Your blogger has left the building. Find her over at: http://www.altitudeproblem.blogspot.com/

Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where it always happens that things created in a hurry become permanent fixtures and after a few years they make no sense at all. Your blogger realizes that she outgrew the "Frog" nickname about a year after it was the inspiration for a blog URL created on a night seriously lacking in creativity. Now my faithful few have a hard time finding me, because the title of my blog in no way resembles my URL. So no longer will your blogger be found at summitfrog.blogspot.com. But not to fear- I have not moved far. Just click the above link to find more pointless ramblings, reporting on trivial matters, and observations that seem genious...until seen in print.

Hello and Welcome to An Altitude Problem. I sit here when I should be at work, and I did try to go be useful, but I was banished until after the storage unit was cleaned out and all the excess stuff inside taken to the dump. Apparently, I am a little too committed to keeping things out of landfills. I immediately start separating a pile for Goodwill, a pile for Yahoo Freecycle (a local forum dedicated to keeping things out of landfills by getting the word out where such items can be had for free) a pile for ReCycle Ski and Sport, a pile to donate to my mom's sewing circle and a homeless shelter. This annoys B, the anti-hoarder. I am trying hard not to think about all the towels and sheets that could have been used by the homeless, all the stuff that someone, somewhere, could have used that is now buried forever, taking up space and completely useless.

I spent a little time of my own at the landfill this morning, but it was not landfill-related. I saw a friend had posted on facebook that Oro Grande was dry and ready to ride, so I loaded up bike and dog and drove to the Dillon Trailhead, even though the other end of the trail is much closer to my house. I was not sure if the trail would be dry in the trees behind the landfill. turns out, it was, and I rode the entire length of the Oro grande trail, only finding about forty feet of trail muddy enough to stick to my tires and flick onto my legs. Even there, it was not deep enough to make my sidewalls muddy. I am completely ecstatic that mountain biking is already possible in Summit County, even though it is on the most tame trail around. I'll bet it's another six weeks, though, before the Ranch is dry enough. I pretend I am already racing, that tough broads are ahead of me, and I feel terribly inadequate as my burning legs churn to keep up, catch up, and my breathing becomes more strangled gasps than rhythmic inhales and exhales. I do not know why I do this to myself. But I have come to the conclusion that I must have a terrible inferiority complex, because everything must be a race with me. Even when I am the only person in a five mile radius, I still race. I do not like being last, even in an imaginary queue. I don't even like not being in the lead. Deep down, on a barely conscious level, I believe that failure in any area at all must certainly mean that I, myself, am a failure. It leads me to alienate others by my fierce competitiveness, makes me have the worst crashes. And even though I know this, I can not bring myself to relax and just enjoy the ride and slow down to let the burning ease out of my thighs and calves. At least not until I am a safe distance in the lead.

Speaking of Yahoo Freecycle, I scored a bike trainer for free the other day that I am trying to learn how to ride. It is the type that consists of three rolling drums that I am supposed to balance on top of while pedaling. So far, I have not moved out of the doorway, so I can catch myself when I start to fall over. B makes fun of me, because I am riding indoors wearing protective gear. In my defense, my elbows would be rather bruised if I were not wearing the elbow guards, because of all the bracing myself against the doorway. I suspect I will be a much better rider once I get it mastered. In the meantime, I am actually having a lot of fun. There is nothing boring about stationary biking if there is nothing to hold one upright. At least not yet. My knuckles are white from the time I climb on until the time I dismount.

Until later...I suspect the deed is done by now, the trip to the landfill is over, and my help would probably be appreciated again.

Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where spring just cannot come fast enough for the green-starved citizens of 9,350 feet. Keystone is a ghost town. Quiet streets, the few employees wondering aimlessly, the shock of the sudden exodus evident in the way they force conversation with the one or two people who stumble, lost, into the quiet, empty village square. Restaurants and bars still have drink specials on chalkboards and whiteboards in front of dark, quiet windows displaying closed signs. The distant roar of snowmobiles on the mountain seems loud as the resort holds it's breath, afraid to move, lest the madness start again. Five story buildings tower, almost menacing in their emptiness, over pedestrian walkways that suddenly seem too broad in the absence of clattering ski boots, dragging metal-edged equipment, skis and snowboards lining the edges while their owners down shots in the bars, loud music, loud children, loud adults, loud clothing.

