Summer's almost over...

It is a wonderful thing, living at 9,000 feet when the rest of the lower 48 is suffering a heat wave. I keep subconsciously waiting for summer to arrive. And here it is, the first few days of August. We bought sweet corn from a roadside stand the other day, grown at much lower elevations on the western slope, and it was overripe. How can summer be so nearly gone as to have already produced sweet corn, let alone overripe sweet corn? But here, it rains in the evenings, and the balmy Kansas nights are perhaps one of the things we miss the most. It is almost laughable to watch fellow suburbianites scurry around, planting here, weeding there, tending and caring and watering, when in six weeks, the snow will begin creeping down from the peaks, and cover it all up. The tangled mess of columbines, daisies, and poppies will be gone, and we will walk over their beds, and park on expensive sprinkler systems because we will not reallize where our borders are because everything will be white.

The bears have already switched into frantic forage mode. One attempted a mad dash across a road the other day, through a tangle of bicyclists, coasting downhill at breakneck speed. After a tangled tumble, the bear disengaged itself and scrambled into the bushes. The only bicyclist to actually make contact showed off her roadburn for the papers the next day. There are stories of them raiding parked cars, even refridgerators, inside unlocked houses. (the bears, that is, not the bicyclists).

I must say, the town I live in is so much more obviously exciting than the one I grew up in. I say obviously, because there is excitement in little prairie towns as well, but it is not so readily available to the casual observer. Take the other day, when the Safeway truck lost it's brakes after it had passed the last runaway ramp. it could have continued on over the overpass and slowed on the long uphill stretch all the way up Vail pass if need be, but the rattled driver chose to exit at Silverthorne. The truck, in the process of turning over, lost it's trailer, which also overturned in the busy intersection. No life was lost, although it easily could have been, but the street flowed with soft drink. Two weeks later, the street is still a bit sticky.

Yesterday was a big day for anyone approaching a midlife crisis...ok, that was a cliche, but honestly, how many young guys did YOU see yesterday at the Show 'n' Shine event yesterday, when over 500 Corvettes nosed their way onto Main Street in Frisco? Ok, so it's also a little unfair, since most of the proud, balding owners of said Corvettes have spent a lifetime aquiring the money needed to finance such a hobby. We walked, and looked, and marveled at the sheer amount of money amassed along both curbs and the center of the street. How many small countries could each of these cars feed for a year? How many individuals could one sparkling, mirror-chrome wheel clothe? How about if each bandana'd participant had thrown their hundreds and thousands of dollars which shone out of their chrome incrusted engine components and gleamed from their flawless original paint and peeked from between the oiled treads of their original tires, at something else, say, I dunno, research on how to become independant from the oil which is the life force of this sort of lifestyle?

Ok, now I've waxed cynical, and for this, I am rediculed as the resident tree hugger. I do not claim to be nearly passionate enough for such a title. Only tonight, I took out the trash, soda cans and beer bottle clanking against eachother, and I threw the whole mess right into the dumpster. Shame on me.

But it is the people here that provide the most interest. No real drama is needed if one can be content to people-watch. It becomes a game to peg them as they come and go- to imagine one knows what makes them tick, and what ticks them off. Trophy wife, ski bum, golfing retiree, and then of course, the foreigners. Give it your best shot. Polish? Russian? Spanish, Mexican, Equadorian, Peruvian? What about the varieties of English? England, Scotland, Australia, New Zealand? The youngish restaurant owner in the Subaru, most likely to exhibit road rage to someone with Kansas plates. The muscle bound jock in the A-basin tee shirt, most likely to have his license revoked. The kid with the wires snaking from his ears, with his pants belted on under his cheeks, most likely to fail his pre-employment drug test. The tie dye clad hippies, their guitars and dreadies and those VW van/campers that just wont die. And of course, those of us who come and go, youngish and determined to get their lives and finances in order before they take the next step, such as families. It's a colorful, glorious world. You can't tell me that God made everything but humans as diverse as He did, and now expects the humans to conform to each other's models and ideals of perfection.

And now I've waxed philosophical. It happens.

