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.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
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.
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 se
at. 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.
at. 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.
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 t
he Portal trail, another group rode up, and their leader began discribing the descent.
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 t
he 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."
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.
Monday, April 05, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, February 26, 2010
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.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Hello and Welcome to An Altitude Problem, where there is no time for writing, just enough time to post few pictures to help sustain any of my faithful few who might still be powder-starved. My friend and I spent the morning at Keystone, in the newly opened Windows. It was deep, after we had gone far enough in to lose everyone's tracks...but I found myself on a bit of a promontory, peering down at cliffs on three sides of me and hip-deep uphill above me when the powder rush subsided and I was able to think clearly again.
I thought this chute looked a little sketchy, hard to fit betw
een the rock and the hard place, a.k.a. the tree trunk, at cliff- riding speeds, so I gambled on the other side, which turned out to be more open, but much more rocky. 
So I committed to this side, took a deep breath and a picture, and plunged in...only to plow into a rock under the snow and come to an abrupt stop. Several more stops against buried rocks, and I took my board off and very carefully eased my way side-hill until I was off the rocks...by which time my riding partner was a bit hysterical and asking ski patrol about missing persons protocal.
It was a lot of fun. We buried ourselves several more times, got snow down our backs and snowpants, and came home exhausted and exhilerated from all the pouf and softies and freshies. What a wonderful day.
It was a lot of fun. We buried ourselves several more times, got snow down our backs and snowpants, and came home exhausted and exhilerated from all the pouf and softies and freshies. What a wonderful day.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where it got better. Yes, so soon. I forget so very easily that there will be a slower day. Yesterday, I thought it would never happen. Then suddenly today, only four arrivals. Without warning, I had a slowish day. Okay, I could not go to Breck, where they had eleven inches of fresh pow last night, but had to go to work instead... but I was done working by 2:30, and back home, bags of groceries (well, not exactly groceries, but lots of feel good food- smoothie ingredients and sweets) over my arms, and Bobby was there, and I had started a fire before I went to work, so the house was warm. All afternoon, Bobby watched cars make left hand turns and I spread a mess out on the kitchen table and painted. My ultimate therapy. There is nothing like creating. Every brushstroke is rushed, hurrying toward the finished product, impatient to see what it will be. After it is done, I am disappointed, still wanting to be in the world of snow-laden trees and shadowed mountain crags emerging from the blank white surface of the old snowboard deck my friend gave me last Thursday. Add that to the yoga in my warm living room this morning before work, a bit interrupted by the dog who wanted to eat my yoga mat, and who eventually claimed the mat and fell asleep on it, and who was so extremely gassy there was no way for me to breathe deeply and rhythmically. And Bobby taking Andy out for a walk while I finished the painting, and now, I am on the couch watching the Olympics, all the cute, fit athletes and all the dreams coming true, getting the chance of a lifetime to be the best of the best...I am feeling much, much more cheerful. What do you know.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, in the land of grrrr. Only for us, though. the county has swelled with people in annoyingly good moods. Even Keystone employees are in these awful happy moods lately. They are chatty. In elevators where there is no escape, they rattle about how great it is, another day in paradise. Traffic backs up a half mile with cars leaving Keystone at 4:30. It is a three day weekend, and it shows. Our colds still have not left, in spite of copious amounts of vitamins C and D. Yours truly wonders what has come over her, hating taking the dog out skiing, not feeling like battling the crowds to play in the terrain park or shred the slopes, not that she has the time anyway, during the day. Coming home is not exciting, just another evening to be spent doing more chores, wash the dishes, vacuum the floor again, make fruit smoothies, scrounge in a fridge full of spoiled food and not much else for sustanance. Going to work is more of the same old same-o, rush through the same condos I was in four days ago, and will be in again four days from now. Change batteries in the carbon monoxide detectors, because they malfunction at this altitude and false alarm, causing them to get unplugged and the batteries to run down. Reprogram the same remotes I reprogrammed four days ago. Flip the same breakers back on that I flip back on every time. Same smells of chlorine from the pools and hot tubs, same slimy quartered limes to be dug out of crusty garbage disposals, same overflowing ice makers and closet doors off their tracks. The garbage disposals are the worst. There is no way to be able to see what is lurking, causing the blades to catch, the only option is to reach in. Yesterday it was a pickle. I reached in and felt something finger-sized, limp, and slimy. I recoiled a bit as I forced myself to pull it out. I am terrified that someday i will pull out something truly disgusting, like a dead mouse or (unreasonably) an actual finger.
Looking ahead, we think we may be able to work ahead to cover our work for March first and second, and hope the weather is nice in Fruita. A mountain bike ride where it is dry and somewhat warmish may be just what the doctor orders. I feel a little bad about driving so far for a day and a half of riding bike, but hey. It would save my faithful few from more posts from the land of grrr. There might even be posts from the land of sparkling spring snow and happiness.
Until then, do as I say, not as I do, and love life, because we only get one.
Looking ahead, we think we may be able to work ahead to cover our work for March first and second, and hope the weather is nice in Fruita. A mountain bike ride where it is dry and somewhat warmish may be just what the doctor orders. I feel a little bad about driving so far for a day and a half of riding bike, but hey. It would save my faithful few from more posts from the land of grrr. There might even be posts from the land of sparkling spring snow and happiness.
Until then, do as I say, not as I do, and love life, because we only get one.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Hello and welcome to an...who-what problem? There is no problem. Unless you count not getting a walk. Or that really embarrassing one where you eat all the stuffing out of your moose, or your turtle, and then the stuffing sorta stays with you, you know what I mean? That can be a big problem. Lots of scooting. Not outside, there's too much snow. Ouch. But back in the house. My she-human says that is the most disgusting thing she has ever seen. And she has seen me barf. This one day...
Oh, right. So, my humans are sick and busy right now. Being the good boy that I am, I really want to help out. At the end of my she-human's last post, she snapped closed the computer, looked at me, and asked me why she even bothered. No time or energy to recount anything interesting, just more whining. I don't think whining is a bad thing. It usually leads to really good things, like belly rubs and peeing. My she-human actually fell asleep on the couch after she closed the computer, and I slept too, until I heard a noise outside and let loose with what I can only describe as a ferocious barage of barkage. Humans tend to scuttle away when I do that. They don't get my degrees of bark. But if I don't warn my own humans of potential garbage men, neighbors, and UPS men, how will they know they need protecting?
This could take a while. Opposable thumbs. Don't got em. But I am a good boy. I will stick with this with the single-minded determination I use when finding sticks under the snow.
My she-human told me to get my stick yesterday when we were walking, well, I was walking, she had those wide, green, flat knife- things on her feet that make her feet really long. Skis. that's it. I try to keep my distance. Those things will lay a hind leg wide open, and then they squirt this gooey stuff on it, and wrap it up, and it itches like a million fleas, but they won't let you chew on it, even though the gooey stuff tastes so good. I once got a hold of a tube of it. Oh, boy! I chewed it up good! My she-human says she hopes my insides are all good and disinfected. Me, too. One word. Giardia. Bad news. That's all I've got to say about that.
I found a stick, a really big one, under the snow, and dug and pulled until it popped loose, and held it right in the middle, and took off down the trail with my tail high, showing off, I suppose. And then that stick stopped dead, and I'm pretty sure I got little bits of pine bark on my tonsils. I guess that stick was wider than the trees I was running between. My she-human snapped it in half for me then. Genius! I'm not sure I would have thought of that even if I did have thumbs. That was the walk yesterday, and boy, I had to toe the line! Every little bit again, it was "Andy, heel. Andy, back. Andy, easy. Andy, sit. Andy stay. Andy, come. Andy, look at me." And the worst, that really awful "ERRRRR " that makes my tail clamp down so fast I wonder what's happening back there. It means I am being bad. And when it wasn't that, it was "Andy, get the stick. Andy, bring it back. Andy, drop it."