B, Andy, and yours truly stayed in the county exactly one and one-half days after Keystone closed. I spent the morning of the day after working, then climbed Keystone in the evening instead of staying home and packing for our mini vacation we had been looking forward to for two months.

I hit keystone with perfect timing. I started up River Run hill at 4:30 ish, and was drenched in sweat by the time I reached the Gondola Midstation. I unzipped the bottom half of my hiking pants and let the legs fall around my boots, keeping the snow from falling down inside my boots as it was kicked up by the tails of my snowshoes. As I was doing so, Andy found a big pile of poo to roll in, to my horror. I actually doubt it was from an animal. He rarely rolls in animal poo, but find something in the woods that a liftie left behind, and it's the creme de la creme of poo-rolling. I followed him to the top, 2,350 feet in two miles, gagging when the wind blew past him and toward me. By the time we got to the top, he had most of it scrubbed off from rolling down hills in the snow.

About a half-hour after we started climbing, I heard snowcats grinding up the hill below me. Sure enough, while I climbed, they groomed the mountain. The snowcat passed me a half-dozen times, the driver waving, probably glad for at least two other living things on the empty mountain. I hit fresh groomage for the last quarter of the climb, crested the top, took some pictures of the deserted slopes and the weird, hazy sunset, jammed my snowshoes into my backpack, strapped into my board, which cut painfully into my ankles since I was not wearing snowboard boots, took a few more pictures, and started down on fresh corderoy, not fifteen minutes old. Andy kicked his pace into manic high gear, racing along behind me, his tongue lolling out of the corner of his big grin, thrilled beyond thrilled that he got to run without being held back. The dog loves four things the very most- running, having his collar romoved and getting his neck scratched, a fresh rawhide, and rolling in disgusting things.

We got home about 8:00, after speeding a bit and constantly watching Andy in the rear-view mirror and yelling "up-up-up-up!" every time his head drooped and his front legs started to buckle, since keeping him in a sitting position was the only way to keep his still-soiled self from rubbing off on the back seat. B was dancing impatiently in the driveway, a bit squiffy that I felt the need to go on a four hour trek to exercize the dog when a 30 minute bike ride would have sufficed, and that I had not gotten more accomplished to prepare to be gone the next three days. I tied Andy to the deck while I cleaned out the car, picked up Andy's leavings from the yard, took out the trash. Finally, B left to take a load of stuff to the office and make a quick run to the bike shop for a strap for the bike rack, and I gingerly took Andy inside and made him sit in the shower while I scrubbed his neck and the sides of his face with an insane amount of shampoo and a rag that I immediately threw away, soaked his soiled collar in a detergent and bleach solution, washed him again, and then again, towel dried him, and booted him from the bathroom while I turned up the hot water and took my own long, hot shower.

That night and the next morning, we attempted to clean the disaster that has been our house for the last six weeks, packed our gear, changed out ski racks for bike racks, loaded up the bikes, all of our backpacks, water bags and water bottles, Andy's food and toys and rawhide bones and bed, and, once it was all in the car, hit the road...to the office. We worked in the office for several hours, technically making that day my 44th consecutive day without a day off, then, finally, hit westbound I-70.

The tension melted away as the landscape got greener. We checked into our motel at Moab, unloaded our bikes and a very clean, soft, fragrant Andy, and went for a leisurely ride around town, Andy trotting along beside me, leash looped over my handlebar. Dinner was beer cheese soup and pizza at Zak's, where B thinks no trip to Moab would be complete without, and we crashed in our bed at the motel, Andy vying for space between us until he was unceremoniously ousted and told to sleep in his own bed on the floor. He knows that our bed at home is most definitely off-limits, but any other bed, he is happy to invite himself into.

