Living in Vacation Land

Blue Skies. Skiing. Not Me. You get the idea, anyhow.

Realizing that it has been an embarrassing two weeks since I last posted, I mentally back-tracked over what ‘adventures’ I had over the said time period. Sure, I had a beautiful bluebird cruiser day at Jackson Hole Mountain Resort just two days ago, but is that anything exceptional? The answer is yes, and it would do me and others well to remember that every day in a resort town is fairly exceptional to the general population.

We started the day in typical not-so-alpine fashion with an arrival time just shy of 11am. With 0 inches of new snow in way too many days, we had wisely chosen the go-fast (narrow) skis and were ready to cruise some serious vertical. The snow on the first run was just a hair hard to set a super secure edge but by the second run, the sun had eased it into prime fast and furious skiing conditions. With an open window on Amphitheater Bowl, I set off with the goal of very few turns and was disappointed when the speed didn’t get my heart pumping quite like I remembered. Luckily, Jackson is the perfect place to dial up the steepness and Thunder chairlift provided some stellar steep runs to excite most mortals.

So was it an ‘epic’ ski day? Not even close. But I made a few runs with great friends new and old in a beautiful destination that most feel privileged to visit a week or two a year. Note to self.

Lust of the Day: Cookbooks on the NPR list of “The 10 Best Cookbooks of 2009“

RIP Chivalry

As I was shoved to the back of a crowded bus on the way to work at Teton Village, I couldn’t help but notice several seats unoccupied by butts. The seats were instead utilized by skis, backcountry ski packs and other inanimate objects. While 20-something males enjoyed their coffee with newspapers spread across their wide laps, I stood in the aisle with a pair of boots over my shoulder, one hand on the bar and the other holding a pair of skis. I couldn’t help but think, “chivalry is dead.” A lacrosse logo (a sport I invariably associate with money) on the 20-something’s pants triggered the secondary response of “money can’t buy class.”

Yes, I could have asked them to get a clue and move their stuff, but it was too early for confrontation and I think I work with these people. Still, I fixated on the absurdness of it all. I wasn’t asking these boys/men to give me their seat, I just wanted them to sit a little less comfortably with their skis between their legs and their newspapers folded over so I too could enjoy the luxury of sitting before I performed a very physically demanding job. I wondered if it was their age or maybe, just maybe, our location.

I’ve recently been spending sometime outside my bubble of Jackson in a more “real world” place, and am surprised to discover that a large number of doors are held open as a matter of course. These observations lead me to wonder: is chivalry only dead in Jackson?

Impressing the Boy

SO not me. But I'm working on it. Photo by Jason Williams

I don’t think he knew what he was getting into. When the morning broke into a warm (meaning upper 20’s) bluebird day, he casually said, “This would be a great day to rent a snowmobile for Granite Hotsprings.” Five minutes later I had a $99 sled and trailer secured from Jackson Hole Snowmobile Tours and was stepping out to search for my helmet when he questioned “you have your own helmet?”.

Of course I have my own helmet. I happen to own six helmets for my various sports. However, this helmet required a bit of an explanation of boyfriends past. There was the break-up boyfriend. He was in a vicious cycle of “oh-my-god-it’s-getting-too-serious-let’s-break-up” and “please-oh-please-take-me-back-you-are-the-best-thing-ever”. One time, to woo me back, he offered me a choice: a ‘promise’ ring (as in ‘I promise not to break up with you anymore’) or a dirt bike (because I wanted to do more things together). If you don’t know what I chose, you haven’t been reading my blog very long.

A dirt bike helmet does require a modification piece to make it comfortable for snowmobiles, which is where the snowmobile guide boyfriend came in. He also taught me how to ride a snowmobile, and not just sitting on your butt bumping down the trail, which is how I came to impress this boyfriend (who doesn’t have a moniker yet).

