Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, the blog that's back with a sore back. It took some convincing on B's part, but after a few days of cajoling, he allowed me to go on an overnight backpacking trip with my friend Mel on Sunday and Monday. My pack weighed in at thirty pounds (I never can seem to get it under that), and as out of shape as I am, I am still feeling it.

Mel planned the route, and I packed my backpack not at all sure how far we were going, or where. A few minutes before we left, she decided on Kroenke Lake, above Buena Vista by Mt. Harvard. We were hoping for clear trails, and anticipated rain, since the radar showed a storm system over the area. At nine o'clock, she picked me up, and, trunk full of gear and backseat full of tussling dogs, we headed out. The four of us got to the trailhead after a bit of jostling, and one iffy washed out place that almost had us parking the Saturn and walking the rest of the way to the trailhead, which we cleared with a bit of precision steering on Mel's part, just as the rain began in earnest. We sat in the car, windows steaming up from dogs already wet from a romp in the parking lot, and ate our lunch as water streamed down the windshield in front of us, obscuring the woods around us. At last, it slowed to a slow drizzle, so we got out, fed the dogs, shouldered our packs, locked the car, and hit the trail.

We started at 9,500-ish feet elevation, and two and a half or three miles later, at maybe 10,500 feet, we hit snow on the trail. It started slowly enough, a few drifts that we had to walk over, trying to step lightly enough that we didn't break through the snow. The dogs romped and rolled in it, soaking themselves, and splashed through the shallow stream crossings, soaking themselves even more. We met a couple buried under large backpacks, who had obviously spent the night higher up, and they told us to expect a lot of snow. They said they had not found the lake, only some wetlands, and, tired of walking in the snow, had camped there.

Since peak runoff has begun, the streams were dangerously fast and swollen, and many of the log crossings on the deeper portions were treacherous. However, the dogs were brave, and with their mommies holding tightly to their leashes, they followed us across, delicately tiptoeing behind us, then leaping the last few feet to dry ground. One crossing in particular was rather frightening, logs and debris washed against the skinny log lain across the swollen, rushing stream, another log propped at waist height off to the side to steady oneself. We almost considered turning back, but the dogs cautiously felt their way across to safety on the other side, unfazed by the danger.

Just after the stream crossing the trail all but vanished under the rotting snowdrifts. We followed footprints, occasionally hitting dry spots that confirmed we were still on the trail, and trudged on, sinking into the snow, buried under parkas tented over ourselves and our packs. Finally, no footprints were left except the four sets created by the couple we had met earlier, coming and going. We followed them, and did not realize when they veered from the trail, by this time far under a nearly unbroken snow field. They stopped in a dryish clearing above a wetlands, about 11,500 feet, and we wondered down to the water in hopes of looking up the valley and seeing the lake. No luck, so we returned to the clearing and began setting up camp. I took off my pack, and Andy, soaked and exhausted, immediately climbed on top of it and tried to balance on top of it as it rocked and wobbled under him. His determination to stay on the warm, dry spot left by my back was soon outweighed by his exhaustion and lack on balance, and he opted for the rock beside it, curled in a shivering heap, looking like a drowned rat. The rain that had been coming and going all day went momentarily, allowing us a chance to set up camp in a mere drizzle instead of rain.

I took the tent out of my pack, and set it up, and the four of us immediately crawled inside, soaked and stinking of wet dog and wet polypro, and got as dry as possible with the aid of a camp towel and dry pants and socks. At last we were warm, so we crawled back out, took off our dry socks and slid bare feet into soaked shoes, and went down to a small pool in the wetlands below us and pumped all of our water containers full with Mel's filter. At last, even wetter, and colder, since the wind was howling through the wetland meadow far more than through our camp, we made our way back to camp and boiled water for tea and dinner. We tied up the dogs so they could not knock over the campstove, much to their dismay, and rehydrated beans and rice, finally warming our insides a bit. By the time we were finished eating, we were feeling quite buoyant. We shared desert, warm chocolate mousse, with the one spork mel had brought (like an idiot, I had not thought of eating utensils), then let the dogs back in the tent and crawled in after them. Andy was just about finished off by that time, and he was in doggie heaven when I squeezed him into my mummy bag with me, sharing my body heat with his small, shivering pile of yellow fur and elbows.