The next morning, we drove Andy to Karen's Canine Campground. We left him in Karen's care, in the company of two giant, lazy Burmese Mountain Dogs, various other dogs, and a six month old Golden Retriever, with whom, we later heard, Andy experienced love at first sight. The two of them reportedly raced in circles for hours on end, pogo-ing through wading pools, and expending all their puppy energy, all their reserve energy, and still kept going. We decided to pay an extra five dollars to leave him there overnight so we would not have to be back by 4:30 pick-up time.

B and I had breakfast burritos and drove to Poison Spider trailhead, where we unloaded and lubricated our bikes and hit the uphill. We hit the weather right on the nose, an absolutely gorgeous day. Seventy degrees, no wind, we pedaled through cool, crisp air and warm sun for four hours. The top of the mesa, other than all the sand traps, was a series of slickrock knobs, fast descents carrying momentum into sudden, steep ascents, hundred mile views in shades of reds, blues, purples and greens, reaching to the backdrop of the snow-covered La Sal mountains. Thanks to the fact that not a month has gone by this winter without at least a bike ride or two on either snowpacked trails or pavement, I did not have to wait for my balance to return after a winter out of the saddle, as did B, nor did my quads start burning quite as fast as his did. Nine miles into the ride, we hit the end of the Mesa, and stood at the top of the Portal trail, which would complete our loop back down to the car. We were lucky to catch up to a group of bikers who had ridden Poison Spider before, which kept us from taking a few pointless spurs. As we all stood at the top of the Portal trail, another group rode up, and their leader began discribing the descent.

"It gets a little narrow a time or two. You can ride it it you really want to, but it's a long fall. I'm gonna dismount at the overlook, there's a little wider spot just before the bottom drops out."

I looked at B. "Well, that sounded encouraging."

The bottom did drop out. At one point, I stopped because I was becoming acutely aware that the view ahead and below me of the Colorado River and Moab Valley was demanding more of my attention than the trail could safely spare me. I turned to B. stopping behind me. "Oh, my freaking wow", I mouthed.

We walked down a good portion of the Portal Trail, (I strongly suggest you click on this link and watch this guy's Youtube helmet-cam of the trip before you decide to do it yourself...knowing what to expect may save your life) aware that we were portaging ledges and rocks that we would normally ride over, but in our state of first-ride-of-the-year exhaustion, an endo into the afterlife was a possibility. Even at the bottom, after the trail had left it's several-foot-wide ledge and wound into boulders and junipers again, we still dismounted often, our nerves raw and our legs jellied with exhaustion. I did endo at one point, my knees not clea

ring the handlebars and dragging my bike between them as I windmilled downhill. They were instantly purple.

At the bottom, we rode up to the trailhead to cheers of fellow riders, fresh off the trail and bragging that they had ridden the entire thing. Idiots.

We hit the hot tub back at the motel, scalding my raw knees and fresh sunburn, then had dinner at the Slickrock Cafe after walking Main Street twice trying to decide what we were hungry for. After dinner, we headed out of town to catch the sunset from La Sal Loop Road, taking a gravel road the back way into Sand Flats Recreation Area and back down into town. Another trip to the hot tub, and we hit the sheets and died for eight hours.

The next morning, we checked out of the motel, grabbed another breakfast burrito, and picked up Andy. He began trying to jump through the office window the moment he heard us talking inside. Karen gave us glowing reports about his behavior while he hung close to mama's legs. He was sleeping before we even got out of the yard.

Apparently his night away from his people, while he had fun with the other dogs, turned him extremely dependant. He cried and whined when his daddy got out of the car to fill up with gas. He refused to let us out of his sight. He lay his head on whoever he could get closest to, stretching his head from the backseat and pressing his nose against our arms to smell us while he slept.

We drove out to Ken's Lake, a few miles out of town, even though Andy was already exhausted. We had been promising him a swim for weeks, and had to keep our word. Sure enough, as soon as he saw the water, he completely forgot how tired he was from his day, night, and morning at doggie daycare, and bounded into the water, chasing birds, pouncing on waves. We let him play for a half hour, then loaded him up again. We did not hear a thing from the backseat all the way to Fruita.