A two-person rental sled is probably the worst machine one can choose for really riding, but as we were driving the ten miles to the hot springs I suggested he let me off near a meadow so he could tear around and have a little fun. Sitting comfortably on his posterior, he dutifully did a few circles, came back and offered me a turn. “Sure, I’ll try for a minute” I replied on one knee as I goosed the throttle and leaned off the high side to bank the sled up to the meadow. I knew the heavy machine would be unwieldy and that if I really went for it I would potentially have to dig the machine out all on my lonesome, but I couldn’t resist. The throttle revved satisfyingly as I turned the skis to the right and hung off the left side to tip the sled onto its left ski. I only held it for a few moments, but it was enough to get my adrenaline going and remind me why snowmobiling can be pretty damn fun. I rode back to put the boy’s eyeballs back in his head as he babbled something about ’sexy’.

Disclaimer: Granite Hot Springs is in the Hoback Canyon, ten miles up the parking lot trailhead. This is a three-hour Nordic ski each way so yes, I rented a snowmobile. Next time I’ll probably ski it, but give me this one lazy pass.

Funny video of the day: HILARIOUS video in line with The Sicky Sick Gnar Gnar Vocab of J-Hole

In Appreciation of Proximity

Hoar frosted trees and dark metal throw sharp contrast on a bluebird day.

At 3:30 I sent an email. By 4:00, I was skinning up the south side of Teton Pass in complete awe of the bluebird sky and 1/4″ hoar frost (hoar frost is a beautiful but dangerous snow crystal). While the conditions warranted prudence, I couldn’t help but lose my mind in the ease of transitioning from work to outside with my favorite outdoor partner. With both of us possessing all the necessary gear, knowledge and desire to use it, it was almost as simple as jumping in the car to head to the grocery store. But as wonderful as all this is, I still find myself asking: can I afford to stay here?

There was a day when I was happy with three roommates in some crappy basement ‘apartment’ in Vail. At the tender age of nineteen, I watched in awe as twenty-somethings who seemingly had it all, chose to leave town to take ‘real’ jobs where they could vacation in the mountains a few times a year. Was it an age-related illness? Was it something in the water? After years accumulating kayaking, climbing, skiing and biking gear along with the ability to use it, why would they throw in the towel and head back to nowhere?

With a few more years under my belt, I’ve come to realize that nowhere is a matter of perception and anywhere outside a resort/tourist town is infinitely more affordable than my chosen haunts. In fact, my current choice is so severe that a quick Google search revealed my county as the highest personal per capita income in the U.S. at $132,728, surpassing Manhattan with $120,790. (article here) Standards of living change, too. These people weren’t bailing out on their dreams; their dreams changed and/or realism set in.

All of the above weighs in as I begin to question my ability to afford this lifestyle and this town in general. When a seemingly average afternoon like this proves to be so extraordinary, the idea that I must find a way to persevere in the land of expensive become prominent. So maybe home ownership and student loan payoffs will have to wait for a while. The raw fact of desk-to-skis in under thirty minutes is a pretty incredible reality.

Crazy French Athlete Video of the Day: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JtL9FQFBqiE

Outsmarted by Skiing Seven-Year-Olds

Over the “rush” season at Jackson Hole Mountain Resort, I once again returned to teaching 7-14 year-olds how to ski. This is a source of endless amusement and wonderment, especially in the private lesson sector. At a fantastic $600 a day for a full-day private less0n, these kids (and their parents) occupy a higher tax bracket than I knew as a child. This became glaringly apparent when I entered the gondola with two children and they began arguing whether the gondola box was bigger or smaller than the little girl’s closet. “Your closet is NOT this big”, scolded the big brother.

“Yes it is, yes it is. My closet at the Cape House is really big” she taunted back. “The Cape House.” Right. Some instructors turn this into a game. The level of bluntness depends on the age of the child, but a favorite question when I taught skiing at Beaver Creek was, “did the plane you took here have just your family or other people too?”.

