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.

The White Strip of Death

The White Strip of Death at JHMR

Today I received my very own, unrestricted ski pass to (trumpet fanfare) “The White Strip of Death” at Jackson Hole Mountain Resort. “The White Strip of Death” is not unique to Jackson, but a technical skiing term to describe man’s attempt to open a ski resort on a predetermined date come hell or high water. In our schedule loving society, this is accomplished with numerous artificial snow machines directed along one trail. Skiers, jonsesing after nearly four months of snowlessness, flock to this solitary rock-flecked trail in droves. This is where the death part comes in.

The never-ever skiers. The “honey, I’ll teach you to ski” couples. The nine-year-old straight-liners. The full-face helmet “I’m here to huck” shredders. All of these personalities converge and attempt to share one trail. Some of us refer to this as “the human slalom”, but that’s a desperate attempt to make lite of a sad situation. The situation being, of course, snowlessness. With a 24″ base and 0″ new in the last 144 hours, we optimistically report the mountain as “open” (as of yesterday) and skiing conditions are “packed powder”. Of course,  those paying $2,000 for a pass (and those working for it) would appreciate some “real powder”.

So did I pony up $’s for the privilege of a chair carting my happy self up the hill? Nope. For my pass, I’ll be skiing with those wonderful 7-14 year-olds during peak times. If you’re planning a ski vacation, make note. Peak times at a ski resort (any U.S. ski resort) are between Christmas and New Year’s, President’s weekend (February 13-15) and Spring Break (otherwise known as “March”). The rest of the season, us locals get the mountain to ourselves. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is just the way we want it.

Bookmark of the Day: Bridger-Teton Backcountry Avalanche Hazard & Weather Forecast

Makin’ some Turns

Less than stellar coverage, but happy to be out.

As previously discussed in “The Sicky Sick Gnar Gnar Vocab of J-Hole”, most anything specialized come with its own unique vocabulary terms, and skiing is no exception. We skiers often employ the term “making turns” to denote that we are skiing, because turns is really what the sport is about. As many a nine-year-old in Michigan can attest, going straight on skis isn’t hugely difficult. Although there is some amount of strength and balance involved, straight lining an entire run is typically a fair helping of stupidity coupled with disillusions of invisibility. Straight lining anything in the Rockies is ill-advised as one usually ends up careening off a mountain rather than hitting a car in the parking lot (my sister was just the nine-year-old who would forgo turns in favor of stopping via impact with cars/buildings/adults). So in my desperation to do something, ANYTHING in the off-season I decided to make some turns. Two, to be exact.

The ‘off-season’ in Jackson (fall and spring) forces residents to become increasingly creative with their outdoor endeavors and I attribute the first day of my 09-10 ski season directly to this fact. The snow line was high enough to make Teton Pass, at 8,431 feet, marginally acceptable. We parked the car at the top with another dozen wishful thinkers and started skinning south. For those of you who don’t backcountry ski (and I wouldn’t recommend it without avalanche safety classes and a good group of backcountry friends), “skinning” involves attaching synthetic skins to backcountry skis to make purchase when going uphill. Along the ascent, we passed bowl after beautiful bowl. Like a siren call, these sections tempted me with their illusions of white, fluffy coverage, but a thorough love of my intact knees and face told me to wait until those logs were buried under a solid snow pack. But not everyone up there thought the same.

Another couple had veered off the skin track and were waiting, contemplating a partial downhill descent. Wishing them luck, we wondered if we weren’t being overly cautious but quickly dismissed it as wisdom and experience. On the way back, however, we stopped and chatted with them skinning back for lap two. “There’s a good 10 inches of faceted snow off the ground and a nice light fluffy layer off of that. It’s pretty good!” was the report. It was enough to make me seriously consider following them, but I wondered how much sheer luck was involved with their line. So feeling wiser than lucky, we removed our skins and glided back towards the car. I only made two turns in the skin track on the way back, but man did they feel good.