At Fruita, we drove up 18 road to the trailhead for the Bookcliffs. We unloaded our bikes, gave Andy a drink, and tried to ignore the crying coming from the car's open windows as we pedalled away.

Halfway up the hill, B discovered his front wheel wobbling. Further investigation revealed a bad front wheel bearing. He decided to keep riding, hoping it would not go completely out until after the ride. We took Joe's Ridge down to Kessel Run, the shortest loop available, just five miles. The way down is arguably one of the most fun, few rocks, all sudden, steep descents down razor-thin ridges and swooping, rhythmic turns, banked for speed, through dry stream beds.

We wondered, until the next morning when Andy woke up in his own home with his usual morning routine of throwing himself against the bed, licking our exposed skin, and rolling and flailing against the wall until sleep is impossible for his humans, if he was even okay. We have never seen him sleep so hard. Even absent minded belly rubs from his human's toes as they sat on the couch above him caused him to heave to his feet and drag himself a few feet away so he could sleep in peace.

And now, back to cleaning my house. I think I have the rest of the day off. It probably had better look as though I spent it productively when B comes home.

Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where your blogger is trying to work up the energy to go for a six mile run. Maybe today will be the day. I have been holding at 3 miles lately, did 4 1/2 miles day before yesterday, and today, I want to find some sort of mental strangth that will push me past the intense bordom that forces me to focus on every twinge of sideache, every twitching leg muscle and makes me believe I am tired, just can't do another mile, when in truth, I have many more left in me.

It's boring because it's at the rec center. Eleven times around the indoor track makes one mile. I hold down my fingers to count- left hand pinkie, one. Ring finger, two. Middle finger, three. Index finger, four. Thumb, five. Switch hands, right hand thumb, six... and so on. We'll see if tonight I can make it sixty-six times around the track. My record is forty four without stopping.

We are in the home stretch at work. Six days from today, Keystone Resort will shut down for the spring. Today was my last actually busy day, and I am home fairly early because of the mad rush guests requesting early check-ins put me in for the five hours I can bill for. For the next week, I will still be working, but my pace will slow from the manic one it has been for the last month. My last day off was 26 days ago. And in 6 days, I get to take another one. I honestly don't know what to do with a day that I simply don't go to work. Whatever will I do with myself? Most likely, I will squander it, and before I know it, it will be about the time that I normally get home from work, and I will look around me and realize that it was no more fulfilling of a day that one spent at work.

It has been so long since I last posted, and I could recount a lot of details, but I get bored myself reading that sort of thing. We can fast-forward and still hit the highlights.

