this week. We had been planning for some time to take a day, pay for lift tickets, and ride Keystone. In the end, we didn't want to spend the money. Spending money becomes painful for us this time of year, after a summer of cut-back hours, and with labor day weekend comes the looming charge on our credit cards for ski passes that wont even be used for another eight weeks. Instead, we rode West Ridge, taking the jeep up to the trailhead to save us four miles of uphill, then riding three miles uphill and over the top of the ridge, and down the other side, into Keystone ranch. It is the smoothest, longest downhill ride in the county, I think. One has three miles of climbing for six miles of downhill through sage covered hillsides, damp forests, stream crossings, and views, with some tight switchbacks thrown in. All the way up, B kept asking me how far yet, and I finally told him three more switchbacks, which turned into five, and he was a bit out of sorts by the time we had ground our way to the top. But about half way down, after he had forgotten all about the climb and was nicely drugged by the adrenaline rush of the downhill, as well as by the high produced by warm sun, pine sap and sage, and the whoosh of soft loam under knobby tires, he stopped to take in the view of a sky a bit smoky from wildfires west of here turning Guyot and Baldy and the Gore and Ten-Mile Ranges purple and gray, turned to me, and announced that he was glad he had married me. I replied that I know I am irresistable, but what had brought on this sudden revelation? And he began naming the names of people he knew who had not married me, had not even thought of marrying me, and for that reason, had never been reluctantly dragged out on a beautiful day, dragged, whining and sweating, up 1000 vertical feet, and forced to coast down a winding trail through forests and hillsides alive with squirrels, chipmonks, and ptarmigan, and feel that sudden flood of well-being and joy at being alive and surrounded by earth and sky and sun and wind.

By the time we got home, 18 miles later, he was back to wondering why, exactly, he had had to marry someone who insisted on always taking the hard route, thanks to a new trail I led him down that ended up being more uphill than I remembered. Although he has done more biking this year than any other year, and his skills, as well as his legs, have improved massively, I still do more riding than he does, which meant his legs were done by the time we got back to the Cove, while mine still felt fairly fresh. He pedaled and scowled, and balance was restored. There were no more unexpected compliments. It was a relief to know things were back to normal.

We ate when we got home, then grabbed our swimsuits, drove the Subaru up to the trailhead and retrieved the jeep, then went to the pool, where we swam, then soaked in the hot tub until we got too hot, then sat in chairs and soaked up the last slanting rays of sun as it dropped behind Buffalo Mountain. We pretended we were on vacation, and schemed our next move, what we should do if and when we are not doing property management, where we should go after Summit County. Although we like it here, it is possible we find ourselves influenced by the transient lifestyle lived by most people here. They are here for a break, and sometimes the break becomes permanent, and they find it possible to stay here their whole lives, but most of the time, the high cost of living, the floods of people who can work a job that pays less than their living expenses for a year while they decide who they are and what they want come and go with the seasons, taking all the jobs, leaving permanent residents with two options- find something extremely lucrative to do, something that can support life in a resort town, or leave. We would hate to leave Colorado, and leaving our friends here would be hard, but we could leave Summit County if another oportunity presented itself. Yes, I would miss being five minutes from world-class snowboarding, but if I could spend more of the year on my bike, which really is more my thing than snowboarding anyway, would I miss it so much? Especially since, now that we have snowmobiles, we really don't need a resort to get epic turns in deep powder.

My parents were up here last weekend for my dad's birthday, and for the first time in I don't know how long, i did not work while they were here. Instead, they brought their bikes and we spent a lot of time in our saddles. Grandma and Grandpa from Eagle met us on top of Vail Pass and Grandma, Mom, Dad and I coasted down 12 miles to Frisco on the bike path. About a mile or two down from the top, my Dad accidentally rode off the trail, hit his front brake, went over the handlebars, and landed in a heap- not something one wants to see their 50 year old father do. He sprained his wrist, and in the absence of any first aid gear, I tied my windbreaker tightly around it to lend some stability and keep the swelling at bay. He rode the rest of the way down, and we met Grandpa at the Island Grill at the Frisco Bay Marina, where we sat on the upper deck, quenched our thirst and enjoyed views of lake and mountains until the wind and rain chased us away. I rode back to Vail Pass with Grandpas, retrieved the Jeep, went back to Frisco and loaded bikes and people, and returned home to find Bobby and dad seasoning steaks, a birthday cake on the counter.

The next morning, fueled on a breakfast of birthday cake, Mom and I hit the bike path again and rode from Dillon to Frisco, with the plan of turning around when we got to Frisco. When we got there, however, my mom was still feeling fresh, so she called Dad and got permission to extend our ride, and we rode around the entire lake, over Swan Mountain Road. It was no small climb, especially for a flatlander, but with all the bike riding and exercizing and healthy eating she has been doing lately in an attempt to show her body, which gave her a cancer scare this summer, who is boss, she pulled it in fine form. We made a detour at Sapphire Point, an overlook far above the lake, and rested and enjoyed the view, then coasted home. Since my jeep was parked at Dillon, we ate lunch, packed up the car, then she and I rode our bikes down to Dillon Marina, bringing our total for the day up to 18 miles, where Dad met us, we loaded up her bike, and they headed home.


And now, it is time for me to go do something with my day. I am going to take Andy to his best friend's house, where he can romp and wear himself out, and maybe I can go on a longer ride this afternoon than usual.

A house in Kansas, anyone? Make an offer!