I round the corner of my condo complex, donning a Target synthetic sweater, a towel wrapped around my swim suit-clad body and flip flops. I've left the hot tub that, beyond the next building, overlooks the mountains and what has finally turned into a blue sky day.
Walking down the long hallway from the stairs that lead to the hot tub balcony, I pass the ladybug doormat... the simple "WELCOME" doormat outlined in green, and come to the winterish pine cone mat that marks the entrance to my home.
No, it's not mine, but I live here. As I approach the door and grab the handle, I think to myself, "I can't believe I live here. For most people, this is but a dream."
I continue the introspective conversation, "Remember that, Jan. Whenever you think you're taking the mountains for granted, remember that you're living here. You're living the dream."
It's funny, I catch myself taking this setting for granted often. I get frustrated at the distances between places. I wonder why I get stuck behind the City Market truck on Hoosier Pass, slowing to 5 mph on the hairpin curves. But then I see the likes of Quandary Peak rising to my left, and I'm reminded of the majesty of this place: the mountains. The Rockies. The wild parts of the West, still here.
I remember sitting behind two young boys on the Summit Stage during the March Spring Break portion of the ski season. At that point, I was asking myself how long the lift lines would be, if I really had time to make some turns, and was fiddling with my MP3 player to make sure it was working.
Something crept into my thoughts. Those boys and their conversation. They were craning their necks to see the tops of the jagged peaks above Officer's Gulch. In a crowded bus, those brothers (or what seemed to be brothers) were awed at the awesomeness of the Colorado mountains.
I stopped what I was doing. I watched them. I looked at the ridge myself. I took it in for what it is.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Athletes, not musicians
In the mountains, those nine letters are what it's all about. The MOUNTAINS. Anything having to do with them is what's on everyone's mind.
I noticed this today when driving to Silverthorne to do errands. I've started listening to Krystal 93.7 because those guys have a fantastic line up. Not just that, they're local, and it's always nice to support local radio in this age of DJing a mountain radio station from Kansas.
Anyway, I was shocked and amused, as I was turning off the Dam Road, to hear a sound byte from Lindsey Vonn.
"Hey guys, this is Lindsey Vonn, and you're listening to Krystal 93."
A normal sound byte, yes, but then again....
It took me a second to register that I'd just listened to Lindsey Vonn. Isn't she an athlete? I thought. I then thought, in no way, shape or form - to my knowledge at least - does she have a hit record, a number one hit or a concert in the works. And then: Aren't musicians the ones announcing what we're listening to?
"Howdy there, this is Shania Twain and you're listening to Country 104."
Now that makes more sense for a radio station.
Nonetheless, Vonn's voice it was, and it makes sense: A champion skier born and bred in Summit County has EVERYTHING to do with the mountain radio station and the music it plays.
-----
DISCLAIMER: Don't get me wrong. I love Krystal 93.7 and I love Vonn (in an admiring sense). The connection between the two, though, was amusing.
I noticed this today when driving to Silverthorne to do errands. I've started listening to Krystal 93.7 because those guys have a fantastic line up. Not just that, they're local, and it's always nice to support local radio in this age of DJing a mountain radio station from Kansas.
Anyway, I was shocked and amused, as I was turning off the Dam Road, to hear a sound byte from Lindsey Vonn.
"Hey guys, this is Lindsey Vonn, and you're listening to Krystal 93."
A normal sound byte, yes, but then again....
It took me a second to register that I'd just listened to Lindsey Vonn. Isn't she an athlete? I thought. I then thought, in no way, shape or form - to my knowledge at least - does she have a hit record, a number one hit or a concert in the works. And then: Aren't musicians the ones announcing what we're listening to?
"Howdy there, this is Shania Twain and you're listening to Country 104."
Now that makes more sense for a radio station.
Nonetheless, Vonn's voice it was, and it makes sense: A champion skier born and bred in Summit County has EVERYTHING to do with the mountain radio station and the music it plays.
-----
DISCLAIMER: Don't get me wrong. I love Krystal 93.7 and I love Vonn (in an admiring sense). The connection between the two, though, was amusing.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
New words
The Washington Post's Mensa Invitational once again invited readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition.
Here are the winners:
1. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time.
2. Ignoranus: A person who's both stupid and an asshole.
3. Intaxicaton: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.
4. Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.
5. Bozone ( n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.
6. Foreploy: Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.
7. Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high
8. Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
9. Inoculatte: To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
10. Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)
11. Karmageddon: It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.
12. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.
13.. Glibido: All talk and no action.
