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[rebeebit]

Roswell Hall

By my sister, Phoebe.

Roswell G. Hall III, 80, of Storrs, died Tuesday, September 21, 2021. He was born in Boston to the late Roswell G. Hall Jr. and Harriet K. Hall. He grew up in Weymouth, MA, and spent many memorable summers with his family in Chatham on Cape Cod, a place he loved all his life. 

Ros earned his degree in aeronautical engineering at Boston University. While in Boston he met the love of his life, Gretchen L. Ott, whom he married May 31, 1968. After the births of their daughters the couple moved to Storrs, where they lived for 43 years in the house that Ros helped to design and build, and continued to improve as long as he was able. A consummate engineer and handyman, he loved to tinker in his workroom and garage. He could take a car apart and put it back together and perform complex math in his head, to the amazement of his family.

Ros lived for everyone around him. A proud veteran of the US Air Force, he served during the Vietnam War at Udorn Royal Thai Air Force Base. In Mansfield he was a longtime member of the Planning and Zoning Commission, the Lions Club, and First Church of Christ, and was a volunteer tax preparer at the Senior Center. He helped anyone who needed it and was generous with his advice, time, and mechanical know-how. A patient teacher, he made sure his daughters could swing a hammer and change a tire, make buckwheat pancakes, and become good humans. 

Ros found delight in just about everything, especially life’s absurdities. A gifted storyteller, he could spin a good yarn from his life’s many adventures and his daily commute. His was a subtle humor, but if you got him going he’d laugh until he cried. Best of all he loved time with friends and family. His positive outlook through multiple illnesses and surgeries inspired everyone who knew him. Ros was quiet yet steady, and selfless to the end. 

He is survived by his wife of 53 years, Gretchen; daughter Phoebe and husband Peter; daughter Rebecca and husband Andrew; sister and brother-in-law Deborah and George Little; nieces and nephews; and many, many dear friends. Services will be private. Donations in his memory may be made to Lions Clubs International and First Church of Christ in Mansfield.

[rebeebit]

So, your parents are getting old.

TL;DR

Stuff: start cleaning out stuff they don’t need now. You might read “The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning” as a guide.

Where to live: research retirement and assisted living options in your parents’ area.

Medical considerations: HIPPA authorization, advanced directives, long term care insurance

Financial considerations: accounts, power of attorney and trusts

Dementia: what to remember when your parents forget.

So, your parents are getting old.

Most of us have parents. Many, if not most, of us will be supporting them somehow as they age. And I read somewhere that most people are not happy with how their parents have prepared for aging (I’d cite it, but I ran across that statistic a couple of months ago and ... you’ll have to take my word for it). I’ve been observing my parents as they age for a while, and in the past two years, my sister and I have become very active in the process of making sure they are safe and cared for. I decided to write a guide to help all of my friends who have parents so maybe you can avoid some of the mistakes my parents made. There are lots of resources out there, so this is by no means exhaustive, but I hope someone finds it useful!

STUFF

This is the easiest way to start, it doesn’t require uncomfortable conversations or lengthy phone calls, but could instead be an opportunity to reminisce and connect with your parents. If your parents have lived in their house for any length of time, they’ve probably amassed some STUFF. My folks lived in their house for 43 years, and they abhorred wastefulness. They also had loads of room for storage - you can imagine how much stuff they accumulated after 43 years! My mistake: I didn’t reclaim items I wanted over the years to the degree that I could have, and had to scramble to get the things I wanted when the time came to move my parents out of their house. So here are some ideas.

Your parents might feel strongly about passing on certain items - find out what these are if you don’t already know. Then you could suggest they give them to you for your birthday or another holiday. This way they get the satisfaction of knowing you have their special belongings while they’re still alive.

Did you leave your stuff at their house when you moved out, and you just never got around to getting it? That’s on YOU! Get it now, or get rid of it, if possible! 

As you’re going through your stuff, you might “accidentally” run across items your parents don’t use anymore. Help them by donating these items or throwing them away.

The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning by Margareta Magnusson is an excellent guide to this process, and a quick read. Read it, and if possible, suggest that your parents read it.

We were able to move our parents’ photo albums, but they had boxes and boxes of unsorted photos and even slides. Encourage them to go through these old memories now and put them in albums - or better yet, digitize them. They won’t have room for all those boxes when they downsize.

If you wind up having to get rid of everything at once, like we did, there will undoubtedly be heartbreak as valued heirlooms get sent to the thrift shop (or the dumpster) and even loss of some income because you won’t have time to drag it to consignment shops. The more you deal with now, the happier everyone will be with the outcome.