This last week has been one adventure after the next. Have I mentioned the slippers? I got a package in the mail one day that smelled like feet and cats and farm and old meat and yappy little dog. I knew it was mine, because nothing that smelled that good could possibly be anything but mine! And then my he-human let me grab it out of his hand and tear it up! It was amazing! Shreds of paper and plastic flew! Slippers?! Slippers!! From the she-human's parent's! To me, the granddog! Happy! Ecstatic! My tail actually hit me on both sides! I ripped! I chewed! I left shreds of slipper all over the floor! I was exhausted.
Raisin came to my house. She saw the slippers. Slippers!! We tugged! We pulled! We tussled and growled! We ripped the slippers in two and played tug of war with the halves!
We went for a ride in the car- I love the car. I watch where we are going very closely. I stick my whiskers in the driver's ear, and let my tongue drip on her shoulder. That's how they know I am on watch. They won't let me in the front seat. If they did, my happiness would be complete. But when they get out and leave me there, I keep their seats warm. I am a good dog. They always come back just when I am having the best dreams. I have to squirm out from under the steering wheel and stumble into the back seat while I'm still half- asleep. When we got out of the car, we were at this house we sometimes go to, but it's always empty. I wait in the car while my mommy goes inside and does whatever it is she does. this time, I was invited inside and there were people there. Uncle Leroy and Aunt Mary and Cole and Glenda. You have never felt the quality of belly rubs I experienced. They told me not to dumpster dive, but their trash had pizza in it. I love pizza. Cold, hot, moldy, I don't care. If it's pizza, I'll eat it. They had slippers, too, but I couldn't have them. They kept prying my mouth open and taking them out. Their toilet water was cold and fresh, and much better than the bowl of water the she-human gave me. My humans won't let me drink out of the toilet. My she-human has a note under the toilet lid saying "Please help save me from myself. Close the lid." Everyone says I have exceptional handwriting for a dog. But my she-human says you can't expect boys to remember to close the toilet lid until they have had their laps soaked by my chin, which is very drippy after I drink. I put my head in their laps so I can gaze up at them and show them just how much I love them. Because I do. I love my humans almost more than pizza. I often have to choose between pizza and humans. i choose humans, because if I don't, they get really scary and I am pretty sure I might get a shakedown. But the I spit it out and it never happens. Unless it's steak. If I ever get steak, I'll take the shaking. I just gulp really fast so they can't take it back out of my mouth. You'd think my mouth was public property. Everyone's always digging in it, making me gag, pulling stuff out of it. Nothing is safe until it goes down the hatch.
Which is why I ate the stuffing I may have mentioned. It's cottoney and springy in my mouth. it gave me a really bad stomach ache, though. Not to mention that other problem. Now the moose is flat and hollow. The moose was my first toy. My humans say it causes deviant behavior, and it always has. I don't know what that means, but I do know that whenever I am playing with the moose, my people tell me I don't have the equipment for that particular activity anymore. Apparently it has something to do with the trip to the vet and the morphine and the stitches and my missing unmentionables.
When I came home from the house with Uncle Leroy and Aunt Mary and the rest, there was another surprise. I was actually at home alone when it showed up. The door unlocked, and I headed out to pee, brushing past my she-human...and WHA? It wasn't my she-human, it was Grandma Sandi. I whipped around so fast I about took her out at the knees. I jumped! I raced in circles! I was completely puzzled! And then I smelled the yappy dog, Princess! Oh, my. That was a fun, fun two days. Princess and I played and played, until I made her squeal by getting her head stuck in my mouth. It's not my fault it fit in there.
We had a whole bunch of strangers here the other afternoon. They sat in front of the TV and yelled at it. I made circles, laying my head on each of their laps, rolling over for belly rubs. It was amazing. I have never felt so adored. I guess it is kinda nice to just be loved sometimes, instead of doing all the loving. People seem to like it better when I am just there, instead of all over them. Why that is, I don't know.
Okay, enough for today. I just wanted to introduce myself, the assistant editor of my she-human's blog. She has decided to get up and go to work at an insanely early hour tomorrow, since she fell asleep on the couch and now seems to have taken the day off after all. Or maybe she will still go tonight. At any rate, we have both been pretty worthless today. Now it is getting dark. I am still holding onto hope that there will be a walk.
I may be a dog, dumb and loyal, but my life affords me the opportunity to learn many lessons. At the end of each post I create, I will share one of them. Here is the first.
If a squeak doesn't work, try a whine. If a whine doesn't work, try a yip. If a yip doesn't work, try a howl. Eventually, someone will open the door and you will get to pee. Persistence pays.
Oh, right. So, my humans are sick and busy right now. Being the good boy that I am, I really want to help out. At the end of my she-human's last post, she snapped closed the computer, looked at me, and asked me why she even bothered. No time or energy to recount anything interesting, just more whining. I don't think whining is a bad thing. It usually leads to really good things, like belly rubs and peeing. My she-human actually fell asleep on the couch after she closed the computer, and I slept too, until I heard a noise outside and let loose with what I can only describe as a ferocious barage of barkage. Humans tend to scuttle away when I do that. They don't get my degrees of bark. But if I don't warn my own humans of potential garbage men, neighbors, and UPS men, how will they know they need protecting?
This could take a while. Opposable thumbs. Don't got em. But I am a good boy. I will stick with this with the single-minded determination I use when finding sticks under the snow.
My she-human told me to get my stick yesterday when we were walking, well, I was walking, she had those wide, green, flat knife- things on her feet that make her feet really long. Skis. that's it. I try to keep my distance. Those things will lay a hind leg wide open, and then they squirt this gooey stuff on it, and wrap it up, and it itches like a million fleas, but they won't let you chew on it, even though the gooey stuff tastes so good. I once got a hold of a tube of it. Oh, boy! I chewed it up good! My she-human says she hopes my insides are all good and disinfected. Me, too. One word. Giardia. Bad news. That's all I've got to say about that.
I found a stick, a really big one, under the snow, and dug and pulled until it popped loose, and held it right in the middle, and took off down the trail with my tail high, showing off, I suppose. And then that stick stopped dead, and I'm pretty sure I got little bits of pine bark on my tonsils. I guess that stick was wider than the trees I was running between. My she-human snapped it in half for me then. Genius! I'm not sure I would have thought of that even if I did have thumbs. That was the walk yesterday, and boy, I had to toe the line! Every little bit again, it was "Andy, heel. Andy, back. Andy, easy. Andy, sit. Andy stay. Andy, come. Andy, look at me." And the worst, that really awful "ERRRRR " that makes my tail clamp down so fast I wonder what's happening back there. It means I am being bad. And when it wasn't that, it was "Andy, get the stick. Andy, bring it back. Andy, drop it."
This last week has been one adventure after the next. Have I mentioned the slippers? I got a package in the mail one day that smelled like feet and cats and farm and old meat and yappy little dog. I knew it was mine, because nothing that smelled that good could possibly be anything but mine! And then my he-human let me grab it out of his hand and tear it up! It was amazing! Shreds of paper and plastic flew! Slippers?! Slippers!! From the she-human's parent's! To me, the granddog! Happy! Ecstatic! My tail actually hit me on both sides! I ripped! I chewed! I left shreds of slipper all over the floor! I was exhausted.
Raisin came to my house. She saw the slippers. Slippers!! We tugged! We pulled! We tussled and growled! We ripped the slippers in two and played tug of war with the halves!