Pro Deal of the Day: up to 60% off Horny Toad. If you want the details, send me an email by filling out form here and I’ll email you the goods.

Animal Planet – In My House

So it’s not a conventional house – it’s a real-deal old log cabin. And it hasn’t been updated a whole lot since its inception in 1920 (aside from electricity and my high-speed wireless). As such, there is an appropriate flow of what I’d like to think of as “wildlife”.

Snowflake, the weasel.

It all started with the weasel. I was sitting at the kitchen table, reading, when I heard a noise coming from the bathroom. Looking over, I saw a small white face peeking out from behind the toilet. Like any rational being, I promptly jumped on top of the chair (because a weasel couldn’t possibly climb a chair) and started yelling at my boyfriend that there was “something” in the bathroom. He froze on the couch for a moment and the weasel cocked his head as they both wondered, “what’s wrong with her?”.

The boyfriend was beyond excited saying nonsensical things like “that’s why there’s no mice!” and “we can feed him- he’ll be like a pet”. I warmed to the idea that this was the reason there were no mice and we were careful not to startle him when he showed up every few weeks. Sadly, we never saw Snowflake past that winter, but he was only the first in a long line of critters that have acclimated me to life in a log cabin.

Fast forward to Friday morning, when I was laying in the place halfway between asleep and awake. I vaguely recognized a gnawing noise and thought I had a mouse. Forcing my brain towards alertness, I tried to identify the source of the gnawing from bed. Was he on the food shelves? The floor? The gnawing seemed to turn to a fluttering and I began to think perhaps I had a bat. Grabbing my phone and tentatively stepping into the kitchen, I dialed my boyfriend and said, “something is in my house.” He replied that if it was a bat, I would need to put on gloves and get a towel to capture him. My weak response was, “I don’t think I can do that.” He responded that since he was about 6 hours away, I would have to do it. I now have a new appreciation for pioneering women. It’s not that they were inherently fearless and courageous- it’s that they had no choice. So as a women with no choice, I approached the rustling area to discover a field mouse in the bottom of the trash. I covered the trash and brought it outside, where I spied my neighbor’s cat on their porch. Grabbing the cat and placing it directly in front of the garbage bin, I tipped it over and let the cat sniff. She smelled nothing and ambled away as the mouse ran the other direction, probably looping back towards my cabin.

Anyone know the type of spider?

The very next morning I was washing breakfast dishes and became aware of a buzzing happening in the kitchen window a few feet from my face. A crazy black and orange spider had just caught a common fly and was moving to wrap him up. I snapped a few pictures, and while I was reviewing them she disappeared with her kill to somewhere unbeknownst to me.

This is the wild Wyoming world I live in, but I’m feeling like my cabin could be portrayed in a pretty negative light. When my computer maladies are over, I pledge to post pictures of the fabulous views I share with rodents and bugs large and small. At the end of the day, there’s no place I’d rather be.

Kayaking in the Snow

When I worked with the public, people were constantly mistaking me for a meteorologist. “We’re thinking about coming in Aprtober, what will the weather be like then?” was put on me several times a day. My steady answer was “it could be warm, it could be snowing. I would come prepared for anything.” If you want to get out regularly and live in the mountains, these are words to live by.

"Well, we're here. Who knew it would be snowing?"

When visiting Casper, my friend suggested we go sea kayaking on a cold October day and I thought “sure, that could be interesting”. After all, I’d kayaked class III in 20-30 degree weather, so a little fall chill on a peaceful lake didn’t seem like a bad idea. However, when it started snowing hard enough to prompt a last-minute purchase of hand and foot warmers at a gas station on the drive, I began to get slightly concerned. Our end destination was Lake Alcova, about 40 miles Southwest of Casper. We may have used four-wheel-drive to pull into the parking lot. By the time we ready to put the tandem kayak in the water, it was damn near approaching a blizzard.