WHERE TO LIVE

Aging in place seems like the best option for many people, but it can be quite costly. There’s no deadline by which your parents should move out of their house, and perhaps they never will. This is where you might have a conversation about the future with your parents: what do they envision for themselves, what do they want? This is a great way to phrase it, as it sends the message that you want to know their desires for aging, so you can meet their wishes as best you can. Regardless of what they say, you can do a little homework into options in their geographic area. We didn’t make too many mistakes in this area, but my parents weren’t willing to move in advance of it being a necessity, and then when it WAS necessary in the summer of 2020 … well, who would move their parents into communal living during a pandemic? 

Several friends told me how important it is to move earlier rather than later, as it makes it easier to add levels of care as your parents age. Keep this in mind! Find out what is available, and make sure options for living include assisted living, skilled nursing, AND memory care. The last two are not interchangeable: memory care is very specific for dementia patients. If you have time, take a tour of a few places to get an idea of what life might be like for your parents there.

The move to assisted living was very important for our mother. Our father was hospitalized 15 or more times in the past year, and two of those included multiweek stays in nursing rehab - in fact, he’s still there now, and it’s been over 11 weeks (as of 7.24.21). The time alone in the house was difficult for my mother, and she will benefit from routines, social interaction, and 3 meals a day that she doesn’t have to cook for herself ... among other benefits! Moving was so hard for them to contemplate because they didn’t want to leave their community - which is very understandable - but moving gets much more difficult as your parents age, and in my mom’s case, as her dementia has progressed.

MEDICAL CONSIDERATIONS

Helping your parents navigate the healthcare system is difficult. I won’t claim to be an expert in this at all, but will at least tell you what I’ve encountered.

RIGHT NOW: find out if your parents have long-term care insurance. If one or both of your parents has a lengthy stay in the hospital/nursing home, Medicare will eventually STOP covering them, even if they need skilled nursing or memory care. This will easily start costing $350/day, which is $100,000/year. Long-term care will kick in after 90 days in hospital/nursing/memory care, and will cover most, if not all, of the costs. 

You will eventually need HIPAA authorization with your parents’ doctors. This allows the doctor to talk freely to you about your parents’ health. Without it, the doctor can listen to your concerns, but they cannot share information. My mother was reluctant to give this to us, but when she finally did, we were able to get her evaluated for dementia and take away her car keys. 

If you live close enough to go to doctor appointments with your parents, find a way to do this. When my father returned from one of his earlier but more serious hospitalizations, I requested to join him at his follow-up appointment so I could hear what the doctor had to say and ask my own questions. My father is a reasonable guy and allowed this, and it was really helpful.

Advanced Directives are their medical wishes about resuscitation. It’s a morbid conversation, and you may not want to discuss the details with them, but you should make sure they have their wishes in place.

While you’re on morbid topics, make sure you know their wishes regarding funeral and memorial services and burial arrangements. Some people even want input into their own obituaries. We knew both my parents wanted to be cremated (and where they wanted us to scatter the ashes), but we were surprised to learn my dad did not want any services. Good thing we asked!

FINANCIAL CONSIDERATIONS

For your peace of mind, you will want to know what the state of your parents’ finances is, and you will likely need to manage these finances at some point. Here is what I learned about this realm of the aging process:

Set up autopay for as many bills as you can for them, if they haven’t done so already. As my father’s health situation became more overwhelming, bills got overlooked and they started having to pay late fees. This is an easy step that you can do now and avoid the hassle later.

Suggest your parents simplify things. Do they have multiple credit cards, or multiple bank accounts? Suggest that they consolidate. Again, life gets more complicated with aging, and it becomes harder to manage. Trying to keep track of multiple accounts will be a headache for them, and they could make costly mistakes.

Make sure your parents have designated beneficiaries for all accounts. Apparently the probate process after a person dies is lengthy and annoying, and not something you’ll want to have to deal with on top of your grief when your parents pass away. On active accounts, like checking or savings accounts, try to get your name put on the account. This will help you with managing their finances when the time comes. Banks will literally not talk to you if you are not the account owner or don’t have POA.

Power of Attorney. This document WILL have to be signed, and you will want to discuss with your parents when, not if, they want to do this. The sooner the better. Sign it and scan it, and save it on your phone. This way you can email it to whoever needs it immediately so you can manage all of your parents’ affairs. I needed POA to cancel their phone service, sell their house, sell their car ... you name it.

Finally, if their finances are looking good, read on. Talk to your parents about putting their assets in a trust, especially if you have kids. If you’ve read this far, your parents probably want your kids (and you) to have something of their estate after they’re gone, but they can’t leave anything behind if they haven’t protected their assets. Medical care is expensive, and Medicaid will not kick in until you have only about $1,500 to your name, so protecting assets is important for some people. I don’t know much about this process, but if it is a concern for your parents, encourage them to reach out to their lawyer and financial advisor to take care of this.