As we zipped the zipper, the rain began again, and the temperature dropped more. Soon, a bit of grapple was beginning to sling itself against the tent. There was no reason to do anything but lie in the tent, a two man backpacking tent that feels like small quarters with two people in it, let alone two people and two tussling adolescent puppies occupying the bodies of nearly adult dogs. We had a long session of girltalk, and at eight o'clock, crawled out of the tent, brushed our teeth, took ourselves and the dogs potty, pulled our stocking hats tightly onto our heads, and zip ourselves into mummy bags for the night. More tussling puppies, more girltalk, and as the light faded, the dogs calmed, and words slurred, and the rain lulled us to sleep.

At midnight, the freezing rain turned to snow, tapping loudly on the tent, waking us up. The dogs woke up too, and, upon realizing they were sleeping in a pile with their humans, began wagging tails, licking hands, sitting on faces, and, inevitably, a game of biting and tussling began in the pitch dark. We grabbed at fur, not sure which dog we had ahold of, and forced them down between us until the calmed down again. I found Andy and forced him into my mummy bag with me, a tight enough fit that it acted as a doggie straightjacket, and with his fur being sucked up my nose with each breath, we finally drifted off, toasty in our tent overstuffed with warm bodies. Several times during the night I was awakened by Andy's paws in my ribs, or by snow sliding off the tent, and finally I became a bit claustrophobic sharing my mummy bag with a yellow beast, and ousted him. When I opened my eyes again, the interior of the tent was gray, not black, and Raisin was standing on my face, asking to be let out. We let her out, and I poked my head outside...to a white world. Gone was our dry clearing, hidden under two inches of fresh snow. We pulled our sleeping bags back over our heads and waited for the sun.

Three hours later, the sun peeked between the trees surrounding our campsite, and we sat up and found breakfast in our packs. We packed up camp hastily, stuffing yesterdays soaked clothes, soaked sleeping pads, empty food wrappers into our packs. I rolled up a tent much heavier than the day before, soaked as it was, and stuffed it into my pack, we located all the missing pieces of our campsite hidden under the snow, and followed our trail out, our tracks from the night before marking our route, only barely visible as vague indentions in the snow.

We did more postholing on the way down than the way up, either because of heavier packs, or because our footsteps we heavier stepping down than up. Once, I went in all the way to my butt, my foot stuck down in the snow, balanced on a sidehill, thrown off balance by thirty pounds of unaccustomed weight on my back. I floundered like a flipped-over bug for a bit. The dogs were no help, with wet noses and tongues sliding over my face and wagging tails whacking me upside the head.

We made it back to the bad stream crossing in good time, relieved to be off the snowbanks, only walking in the fresh snow from the night before. I snapped the leash onto Andy's collar, and tried to coax him onto the log he had so confidently crossed the day before. He was having none of it, throwing himself against the leash and digging in his heels. I was slipping on the icy log myself, my hand growing numb from supporting myself on the snow-covered waist-high log, so in the name of not losing my precious Andy to a raging, swollen downstream, I picked him up and tucked him under one arm and bent double under the weight of my pack, so it centered on top of my feet, not behind them, and picked my way across the log, Andy smart enough to not squirm and throw me off-balance into the stream that was even faster and higher than the night before. On the other side, I dropped his leash so he could run on down the trail, and turned around to a terrifying scene. Raisin, who had just stepped onto the log, slipped off on the upstream side, and, although Mel had ahold of her collar, was instantly pulled under the debris piled against the log, only her head held above water by her mommy, who was struggling for balance. I quickly fumbled my way back across the log and grabbed her collar, allowing Mel to grab the halter on her back where her pack had been. (Mel had removed her pack before the stream crossing and clipped it to her backpack to allow Raisin better balance, leaving only the pad to which the pack, a saddlebag sort of affair, attached.) And no sooner did Mel have ahold of a terrified Raisin, petrified into stiff-legged paralysis, than I saw yellow behind me out of the corner of my eye. I turned and was horrified to see Andy, curious about all the attention Raisin was getting, prancing onto the icy log. I screamed at him to stay, get back, no, no, no. He stopped, confused, and realized there was no turning around on the log. I let go of Raisin's collar and grabbed his, picking him up by it and hurling him off the log and onto the bank, and Mel began picking up Raisin's stiff-legged fifty pound dead weight and setting it down a few inches further down the log, moving down it herself, picking up Raisin, repeating the process until both were safely on the bank. We stood, all four of us panting, and let our heart rates slow a bit, then Raisin began running in manic, excited circles, a big smear of slimy green algae across her face. Andy joined in the chase, oblivious to the adrenaline rush the humans were experiencing, and we all hit the trail, which was finally dry. The sun ocasionally shone through the clouds and dappled the trail, we met several day-hikers and a group of Indiana boys trying to bag a bunch of fourteeners, never mind that it is May, far from ideal climbing conditions. We got back to the car and bounced our way back to Buena Vista, stopping the the Evergreen Cafe for lunch. We actually though it was a different restarant, and when we stopped stupidly inside the door, we were immediately greeted by the manager, which made backing out difficult. We sat ourselves at the bar, checked the menu, and realized we were in perhaps the most vegan friendly restaurant in town. Every meat was substitutable by tofu or veggieburger. Seriously, if you are ever in BV, you have got to go there and get the hummus flatbread. It's black bean chipotle, and totally amazing. Actually, the cooler had quit the night before, and they had had to throw out the tahini, so they couldnt fill my order and asked me to order something else, but by the time I got my tacos one of the many high-schoolers working there had made a run to the store for more tahini, so they gave me a plate of chips and hummus anyway. I have been wondering how to make it myself now.