We went for a ride in the car- I love the car. I watch where we are going very closely. I stick my whiskers in the driver's ear, and let my tongue drip on her shoulder. That's how they know I am on watch. They won't let me in the front seat. If they did, my happiness would be complete. But when they get out and leave me there, I keep their seats warm. I am a good dog. They always come back just when I am having the best dreams. I have to squirm out from under the steering wheel and stumble into the back seat while I'm still half- asleep. When we got out of the car, we were at this house we sometimes go to, but it's always empty. I wait in the car while my mommy goes inside and does whatever it is she does. this time, I was invited inside and there were people there. Uncle Leroy and Aunt Mary and Cole and Glenda. You have never felt the quality of belly rubs I experienced. They told me not to dumpster dive, but their trash had pizza in it. I love pizza. Cold, hot, moldy, I don't care. If it's pizza, I'll eat it. They had slippers, too, but I couldn't have them. They kept prying my mouth open and taking them out. Their toilet water was cold and fresh, and much better than the bowl of water the she-human gave me. My humans won't let me drink out of the toilet. My she-human has a note under the toilet lid saying "Please help save me from myself. Close the lid." Everyone says I have exceptional handwriting for a dog. But my she-human says you can't expect boys to remember to close the toilet lid until they have had their laps soaked by my chin, which is very drippy after I drink. I put my head in their laps so I can gaze up at them and show them just how much I love them. Because I do. I love my humans almost more than pizza. I often have to choose between pizza and humans. i choose humans, because if I don't, they get really scary and I am pretty sure I might get a shakedown. But the I spit it out and it never happens. Unless it's steak. If I ever get steak, I'll take the shaking. I just gulp really fast so they can't take it back out of my mouth. You'd think my mouth was public property. Everyone's always digging in it, making me gag, pulling stuff out of it. Nothing is safe until it goes down the hatch.
Which is why I ate the stuffing I may have mentioned. It's cottoney and springy in my mouth. it gave me a really bad stomach ache, though. Not to mention that other problem. Now the moose is flat and hollow. The moose was my first toy. My humans say it causes deviant behavior, and it always has. I don't know what that means, but I do know that whenever I am playing with the moose, my people tell me I don't have the equipment for that particular activity anymore. Apparently it has something to do with the trip to the vet and the morphine and the stitches and my missing unmentionables.
When I came home from the house with Uncle Leroy and Aunt Mary and the rest, there was another surprise. I was actually at home alone when it showed up. The door unlocked, and I headed out to pee, brushing past my she-human...and WHA? It wasn't my she-human, it was Grandma Sandi. I whipped around so fast I about took her out at the knees. I jumped! I raced in circles! I was completely puzzled! And then I smelled the yappy dog, Princess! Oh, my. That was a fun, fun two days. Princess and I played and played, until I made her squeal by getting her head stuck in my mouth. It's not my fault it fit in there.
We had a whole bunch of strangers here the other afternoon. They sat in front of the TV and yelled at it. I made circles, laying my head on each of their laps, rolling over for belly rubs. It was amazing. I have never felt so adored. I guess it is kinda nice to just be loved sometimes, instead of doing all the loving. People seem to like it better when I am just there, instead of all over them. Why that is, I don't know.
Okay, enough for today. I just wanted to introduce myself, the assistant editor of my she-human's blog. She has decided to get up and go to work at an insanely early hour tomorrow, since she fell asleep on the couch and now seems to have taken the day off after all. Or maybe she will still go tonight. At any rate, we have both been pretty worthless today. Now it is getting dark. I am still holding onto hope that there will be a walk.
I may be a dog, dumb and loyal, but my life affords me the opportunity to learn many lessons. At the end of each post I create, I will share one of them. Here is the first.
If a squeak doesn't work, try a whine. If a whine doesn't work, try a yip. If a yip doesn't work, try a howl. Eventually, someone will open the door and you will get to pee. Persistence pays.
Thursday, February 04, 2010
Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where there be cooking. The pitas are out of the oven, mushrooms, avocados, lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, carrots, cucumbers, and feta cheese are all nestled into my divided tray, ready to go, the thin steaks are cooking in their bath of olive oil, oregano, garlic, onion, and thyme. The tzatziki sauce is mixed up and ready to go. I am taking gyros to our friend's house tonight, with the option for the vegetarians of the group to make falafels. My friend is making the falafel patties.
In the last few days, there has been snowboarding. Skiing for Uncle Leroy. Cross country skiing for the mother. Constant excitement and a miniature houseguest for the dog.
...Let me rephrase. In the last few days, there has been two paragraphs of this blog sitting in my drafts folder. It is now Monday, not Thursday.
Thanks to B's new TV, hosting of a Super Bowl party fell to us. Work is busy, and your blogger, along with B, has come under the clutches of a cold that refuses to leave. I am working on my second week, B is working on his third week of burning sinuses, chapped nose, raspy voice, and a constantly draining head. My voice all but left me by last night.
Someone reported us to trailer park management for our dog being a bit too friendly this week, so we have been trying to clamp down on his training, which means walks, not bike rides, and lots of verbal commands in cold that burns our chests and throats when we breathe it. Every time we get back in the house, we spend the rest of the evening hacking. We argue about who will walk the dog this time, and I usually lose.
Today has no arrivals, which normally would mean a day off, but the weekend starts tomorrow. Yes, in ski season, the weekend starts on Wednesday and guests pour in until Sunday night. They leave on Monday and Tuesday. I have an insane amount of work to do for tomorrow, so instead of a day off, I will be working. It is about this time of year we begin to feel a bit of malaise and begin scanning the job classifieds, the real estate listings, the weather forecasts for places like small, orchardy, mountain bike-ey towns on the western slope. Some day, we will blow this joint. Some day. Of course, we always decide to wait to blow it until after the season is over, and when it ends, we get a bonus check, and that alone is enough to humble us and make us retreat into a cloud of apologetic mumblings and promises and makes us decide again to hunker down and wait it out. We do not remember what it was like working a normal job. We think we may have had a bit more freedom. We at least got a day off a week, and often two days. Really. We only worked five days, and then had two whole days to do what we wanted. True, we did not get to decide on a whim to take a morning off, making up for it by working late in the evening or twice as hard the next day, but the fact is, it really isn't worth taking the time off if you are going to go cross-eyed from the stress of making up for it later. In the end, we still think we like a feast-or-famine job better, but in the middle of both phases, we go just a little bit crazy.
Which is what I am doing as I write, taking an ill-afforded morning. I am still in my pajamas, my new computer battery allowing me to type as I sit and warm my toes in a puddle of sunshine on my living room floor. The dog is tied up just outside the front door, against trailer park rules, but he is beyond happy, sniffing the breeze and soaking up the sun. What I want to do is sleep, but that could stretch into a much longer morning than I am willing to take.
I decided yesterday to plan our vacation for this spring. It seemed a good idea at the time. By last night, I did not want to hear the word "vacation" again. Apparently there is a reason we do not make itineraries. We tend to argue over details and schedules and time allotments. Our voices raised to the point of completely disappearing when our poor mucousy throats could not handle the amount of air we were trying to push through them. So all we know at this time is that, at some point after ski season, we may go west. Or northwest. Or southwest. In the truck, with the dog. Or book a Caribbean cruise (although I hope not). Or an Alaskan Cruise (I kinda hope so, but the chances are slim.) B wants to go somewhere to be warm. If I would so much as mention the Caribbean, he would jump all over it, take it in his teeth like Andy does a dirty sock, whip it out of my grasp and run away with it. I care not so much about warm, I want to be inspired. I want to take "America's loneliest highway" through Nevada, I want to see glaciers and rugged coastline and well, why not climb Half Dome, check out Mt. Rainier, Mt Hood, heck, why not buzz on up and check out Mt. McKinley? I think I have seen about enough palm trees and fat folks in swimwear, I want to see Redwoods. I want to see the most desolate, the most rugged, the biggest America has to offer. So you can see our problem. We could be done with the Caribbean in less than two weeks. I have a four thousand mile road trip planned to six national parks, a two day hike on Vancouver Island, mountain biking in northern Idaho, camping and mooching showers from friends or relatives... or a flight to the west coast followed by two weeks of freezing in the far north. If we had a month, we could maybe get it all done. We decided, last night, that planning a vacation was far more hassle than just throwing our suitcases, mountain bikes, hiking shoes, a mattress, and Andy into the back of the truck and hitting the road.