DEMENTIA

My mother’s dementia has been the most challenging part for my sister and me over the past several years, but if you think this is in your future, it doesn’t have to be. As a society we’ve gotten better at talking about mental health, and that should also extend to dementia. As with any other health problem, early detection and intervention will lead to better outcomes. In my mother’s case, we attempted to intervene in 2017 but were unsuccessful. My mother was finally diagnosed in January 2021, but at this point she had progressed to mild dementia, and has been unable to process or accept the diagnosis. This has caused her to have worse anxiety because she’s upset about forgetting things, and fewer coping skills because she doesn’t recognize what is wrong with her. While early intervention may not prolong the life of your parent by much, it will lead to better quality of life - which is why you have read this far in the first place, you want your parents to be safe and cared for!

A primary care doctor will do a preliminary screening for dementia, so it is important for this screening to be on your parents’ radar as soon as possible. At this point, it is not automatically done at a certain age; you have to ask for it (which is idiotic, but that’s our health care system, so…). The screening will be important because it will hopefully give you peace of mind that any memory problems are age-related, and not a cause for concern. If not, it will allow the doctor to refer your parent to a specialist and get the appropriate interventions. While there is no cure for Alzheimer’s, there are some drugs that show promise, but also processing and accepting the diagnosis are important for implementing coping skills.

If your parents are diagnosed with dementia, there are loads of resources out there to help. It’s really hard for children to cope with this disease in their parents, as it’s the beginning of the role-reversal where YOU become the parent. Some tips that have resonated with me are that, in dementia, the brain still processes emotions normally, even if memories are starting to erode. So when you inevitably get impatient, frustrated, or even angry with your parent, keep this in mind: they won’t remember why you got angry, they will just remember how you made them feel. Depression and dementia go hand-in-hand because dementia patients get told so often “don’t you remember?” “I already told you that!” and so on. I am by no means perfect in how I handle my mother, but this tip has helped me find patience and calm.

If you’re like me, and you’ve seen both of your grandmothers and your mother decline due to dementia, you have more than a little concern about what the future holds for you. I recommend reading Remember by Lisa Genova (author of Still Alice). The book eased my anxiety about memory lapses I’ve noticed in myself, as lately I regard any lapse as a harbinger of dementia. She also has tips for improving your memory and for preventing Alzheimer’s - which my mother and likely my grandmother had. The number one tip? Sleep.

REACH OUT!!

I was fortunate to have many good friends lend their ears to me while I’ve been in the process with my parents, and several who have been through this and offered their advice and support as well. It was invaluable to have this support system, so I offer that to you. Please reach out if you have questions, want advice, or just want to vent about what you’re going through. If you like, add comments about your own experience below. 

[rebeebit]

Wag Bag Product Review

July 6, 2020

I realize my mountaineer friends are not strangers to the “wag bag.” However, as this was my first time using one, perhaps this review will be helpful to other first-timers. 

This past July 4th, we escaped the news cycle for a few days in Chicago Basin, in the San Juan Mountains of southwestern Colorado. At backyard cocktails before our trip, a friend informed us that the use of wag bags was being encouraged in this area. Chicago Basin receives about 10,000 visitor use days each year, and most of these are visits from backpackers hoping to scale the peaks ringing the basin. This adds up to a fair amount of human waste getting left behind, and one website I perused illuminated all of the inappropriate and uncreative ways in which people leave their business in the basin. Andy and I are considerate backcountry users who adhere to Leave No Trace - except that we’ve always interred our human waste. Since we desire to be good stewards of our wilderness, we decided to give the wag bag a try. 

Usage of the wag bag is easy to de-deuce in a pinch, even in a bleary-eyed, under-caffeinated state. It consists of a ziplock bag and a very large inner bag, in which you perform your duty. My friend had me worried that actually putting deposits in the bag would require a good bit of Kentucky Windage, but I was relieved to find that he was incorrect. Also, the business bag has some magic crystals (Andy kept calling them “flavor crystals) which have absorptive properties, and presumably, odor-control properties. Once your task is behind you, twist the large bag with the magic crystals shut and put it inside the sturdy ziplock bag. We left our bags at camp while we hiked that day, but were a little worried that marmots would scatter the bags and their contents around, as marmots do love to feast on poop. The bags were unmolested, much to our delight, and we thought no more about it.