We got back to Summit County early in the afternoon, and in order to fly the white flag after taking the time off from work, and leaving Bobby in a dirty house with undone dishes and without my help at work, I went in to work for a few hours. I came home to a sparkling clean house, and a husband on a rampage, tackling room after room, organizing, cleaning, storing items still not put away from when we moved in. I have my work cut out for me, trying to keep it sparkling now. Because I think we all know, when men clean... it can be a scary thing. One had better not undo all their hard work.

And today, we emptied out the trailer, bringing into the house all the mouse-soiled, cobwebby, filthy items stored in our garage in Kansas for four years. Wedding presents, small items of furniture, bakeware, clothing we had forgotten we owned... all in piles in the kitchen and living room, and all causing untold stress until it is all cleaned, sanitized, and squared away in permanent homes. We took the day off to deal with it, and I even cooked lunch. We haven't both been home for lunch, simultaneously in, I cant even remember. A year? Two years? Maybe it happened at some point last summer, but if it did, I don't remember it. But at any rate, it was heavenly. It was even such a novelty I invited Marci for lunch to witness it.

The piles are still not all gone, and now, piles of laundry await me. If I could have tomorrow off yet, I might actually gain on it a bit. I'm not pushing my luck though. We plan to be gone for B's cousin's wedding in Castle Rock on Saturday, and June second is our seventh anniversary, for which B tells me to find a sitter for Andy and prepare to be gone overnight to some undisclosed location. My, he's getting so good at this whole romantic surprise thing. Who'da thought he had it in him?

The first picture is the skyline just outside Marienthal. These windmills have just gone up in the last two years. It is still a surprise to look up and see these beauties twirling.

The kitchen, before and after. Well, this is after we had done a bit of demolition, knocked down the ceiling, torn out the carpet, removed the rusty metal cabinets and the leaky water heater.



































These two pictures are self-explanatory. The entire time is a bit fuzzy, just fixing things, full throttle until we finished eleven days later.

That's pretty much the entire town on Marienthal, village on the plains. And one happy dog, loving the farm life.

Andy playing nicely (for a change) with Princess, aka Wingnut, the scrappy little mutt that dad brought home from the shelter. She's not so much to look at, but I suppose I must concede, in spite of my not loving toy dogs, she really is quite a sweetheart.

The country life...

I got to sneak out to the farm while Bobby was making a parts run to town. This, my readers, is where I come from. This is where my roots still grow fairly deep, I'm afraid.

Do we really need to say more? Have you ever seen happier puppies?