Painted another snowboard, for a liftie and his girlfriend who wanted an authentic Keystone souvenir from their winter in the mountains. Went to the tax accountant. Took the dog to the vet. Snowshoed with Heather, Marci, and Andy. Had a few beautiful days. Sunbathed on my front deck with a book and ignored the chilly breeze. Used my new pressure cooker for the first time, and in about ten minutes, turned a sweet potato to mush. Bobby put his snowmobiles, snowmobile trailer, and shiny red pickup on craigslist. 18 hours later, sold the pickup. Gulped. No more pickup, but able to afford taxes (having to pay self-employment taxes for the first half of the year, before we set up an s-corp. Shoulda done that years ago.) Enjoyed having only three vehicles in the driveway. Picked up an entire trash can full of dog poop. Bought a new pooper scooper. Booked a "medical tourism" vacation in Cancun, to get an opinion on B's wisdom teeth. Tried to get somebody, anybody, to go with us. Gave up and booked a one bedroom for the two of us, since apparently nobody can go to Cancun when the lodging is free. Marci's pickup developed serious steering issues, on top of its other issues. Sold her the 4-Runner. Bought a green Toyota Tundra with lots of miles. Went to Boulder to pick it up. Car developed issues driving it back- almost didn't make it up the pass and through the tunnel. Stopped at the gas station, only to realize that three of the Tundra's tires were extremely low, and one was completely flat. Followed Bobby to the tire shop in an out-of-gas Jeep, then went to the gas station and could not find the key to the locking gas cap. B searched high and low while I waited at the office, found it, and I eased the Jeep, now running on fumes, to the gas pump. Rolled our eyes at the irony that out of five vehicles in the driveway (the red pickup still sits here, waiting for it's new owner to come pick it up) not a single one of them was driveable. Woke up one morning and my wedding ring was not on my finger. Still looking. Made B promise to never buy me anything ever again, because every sentimental, shiny thing he gives me, I lose and have to go through feelings of embarrassment, feeling like I betrayed him, of not being worthy of pretty, shiny gifts. Winter moved back into the county. The wind blew like it had something to prove. I listened to Israel Kamakawiwo'ole to drown out the howling and banging. Andy got no exercise because nobody had the mental fortitude to face horizontal snowflakes to take him out. We bought rec center passes for the month of April to help us get in shape for mountain biking this spring. I downloaded a couch-to-10-k coaching program on my ipod to help me. I weighed myself and make the startling discovery that I weigh as much now as I did working the night shift at the Leoti Hospital, when all we did was eat all night and I never exercised. Started doing yoga again, following a dvd filmed in Maui. Got taken by an April Fool's joke, but then played a succesful one on the perpetrator that involved official jargon and scary looking paperwork, until further reading revealed it could in no way be serious.

And now, here we are, in the last week of the Season. In truth, Thanksgiving does not seem that long gone. That is, until I start remembering all the individual, crummy, stressful days that happened between November and April. Then I want to run and hide, because the countdown to next ski season is starting in three, two, one... and we have one more to survive before we are free to go anywhere else. One more month of deep cleans, one more six months of summer long-term rentals who don't pay and trash the units, one more two months of inventories, purchasing, carpet cleans, dry cleaning, one more thanksgiving rush, one more Christmas/New Years, one more January/February accordian season where we are empty midweek and get slammed on the weekends, one more President's day rush, one more spring break. One more season of night riding with friends, bluebird days and slushy snow, powder days and runs stolen in the middle of my workday, when I try to disquise the fact that I am out of breath and the wind is blowing in the phone when I answer it. One more summer of mountain biking under towering pine trees and through rivulets of running water. One more fall filled with glorious color, aspen leaves littering the rocky ground like a shipwreck of gold coins across an ocean floor. One more chance to really Become- hardcore, a mountain biker, a runner, a mountain climber, whatever it is that I want to be able to say, someday, that I was. One more never-ending mud season. One more windy, miserable April, when the rest of the country is seeing daffodils and green shoots of grass and all we see is more sideways snow. One more year with the fiercely loyal friends we've made. One more spring and fall punctuated by trips to Fruita and Moab for the most epic mountain biking around. Hmm, not all of those were bad things. If fact, there is a chance, and not a small one, that I will spend the rest of my life missing some of those things after we leave the mountains.

And now, after a long phone conversation with my mother, a trip outside with Andy (during which his mama told him to "Go poop" and he promptly stopped sniffing and squatted- was that just coincidence?) and writing this blog, I am not feeling at all like the rec center. Perhaps it can wait until tomorrow. Morning. Tomorrow morning. If I wait until the afternoon, I may run out of steam again. But if I only put it off 14 hours, it won't count that I skipped today.

So faithful few, here's to "one mores". May we enjoy them and take them not for granted.

Hello and Welcome to An Altitude Problem, where the problem is, winter is still here. Of course, it is only March 16. One would expect winter to still be hanging around in places much lower than 9,500 feet. But yours truly and BBD would dearly love to see winter take a hike and leave us able to take a hike- on dry trails. The weather has been taunting us lately, giving us warm, 40 degree days, and with the time change, it gets dark later and the extra hour of daylight has us itching to get out of the house, only to try it and end up freezing when the sun dips behind a cloud bank and an icy breeze whips through our thin layers that we want so badly to be able to wear.