And now, time to...do something distastefully productive. Like get forty-some condos ready for check-in. That's a lot of patio doors to wash, remote controls to find, bedspreads to turn from sideways to right-end-up, blankets to fold, burner plates to clean, and light bulbs to change. (If one would think the housekeepers might do these things, just because it is in their job description, one would be wrong. Housekeepers are more speedy than thorough.)
On that note, have a wonderful day.
In the last few days, there has been snowboarding. Skiing for Uncle Leroy. Cross country skiing for the mother. Constant excitement and a miniature houseguest for the dog.
...Let me rephrase. In the last few days, there has been two paragraphs of this blog sitting in my drafts folder. It is now Monday, not Thursday.
Thanks to B's new TV, hosting of a Super Bowl party fell to us. Work is busy, and your blogger, along with B, has come under the clutches of a cold that refuses to leave. I am working on my second week, B is working on his third week of burning sinuses, chapped nose, raspy voice, and a constantly draining head. My voice all but left me by last night.
Someone reported us to trailer park management for our dog being a bit too friendly this week, so we have been trying to clamp down on his training, which means walks, not bike rides, and lots of verbal commands in cold that burns our chests and throats when we breathe it. Every time we get back in the house, we spend the rest of the evening hacking. We argue about who will walk the dog this time, and I usually lose.
Today has no arrivals, which normally would mean a day off, but the weekend starts tomorrow. Yes, in ski season, the weekend starts on Wednesday and guests pour in until Sunday night. They leave on Monday and Tuesday. I have an insane amount of work to do for tomorrow, so instead of a day off, I will be working. It is about this time of year we begin to feel a bit of malaise and begin scanning the job classifieds, the real estate listings, the weather forecasts for places like small, orchardy, mountain bike-ey towns on the western slope. Some day, we will blow this joint. Some day. Of course, we always decide to wait to blow it until after the season is over, and when it ends, we get a bonus check, and that alone is enough to humble us and make us retreat into a cloud of apologetic mumblings and promises and makes us decide again to hunker down and wait it out. We do not remember what it was like working a normal job. We think we may have had a bit more freedom. We at least got a day off a week, and often two days. Really. We only worked five days, and then had two whole days to do what we wanted. True, we did not get to decide on a whim to take a morning off, making up for it by working late in the evening or twice as hard the next day, but the fact is, it really isn't worth taking the time off if you are going to go cross-eyed from the stress of making up for it later. In the end, we still think we like a feast-or-famine job better, but in the middle of both phases, we go just a little bit crazy.
Which is what I am doing as I write, taking an ill-afforded morning. I am still in my pajamas, my new computer battery allowing me to type as I sit and warm my toes in a puddle of sunshine on my living room floor. The dog is tied up just outside the front door, against trailer park rules, but he is beyond happy, sniffing the breeze and soaking up the sun. What I want to do is sleep, but that could stretch into a much longer morning than I am willing to take.
I decided yesterday to plan our vacation for this spring. It seemed a good idea at the time. By last night, I did not want to hear the word "vacation" again. Apparently there is a reason we do not make itineraries. We tend to argue over details and schedules and time allotments. Our voices raised to the point of completely disappearing when our poor mucousy throats could not handle the amount of air we were trying to push through them. So all we know at this time is that, at some point after ski season, we may go west. Or northwest. Or southwest. In the truck, with the dog. Or book a Caribbean cruise (although I hope not). Or an Alaskan Cruise (I kinda hope so, but the chances are slim.) B wants to go somewhere to be warm. If I would so much as mention the Caribbean, he would jump all over it, take it in his teeth like Andy does a dirty sock, whip it out of my grasp and run away with it. I care not so much about warm, I want to be inspired. I want to take "America's loneliest highway" through Nevada, I want to see glaciers and rugged coastline and well, why not climb Half Dome, check out Mt. Rainier, Mt Hood, heck, why not buzz on up and check out Mt. McKinley? I think I have seen about enough palm trees and fat folks in swimwear, I want to see Redwoods. I want to see the most desolate, the most rugged, the biggest America has to offer. So you can see our problem. We could be done with the Caribbean in less than two weeks. I have a four thousand mile road trip planned to six national parks, a two day hike on Vancouver Island, mountain biking in northern Idaho, camping and mooching showers from friends or relatives... or a flight to the west coast followed by two weeks of freezing in the far north. If we had a month, we could maybe get it all done. We decided, last night, that planning a vacation was far more hassle than just throwing our suitcases, mountain bikes, hiking shoes, a mattress, and Andy into the back of the truck and hitting the road.
And now, time to...do something distastefully productive. Like get forty-some condos ready for check-in. That's a lot of patio doors to wash, remote controls to find, bedspreads to turn from sideways to right-end-up, blankets to fold, burner plates to clean, and light bulbs to change. (If one would think the housekeepers might do these things, just because it is in their job description, one would be wrong. Housekeepers are more speedy than thorough.)
On that note, have a wonderful day.
Monday, February 01, 2010
Hello and welcome to An altitude Problem, where there is no time for blogging. I should be working, although today is a day with no arrivals to check, and there is only one arrival tomorrow, the rest of my week is a bit crazy. But today is the day that my parents and Uncle Leroy and Aunt Mary get here, and I really want to go ride with whoever of them are skiing tomorrow, so today is the day I need to work ahead. And yet, here I sit, because once I walk out my front door, my day will get stressful. And I'm just not sure I'm ready for that yet.
We are just coming down from a three day marathon of the x games, friends coming over to take advantage of our cable in the evenings. Yesterday I recorded not only the evening events but the daytime ones, as well. I cooked dinner yesterday evening, we ate it and planted ourselves in front of the TV for at least four hours of extreme winter sports. And that was with fast-forwarding through events we did not care about, rider and skier interviews, and commercials.
I got out the coffee ice cream the other night, to go with cookies fresh from the oven, and opened the box. It was empty. Seriously. Who does that? So I offered my guests hot chocolate with Bailey's Irish Cream instead. Got out the Bailey's. Empty. And then they had the nerve to say that seemed a lot like a Susan. Putting empty containers that had once contained sweets back where they belonged, so nobody would notice their contents had mysteriously disappeared. In my defense, I do not recall doing any such thing. But I also know that B does not like coffee ice cream or Irish Cream. And Andy is not tall enough to reach either, and lacks opposable thumbs to remove the lids and caps of such items.
In addition to watching the best of the best skiers and riders for the last three evenings, I have snowboarded enough to rub the balls of my feet raw. Skin is peeling off of them. It's a common winter malady for me. If I ride for too long, all the rocking onto and back off of the balls of my feet, especially in my snowboard socks that are rubbed thin there, tends to remove the callouses, then the skin below the callouses. Even when I am on my heel edge, my toes are still being pushed into the front of my boot, so when I come back to toe edge, they have to come back to center. Now I am walking gingerly, putting band-aids over the raw spots.
But riding has been excellent lately. Not so much fresh snow, at least not on piste, but soft snow, from a week of about two inches fresh every night, followed by several warm days that created icy slopes again, but also an urge to shed layers and enjoy a deep blue sky and burning sun and the park, echoing with whoops and yells from riders hitting features and calling to each other, the smell and sound of melting snow (have you ever noticed the faint crackle of the snow when it melts, and the smell of it? It's such a fresh, cold smell.), the tang of pine sap in the air and, yes, an occasional waft of smoke from a group of potheads hiding in the trees.
My park skills are far from skillful. I look at the features I took five years ago and do not understand how I did it. I stay far away from rails. But the jumps are calling my name again, since there really is nothing like flying. Even if one has to come down eventually, and hard. And I can't clear the lip of the half pipe, but I still enjoy hitting the walls as high as I can. So, although I do not do anything fancy, I have had fun spending several afternoons lately making loops over and over the jump lines, trying to get comfortable enough with being in the air, and staying balanced while in the air, that I can start attempting things more challenging than a boring board grab.