Hello and welcome to the bog- typo unintentional but fitting- wondering what to do now. In the last eleven days, I have helped hang drywall. Mudded. Taped. Textured. Trimmed. Caulked. Painted. Moved heavy cabinetry, wired in light fixtures and outlets. Scrubbed paint off the dog. Scrubbed paint off of self. Worked drywall mud out of hair. Cleaned out 300 gallons of foul sludge and drowned birds from a fishpond left unattended for four years. Stepped on a nail. Rode a creaky, heavy bike back and forth the quarter mile between our house and my parents house at least six times a day, carrying everything from a rake and sharpshotter spade to mops and brooms to bull-nosed corner trim balanced across the handlebars. Built a firepit in the backyard. Sat around the fire with old friends, saying whatever came to mind, the most enlightening black holes of conversation that can be borne of a sky littered with stars, dew-laden breeze and glowing coals, a sugar buzz from roasted mashmallows and the silence that is Western Kansas at night, even in the village of Marienthal. Walked the pasture on my family's farm to find the perfect south-facing hillside to put a tiny, solar or wind powered, windmill-watered, cabin with a soil roof, built out of strawbales, adobe, and western Kansas mud. Found it. Had fun drawing up the plans. Sighed, as many times and many plans before, and shelved the project. Ran four miles on a steak dinner, after dark when the wind died down and it got cool. Dug rotting bird carcass out of the dog's mouth. Dug rotting pond scum out of the dogs mouth. Dug horse turds out of the dog's mouth. Dug the howling cat out of the dog's mouth. Dug my sandwich out of the dog's mouth. Realized the pointlessness of maintaining a vegan diet in Western Kansas. Ate ice cream after dinner almost every night. Ate a Dairy King burger, onion rings and a vanilla malt. Ate my mamma's cooking. Gained five pounds in eleven days. Considered the circle of life, family values and one's heritage while reverting to the barefoot farmgirl I once was. Felt a thousand miles away from Summit County, and who I am here. Gave the dog a bath. And another. Fell asleep in my old bedroom, wondering if I had dreamed the last seven years. Screamed at the incessant wind. Remembered what summer heat felt like. Remembered how much I enjoyed puttering in my yard, tending to my garden and flowers- some of which still live. Put For Sale signs up on our first house, almost seven years to the day after Grandpa Jim whispered instructions to Bobby as he bid the winning bid for it. Stood in the shop/garage that Bobby built during those three months that summer, all after dark in the coolness after long, hot days spent farming for Berning Organics, and wondered how we could just sell all that labor and love. Took pictures, shut off the lights, and locked the door. Done. Just like that.

And now, I am home. Mountain bike race season starts in 19 days. It is supposed to rain all week. I have yet to begin training. Our little trip to kansas cost me dearly in that area. I am so out of shape it hurts- literally- and now I need to get some hours in at work, where I can get paid, not on my bike saddle, covering miles of pavement in hopes that I can be ready to hit the trails when they dry sufficiently.

As soon as I can get them loaded on my computer, I will post an entire post of pictures from our trip, and a little written narration. Check back as early as tonight, or at late as a week from now...

Hello and Welcome to An Altitude Problem, where forgetfulness can so easily lead to frustration. How many times have I forgotten my ski pass, when I have gone to snowboard? There was that time when I was supposed to meet those people, got all my gear on, even changed clothes in the parking lot, then realized i didnt have my pass, so i just went home instead...and the time the liftie let me on anyway (that was a good day) and the time I got teased because I was snowboarding in my shorts, and my pass was in my snowpants back at the house, and the time I tried to replace it because it was at home in the bathroom drawer and they couldnt find me in their system, and totally thought I was trying to pull a fast one on them. And once in the five years we have lived up here, i forgot my snowpants, and the girls group I was with called me "gaper" all day because I was skiing in my jeans, and twice or three times, I have made it part of the way or even all the way to the lift without my snowboard.

I did it again this morning. Grandma Rose called me the other evening to tell me they would be at the Basin this morning, so I got up in time to bike up there. I put my boots, skis and poles on my back, got water and food, strapped my snowpants, gloves and hat onto my bike, mounted and began riding up to the basin, ten miles up the hill from our house. Four miles up the road, in Keystone, just as I was really starting to climb, the feeling that I was forgetting something finally made sense when I realized I did not have my pass. I turned around and pedalled back home, then, out of time, drove to the basin instead. That was discouraging.

It was a good morning, though. We had some good runs before I had to leave at noon. When I came back to the house, I decided I would rather snowboard than ski after all, since my board has spring wax on it now, so I was the only snowboarder out of our group of five (grandma, grandpa, grandpa's daughter Kim and her husband Cameron, and me).

I am trying to do a lot of biking, to kick-start my summer shape. I really want to do some racing this summer for the first time, but the first race is June 9, only a month away. I have a lot of miles to cover between now and then if I want to be competitive at all. After biking the last few days and trail running last night on a loop that was miraculously dry enough to run on, my quads as killing me.