While the younger children unquestioningly volunteer information, those persnickety tweens offer up unsolicited chatter like, “my dad drives a Porche-Audi-BMW. What do you drive?”, to which I responded (years ago) with, “a Sonoma. Does he have one of those?”. Confused, the child would usually drop the subject, and with this sort of child this is a good thing.

Last week I was skiing with a beautiful feisty Venezuelan girl who asked to see my phone while we were on a hot chocolate break. “How do you know I have one?” I questioned. Rolling her eyes, she let me know that her seven-years was far beyond that sort of naivety and said “I just want to see it.” Quickly locating my pictures, she asked, “Who’s that?” at a snapshot of my boyfriend cooking eggs. I answered honestly, which was my first mistake.

“Where does he live?”. When I responded “five hours away,” she asked where I stayed when I visited him. Uh-oh. And for that matter, why was he in pajamas? Did we sleep in the same bed? Realizing that I was in way, way over my head, I decided now would be the perfect time to change the conversation to English and speak with the other, more naive seven-year-old in my class. I can only hope that when I have kids, I’ll be smart enough to invent a fictitious older brother.

I Only Go Up To Go Down

After years of living in athletic towns like Vail and Boulder, Colorado as well as Jackson, Wyoming, I have noticed two distinct camps of athletes which I have affectionately named “cardio freaks” and “adrenaline junkies”. In case you’re new to this blog, I belong in the later category.

“Cardio freaks” were often on the triathlon team in college. These heart-rate-monitor wearing, leg-shaving guys and gals get their high from breathing hard and harder. Drugs of choice include road bikes with impossibly skinny tires, any running race with a “K” on the end, and little itty-bitty skinny skate-skis. Often eschewing motorized travel in favor of their own two legs, this rare breed of mammal appears to actually enjoy discomfort and is loathe to long days on the couch.

“Adrenaline junkies” breathe hard for one reason- it gets us somewhere cool. We skin up the mountain ridge because we get to ski untracked snow on the way down. We peddle up the gigantic hill because the single track on the other side is oh-so-sweet. In truth, I have the most fun mountain biking when I’m on the edge of crashing. I know there is a science behind all of this, but I’ve experimented enough on myself to know that I respond very favorable to adrenaline. It’s either my chemistry or practice, but in an emergency situation such as swimming Class V whitewater (read: very, very big swirly water), I am calm. Sound is suppressed and I have the mental space to think through my current situation and respond accordingly. The trick is not getting addicted to my calm (or finding other ways to access it), like Dean Potter in this photo.

Dean Potter solo at Taft Point, Yosemite.

There are some athletes who take the adrenaline too far, most of which I have encountered in the climbing community. Often running from a divorce, death or other significant life event, these athletes become addicted to the singular focus that high-intensity athletic endeavors demand. When life is quite literally on the line (pun intended), there is no space in ones mind for the nasty breakup last month, unpaid bills or where dinner is going to come from. Body and mind have a singular purpose, and that is perpetuating life. As athletic skill increases, these situations must get more severe to have the same consequence, hence Mr. Potter slack-lining (tight-rope walking), leashless high above the Yosemite valley floor. As with everything in life, moderation would appear to be key once again.

Word of the Day: Flibbertigibbet -  a silly, flighty, or excessively talkative person. Use it in a sentence.

To Bishop and Back

Touring the East Face of McGee Peak

Before starting a seven-day ski school work stint, I shot down to Bishop, California hoping for a little fun in the sun. However, this little town of 3,500 impressed beyond all expectations.

About four hours east of Los Angeles and an elevation of just over 4,000 feet, Bishop gets only 5 inches of rain a year. Yes, it’s an arid environment, but this stat mostly indicates sunshine – so much that friends who live there call it “the blue hole”. What this meant for me that the recreation possibilities were so numerous that choosing what gear to bring and which day to use it was a challenge.