In the last few days I have been through all of my powder stashes on Keystone, dodging rocks and tree stumps not yet covered by snow. I have only had two crashes, but I can feel them both. One was while riding switch through a flat spot. I caught an edge and slammed down the way I used to when I was learning to ride. One instant riding tall, the next, flat on my back on the hard-packed run, looking up at the sky through watery eyes and gasping for breath. I am feeling the whiplash from it in my neck. The other was directly under the lift line, shredding bumps. I swung from straightlining down my line onto my back edge, slid for a speed check, and barely registered the clink of my front edge hitting a rock before I was tomahawking down the hill, head, then board, then head in the snow. I sat up dizzily to cheers from the chair above me, and one "You fall with STYLE, girl!" That one cranked my arm in it's socket, and it still hurts to rotate it.
And yes, this is in addition to working, just so nobody thinks I never work. It has been in the mornings between 8:45 and 11:00 (which is when the first cleans of the day are done and ready for me to inspect) and after 4:00, when the day's work is done. I honestly do not know what I would do if I worked at a ski resort that did not have night skiing. The five hours not spent on the slopes are spent running at a manic pace, because I have only five hours in which to do eight hours of work.
There are only twelve more weeks of winter. At least until we start seeing consistantly warm days. Like 40 degree days. It is now February. In two weeks, the crescendo starts to build. Valentine's day, then President's day, and then Spring Break in two weeks, the accordian season will be over. (That's what I call the season we're in right now, where weekends are nearly 100 percent booked, and midweek I can take a day off because everybody went home.) In two short weeks, we will be crazy busy until after Easter. And then, sweet, sweet time off. A vacation. Spring. Mud season. Fruita mountain biking. The first few actually warm days, spring run-off. B getting antsy because we're not getting a paycheck. Me telling B to can it. Me riding the corn and slush at A-basin. Me skiing up Keystone after it closes for the summer. Me starting running again. Me biking anywhere I can find dry ground. Me thinking life is pretty sweet. Me telling B so. B scowling and saying he's glad I'm so darn happy all the time. Me telling B to just admit that he likes me. B rolling his eyes and muttering "whatever" so he won't have to smile, before going back to working on bookwork, taxes, all the things that he seems to think are so necessary, and that keep him inside on a melty spring day.
And now, after a post of less substance, if it were possible, than my last one, I am off to work, minus snowboard gear. I had big plans for today that involved more riding, but I am afraid I shall just have to work instead. And I would like to point that out to the faithful few who think I do nothing but play.
I posted to my Facebook profile this morning that I wished I had a clone to go to work for me, so I could spend more time in the really wonderful part of my life, out on the slopes. But then I got to thinking that any clone of mine would probably do a hurried job so she could go snowboarding, if she were actually a true genetic copy. Bummer. I suppose a clone of me is about the last thing we need around here. If I want it done right, i'm just going to have to do it myself. I can barely trust me. And besides, if there were two of me, the peanut butter would always be empty.
We are just coming down from a three day marathon of the x games, friends coming over to take advantage of our cable in the evenings. Yesterday I recorded not only the evening events but the daytime ones, as well. I cooked dinner yesterday evening, we ate it and planted ourselves in front of the TV for at least four hours of extreme winter sports. And that was with fast-forwarding through events we did not care about, rider and skier interviews, and commercials.
Hmm. Not sure what I did. Hit enter for a new paragraph, and accidentally posted this. Oh, well. Anyone reading my blog today will see half a post until I can finish the other half and add it.
I got out the coffee ice cream the other night, to go with cookies fresh from the oven, and opened the box. It was empty. Seriously. Who does that? So I offered my guests hot chocolate with Bailey's Irish Cream instead. Got out the Bailey's. Empty. And then they had the nerve to say that seemed a lot like a Susan. Putting empty containers that had once contained sweets back where they belonged, so nobody would notice their contents had mysteriously disappeared. In my defense, I do not recall doing any such thing. But I also know that B does not like coffee ice cream or Irish Cream. And Andy is not tall enough to reach either, and lacks opposable thumbs to remove the lids and caps of such items.
In addition to watching the best of the best skiers and riders for the last three evenings, I have snowboarded enough to rub the balls of my feet raw. Skin is peeling off of them. It's a common winter malady for me. If I ride for too long, all the rocking onto and back off of the balls of my feet, especially in my snowboard socks that are rubbed thin there, tends to remove the callouses, then the skin below the callouses. Even when I am on my heel edge, my toes are still being pushed into the front of my boot, so when I come back to toe edge, they have to come back to center. Now I am walking gingerly, putting band-aids over the raw spots.
But riding has been excellent lately. Not so much fresh snow, at least not on piste, but soft snow, from a week of about two inches fresh every night, followed by several warm days that created icy slopes again, but also an urge to shed layers and enjoy a deep blue sky and burning sun and the park, echoing with whoops and yells from riders hitting features and calling to each other, the smell and sound of melting snow (have you ever noticed the faint crackle of the snow when it melts, and the smell of it? It's such a fresh, cold smell.), the tang of pine sap in the air and, yes, an occasional waft of smoke from a group of potheads hiding in the trees.
My park skills are far from skillful. I look at the features I took five years ago and do not understand how I did it. I stay far away from rails. But the jumps are calling my name again, since there really is nothing like flying. Even if one has to come down eventually, and hard. And I can't clear the lip of the half pipe, but I still enjoy hitting the walls as high as I can. So, although I do not do anything fancy, I have had fun spending several afternoons lately making loops over and over the jump lines, trying to get comfortable enough with being in the air, and staying balanced while in the air, that I can start attempting things more challenging than a boring board grab.
In the last few days I have been through all of my powder stashes on Keystone, dodging rocks and tree stumps not yet covered by snow. I have only had two crashes, but I can feel them both. One was while riding switch through a flat spot. I caught an edge and slammed down the way I used to when I was learning to ride. One instant riding tall, the next, flat on my back on the hard-packed run, looking up at the sky through watery eyes and gasping for breath. I am feeling the whiplash from it in my neck. The other was directly under the lift line, shredding bumps. I swung from straightlining down my line onto my back edge, slid for a speed check, and barely registered the clink of my front edge hitting a rock before I was tomahawking down the hill, head, then board, then head in the snow. I sat up dizzily to cheers from the chair above me, and one "You fall with STYLE, girl!" That one cranked my arm in it's socket, and it still hurts to rotate it.
And yes, this is in addition to working, just so nobody thinks I never work. It has been in the mornings between 8:45 and 11:00 (which is when the first cleans of the day are done and ready for me to inspect) and after 4:00, when the day's work is done. I honestly do not know what I would do if I worked at a ski resort that did not have night skiing. The five hours not spent on the slopes are spent running at a manic pace, because I have only five hours in which to do eight hours of work.
There are only twelve more weeks of winter. At least until we start seeing consistantly warm days. Like 40 degree days. It is now February. In two weeks, the crescendo starts to build. Valentine's day, then President's day, and then Spring Break in two weeks, the accordian season will be over. (That's what I call the season we're in right now, where weekends are nearly 100 percent booked, and midweek I can take a day off because everybody went home.) In two short weeks, we will be crazy busy until after Easter. And then, sweet, sweet time off. A vacation. Spring. Mud season. Fruita mountain biking. The first few actually warm days, spring run-off. B getting antsy because we're not getting a paycheck. Me telling B to can it. Me riding the corn and slush at A-basin. Me skiing up Keystone after it closes for the summer. Me starting running again. Me biking anywhere I can find dry ground. Me thinking life is pretty sweet. Me telling B so. B scowling and saying he's glad I'm so darn happy all the time. Me telling B to just admit that he likes me. B rolling his eyes and muttering "whatever" so he won't have to smile, before going back to working on bookwork, taxes, all the things that he seems to think are so necessary, and that keep him inside on a melty spring day.