Half of the rest of our household should be arriving tonight, the other half on Sunday or Monday. We were planning on them being back today, in time to help us get through another hairy weekend. Why must families invariably plan their reunions when we are the busiest? we optimistically thought, if B. and I stayed home, the others could still go, but in the ten days since they left, we have been rethinking that offer. A hundred condos and nine businesses without running water for an hour and a half because one of our condos develoved a torrential water leak, and the entire building only had a single water shut-off (honestly, who designs these buildings?) leading to a very irate day spa owner, threatening legal action on our quaking little selves... I had visions of dye left too long in hair, lost bookings, thousands of dollars we would have to make up in damages. As it was, it cost B. an hour of listening to the guy scream before he revealed it had cost him two manicures and a few bottles of water. That was one day. to say that was representative of our entire week would be a little bit of an overstatement, but it has been possibly the most stressful two weeks of work we have ever done. If we can only make it through one last peak-season weekend, shorthanded, we will take a few days off, leave Summit County, sit somewhere and stare around us with glazed eyes and try to stop quivering. At least it has started another cycle of rainy afternoons. If it were sunny and beautiful yet, and we were unable to enjoy our last few weeks of such sunny beautifulness, I think I might cry. As it is, we've just been a little snappy.

And now I am off, to go create something tasty for just the two of us before we must begin planning meals for four again. I took an ill-afforded morning at home to try to remove the effects of our eat-sleep-and-run schedule the last ten days, and by now, have almost found the floor and countertops again. Maybe I can fool everyone into thinking I am a tidy, virtuous, little wifey type a while longer.

I'm back...

I know, it has been a while. Since the day we biked the Colorado Trail, my bruises have almost completely faded. I have driven to Nebraska for a funeral, and while there, spent some time with relatives on both sides. It felt kinda nice to excersize my independance and drive myself out there, even though I often state that being a passenger is more than fine with me. I picked Mom up in Kansas, and we even got to spend a few hours together. But now I am back in Summit County, and enjoying some of the most beautiful days I have ever experienced in July. It has almost been hot. I took Bob's roller blades (mine are in Kansas) to the Dillon recpath the other day, and skated across the dam to Frisco. It caused me some inner gloating to watch myself overtake the flatlanders on their rented bikes. Of course, that was after I had gone a wobbly mile, trying to make my feet accept the fact that mt toes were a good three inches longer than normal. Mr. B. has very nice, small feet, but his rollerblades were still much too big for me. At the end of my seven miles, I had learned to adjust my stride accordingly, but had rubbed some bothersome blisters. And the skates shimmied drastically on the long, downhill stretches. I have never had to deal with out of control speed, because where I usually rollerblade is in Kansas, where if one wants to slow down, one must simply coast to a stop.

Yesterday, after we got off work at four o'clock, Mr.B. got the idea we needed to go to the lake. Way out there at Green Mountain Reservior where there is no cell service. I know. I was shocked as well. What if the entire company had fallen apart in our absence? After an very thorough safety insepction by the "water gestapo" who didnt recognise our registration as being in-state, which we passed, we pulled out the waterski and Frog went amphibious. The water has warmed significantly, making it much easier to let go of the rope when I got just too exhausted to ski anymore. After I'd had as much fun as was still fun in the very rough chop and boat wash, we idled back into a sun washed cove, surrounded by tall emerald grass and aspens and shut off the boat, and lay around, and slapped mosquitoes, and swam, pushing the floating cowpies out of our way. That single act was sufficient to reconnect us with our farmkid heritage. Feces belonging to any species except those common to the farm is just downright gross, but when it comes from a cow, one uses it as a frisbee, for practical jokes, or simply nudges it out of one's path. It assumes the same attributes as a dirt clod or a rock, simply a wad of grass which has been processed and returned to the ground from whence it came. (The same attitude applies to most anything else coming off of or out of a cow, heifer, calf, bull, or steer. I remember, when we were kids at roundup, having "snowball fights" with...well, maybe that's a story for another time. Lets just say they weren't made out of snow.) But I digress. The cove slightly resembled a good many cowponds we have found refreshment in, and any resemblance to my childhood does tend to lead to digression.