Heather is out helping us through March, and with her help, we survived the busiest weekend since Christmas. We are 100 percent booked right now, solid at least through this week. Not a single rental turn-around has left us with a rental sitting empty overnight, so we are staying busy following the housekeepers around on back-to-back cleans.

I am quite happy that I have talked Heather and Marci into accompanying me on one cross country ski and one snowshoe excursion so far. We xc skied yesterday morning on borrowed equipment at the Keystone Nordic Center, then snowshoed South Willow Creek Trail this morning. I didn't actually snowshoe, since I lent Marci my snowshoes, I skied on my beefy xc skis up and down some extremely icy, steep hills. I have not been on that trail since we lived there two years ago, and now I remember how steep it gets in a few areas. There are also a few log crossings over streams, nice wide ones in the summer, but in the winter, rounded and icy. It got a bit treacherous at times, but I made it safely down, and much faster than my snowshoeing trail companions. Andy made new friends on the trail, two chows, one of their exuberant greetings taking place around my knees and skis as I balanced precariously on a log bridge over a small stream.

This winter has been an especially exhausting one for us. With the end of it in sight, we are feeling a little less like digging a hole and crawling inside until we are no longer fried, burnt out, crabby, and the skin below our eyes has lost it's purple tinge. Several exceptionally difficult owners, an extremely cold, dry winter, condos falling into disrepair faster that what we can stay on top of because of financially strapped owners, epically (not sure if that's a word) bad snow conditions, midnight service calls, and a cold that gives way to a cough that gives way to a new cold with accompanying achy tiredness, fever and chills has us looking at the world from under drawn-in eyebrows and pinched, pale faces. Bobby has developed a constant headache that may come from sleep deprivation and stress, or may come from his sideways wisdom teeth, which makes him growly, in spite of his best efforts to cover it with a gracious, how-may-I-help-you smile. Even getting out and riding, skiing, and mountain biking on frozen trails does not cheer me up like it used to.

That last concerns me most of all. It's like I have stopped loving it and started just liking it, if I'm not too tired. I used to live on the mountain. Once, I would eat powder for breakfast, racing from work to the slopes to work to the slopes. Now, I am beginning to fear that it has finally happened to me- the thing that happens to so many of the starry-eyed dreamers who move to the mountains. I have had the adventure. I have lived the dream for seven years. I have been so cold for so long, I cant remember what it was like to walk outside after dark in shirtsleeves and not be instantly shivering. I have lived here for just long enough to be ruined for most other places, places more flat, more ugly, more Nowhere, less nice and touristy, but I have lived here just long enough to be really sick of the Christmas and spring break throngs that make it so nice and touristy, sick of the cold and snow that come with the beauty of the snowy Rocky Mountains, sick of the three seasons- cold, less cold, and more cold.

Is it just the season? Maybe. But maybe not. Summers in the mountains are idyllic, cool and green, smelling of pine and sun-warmed earth, fresh breeze and running water. For twelve beautiful weeks, it is impossible to be unhappy. Twelve weeks. Out of fifty two. And only one month- August- that does not usually see snowflakes. It's just not proving to be enough to sustain us through the nine cold months anymore. I am no friend of the heat, especially not the oppressive heat that usually accompanies beaches, which is where B wants to spend the next phase of his life. But when it comes down to it, I have had my day in my place, my snow sports, and I probably would not have to give up my true love, mountain biking, even if I did give up my beloved Summit County trail network. I have often dreamed about raising kids on the slopes, giving them the head start on health and social development that outdoors activities with other kids gives them. But it's not something I would fight for. They can also spend their summers on boogie boards in the salt and sand and they would be none the worse for it. I would be none the worse for it, either, as long as it is not Florida. B rolls his eyes when I say that, and ask what is wrong with Florida. I reply that it is just too Florida-ey. I think California would be alright with it's coastal cliffs and endless vistas, but he says it is just too California-ey. We agree on only one place that combines all of our requirements, and possesses only one major drawback. And you're not gonna like it.

Maui.