14. Dopeler Effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.
15. Arachnoleptic Fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
16. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
17. Caterpallor ( n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you're eating.
Here are the winners:
1. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time.
2. Ignoranus: A person who's both stupid and an asshole.
3. Intaxicaton: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.
4. Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.
5. Bozone ( n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.
6. Foreploy: Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.
7. Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high
8. Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
9. Inoculatte: To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
10. Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)
11. Karmageddon: It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.
12. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.
13.. Glibido: All talk and no action.
14. Dopeler Effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.
15. Arachnoleptic Fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
16. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
17. Caterpallor ( n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you're eating.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Epic can't explain it
Skittle thugs call it gnar-gnar pow-pow.
I call it bliss.
Woke up this morning to that feeling of... "I don't want to do anything. But you have the whole day off. You better do something."
I'd just gotten the text message from Winter Park, announcing six inches of fresh snow over the pass. I sighed to myself, thinking, "Surely, Copper didn't get any of that."
And a half hour later, when I finally got out of bed, I logged onto skireport.com.
17 INCHES OF FRESH SNOW AT MONARCH???, I thought. I'M GOING!!!
Figuring it was worth a shot to get AL and Donny on board with my scheme to leave at 8:30 (well after one SHOULD leave for a powder day at Monarch, a two hour drive away), I went and sat on AL's bed.
"Wake up," I said.
She shook her head no.
"Wake up," I repeated. "I have a question to ask you."
She squinted through half-shut eyes with an inquisitive look.
"Do you have to ski with your family today or do you want to go ski a foot and a half of new snow at Monarch?"
Her eyes opened a little more as the words penetrated the deep sleep she was emerging from.
"Ask Donny what he wants to do," she said.
In the other room, her six-foot-five cousin Donny was curled into a sleeping bag, still snoozing despite the excitement I exuded.
"Donny," I said. "Do you want to go ski fresh tracks at Monarch?"
His eyes snapped open and he rolled over to stretch as he muttered, "Maybe."
By quarter to eight, I had both on board to head for the hills south of Leadville, through Buena Vista and past Salida. By quarter to nine, we were in the car and on the way, with Donny's comment accompanying us the whole way: "I think that's the fastest we've gone from being dead asleep to getting on the road."
With Jurassic Five and Mighty Mouse tunes wafting through the vehicle, we traversed the scenic landscape of the collegiate peaks, the Arkansas River and the San Isabel National Forest, waking up slowly as the sun's rays awakened the frozen valleys.
By the time we got to Salida, the sun was brilliant, and AL admitted she was wondering where the snow was that the forecast promised to be hovering all day. But by the time we climbed near to the summit of Monarch Pass, her four-wheel-drive Exploder was our best friend.
And so ensues an epic day, riding 11 inches of fresh on top of six inches on top of 11 inches two days prior.
How can one explain the exhilaration of surfing down Mirkwood Bowl? Of floating through and around the trees off Garfield Chair and Christmas Trees Peak? Of hucking a cornice and falling into the closest thing one can get to our youthful cloud visions?
It's breathlessness as snow puffs from the ground at each turn, hitting your face like waves pounding the sand at the beach. It's bliss as there's not a sound throughout that 1,000-foot drop but for the soft snow falling - and the high five and thrilled comment of joy to fellow skiiers and riders at the base of the run.
On the way home, we realized the cold toes, fingers and faces didn't matter during the day. As we chowed down on the food we'd forgotten, we reminisced about the day. And as we emerged from the Monarch Cloud, still dumping on the mountain still unknown to many, the sun shone on the awe-inspiring San Isabel forest with its mountains and valleys, cliffs and dips, rivers and creeks and homes tucked into the landscape.
We looked at each other and sighed. It was good.
I call it bliss.
Woke up this morning to that feeling of... "I don't want to do anything. But you have the whole day off. You better do something."
I'd just gotten the text message from Winter Park, announcing six inches of fresh snow over the pass. I sighed to myself, thinking, "Surely, Copper didn't get any of that."
And a half hour later, when I finally got out of bed, I logged onto skireport.com.
17 INCHES OF FRESH SNOW AT MONARCH???, I thought. I'M GOING!!!
Figuring it was worth a shot to get AL and Donny on board with my scheme to leave at 8:30 (well after one SHOULD leave for a powder day at Monarch, a two hour drive away), I went and sat on AL's bed.
"Wake up," I said.
She shook her head no.
"Wake up," I repeated. "I have a question to ask you."
She squinted through half-shut eyes with an inquisitive look.
"Do you have to ski with your family today or do you want to go ski a foot and a half of new snow at Monarch?"