I took my paints down to the Dillon Marina this afternoon (my readers may be wondering at this point if I ever work, and the answer is, rarely past noon, these days...but that will all change in about two months) and sat and painted a small picture of the Tenmile Range and the lake with it's sailboats. The ADD set in after about thirty minutes, plus I got hot and the wind dried my paints far too quickly, so I took the camera and walked down through the marina, and along the footpath, lined with picnickers. I tactfully tried to ignore the frantic father and mother who had lost Kyle, and the chewing-out Kyle recieved when he was located. And then Kyle wondered off again, and refused acknowledge his parent's very loud insistance that he stay with his brothers who were fishing like regular little anglers. This is why, father yelled at the back of the retreating little blonde head bobbing in the sagebrush, your brothers catch fish and you do not. Kyle seemed to have a few obedience issues, but really, I couldnt blame the kid. Maybe he had ADD too. I know I would find it hard to sit and fish when there was so much unexplored ground to be covered.

The window is open beside me, the air coming through it cool and rain-laden. It has been thundering this evening, low growls and crisp cadence reverberating between the peaks, an uninterupted dialogue about things we humans cannot begin to comprehend. I feel small when it does this. But comfortably so. Even when I was small, it was hard to keep me indoors during thunderstorms. It is such a rush to be surrounded by something as powerful and uncontrollable as a summer thunderstorm.

biking the Colorado Trail

Suddenly, I have found myself with very little to do, which has lent itself nicely to the pursuit of die-hard activity. Finally today, I convinced Bobby he should join me. Actually, he would not have, if all of our units had not been in-house, leaving him none to paint or fix, but I'll still take the credit for it. He never tells me before hand that he is planning to take a day off, he probably thinks he will jinx it, so my first clue is, when he climbs out of bed, he pulls on his khaki shorts. He only wears shorts on his days off. Khaki shorts also give me an inclination of his plan for his day off- they are his preferred bike wear. It was exciting enought to bounce me right out from under my very comfortable sheets.

We drove up Keystone Gulch, a very popular mountain bike route, to the West Ridge Trailhead. Bobby kicks my butt when it comes to technical climbs. I spin out, weave back and forth, and if it gets steep enough, have even tipped over backwards. My legs have a colorful array of bruises and scrapes on them from bailing about eight times on the twenty mile ride. We had decided beforehand to merely ride the West Ridge loop, a six mile loop along an 11,000 ft ridge separating Keystone from Breckenridge. When we came to the junction of the Colorado Trail, only two miles from completing the loop, we found ourselves very reluctant to turn back downhill. After all, we had crawled all the way up here, why go down right away? The Colorado Trail wound down to Tiger Run, an outlying part of Breck. We looked at each other, asked each other if we ever thought we would come this way again, reallized my phone was nearly dead and neither of us had any method of payment, should we need to buy anything on the way, and that it would be kind of stupid to extend a six mile ride into a twenty mile one without telling anyone, but hey. At least there were two of us. We turned left onto the Colorado Trail, and before long, were in love with it. Sharp, challedging switchbacks, fast descents offset by uphills just long enough, the trail exceptionally well maintained. At one point, we stopped on a hillside which was bare except for sagebrush and wildflowers, took a deep breath of sage-scented air, and realized that the trail itself was the only sign of civilization one could see. It was just us and the mountains, and a breathtaking view of the Tenmile range.

I contend that one cannot truly experience the mountains if they have any sort of engine beneath them. Others contend that anything mechanical will ruin the experience. I agree to an extent, but with the aid of a lightweight mechanical apparatus known as the bicycle, one can cover much more area, at the cost of a little communion with nature. But ever since I sat down a few years ago with a coffee-table guidebook to the Colorado Trail (time stolen from the condo we were supposed to be cleaning) I have had "walk the Colorado Trail" somewhere at the top of my "things to do before I die" list, along with "get brave enough to eat shushi" and "enter a race". (I would like to say marathon, but I have heard somewhere that we should set reallistic goals. A 5 or 10k would probably be enough.) The Colorado Trail is a 400+ mile trail, winding through the Rockies connecting Denver and Durango. It is an especially beautiful trail, exceptional in the fact that it was built entirely by volunteers. Of course, one does not walk 400-some miles in a few days, so that will have to wait until, well, a lot of things happen. Like retirement maybe, or Mr.B. morphs into a pack-llama who says, "oh, what the hay... life's too short to work every day!"