I warned my friend that I’d spent too much time in cold water to put up with it for long. If things were just plain sucky (a technical term), I would want to get back in the warm car a lot sooner than later. He agreed, but I suspect he was secretly overjoyed that I didn’t call him nuts from the get-go. Donning a dry suit (previously known in my whitewater days as a “drowning bag” from their tendency to fill up with water when torn), brimmed hat, two pairs of gloves and sunglasses to stand in for goggles, we stupidly pushed away from shore.

I really began to think we were crazy when the ducks started giving me looks. However, the intense fog, snow and my unfamiliarity with the area made the lake magical and more than a little spooky. The excitement kept me going. We would silently paddle up to towering shadowy figures that would reveal themselves at the last second to be brilliantly red rock islands or looming canyon walls. Unsuspecting duck flocks scattered as they quacked, “just when we thought tourist season was over, these two dumb asses get a bright idea.” At least, that’s what I think they were saying.

I finally threw the towel in when the water dripping down the shaft of my paddle soaked my outer gloves and my hands were more involuntarily curled around the paddle than physically capable of independent movement. On the way back, my friend asked how the foot pegs were working out. “Foot pegs?” I said, “What foot pegs?”. A quick shuffle of my feet revealed conveniently located foot pegs that would allow me to get brace myself in the boat and get much more weight in every paddle stoke. We were 10 minutes from the take-out (river talk for the end of the trip), but boy did we fly. So the lesson is this: familiarize yourself with the gear before your adventure. Just because you’re a whitewater stud doesn’t mean you know jack about a tandem sea kayak.

Song of the day: Another Way to Die (click on song name to listen, then hit “back” in your browser to return to blog) by Jack White and Alicia Keys. It’s from Quantum of Solace and has some rockin’ piano.

The Sicky Sick Gnar Gnar Vocab of J-Hole

Image from Jackson Hole Mountain Resort's Site

It has come to my attention over the years that mountain towns have a language all their own. Nowhere is this more true than in my beloved town, Jackson.

First allow me to clarify one important point. I live in the town of Jackson, Wyoming which is located in the valley of Jackson Hole. ‘Hole’ is an old name for valley. Jackson Hole is also the name of the ski resort (full name: Jackson Hole Mountain Resort). But please stop asking me if Jackson, Wyoming is near Jackson Hole. Just remember: locals live in Jackson, and tourists visit Jackson Hole. Some of the new kids call it “J-Hole”. They need to re-read the above paragraph or I need to get with the times. One of the two.

So in J-Hole, the bro-bras are known for dropping some pretty sick shit. Sometimes they’re just spraying, but we really do rip wicked lines with top to bottom face shots because our gnar gnar mountain IS the shit. If this doesn’t make any sense to you, see below.

Urban dictionary defines gnar gnar as: Shortened modernized version of gnarly typically used by stoners. e.g. “Dude that shit is gnar gnar.” Since Jackson doesn’t really differentiate our general population from the “stoners” (they are one in the same), I’ll go along with this one.

“Dropping” and “hucking” are ways to describe subjecting one’s body to the undeniable forces of gravity via a terrain park or just an old-fashioned cliff. In other words, jumping off “stuff” with one or two sticks attached to your feet. Incidentally, Jackson is a great place for knee operations and physical therapy in general.

Our “lines” are the routes we choose on our way down the mountain and terms like “shit” and “sick” actually mean exactly the opposite of their literal interpretation. When someone is good at sliding over the snow, they “rip”. “That chick rips” is one of the higher compliments a woman can receive in this valley.

So who are the “bro-bras”? They are the guys and gals who use insistently and excessively use these terms. When they brag/exaggerate about their brilliant gravitational defiance, the rest of us say they’re “spraying”. And nobody likes a sprayer. There is a lot of raw talent in this valley, but the coolest athletes are the ones who are secure enough with their talent to put it out there for the world to see and let the buzz build on its own- or not at all. After years immersed in this environment, it really just comes down to how much fun you’re having out there.