And now, after a post of less substance, if it were possible, than my last one, I am off to work, minus snowboard gear. I had big plans for today that involved more riding, but I am afraid I shall just have to work instead. And I would like to point that out to the faithful few who think I do nothing but play.
I posted to my Facebook profile this morning that I wished I had a clone to go to work for me, so I could spend more time in the really wonderful part of my life, out on the slopes. But then I got to thinking that any clone of mine would probably do a hurried job so she could go snowboarding, if she were actually a true genetic copy. Bummer. I suppose a clone of me is about the last thing we need around here. If I want it done right, i'm just going to have to do it myself. I can barely trust me. And besides, if there were two of me, the peanut butter would always be empty.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, the blog that your blogger wants to write, but wonders if she should even bother. Other than a dog who just got hold of a sheet of bubble wrap, which pops in his mouth and creates the need to race in manic circles around the house, sliding into dining room chairs and sending them flying across the floor, crashing into corners, and who is now stationed over the offending plastic, alternately attacking and biting it, then dashing away from it when it pops...it's just the same old same-o.
It is snowing, but not the big dump we keep hoping for. Almost every morning, we wake up to just enough snow to make the roads slushy and add an extra hundred pounds to our wheel wells and undercarriages. I have finally taken the knobby tire off my bike and exchanged it for a smooth tire and my trainer. I watched a movie while I biked ten miles the other night in my living room, and my behind is still a little bit tender. The next day, I ran 5k on snowshoes, creating sore glutes and obliques. Then I came home and made brownies for a Bible study we attend on Thursday nights, and very few of them got eaten, so we have been living on grapefruit and brownies with ice cream.
We armchair shop in the evenings- for bikes (that would be me) and travel trailers (that would be B) and vacations and real estate for Someday. Not that any of it is an option, but hey. It helps us dream. Whatever sustains us until April.
...okay, that was when I fell asleep last night. I had spent all of my creative energy writing a story that I thought had a bit of promise, but I got impatient with the writing of it and did not feel like developing a storyline anymore, so I switched to blogging and realized I had absolutely nothing to pull out of the vacuum that was my brain.
Andy and I are back from snowshoeing. We did the short loop, but worked on obedience. He does very well with heel (I still feel silly saying "heel" to my dog. It seems so militaristic. But I suppose it is universal, so I say it.) as long as there are no, and I do mean NO distractions. And he thinks heel means brush against me, or literally walk right on my heels. We have our little routine. It goes something like this.
"Andy, come front."
He stops and looks at me.
"com'ere!"
huh?
"COME. HERE."
He explodes into flailing legs and wagg
ing tail, racing toward me at full tilt. At the last moment, when I am braced for impact, he swerves wildly, spinning up snow, and races around me in tightening circles until he has himself wound down to an excitedly quivering heap of dog, burrowed into the snow. (See photo for example of him doing this. If, of course, you can find him...)
"Sit."
A small wiggle of the butt signals that it has attempted to settle further into the snow.
"Heel."
His head pops out of the snow and he shakes away the snow clinging to his eyelashes, sneezes away the snow that has gone up his nose. Surges forward, then remembers what his command was and stops until I catch up, scarcely waiting until I am abreast of his nose before finding his pace- three steps running, slowing to a painfully calculated walk, three more steps running.
"Good boy."
huh? can we run now? can we can we?
"nuh-uh-uh-uh!"
Tail droops. Head lowers. Eyes roll upward under peaked eyebrows to look reproachfully at me.
"Heel."
Bugger. He presses next to me, unwilling to walk behind me, but the trail is only wide enough for one, so he finds himself forced behind me. And that is when he starts walking on my snowshoes. In Andy's world, "heel" means walk within nose reach of my leg. This is rather difficult than I am wearing skis or snowshoes. We occasionally land in a heap in the snow when my skis or snowshoes do not come along with my forward momentum.
And then, before his attention can wonder so far that he has a chance to be disobedient, "okay."
He literally explodes. Snow flies. He takes flying leaps into ravines, bursting through snowdrifts deeper than he is tall, wiping out and taking faceplants, rolling head over heals, his legs about three paces ahead of the rest of him, already churning before they are back under his body. And then,
"Easy". He stops. Turns and looks at me, puzzled. "Stay". He sinks into a heap in the trail, tail twitching, still ready to spring, but forcing himself into stillness. I catch up. "Heel".
And we start over.
The training walks actually exhaust him almost as much as a run twice as far. His brain just has to work so hard to keep the rest of him under control. Now he sleeps draped between the arms of the leather armchair, the only piece of furniture he is allowed on.
Goodness. I hope we're not this borish in the future when talking about our kids. It is my opinion that dogs are much more entertaining than kids to other people. Their behavior issues do not have sinister implications into the future. No dog who enjoys torturing squirrels when it is a pup grows up to be a serial killer, or something. Maybe I am just being a scrooge, but kids behaving badly does not amuse me. Even when they do it with a modicum of creativity. I am aware that that may change when I have my own.
One of my favorite books as a kid was The Dog Who Wouldn't Be by Farley Mowatt. Nobody would have enjoyed the story about the kid who wouldn't be. If it were the kid who wore the goggles while hanging his head out the car window, spitting cherry pits into the breeze, folks would have begrudged him his cuteness, because it was an attention getting ploy. But it was a dog. An innocent, guileless creature who had no idea that it's eccentricity was anything other than normal. Who's loyal little brain worked overtime to churn out delightful bits of amusement for it's people. Who seemed to have a sense for what caused it's humans to laugh, and performed to their sense of humor.
As does Andy, I am convinced. As quickly as he pickes up on verbal cues with us scarcely making an effort to teach him, there is no way he does not read our body language, which is his first language, and realize that certain behavior delights us while other behavior offends us. Which is why we are so unsuccessful at putting the lid on his wild antics, even when they are ridiculously obnoxious and out of control. They delight us too much. I am sure we put out happy pheremones that signal to him our delight and approval, the laughter bubbling up in our chests, even as we tell him to calm down, take it easy, cease and desist, no, Andy, no-no.
Speaking of verbal cues, I did not realize before having a house dog that they could make such quick associations with items and experiences. And once a word is in their head, it does not come out easily. Poor Andy has trouble distinguishing between words that sound almost the same, such as "beg" (to which he balances on his hind legs, front paws tucked neatly in front of his chest, while he gazes nearsightedly at the treat being used as incentive) and "bang" (to which he takes a few staggering steps sideways, falls over, and plays dead...except for the tail slapping the floor). But a few words we did not mean to teach him include "shower" (which provokes a rather alarmed response from him), "bike ride" (which provokes manic circles and whining by the door), "Raisin" (which causes the same response) and "poop". The last one actually comes in really handy, unless one says it while in the car and reminds him he has to go. It is nice to have a command that expedites the long, long process of finding the perfect spot.
Borish. Right. Sorry. Moving along to other topics of non-interest and non-importance.
I am sitting here waiting for a batch of bread to rise. All the arrivals today are back to backs, which means I have to wait for the housekeepers to finish them before I can go inspect them for arrival. B ate the last grapefruit half this morning while I was out snowshoeing, leaving me one long overripe banana for breakfast. Instead, I dug in the freezer and came up with the last soy sausage patty, which I crumbled into an egg white and ate wrapped in a brittle tortilla, since we had no bread in the house. So until noon I have the house, sans food, yes, but semi clean and warm and cozy. I cleaned it this morning, then threw a batch of bread into the Kitchen Aid mixer Grandma gave me as a wedding present.