Tonight, we are stiffening up. We had fun, but we may pay for it tomorrow. We had happy-hour specials at the mexican restaurant, food but no drinks. As exhausted as we were, alcohol seemed like a really bad idea.

The last of our guests left this morning. What will we do without extras milling around the house, without things to show and things to tell? What will I do now that I must hike alone? I have the day mostly off, maybe a small clean this afternoon. I was just talking to the neighbor next door, and she suggested I join a group called the Divas, a womens mountain bike group which meets on Thursdays. In theory, it sounds great. However, a plethora of trivialities leave me a bit skeptical. I'm not that good. What if everyone is better than me? I don't wear spandex. Will everyone else wear spandex? I might even venture outside in it if I could afford the stuff. But I can't, so I bike in my black cotton shorts and hiking boots. Hiking boots- what if everyone else has those funny lookin bike-y shoes? Ok, so if I had enough raw talent to drown out the laughter, I might consider. But if I am really bad, maybe nobody will want to talk to me, and they all know each other and I know no one, and I will be lagging behind, feeling sorry for myself, in my flatlander gear and lack of skill, and I will have ruined something that is so much fun, and all mine, and something that is sacred because it is one of the few things Bob and I both enjoy and are at the same level in, making it so easy for us to connect with each other and the great outdoors.

Later- I didnt do one thing useful today. After I had the house to myself, I paced and roamed around a bit, and fretted about the Divas, and worked myself into a stew of self-doubt, and finally, filled my Camelbak with water, grabbed my bike, and pedaled away with only the smallest notion of a plan. Ten miles later, I found myself in Keystone, wondering what to do next. I turned uphill and rode along a trail which I do not think was a designated biking trail, and dumped myself in a stream. At least I did not sit down. The rest of the day, I sloshed when I walked. With a sureptitious glance around, to assure myself nobody was watching, I grabbed a low-hanging willow and pulled myself back up to my bike. Nope, definitely not Diva material. I prefer to crash without a slew of unnaturally fit super-women type suburbia moms, who look as though they have never even thought about kids, let alone squeezed out the required two or three, watching.

What is wrong with these people? It exhausted us to jeep over trails they regularly ride. They refer to obscure landmarks in obscure basins and valleys down roads less traveled, and everyone knows precisely what they are talking about. They back-slap and guffaw about falling off narrow boards laid across streams or fallen trees, "because we were too lazy to walk across". And they do all these things in spite of having small children and jobs. I think they have a mutant strain of some sort. Joke about mountain women, about leathery necks and faces, hairy legs and armpits, lack of deodorant, who can write their name in the snow with urine as legibly as any man. The truth is, nobody messes with them. They redifine one's notion of femininity. I think they're great. I never would have made a southern belle anyway.

So here I sit, nursing a sunburn on my soon-to-be-leathery face, trying not to stretch my shirt over my very tender shoulders. A tank top over a sports bra under a camelbak did not leave sexy tan lines, only large, round patches of raw skin over my shoulder blades. I feel awful, because my sunglasses were in Bob's vehicle all day. My head throbs and my eyeballs burn. If I had to change diapers yet tonight, cook a large meal, provide maternal comfort to some miniature one, I dont know what I would do.