With only four full days to play, I forced the gear quiver down to two sports – skiing and climbing. My playmate had wanted to also include mountain bikes and kayaks, to which I promptly responded that four sports for four days was ludicrous. Day one started with a back-country ski tour up a sagebrush infested gully. While the snow coverage was less than stellar, the expansive Sierra views were truly exceptional.

Day two was what I was really excited for as I hadn’t been climbing outside since the spring. Owens River Gorge is a popular climbing destination with over 2,000 bouldering problems as well as sport and trad climbs on volcanic tuff and granite, but I was equally excited about the prospect being outside without gloves and still maintaining full dexterity in my fingers. At 55 degrees, I made the experience as much about absorbing the warmth for a long winter ahead as I did about climbing.

Cabin at Champion Mine.

Day three we skied at Mammoth, which may be the most diverse ski area I’ve ever seen as it draws from L.A. At more than 3,500 acres of skiable terrain, Mammoth has a little something to keep most everyone happy, including me. Day four brought an interesting hike to Champion Sparkplug Mine and Black Eagle Camp ruins. Maintained by volunteers, this deserted mining town now allows hikers to stay a night in the spartan cabins and enjoy a bit of history in a mineral museum. The drive up and approach can be a bit confusing and the approach has some seriously sketch washout sections, but if that doesn’t scare you off click here for some fairly poor directions. The easier way, of course, is to go with some rockin’ locals that welcome you into their guest home/garage. After years of traveling adventures, I have learned that friends living in cool places practically guarantee an amazing experience. So who wants to come to Jackson?

Bishop Coffee Shop of the Day: Black Sheep at 124 S. Main St.

Mammoth Tidbit: Mountain employees aren’t allowed to have beards. Hmm.

Vibrating with Women who Rip

The Tetons from Idaho. From Tetoncam.com

The title may seem a bit scandalous, but here “vibrating” is defined as something to do with a  sudden intense sensation or emotion. In this specific instance, it refers to Sunday, when I ventured over Teton Pass to ski nine inches of brand-new powder at Grand Targhee. And the three rippin’ women I went with just made the day better.

A day with the girls is something special indeed in a ski town. An article in the Tahoe Quarterly titled, Sex and the (Ski) City cited that “According to the National Ski Areas Association, the male/female split remains 63 percent male and 37 percent female. Men comprise 70 percent of participants who will ski or snowboard 30 or more times in a season. These are comparable to nationwide surveys of outdoor sports in general.” Ladies in the ski towns sum this up with the succinct saying, “The odds are good but the goods are odd.”

When us rare breed of ladies ventured over to Grand Targhee, it lived up to its nickname “Grand Foghee” at the top of the main lift. However, we were just happy to be off the white strip in Jackson and on some real, honest-to-goodness powder. Even after 9 years (gulp) out west, the sensation of my skis floating atop powder still catches me off-guard. It’s magical and maybe the closest I’ll come to flying. Seeing my friends rip down ahead and behind me on tele and alpine gear made the flight even sweeter.

Appetizer of the Day: Asiago Twists from Vegetarian Times. So deliciously easy. Click here for recipe.

24 Below and No Water

Sometime I go looking for an adventure. Sometimes it finds me. Yesterday, it found me bright and early at 6:30am.

My sister was getting ready for work and said, “Michelle, there’s no water.” Bolting out of bed and cursing all the way, I wondered why I had stopped just shy of pencil thick when I left the water running the night before (standard practice in a log cabin during a Wyoming winter). I should have gone for the full pencil width, but that didn’t matter now. We were officially frozen. When the neighbor knocked on my door at 7am (having seen the lights on) to ask if I had water, he commented that it was currently negative twenty-four outside. I began to worry if the problem was a little bigger than a pencil width and briefly contemplated moving to Miami or Phoenix. By 9am I had confirmed that all four cabins were frozen and had began texting the landlord. Meanwhile, I talked to a sympathetic friend who asked if I was going to get water from the creek. “Yes,” I responded, “I’m going to fill a bucket so I can flush the toilet. The drains aren’t frozen and ice on the banks of the creek looks new and not very thick, so I think I can break it.” His reply was a serious sounding, “I was joking”. Oh. I wasn’t.