And I just typed a whole line of ////////////////'s, I found after I closed my eyes for just a second. I am going to sleep without my permission. I should just give up and go to sleep.

hello and welcome to An Altitude problem, the blog that's wondering why mothers are so easy to shop for, but we never know what to get our fathers. Of course, mother's day comes first, so we set ourselves up by giving her flowers and gifts and cards, and a month later, we are expected to do the same for our fathers, but how? Oh, I know exactly what I want to surprise my mother with when we go out there next week. That one's easy. Now just to find it by next Sunday... not so easy, but doable. I already have a lead. But for father's day... power tools? Already has em. cliche besides. I draw the line at toiletry items. something practical. Something he'll use. Something we can afford that's practical and he will use. Flashlight, boring. Gloves, already did that several times. And boring. Ah! I got.... nothing.

We are trying to scramble to leave the county on Saturday, to spend the week in Kansas working on our house there, to get it ready to sell. We are even willing to take a loss on it, we want to sell it so badly. While we are there, we are hoping to be able to spend a night camping at the Scott lake State Park. In all of our years living there, we never once camped at the park, but after we moved away, we try to make it a priority at least once a trip. We just found it so pleasant when we finally tried it.

Here in the County, winter still lingers. We still build fires in the evening to chase away the chill. I am still doing deep-cleans, closing down the program for the summer, but with flexible hours, so I can get away and take the dog for long walks or skis. Last Sunday, I skied up Peru Creek, a four-wheel-drive road that used to service several of the now-abandoned gold mines scattered around the town of Montezuma, a hearty, wind-blown village clinging to the mountainside just below treeline. I was with two other couples and our three dogs. About three miles in, blisters began to form on the backs of my heels. I toughed it out, and turned around about ten minutes before the rest of the group, so I could ski down a bit slower with Andy. I am trying my best not to run him too hard until his skeletal system is mature.

A few days later, we walked over to Raisin's house, on the other side of the Cove, and spent a long time doing basic obedience exercises. Andy was mentally and physically exhausted after that, a welcome event in our lives. And barely had he perked back up the next morning, but I set out to climb Dercum Mountain, the front mountain at Keystone. I skied up, and he padded along, eating bits of trash melting out of the snow, chasing snowballs and squirrels, scampering up hills to glissade down. We made the top of the Peru lift in just over an hour, where we stopped in a snow-free spot under some trees and I fed him his lunch, we both drank the water I had been carrying on my back, and we watched snowflakes drift out of clouds that looked less like snowclouds and more like rainclouds by the minute. At last, I eased my worsening heel-blisters back onto my skis, and we headed down hill. The whole point of the climb had been to provide me with a long, sustained downhill so I could teach myself to telemark ski, the secret to controlled turns with one's heels free. Andy thought it was all a big game, and tried to nip at my skis with each turn, causing me a bit of panic. The last thing I wanted was yet another lecture from the vet about metal-edged skis and horror stories about cut leg tendons. By the time I made my last curtsying turn into the base area where I was parked (there is something almost dance-like about telemark skiing- dipping low, swooping turns, it is as much a form of art as a sport) I was exhausted, but so was Andy. I left him in the car for the next five hours while I cleaned, and as far as I know, he never moved from the passenger's seat. The pictures near this paragraph are of that day, the first one being the view from the cockpit just before heading back down from the top (the road you see, 1,500 feet below, is where I climbed from) and the second being, well, my puppy and me.

The next day, we met Raisin and her people at Vail Pass, and Mel and I, Raisin and Andy skied for two hours while our boys rode their snowmobiles in the softening, rotting snow. The heel blisters finally filled with fluid, and became enormous and painful. When we stopped for happy hour specials on the way back through Frisco, I managed to hobble to my chair, where I stayed for the next hour and a half, then hobbled back to the truck, then hobbled into the house, settled in the armchair, and stayed there until bedtime. By the way, can you believe there is only eight weeks age difference between Raisin and Andy? They really do love each other, in spite of all the teeth.

And then, yesterday night, it snowed. Heels blistered, I didnt care. I slid them into my snowboard boots and hit the steeps at the Basin with Mel, and got third chair (only because two people cut in front of us) and some surprising soft powder turns, exchanging banter with the lifties unlucky enough to have to grab chairs on what might be the last powder day of the season. In spite of scribbled queries on the message boards -"have you huged a liftie lately?"- we did not go quite that far to make them feel better. Besides, we were not quite sure how to huge a liftie.