It rained today. Hard. It would not have been entirely noteworthy, except that we were an hour into the Eagle's nest wilderness, under buffalo mountain when it happened. Bob's brother, his brother's girlfriend, my friend Squirrel and I left for a hike under only slightly gray skies- and it hasnt rained for a day or two. We should have been fine. Then the sprinkles started. Do what they do in the mountains, and keep doing what you were doing, we said. A mile in, the rain began in earnest. The squirrels (except our Squirrel) hid. At last, we determined it had no intention of letting up, and turned around. By that time, we were blowing running water off the ends of our noses, our hair hanging in stringy ropes, soaked all the way to our skin. We trudged as no-nonsensically as possible, since three of us were flatlanders and frantically sucking up our thin air- nobody had been here long enough to acclimatize. A sudden, deafening thunderclap caused a few surprised squeaks. We finally emerged, and I reallized how cold I was when I stuck my hand into the stream and found it quite warm. My fingers almost refused to sign us out of the wilderness registry. Oh, well. It was nearly fun. We decided not to wet B's sister's pickup seats to drive a quarter-mile home, but walked instead. It wasnt like we could get any wetter- we couldnt have been any wetter if we had jumped into the strangely warm Willow Creek. But somewhere along the way, a deranged wild animal (well, ok, maybe it was a patch of wet, and threrefore slick pavement, but she would rather we said wild animal) jumped up and bit Squirrel on both knees. We watched in fascination as the shocked, white holes on her kneecaps slowely filled with blood, then aided by the rain, spilled over and ran down her shins and into her shoes, turning them from athletic-chic yellow Sketchers to dark red. Ok, it was a little gross, but that was the beauty of it. The bedraggled bunch finally stumbled into the front door, amid cheers and jeers, and mock presentation of the "Stupid Awards".

We have had a bit of a revolving door the last few days. Not only was the brother and the girlfriend here, so was a harvest buddy, also between jobs. And Squirrel, taking a break between finishing the last of her prerequisites and starting Nursing School. Tonight is peaceful, nobody is here at the moment, but tomorrow two of my cousins, the two who will live with us this winter and clean for Seymour Lodging, will arrive for a two day visit. We only wish we would not have to be so busy. Too bad that's the nature of a job- one tends to have to be there if one wishes to keep it. Especially this one.

I am feeling a bit humbled. For my birthday, my friends and family pitched in and bought me an IPod- I can hold my entire music collection in the palm of my hand. I would have never splurged and bought one for myself, but since I suddenly own one, I do not know how I survived without it. My time alone does not even have to be spent in introspection with 240 songs at my disposal. I feel very hip, jogging or pedalling along, wires snaking from my ears. Nobody tries to speak to me anymore, as I am obviously unavailable.

The latest craze amongst the Koehns of suburbia is the tennis courts down at the entrance of our subdivision. If the rain lets up long enough, and we are not too dead from working all day, we take our "bats" and a canister of tennis balls, and spend the last of our energy chasing a little yellow blur, as the sun slips below the clouds and bathes the valley in pinks and reds. But not tonight. Tonight, we sit and stare at the walls, eyes slightly glazed as we try to forget our day. We cleaned like we do during the winter. Now I remember why I did not log more evenings on my ski pass. I can think of nothing but a dinner of leftovers, a hot shower and bed.

I am not working thiss morning, or even pretending to work. I am sitting at home by myself. It's my birthday, which apparently, as my dearest Mr.B. told me, as he kissed me this morning, does not mean he can take the day off, although I can. I think it has more to do with the fact that at the moment, most of our properties are occupied, so there is nothing that can be done in them. Although this afternoon, after one of our units dry out a bit after the carpet clean that is taking place as I write, we will go and deep clean it in preparation for a slew of bookings in July. So ok, not an entire day off, but I've learned not to even expect that.

We should be driving through Kansas right now, on our way to a wedding in Texas. B's cousin on his mom's side. We have planned the trip for months, then a week and a half ago, the reservations started coming in, and tomorrow we have far too many cleans to be able to leave. Mr. Seymour, down in Denver, apparently does not reallize that besides managing his in-county operations, we are also his housekeepers. We have had really poor luck finding cleaners who actually show up when there is a clean to do, and the ones who show up sometimes make even more work for us when the guests call to complain about the quality of their clean. With some of his most premier, say nothing of gargantuan, properties turning tomorrow, we could only picture what would happen if even one of our cleaners called in because of a sick baby or a grouchy husband. We would be three states away while everything fell apart here. So tomorrow, while B's family celebrates, we will scrub toilets...