Go ahead, gasp, roll your eyes, groan, shake your head, ask us if we are insane, and tell us why you could never live on an island in the middle of the Pacific. Mention rock fever in a conspiratorial whisper, and accompany it with dirge-like dark strains of music.

Yes. It is halfway to Japan. It is at least a six hour flight. It is touristy. We would be isolated from our friends and family. But it is also the sort of weather that is not so oppressively hot as to make outdoor activities all but impossible, wages are similar to Summit County, and housing is cheaper. B could have his beach, I could have trails to ride between sea level and 10,000 feet. We have decent resumes in tourism and hospitality, and even though we do not love the work, it would, at the very least, be a change of scenery and temperature for our days off. The people are an extension of the rugged, easy-going type that we have grown used to in Summit County- long hair and deep tans and big dogs and flip flops. And how often do we escape Summit County? About twice a year, for a week at a time. We could most likely manage to come back to the mainland at least twice a year, and instead of spending vacation time on a beach somewhere trying to forget the stress of our job, we could actually spend it with family and friends. And we would not move thinking to make it a lifelong home- just a year of two or three, an adventure in a life too short to spend it in one place.

But just the same, I lie awake at night, once it is quiet and dark, and ask myself what the heck I think we are considering. We can't possibly move that far from my parents. (We sort of expect B's family, except the brother, to move with us.)

As we consider options, we also consider the option of school. We have worked while our peers are in school, and now, to show for it, we have a decent resume, but no degree to make us marketable. I am thinking in several different directions, pulled toward possible future careers in several different areas. One is culinary arts, because of the demand in the tourist areas we will probably always live near, and the culinary arts programs available in most schools close to those areas. Another is early childhood education and sociology, social work, and/or child psychology. And the last, and probably least viable option, is animal husbandry and/or outdoor studies. B, on the other hand, does not plunge into new things as readily as I do. He needs to get his GED first, and then would like to take a few business management courses to polish up the resume, but is not convinced he wants a degree.

Fear not, faithful few. We are not moving to Maui. Not yet, and maybe not ever. We are already committed to another season in the County. Another season will finish the five we agreed to four years ago, when we agreed to management positions in our company. And anything could happen in the year ahead. Anything could happen in just the day ahead. There are no guarantees that we will even still be alive and well a year from now, which is why I am shaking the cobwebs and grouchies off myself and vowing anew to live well, and live hard, and wring all the life it is possible to wring out of each cold, icy, gray day and enjoy them while we have them.

Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where yours truly is hoping the eggs weren't too bad. More on that later.

I am at home waiting for the first of the back to backs to be called in by housekeeping, so I can go ready them for the guests checking in this afternoon. Since my last post, I have... let's see. Had yet another close friend announce a pregnancy, effectively removing her from my go-to sking/riding/biking partner list, gotten Lasik surgery on my eyes, can see without glasses or contacts for the first time since I was eight years old, undertaken a massive house-cleaning campaign, all but won the battle with the most horrible four-week cold in recent memory, fixed my massive shades on the front bay window of my house so Andy can no longer strangle himself on the loops of string while he is sitting in the bay window behind them, exhaustively (and, most likely, pointlessly) researched all foreseeable facets of a move to Maui, met another girl who's husband "created a monster" by moving her to the mountains, climbed A-basin with her and skied down under warm sun and bluebird sky, painted a mural of a beach and waves on the bathroom wall, painted another snowboard, swept and vacuumed nearly the entire coat of a shedding Golden Retriever off my floor, gave him a shower, attended three dinners at friend's houses, inspected over sixty arrivals, put 40 eyedrops in my eyes, eyedrops that promptly found their way from my tear ducts to the back of my throat, where they caused five days straight of a vomit-like burning taste in the back of my throat that completely removed my appetite and ruined every single meal that I could finally taste after my cold, coughed until I thought I was going to pass out, took the dog for walks in cold air and coughed even harder, ate lots of Hall's cough drops, fell on the ice and slid under my car, lay under my car gasping and thinking about how Maui never has ice, and went to Denver four times for pre- and post-op eye appointments.