Amazing talented athlete video of the day: Inspired Bicycles – Danny MacAskill April 2009

The Porsche 911 and Sex

Beware of the "cute little car"

Maybe it’s because I’m from Michigan. Maybe it’s my techno-geek side. Maybe it’s just sheer awe at the marvels of modern engineering. Whatever it is, I am in lust with the incredible sexiness of the Porsche 911.

It started innocuously enough. My friend was considering buying one but wasn’t sure if he was actually going to pull the trigger. Suddenly, my email inbox had a simple “he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse” message with a picture of this cute little car.  And then I met the car…

If this car was a person, he would either: a) kick my ass for calling him “cute”, or, b) sneer at me and turn on his well-heeled Prada shoe with a “I can’t be bothered with you” look on his face. Probably the latter.

This car is sex on four wheels. Seriously. With a thumpin’ Bose sound system and sleek black leather interior (did you expect anything less?), it just exudes “want me, want me, want me” with every sensuous curve. Being an ’04 Anniversary Edition adds an extra touch of exclusivity with an interior plaque claiming its rank in the limited production of 1,963 cars (the number represents the birth of the 911 coupe). And yes, I want it, but adventures with this kind of price tag will have to wait for a few more years.

Fun Wiki Fact: Hoover, Alabama has a Porsche police car.  “In 2007, a motorist’s 2001 Porsche 911 was searched during a traffic stop by Hoover, Alabama police, then police department seized the vehicle after the Hoover police found 10 kilograms of cocaine hidden inside two compartments. Since then the vehicle was redecorated with a wing, light bar, and rear window lights.^[3] The vehicle was unveiled in 2009 as Hoover Police Department police car.^[4]

Color of the day: Polar Silver Metallic. Need you ask why?

Book of the day: “South of Broad” by Pat Conroy. Quite possibly the best book I’ve read in years.

Apples in Paradise

Be sure to get directions: pvorchard.blogspot.com.

With autumn quickly drawing to close, I decided to embrace the last days by visiting an orchard with fresh cider and apples for the picking. Either that or I was compensating for not having a boyfriend with apple trees I could pick off of. One of the two.

I browsed campsites near Logan, Utah on the U.S. National Forest Campground Guide. The site certainly isn’t great, but the information is all there if you’re willing to look around. I was torn between Sunrise Campground in Garden City and Spring Hollow in Logan, but finally settled on Spring Hollow based on the elevation (lower, thus warmer) and close proximity to Logan. At four hours from Jackson and only 6.6 miles from the town of Logan, Spring Hollow was tucked just inside Logan Canyon and understandably popular. I doubt we would have found a site without a reservation during any other week of the summer, but the brisk weather culled a few of the less hardy campers and we were able to pull right in.

Tent Sweet Tent at Spring Hollow Campground

The $15 campground was minimal but adequate- vault toilets, water spigots and picnic tables with fire rings at every site. Although the web sites referenced mentioned no tent pads, almost every spot had a beautiful flat area for a tent.

Paradise Valley Orchard was a 30 minute drive the next morning. It was small but the trees had copious amount of fruit and the owner was friendly. An old ski bum, he had done the original land survey at my old stomping ground of Eagle-Vail and Beaver Creek in the late ’70′s. He went on to explain that he did “this” because he got January and February off to ski. When I mentioned I wanted to get some fresh eggs, we headed out back to the chicken coup to see if the ladies had laid a few more to round out the dozen. The cider he sold is the best I’ve had since I left Michigan, maybe even the best I’ve ever had.

A gorgeous branch of fruit

The cider alone was worth the trip, but the stunning fall colors and wonderful fresh food made the drive worth every minute. Highly recommended, although I would strongly suggest a reservation for the campsite, which can be made online. We just got lucky, which is always nice.