With the last day of June, summer is official. We have had some unseasonally idyllic days, washed in sunny warmth, cooled by that impish mountain breeze. But suddenly, with June ending, the weather patterns have changed to high-country unpredictable. Almost hot one moment, a chilly wind whipping up a thunderstorm the next. Already, at eleven o'clock, the cerulean sky is graying as the "thunderboomers" build. It is windy all the time. I have given up on painting on the back deck. An unpredictable gust is likely to send my canvas right into my face. But the mornings are always beautiful, and they are mine. I run or ride bike into the golf course community that borders our subdivision, and exult as the sudden elevation changes become easier with each consecutive morning. Sprinklers chatter, retirees smile and wave, wildflowers bob and curtsy. After about three miles, one climbs high enough to be able to survey the entire valley, the manicured greens directly below, the town of Silverthorne, the interstate which separates it from Dillon, the lake, dotted with tiny sailboats. Beyond that, the emerald runs of Keystone, and further still, the continental divide. And in the mornings, it's all mine.

I think there are several Bertrams who frequent our backyard. There's red Bertram, and gray Bertram, and gimpy Bertram. And the other day, Bertram brought Beatrice to romp in the backyard. Even scraggly and skinny, you've gotta love foxes. We have no kittens or chickens for them to threaten, so we are free to be as delighted over them as we wish.

Ok, I am going to go find something to do which would qualify as useful. Have a wonderful 4th.

A birds-eye view

We took the Jeep up Saints John Road, to Glacier Mountain today. We didnt make it all the way over, because of a lingering snowfield which swallowed the trail, but we turned around at a wonderful viewpoint! In case I have left you in the dark geographically a time or two, here are a few landmarks to help you navigate your way around the Summit with me. Click on the picture to enlarge.

An explanation

As Mr. B. is fond of saying, "everything I own is for sale... at the right price!" Well, maybe not entirely true. But certainly everything in my "studio" or should we say corner, is. I am posting these paintings here, not to shame anyone into purchasing them, but rather, it seemed a really lazy, cheap way of making them available. These were all painted in the last few months. I finally have the space oil painting requires, but it has been years since I have played with them- the one oil in the bunch, the 24x36 mountain scene, may still be revised quite a bit, as it is not entirely up to the standard I have in mind for my oil paintings... I need a lot more time to reaquaint myself with the way oils work.

Back to the studio

Winter in Dillon Valley, 16x20, acrylic, $30 Utah landscape, 20x24, acrylic, $45
Rocky Mountain landscape, 24x36, oil, $65
View of the La Sal mountains from The Windows, Arches Nat'l Park, 20x24,acrylic, $45

defending champion

I knew it was idiotic, but it had to be done in the name of, well, the thing which motivates a very large number of idiotic things. Being first. We are still experiencing the tail end of peak run-off, the lake was full, the morning was beautiful, and the glassy surface beckoned. There was nothing to do but the obvious thing. I put it off until the wind picked up and whipped the glassy surface of the lake into something resembling the surface of the Kansas lakes we are used to skiing on- I knew it would be cold. But as Mr.B. turned the boat toward the shore, I found myself digging for the ski rope, and heard myself proclaiming I would water ski, in spite of the fact that three weeks ago, most of the water in the lake was nestled in some high mountain crag in the form of snow. I am psyched- it was one of our biggest worries, that we would not be able to have the sort of sun-drenched, waterlogged fun we had in Kansas in the summers. Ski I did, after easing myself into a lake which turned my extremities numb before my ski planed. Call me crazy, but have YOU been in the water yet? Looks like I get the distinction of being the first one in the water, three years running. The most frusterating thing about my record of wins is that nobody cares, nobody launches themself off the bow in order to break my record. Not only does it go unbroken, it goes unchallenged. I have married into a very complacent family. I race to the summit of a twelve thousand foot peak, and between gasps, turn around to gloat my victory... to find that no one else is playing. I tie my hiking shoes, thinking I will shame someone out of the house, but they just ask me if I have my phone. Oh, I love them dearly, every one, but they're just so darned... mature. Oh, well. I still do my victory dance, because deep down, I know they wish it had been them rubbing feeling back into their fingers and toes.

We made the trip to Kansas without Mr.B. The good thing was, since we got back, he has not touched the playstation. I have a feeling they became very close while we were gone. Marci and I drove down Tuesday, got there in the evening, and the plan was to come back the next day. The next day was so windy and hot, it just put everyone into a bad mood in no time. My father in law had agreed to pull the boat to Colorado, while Marci and I followed in his car, and he decided, as badly as he wanted to leave Western Kansas, there was no was no way he was pulling the boat through wind we could hardly walk straight in. We spent the day loading everything we might possibly need (and several things we couldnt possibly) into the boat, and left the next morning.