This morning was actually the morning we did the A-basin trip. I got up at 6:30 this morning, grabbed an apple and some gatorade, picked up my friend, and we made our way up Highway 6/Loveland Pass, where we parked and joined the trickle of people who were strapping on snowshoes, tele skis, splitboards, back country XC skis, and AT skis and heading up the mountain, an hour and a half before the lifts opened. It was good. After we topped the first brutal uphill, the sun rose above the East Wall. We turned around three quarters of the way to the top, and I took my snowboard off my backpack, replacing it with snowshoes and poles, while my friend removed her skins from her tele skis. I had decided against wearing snowboard boots, wearing my rubber and canvas snowboots instead, and strapped them into my board, wincing at how the straps cut across my toes and ankles, and how the back of the binding dug into my calf, and how much movement my heels were allowed. I got more comfortable with having no ankle support halfway down, in time to hit a bump run, and by the time we were down, the lift was running, so we pulled out our passes and made two more runs down on the steeps and bumps, the backs of my heels and calf muscles bruising more deeply with each jump turn and trough, with me ignoring the pain of having no foot and ankle support in the thrill of the moment. I must have been riding okay in spite of it, since I did garner a few compliments on my method from the chairs a few feet above my head as we rocked and slammed and beat ourselves up as we rode and tele'd, respectively, down the bumps on Exhibition.

I got home starved, and decided I needed a breakfast of champions- potatoes and protein. I got out a potato, peeled and diced it, and put it in my six inch cast iron skillet to cook. Then sat down at my computer and check Facebook, my email, etc, and forgot about the potatoes until I smelled smoke. In chagrin, I scraped the blackened chunks into the trash, rinsed the pan, and started over. Almost did it again, but caught it just in the nick of time. I rummaged in the fridge until I found a tortilla and an egg, and cracked the egg into the pan over the potatoes...and gaped in horror at the hard, grayish yolk and chunky, gelatinous white. Rotten. Very. I grabbed the skillet off the stove and scraped all the potatoes that had come into contact with the egg into the sink, returned it to the stove with just a few potatoes and bits of green pepper, and cracked a second egg into a measuring cup. Also rotten. The third egg looked healthy (as healthy as something that comes from a bird's butt can be), so I dumped it in, and tried not to think about the now scorched bits of rotten egg that still clung to the edges of the skillet. Finally got it all cooked, dumped it on a tortilla, and grabbed the massive jug of picante sauce from the fridge, and was ready to dump...and stopped just in time to keep the big, fluffy, white spots of mold from landing on my already iffy breakfast burrito. Then I threw away the jug of moldy Picante sauce and ate a very bland burrito.

And that is the tale of my day so far. Now I need to go to work, and it is an absolutely gorgeous day today, as long as the wind can stay down. This afternoon, I need to take Andy skiing or on a bike ride, or something, because nothing is more destructive than a one-year-old Golden retriever who has not had enough exercise lately, because his people have been too busy coughing and wheezing and blowing their noses to take him out. Unless, of course, it's a less-than-a-year-old Golden Retriever. He is maturing, be it ever so slowly.

Hello and Welcome to An Altitude Problem, where we are very glad our husband wasn't one of the idiots high-marking in Shrine Bowl. This slide was triggered by the reverberations of B's and his brother-in-law's snowmobiles as they rode past, eyeing the tracks of other riders side-hilling and high-marking and wondering who would be stupid enough to hill-climb in snowpack as unstable as it has been this year. They rode past, turned around and rode back past a few minutes later, and realized it had slid behind them. Just a reminder to all of my faithful few, if you spend any time in the high country, especially this year with it's extremely unstable snow, don't be a moron. Stay on safe snow. Stay out from under slide-prone areas. Don't stay home, just take measures to insure that you can return home.

On a more humorous note, Andy has discovered that burying his rawhide bones in the carpet is just not the same as burying them in the dirt. Not only does the hole he tries so hard to dig never materialize, but when he tries to fill it in by shoveling with his nose, he ends up with a giant rug burn.