Her eyes opened a little more as the words penetrated the deep sleep she was emerging from.
"Ask Donny what he wants to do," she said.
In the other room, her six-foot-five cousin Donny was curled into a sleeping bag, still snoozing despite the excitement I exuded.
"Donny," I said. "Do you want to go ski fresh tracks at Monarch?"
His eyes snapped open and he rolled over to stretch as he muttered, "Maybe."
By quarter to eight, I had both on board to head for the hills south of Leadville, through Buena Vista and past Salida. By quarter to nine, we were in the car and on the way, with Donny's comment accompanying us the whole way: "I think that's the fastest we've gone from being dead asleep to getting on the road."
With Jurassic Five and Mighty Mouse tunes wafting through the vehicle, we traversed the scenic landscape of the collegiate peaks, the Arkansas River and the San Isabel National Forest, waking up slowly as the sun's rays awakened the frozen valleys.
By the time we got to Salida, the sun was brilliant, and AL admitted she was wondering where the snow was that the forecast promised to be hovering all day. But by the time we climbed near to the summit of Monarch Pass, her four-wheel-drive Exploder was our best friend.
And so ensues an epic day, riding 11 inches of fresh on top of six inches on top of 11 inches two days prior.
How can one explain the exhilaration of surfing down Mirkwood Bowl? Of floating through and around the trees off Garfield Chair and Christmas Trees Peak? Of hucking a cornice and falling into the closest thing one can get to our youthful cloud visions?
It's breathlessness as snow puffs from the ground at each turn, hitting your face like waves pounding the sand at the beach. It's bliss as there's not a sound throughout that 1,000-foot drop but for the soft snow falling - and the high five and thrilled comment of joy to fellow skiiers and riders at the base of the run.
On the way home, we realized the cold toes, fingers and faces didn't matter during the day. As we chowed down on the food we'd forgotten, we reminisced about the day. And as we emerged from the Monarch Cloud, still dumping on the mountain still unknown to many, the sun shone on the awe-inspiring San Isabel forest with its mountains and valleys, cliffs and dips, rivers and creeks and homes tucked into the landscape.
We looked at each other and sighed. It was good.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Fur-lined hoods
Leadville. Not like any other place on earth.
I'd never been to the quaint town nestled among 14ers before, but dollar microbrews at the Scarlet Lady sounded like it would fit nicely into my new ski bum budget. Not to mention, my college buddy and Frisco roommate was talking up the outing pretty irresistibly.
Being that I'd moved to Frisco two weeks earlier, I didn't know the Leadville scene. That it's mountain men and women gathered together in a town that hibernates throughout the winter except when 30-somethings and under congregate at the bars at night. That it boasts $250 monthly rent for square footage a metropolitan wouldn't believe. That it's so down-to-earth, residents live under pool tables.
I should have known, being a former Rawlins, Wyo. resident, where going out means "uglifying," as a friend once said, to avoid the creepers. But I didn't. So, I showed up gaper-style in my down vest with its fur-lined hood. And a bright long-sleeve with earrings and makeup.
That night, I didn't know anything was wrong. That I had clearly labeled myself as an outsider, not only in ski country but in the place - Leadville - where the "mountain life" emanates like well-fermented trash.
Let's just say I got more respect when I showed up to the Scarlet Lady's microbrews night in my old Spyder under-armor.
Still wearing makeup.
Still donning earrings.
But an all-the-wiser local.
I'd never been to the quaint town nestled among 14ers before, but dollar microbrews at the Scarlet Lady sounded like it would fit nicely into my new ski bum budget. Not to mention, my college buddy and Frisco roommate was talking up the outing pretty irresistibly.
Being that I'd moved to Frisco two weeks earlier, I didn't know the Leadville scene. That it's mountain men and women gathered together in a town that hibernates throughout the winter except when 30-somethings and under congregate at the bars at night. That it boasts $250 monthly rent for square footage a metropolitan wouldn't believe. That it's so down-to-earth, residents live under pool tables.
I should have known, being a former Rawlins, Wyo. resident, where going out means "uglifying," as a friend once said, to avoid the creepers. But I didn't. So, I showed up gaper-style in my down vest with its fur-lined hood. And a bright long-sleeve with earrings and makeup.
That night, I didn't know anything was wrong. That I had clearly labeled myself as an outsider, not only in ski country but in the place - Leadville - where the "mountain life" emanates like well-fermented trash.
Let's just say I got more respect when I showed up to the Scarlet Lady's microbrews night in my old Spyder under-armor.
Still wearing makeup.
Still donning earrings.
But an all-the-wiser local.
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