It was an odd experience for me, being one of the girls. We slept in the house Kayla is renting in town, and went to bed far too late. I slept on the couch, which I rather enjoy for some reason, and have not done for four years. Mr.B. agreed, when I got home, that while he missed me, it was kind of nice being able to play at being his own man for a few days.

The other day, I tightened my hiking shoes, packed a backpack with the essentials, and did some for-real hiking on the trail by our place. It took me about three miles into the Eagles Nest Wilderness, and it was only on the way back I discovered how faintly the way home was marked. The mosquitos held a banquet on my arms and legs as I took first one wrong trail, then another. But now I know the trail which leads out is not marked at all. I did not realize that on the way in. The evening was getting rather chilly as I dragged my aching heels out of the forest, and signed out of the wilderness registry. I am a flatlander. The mountains are never comforting or safe for me. My forays into them are driven by a need to be awed and scared, rather than a need to spend time alone, or to feel sheltered. They are always borderline menacing, and I walk quietly, and feel small. I have no desire to master them in all the ways people do, by climbing them, by photographing them, by walking the entire length of them. I face my fears there, but always there is the knowledge that I am indeed taking my life in my hands, and if something should happen to me out there, my family may not have the closure of knowing what became of me. It really does make me a little nervous to hike alone. But it is hike alone or stay home. What's a girl to do?

Yesterday, I finally convinced my husband to take a partial day off. It has been fourteen days straight for him, putting out fires, appeasing guests, juggling maintenance items and the various contractors who can take care of them. I almost had to get really demanding to get him to do it, but in the afternoon we loaded the bikes onto the jeep and drove to Keystone. The plan was to jeep to a good bike trail, then get out and ride, but the more ground we covered in the jeep, the less we felt like biking, so the bikes stayed on the Jeep and bounced over ruts and rocks and through trees with us. It was fascinating driving over the runs we ride over in the winter, and know every curve, every bump, every drop. In the summer, they are a jumble of rocks and small trees, and unimaginably steep. How on earth do we straightline them?

We did unload our bikes when we got back to Keystone proper, and took them on a dusty singletrack through the sagebrush and wildflowers. It was a nice easy ride, although threatened by an approaching thunderstorm. The last portion followed a trail used by the Keystone Stables, much to the disgust of Mr.B., who does not hold the same fond memories involving the smell of horse poop that I do. It's sad, I know, that such a pungent odor could instantly take me back to some of the best, and worst times of my life. Did I really spend two years coming to an understanding with that feisty sorrel mare? Another two aboard that massive thouroughbred gelding? And the sweet little appaloosa, who was never mine, but lived at my house to keep the other two company, who was completely blind, but trusted me implicitly whenever we left the corral... I really miss 'em. That's the person I wanted to be. Too bad I had to grow up.