We took several runs down the Pali face, A-Basin's double-black runs, a few through North Glades, a screaming fast, soft tree run, then took the East Wall Traverse several times before calling it a day at 11:00. And even then, after the lifts had been running several hours, we were still making first tracks, getting face-shots on our turns. The Basin was fairly deserted. Our last run down, we dropped in off of King's Cornice and landed in the steep and deep, completely untracked. It was the best powder day ever, not necessarily because of the snow, which was a bit heavy, but since it was so unexpected. We went back home, ate veggie and humus pitas and waxed our equipment with spring wax before both going to work.

That evening, after work, I picked up Marci and took her and Andy hiking on Dercum Mountain. We got back to the car soaked but energized.

And today, I dont want to do anything. Everything hurts. My back, from twisting and gyrating, forcing my snowboard through the heavy pow yesterday. My feet, from days of unrelenting blistering in my new, mack-daddy, unbroken-in ski boots. My head, when I think about cleaning yet again. I don't want any more peanut butter, bananas, apples, or sliced bread- the staples I have lived on for the last week. I want to stay in my armchair just as I am for at least another three hours. But, unfortunately, it is already noon. I have a six hour clean ahead of me yet today.

Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, the blog that's thinking of changing it's opening to each post. "Welcome to the land of..." gets to be problematic at times, as your blogger feels the need to create catchy, attention-grabbing post intros, and limited by only what the land in general does, the people as a whole, it often gets reduced to a weather report, and a commentary on only the events that affect the community. Not to mention the times your blogger sits stumped, fingertips a-tingle, ready to write, but hung up on just not knowing what this is the land of at the moment. So your blogger, feeling the unaccustomed effects of a limited imagination at times these days, will be playing around with her lead-ins. Although "Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, the blog that's...." is mildly evocative of a certain column in our local Daily, it does seem to work about the best, and I am certainly not trying to plagiarize them, it did sprout out of my own brain (I'm fairly certain.)

Your blogger has also decided that the time has come to begin a more disciplined approach to this whole online journal idea. Instead of every several weeks posting a daunting epistle, it would not hurt to write shorter posts, a bit more often. We shall see if the execution of this idea goes as well as it should in theory. By the time I do finally sit down with my computer, I have so many thoughts, so many tangents unexplored, I overwhelm myself, let alone my loyal few blog-followers. And perhaps it is time to soliloquize about things of general interest, instead of report on daily activities all the time, even though that is exactly what B is afraid I might start doing. Rambling, pontificating, jabbering, burying my faithful few under an avalanche of words. He does it, too, he knows he does, but only when he is carefully primed for it, and only with spoken word, which he hopes will be forgotten soon, if he ever overdoes it. I, on the other hand, make conversations that last, that have the ability to come back and haunt me and do not leave me the option of conveniently forgetting ever having told someone that little tidbit.

So... onto the first tangent- forced shame. Especially as it relates to this marvelous planet we live on, this rock covered with swirls of moisture, with growing and dying, sentient and non-sentient living things. These ponderings were prompted by my short bike ride on what I thought would be a perfectly dry trail several days ago. Of course, just past the point where I could easily bail, it turned muddy, and out of respect for the trail surface and erosion control, I shouldered my bike and carried it out, trying to tread lightly and not leave evidence of my passing. But as I was walking, bike frame digging into the boniest part of my right shoulder, wrist cramped from supporting 32 lbs of aluminum and stainless steel components, handlebar thumping my forehead with each step, I was skylined above the road, where the good citizens walked, occasionally casting disapproving glances my way. I tucked my tail between my legs and hoped they hadn't recognized me.

My guilt complex worsened later in the day when I forgot my reusable shopping bags and had to use plastic bags at the grocery store. Other shoppers, participating in the county-wide push to become plastic-free in the next few years, eyed my bags, and I rustled loudly as I walked to the car. Then my dog pooped along the side of the road, and I didnt have a poop bag, although I would rather leave it there to biodegrade than use a plastic baggie to wrap it it, then put in in a landfill inside said baggie. But I must make the choice- promote the contamination of a pure mountain stream with the poop that will eventually find it's way ito it, or promote the filling of a landfill with something that just. never. goes. away. Or finding a dispenser with degradeable poop bags, expensive ones at that.

Oh, I am all about living with as little impact as possible on this swirly blue planet. But no longer am I allowed that warm fuzzy when I do my little part. No longer is it optional. No longer am I the good guy when I live green, I am the bad guy when I don't.