That Kitchen Aid is the one item I do not think I could live without. It is a workhorse of a mixer, and does everyting from mash potatoes to knead bread to whip merangue. It may have been overworked a time or two, because when the dough gets so stiff it almost cannot turn, grease starts to run out of the attachment head and I have to pick it out of the food. But I remember the days before she gave it to me, those first few months after I was married when I was out to prove to my new husband and the whole world just what a little Suzy Homemaker I was (it's okay, you can laugh. I do). I remember how much work it was to create the perfect balance of gluten development and yeast development simultaneously to create big, fluffy, chewy bread. With the mixer, I do not even think about it. A long, slow kneeding period followed by 75 minutes of rising, puctuated six different times by punching it down, then shaping it, a half hour in the oven, and voila. Fluffy, chewy bread, not too light, not too dense. Unless, of course, the atmospheric pressure is not right, it is a sunny day, the house is too cold or too hot, I forget to set my timer when I am developing the yeast in the sponge, or almost anything else. I actually make much better bread at high altitude than I did in Kansas. And I always make better bread on cloudy days. Not rainy days, just cloudy ones. I can almost get an excellent stretch test on a cloudy mountain day in a warm house with my Kitchen Aid. (A stretch test is where the baker takes a small lump of dough and stretches it between her fingers- when the dough will stretch to create a thin, smooth membrane instead of tearing, the gluten is fully developed.)
I have my mom to thank for providing me with a goof-proof bread recipe. For some reason, our bread never turns out the same, probably because she doesn't like her bread doughy and chewy so she takes steps to keep the dough a bit more stiff during the kneeding process. But she is the one who spent years in the quality control lab at Heartland Mill, testing and formulating and creating goof-proof techniques for the lab techs to bake test flour samples. She pulled out a hypothetical bread recipe from her head when I asked her one day, and I wrote it down, and with the exception of adding a bit more water to the sponge than she suggested, it makes beautiful loaves almost every time. And without further ado, ladies and gents, I give you Sandi's bread recipe.
Sponge:
3 cups flour (if you are going to be making it with half whole wheat, use the whole wheat flour here, and the white flour when you add the other three cups, because wheat flour needs longer to develop. I use Golden Buffalo flour, flour that has most of the bran removed, but still contains the germ.)
2 tablespoons instant yeast
2 or 3 cups water @ 30 degrees celcius (or approx. body temp, but no warmer, on your wrist.)
1/2 cup sugar (brown sugar or honey works well, makes the bread a bit more moist than white sugar)
mix until smooth- about three minutes at medium speed
shut off mixer, and set the timer for 20 minutes.
Twenty minutes later, come back and find that the sponge actually resembles a sponge, bubbly and twice it's size. poke it and watch it collapse. Add:
1/4 cup oil (I use olive)
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1 egg (egg substitute does not work well here. Nor does leaving the egg out completely.)
3 cups flour
Kneed until smooth and elastic- a good reference here is when the dough cleans itself off the side of the bowl and it all sticks to the dough hook.
let rest 10 minutes. Punch down.
let rest 10 minutes. Punch down.
let rest 10 minutes. Punch down.
let rest 10 minutes. Shape.
let rise until approx. double in size (if, after a half hour it still isn't doubled in size, accept the loss and put it in the oven anyway. It will continue to grow as it bakes).
Bake at 375 until top turns golden and it sounds hollow when thumped.
Of course, the original bread meister in the family w
as Grandma. The picture is of your future blogger "helping" her with a batch of cinnamon rolls. Speaking of children behaving badly...I wonder if the only way to keep me in the house and out of trouble was to give me dough to play with. I remember many "Breadie Bears" with raisin eyes and raisin belly button baking while I popped the oven door open every few minuted to check on the process and marvel at the way their tummies got fat when they baked.
...this evening. And that was when I went to work. I am home now, after a trip to the grocery store, home made veggie lasagna in the oven. I was not quick enough to sneak the fact that it was vegetarian (has cheese, but no meat) in on B, and now he is sure that he will not like it. And the truth is, he won't. Not after he has made up his mind not to. There is also a pan of brownies in the oven (okay, confession. I messed up on the pan we took to our group last Thursday night. They were about an eighth of an inch thick. That was why they did not all get eaten. I must prove to B that I can make good brownies. So I threw out the rest of the pan from thursday this morning, and am making another batch. Not that we need more brownies).
...Later still. Hmm. Whatdya know, he liked it. If I must say so myself, I do make a rightous lasagna. Now I am sitting here with my stomach stretched tight, wondering why I did it.
I plan to ride Beaver Creek with a friend tomorrow morning. I have never been to Beaver Creek, but I hear it is supposed to have snow. B says to take the day off, because we get busy the rest of the week. If I can go into the kitchen and take care of the evidence of cooking a meal, I may not even have to feel guilty about leaving a messy house sit on my day off.
It is snowing, but not the big dump we keep hoping for. Almost every morning, we wake up to just enough snow to make the roads slushy and add an extra hundred pounds to our wheel wells and undercarriages. I have finally taken the knobby tire off my bike and exchanged it for a smooth tire and my trainer. I watched a movie while I biked ten miles the other night in my living room, and my behind is still a little bit tender. The next day, I ran 5k on snowshoes, creating sore glutes and obliques. Then I came home and made brownies for a Bible study we attend on Thursday nights, and very few of them got eaten, so we have been living on grapefruit and brownies with ice cream.
We armchair shop in the evenings- for bikes (that would be me) and travel trailers (that would be B) and vacations and real estate for Someday. Not that any of it is an option, but hey. It helps us dream. Whatever sustains us until April.
...okay, that was when I fell asleep last night. I had spent all of my creative energy writing a story that I thought had a bit of promise, but I got impatient with the writing of it and did not feel like developing a storyline anymore, so I switched to blogging and realized I had absolutely nothing to pull out of the vacuum that was my brain.
Andy and I are back from snowshoeing. We did the short loop, but worked on obedience. He does very well with heel (I still feel silly saying "heel" to my dog. It seems so militaristic. But I suppose it is universal, so I say it.) as long as there are no, and I do mean NO distractions. And he thinks heel means brush against me, or literally walk right on my heels. We have our little routine. It goes something like this.
"Andy, come front."
He stops and looks at me.
"com'ere!"
huh?
"COME. HERE."
He explodes into flailing legs and wagg
ing tail, racing toward me at full tilt. At the last moment, when I am braced for impact, he swerves wildly, spinning up snow, and races around me in tightening circles until he has himself wound down to an excitedly quivering heap of dog, burrowed into the snow. (See photo for example of him doing this. If, of course, you can find him...)"Sit."
A small wiggle of the butt signals that it has attempted to settle further into the snow.
"Heel."
His head pops out of the snow and he shakes away the snow clinging to his eyelashes, sneezes away the snow that has gone up his nose. Surges forward, then remembers what his command was and stops until I catch up, scarcely waiting until I am abreast of his nose before finding his pace- three steps running, slowing to a painfully calculated walk, three more steps running.
"Good boy."
huh? can we run now? can we can we?
"nuh-uh-uh-uh!"
Tail droops. Head lowers. Eyes roll upward under peaked eyebrows to look reproachfully at me.
"Heel."
Bugger. He presses next to me, unwilling to walk behind me, but the trail is only wide enough for one, so he finds himself forced behind me. And that is when he starts walking on my snowshoes. In Andy's world, "heel" means walk within nose reach of my leg. This is rather difficult than I am wearing skis or snowshoes. We occasionally land in a heap in the snow when my skis or snowshoes do not come along with my forward momentum.
And then, before his attention can wonder so far that he has a chance to be disobedient, "okay."
He literally explodes. Snow flies. He takes flying leaps into ravines, bursting through snowdrifts deeper than he is tall, wiping out and taking faceplants, rolling head over heals, his legs about three paces ahead of the rest of him, already churning before they are back under his body. And then,
"Easy". He stops. Turns and looks at me, puzzled. "Stay". He sinks into a heap in the trail, tail twitching, still ready to spring, but forcing himself into stillness. I catch up. "Heel".
And we start over.