sucumbing to suburbia

Who would have thought it would come to this? The Koehns of Dillon Valley East, of Snowdance Manor, of Key Condo and whatever other tiny apartment we have called home, have succumbed to suburbia. I sit by an open upstairs window in our somewhat feng shui’d new abode (the last people to live here must have been believers and left dozens of stickers with Japanese characters and symbols in all the right spots) and try not to listen too carefully to the neighbor’s conversation as they soak in their hot tub a few feet away. Upper-middle class neighbors walk their dogs, bike, and push baby strollers past our house. They park large SUVs in front of larger and even less economical houses, water their lawns, and race each other to see who can mow them first. They have block parties and spacious front porches. We are gasping and twitching a little, having landed… well, I would say like a fish out of water, but the simile really does not fit, seeing as we have gone from the murky, crowded muddle of apartment life to a crystal, clean, spacious fishbowl. As would any space-spoiled American aspiring to live above their means, I am loving the house. Coin laundries and bike storage up three flights of stairs are a thing of the past. The house itself has already spoiled me to the point of hardly considering apartment living as an option ever again. As for living on American Dream Drive, well… I will adjust.
The house borders designated open space, a delightful jumble of willows and aspens, out of which, on rare evenings, Bertram the resident fox emerges to check back deck barbeques for forgotten morsels. The neighbors tell us that occasionally it will also yield a friendly visit from a scavenging bear, and rarely, even a moose will take a leisurely stroll through the backyard. Personally, I prefer that Bertram tell his friends to stay away from me as I lounge on our elegantly understated deck furniture, the reclining canvas camping chairs we salvaged as they were preparing to make their final journey, to the city dump. The border of the Arapahoe National Forest is a short jog down the road, with yet another trail I shall have to add to my list of favorites. It is magical in a way my others are not. While my other favorite trails creep softly through dense forests which moan with old age, and are comforted by the stream’s voice talking to them in the same language they have conversed in since the first trickle of water found its way through their gulch, this one is leaping with new, young, fragile life. It dares to climb, through an airy forest, winding close to the edge to assure itself of the world beyond. Wild strawberries, roses, and Indian paintbrushes crowd close, begging for attention. The floor of this forest is emerald, not the enduring gray and brown of the valley floors. But now we come to the drawback (I told you I’d find one). The portion of national forest surrounding our subdivision is designated wilderness. This means anything with wheels is strictly forbidden. My bike has gone five days without me. I give it a reassuring pat as it leans against the wall, and as I climb into the jeep, tell it I promise, tomorrow…
After we finished cleaning one of our properties the other day, we pulled the trusty Suburban out of the garage, and out of a big puddle of oil. It wasn’t a very life-threatening leak, but severely affected the way the brakes operated, so it had to go to the shop. We were planning on taking it to Kansas this afternoon and loading it up with whatever we might need in the next two years in this house. The kitchen is unfurnished, so I could actually use all the handy little wedding-gift items that are sitting in drawers back in Kansas. And Bob wanted to hook onto the boat and haul it back, because the icy but calm water of the Dillon Reservoir beckons him every morning when he drives to work. But we cant really blame the Suburban. It has held together through a quarter of a million miles for it’s various owners, and has earned the right to balk a bit. We just hope the cost of keeping it alive will not have to exceed the cost of vehicle payments. Now it appears Mr. B. will not be able to go back to Kansas, although Marci and I may go by ourselves tomorrow.
This house came furnished with a wide screen TV and surround sound, capable of an alarming amount of decibels. I thought this would be a plus. That was before I remembered the Playstation. Now, our collection of games used to consist of mostly auto-racing, and inevitably, The Simpson’s game. I can handle screeching brakes at full volume, and Homer’s occasional “doh!”. But lately, guests have been leaving a lot of rather violent video games in condos. They very rarely call about them, so they all must be taken home and demo’d by B. It’s hard, but someone has to do it. Last night as I sat out on the back porch, machine guns clattered, things exploded, people screamed. Our poor neighbors. It seems it would be an utter waste to turn the volume down, although last night as my feet were being massaged by the vibrating floor, I went over and turned it down myself, much to the consternation of the video game head in the house. Of course, this stage may not last forever. Once he conquers the games, he will not play them again for a long time. Unless our guests keep leaving them… The next big thing is getting cable hooked up for the tv heads in the house. I am sure the volume will be no less blaring when favorite shows come on. This is where I find myself at a disadvantage. After all, I was the one raised as a Mennonite. When we played music, it could not be audible beyond the room it was being played it, lest someone catch us with it. I am perfectly comfortable with silence, besides, I do not trust my taste in all things pop culture to even wish for everyone to know what I am watching or listening to. This family has very strong opinions about what constitutes "lame".

Intro

Hello to those dearest to me, those who actually care enough to look in on the comings and goings of a somewhat warty, mostly bewildered, but very communicative Frog. For those of you not entirely aware of the connection, it seems "freaky green eyes" and a very wide mouth, as well as, apparently, a few personality attributes I posses, could earn me no other nickname. It is one that has stuck as stubbornly as the most stubborn wart on a frog's back, until I have become somewhat attached to it and must embrace it as part of my identity. Anyway, if you have been receiving newsey little tidbits via email, I have decided to make them accessible here, so that not only does one not need to feel overwhelmed by the amounts of ribbets their emails contain, one can come and go as one chooses. I am hoping there is a place on this site for you to post as well, and this can become a place where all of my nearest and dearest can touch base.