The landlord suspected that with all of us running water and all of us frozen, the problem might be at the well house. Blasting a small heater on the pipes exiting the ground, he had us thawed out by 11am. Still, it was enough time to appreciate the marvel that is modern plumbing. When the water froze, I adapted the mind-set that I was on a posh camping trip and knew that I could happily camp for months on end (because I’ve done it). This is a liberating feeling.  While it was true that this camping trip had the added benefit of a warm(ish) house, a stove and drains, I began seriously eying my water consumption. When your water is measure out in actual gallon jugs, you get a real sense for how much you consume. Some sources say the average American uses 80-200 gallons per day. Why the large discrepancy? A large bathtub is 50 gallons alone, so consider the water suck of a nice green lawn in the aforementioned Phoenix.

So for now, I’m trying to appreciate the frugality of water consumption that my no-bathtub cabin forces upon me and start to look at my water consumption on a gallon basis. As for the freeze, the positive spin would be that a gentle environmental awareness reminder is never a bad thing.

Book of the Day: The Geography of Bliss by Eric Weiner. An NPR correspondentt travels the world over measuring the happiness/location correlation. Funny and interesting.

From the White Strip to the White House

Inside the fence at the White House

With dismal snow conditions and no signs of immediate improvement, I accompanied a friend for a long weekend in Washington D.C. and Boston. While there, an old kayaking buddy arranged a few fantastic tours through his employer that resulted in a) my deliberation of jumping the White House fence and b) leaving my Smith sunglasses on top of the Capitol.

Through my new, appropriately themed book, “In the President’s Secret Service” by Ronald Kessler, I have learned that I am not even close to the first person to have such thoughts. These thoughts are, however, a very bad idea.

At eight-foot-high, the reinforced steel fence surrounding the White House doesn’t look very intimating. While I was waiting in line for the White House tour, I didn’t see a single security guy on the grounds. Of course, the agents are purposefully hidden but my impression was that the property has a rather unguarded appearance. This thinking is, of course, asinine. My book has informed be that agents “…know right away if there’s a fence jumper. There are electronic eyes and ground sensors six feet back [from the sidewalk] that are monitored twenty-four hours a day. They sense movement and weight. Infrared detectors are installed closer to the house. You have audio detectors. Every angle is covered by cameras and recorded.”

And if I had actually jumped the fence? “If somebody jumps that fence, ERT is going to get them right away, either with a dog or just themselves. They’ll give the dog a command, and that dog will knock over a two-hundred-fifty-pound man. It will hit him dead center and take him down. The countersniper guys within the Uniformed Division are always watching their backs.”

As for the lost sunglasses, I grabbed a serendipitously timed spot on a very special dome tour of the Capitol where you must be personally accompanied by a congressman. As I was meeting folks for a cocktail directly afterwards, I wore a semi-formal dress and heels. Let’s call this “bad idea number two”.

Proper Attire for a Stair Hike

The Capitol has 365 steps leading to a balcony at the base of the tholos approximately 210 feet above the Capitol’s east front plaza. This is a lot of steep, narrow stairs. Heels are technically not allowed, but being a climber I’ve worn far worse on far steeper. The entire dome is cast iron and truly a beautiful building in a stunning location with sweeping views of the capital city and its neighboring states. Taking pictures on the balcony outside, I removed my sunglasses and set them down. Oops. With visions of sniper teams descending from helicopters to test my poor sunglasses, my vivid imagination estimates that I may have cost taxpayers $500,000 in tactical assault team and bomb detection charges. My pledge to you, my blog readers, is this: I’ll stay away from Washington for a while. After all, heels aren’t even my style.