The training walks actually exhaust him almost as much as a run twice as far. His brain just has to work so hard to keep the rest of him under control. Now he sleeps draped between the arms of the leather armchair, the only piece of furniture he is allowed on.
Goodness. I hope we're not this borish in the future when talking about our kids. It is my opinion that dogs are much more entertaining than kids to other people. Their behavior issues do not have sinister implications into the future. No dog who enjoys torturing squirrels when it is a pup grows up to be a serial killer, or something. Maybe I am just being a scrooge, but kids behaving badly does not amuse me. Even when they do it with a modicum of creativity. I am aware that that may change when I have my own.
One of my favorite books as a kid was The Dog Who Wouldn't Be by Farley Mowatt. Nobody would have enjoyed the story about the kid who wouldn't be. If it were the kid who wore the goggles while hanging his head out the car window, spitting cherry pits into the breeze, folks would have begrudged him his cuteness, because it was an attention getting ploy. But it was a dog. An innocent, guileless creature who had no idea that it's eccentricity was anything other than normal. Who's loyal little brain worked overtime to churn out delightful bits of amusement for it's people. Who seemed to have a sense for what caused it's humans to laugh, and performed to their sense of humor.
As does Andy, I am convinced. As quickly as he pickes up on verbal cues with us scarcely making an effort to teach him, there is no way he does not read our body language, which is his first language, and realize that certain behavior delights us while other behavior offends us. Which is why we are so unsuccessful at putting the lid on his wild antics, even when they are ridiculously obnoxious and out of control. They delight us too much. I am sure we put out happy pheremones that signal to him our delight and approval, the laughter bubbling up in our chests, even as we tell him to calm down, take it easy, cease and desist, no, Andy, no-no.
Speaking of verbal cues, I did not realize before having a house dog that they could make such quick associations with items and experiences. And once a word is in their head, it does not come out easily. Poor Andy has trouble distinguishing between words that sound almost the same, such as "beg" (to which he balances on his hind legs, front paws tucked neatly in front of his chest, while he gazes nearsightedly at the treat being used as incentive) and "bang" (to which he takes a few staggering steps sideways, falls over, and plays dead...except for the tail slapping the floor). But a few words we did not mean to teach him include "shower" (which provokes a rather alarmed response from him), "bike ride" (which provokes manic circles and whining by the door), "Raisin" (which causes the same response) and "poop". The last one actually comes in really handy, unless one says it while in the car and reminds him he has to go. It is nice to have a command that expedites the long, long process of finding the perfect spot.
Borish. Right. Sorry. Moving along to other topics of non-interest and non-importance.
I am sitting here waiting for a batch of bread to rise. All the arrivals today are back to backs, which means I have to wait for the housekeepers to finish them before I can go inspect them for arrival. B ate the last grapefruit half this morning while I was out snowshoeing, leaving me one long overripe banana for breakfast. Instead, I dug in the freezer and came up with the last soy sausage patty, which I crumbled into an egg white and ate wrapped in a brittle tortilla, since we had no bread in the house. So until noon I have the house, sans food, yes, but semi clean and warm and cozy. I cleaned it this morning, then threw a batch of bread into the Kitchen Aid mixer Grandma gave me as a wedding present.
That Kitchen Aid is the one item I do not think I could live without. It is a workhorse of a mixer, and does everyting from mash potatoes to knead bread to whip merangue. It may have been overworked a time or two, because when the dough gets so stiff it almost cannot turn, grease starts to run out of the attachment head and I have to pick it out of the food. But I remember the days before she gave it to me, those first few months after I was married when I was out to prove to my new husband and the whole world just what a little Suzy Homemaker I was (it's okay, you can laugh. I do). I remember how much work it was to create the perfect balance of gluten development and yeast development simultaneously to create big, fluffy, chewy bread. With the mixer, I do not even think about it. A long, slow kneeding period followed by 75 minutes of rising, puctuated six different times by punching it down, then shaping it, a half hour in the oven, and voila. Fluffy, chewy bread, not too light, not too dense. Unless, of course, the atmospheric pressure is not right, it is a sunny day, the house is too cold or too hot, I forget to set my timer when I am developing the yeast in the sponge, or almost anything else. I actually make much better bread at high altitude than I did in Kansas. And I always make better bread on cloudy days. Not rainy days, just cloudy ones. I can almost get an excellent stretch test on a cloudy mountain day in a warm house with my Kitchen Aid. (A stretch test is where the baker takes a small lump of dough and stretches it between her fingers- when the dough will stretch to create a thin, smooth membrane instead of tearing, the gluten is fully developed.)
I have my mom to thank for providing me with a goof-proof bread recipe. For some reason, our bread never turns out the same, probably because she doesn't like her bread doughy and chewy so she takes steps to keep the dough a bit more stiff during the kneeding process. But she is the one who spent years in the quality control lab at Heartland Mill, testing and formulating and creating goof-proof techniques for the lab techs to bake test flour samples. She pulled out a hypothetical bread recipe from her head when I asked her one day, and I wrote it down, and with the exception of adding a bit more water to the sponge than she suggested, it makes beautiful loaves almost every time. And without further ado, ladies and gents, I give you Sandi's bread recipe.
Sponge:
3 cups flour (if you are going to be making it with half whole wheat, use the whole wheat flour here, and the white flour when you add the other three cups, because wheat flour needs longer to develop. I use Golden Buffalo flour, flour that has most of the bran removed, but still contains the germ.)
2 tablespoons instant yeast
2 or 3 cups water @ 30 degrees celcius (or approx. body temp, but no warmer, on your wrist.)
1/2 cup sugar (brown sugar or honey works well, makes the bread a bit more moist than white sugar)
mix until smooth- about three minutes at medium speed
shut off mixer, and set the timer for 20 minutes.
Twenty minutes later, come back and find that the sponge actually resembles a sponge, bubbly and twice it's size. poke it and watch it collapse. Add:
1/4 cup oil (I use olive)
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1 egg (egg substitute does not work well here. Nor does leaving the egg out completely.)
3 cups flour
Kneed until smooth and elastic- a good reference here is when the dough cleans itself off the side of the bowl and it all sticks to the dough hook.
let rest 10 minutes. Punch down.
let rest 10 minutes. Punch down.
let rest 10 minutes. Punch down.
let rest 10 minutes. Shape.
let rise until approx. double in size (if, after a half hour it still isn't doubled in size, accept the loss and put it in the oven anyway. It will continue to grow as it bakes).
Bake at 375 until top turns golden and it sounds hollow when thumped.
Of course, the original bread meister in the family w
as Grandma. The picture is of your future blogger "helping" her with a batch of cinnamon rolls. Speaking of children behaving badly...I wonder if the only way to keep me in the house and out of trouble was to give me dough to play with. I remember many "Breadie Bears" with raisin eyes and raisin belly button baking while I popped the oven door open every few minuted to check on the process and marvel at the way their tummies got fat when they baked....this evening. And that was when I went to work. I am home now, after a trip to the grocery store, home made veggie lasagna in the oven. I was not quick enough to sneak the fact that it was vegetarian (has cheese, but no meat) in on B, and now he is sure that he will not like it. And the truth is, he won't. Not after he has made up his mind not to. There is also a pan of brownies in the oven (okay, confession. I messed up on the pan we took to our group last Thursday night. They were about an eighth of an inch thick. That was why they did not all get eaten. I must prove to B that I can make good brownies. So I threw out the rest of the pan from thursday this morning, and am making another batch. Not that we need more brownies).
...Later still. Hmm. Whatdya know, he liked it. If I must say so myself, I do make a rightous lasagna. Now I am sitting here with my stomach stretched tight, wondering why I did it.
I plan to ride Beaver Creek with a friend tomorrow morning. I have never been to Beaver Creek, but I hear it is supposed to have snow. B says to take the day off, because we get busy the rest of the week. If I can go into the kitchen and take care of the evidence of cooking a meal, I may not even have to feel guilty about leaving a messy house sit on my day off.
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