But then, day number two. First, the odious (and odorous) task of reopening the bag you used the day before. The second use was less pleasant than the first, I’ll leave it at that. I twisted the bag shut, shoved it in the ziplock, and sealed it (squeezing out the extra fetid air was a fun bonus). We were preparing to depart and hoof the 17.5 miles back to our cars, so I tucked my precious package in an outer pocket of my pack. Immediately, the boys howled in outrage. “Becca!! Didn’t you zip that shut??” Andy gave me another large ziplock to help contain the stench. However, as we hit the trail, we realized there was a brown cloud of doom hovering over us, and whoever hiked last in our group got the biggest whiffs, so we took turns leading the exodus. We hammered out those miles like we were being chased by demons, but alas, whenever we stopped to admire the swollen and raging Vallecito Creek or the jagged peaks around us, we were overcome by fumes and had to keep moving. We pushed hard, in the blazing sun and pouring rain with a single goal: to get to the campsite dumpster and pitch our foul cargo. 

We were pretty wiped out by the ordeal, but I lived to write this product review. Would I use a wag bag again? If I had no other choice, yes. There are certain areas where you must truly leave no trace. But will I relish the chance? No. 

Overall Impressions:

Pros: sturdy plastic, huge bag for multiple uses

Cons: gross for more than one use, zip lock is no match for smell. Perhaps bring a dry bag.

Questions: are they really flavor crystals? We never found out.

[rebeebit]

Alan Andrews-Katz 3.4.20

What follows is my remembrance of Alan. I’ve been piecing this together over twenty four hours, as soon as I knew Alan didn’t have much longer.

A recent picture taken in Seattle.

August, 1999. My Honda Civic was packed with my worldly possessions. Twenty-one year old me lacked direction in life, so I picked a cardinal direction in which to drive. West. Until I couldn’t go west anymore. So I drove to Seattle, found a place to live and job, and figured the rest would sort itself out.

I’d never lived in a city. I decided the most economical choice was to find a roommate situation, so I responded to a few ads and met some folks. I realized that cities were full of bizarre people that I didn’t want to live with. One house already had six people living in it, but to a 21 year old that sounds kind of fun. It’s denizens were: a quiet art student, a frat boy from the midwest, a woman with OCD who was on disability who said that if she didn’t take her meds she’d wash her socks in the washer one at a time, a guy studying to be a kindergarten teacher, another who performed with the Seattle men’s choir, and a German lady. (Later on the German was swapped for a boisterous Hawaiian. No offense to Germans, but it was a step up.) At least half the people in the house seemed sort of normal and the price was right, so I went for it.

Alan, the would-be kindergarten teacher, and I became fast friends. He was 13 years my senior but we connected immediately. As we were both single, we were often not around on weekend evenings, but whenever we were home together, we watched movies together, traded books, and laughed our asses off. He got sick a lot. I mean, an abnormal amount of time. So I’d always take care of him: bring him coffee in bed (I started work late), and get him anything he needed. We bought a Christmas tree for five dollars that year, and it was the saddest Charlie Brown Christmas tree anyone had ever seen. But for our budgets - him, a teacher in training, me a canvasser for the Sierra club - it was perfect. We loved driving our roommate Roy up a wall. Roy was the midwest frat boy, and since fraternity culture was anathema to Alan and me, this was a natural bonding point for us. We all liked each other, truly: I think Roy couldn’t figure out his affinity for a punk rock girl and her gay boy pal, but he did get really mad at us once when we pointed out to him how homoerotic all the flight scenes in “Top Gun” were. How could something so masculine, so American be so….gay? Roy left the room, and Alan and I giggled our way through the rest of the movie, high as kites.

Over the course of the year we saw each others’ boyfriends come and go. He always gave great advice and boosted my confidence, something I sorely needed at the time. We trusted each other. One day in the spring I was coming home from a visit to Chicago. As I walked in the house, Alan and another man came out from the kitchen. I looked the fella up and down and said I was pleased to meet him. They said their goodbyes, and I sat Alan down to dish about his date: of course, any man either of us dated would have to be vetted by the other. Alan really liked this guy Eric, and they saw more and more of each other.

I got restless. My visit to Chicago got me thinking about moving on, as canvassing wasn’t turning out to be the glamorous job I thought it would be. I found a job in Chicago and moved in August, 2000. Alan and I hugged and cried when I left, and we promised to keep in touch. I saw him in Chicago when he flew out for an interview, and then two years later when he and Eric  got married. They had a beautiful wedding in Seattle with a view of Puget Sound and Mount Rainier. I brought the guy I’d been dating for a year and a half - it was Alan’s turn to vet. When Alan and Eric were saying their vows, I heard a sniffling next to me. Andy was crying. I was pretty sure he’d get the approval.

By 2010, Eric’s writing was taking off, and they came down to do a reading in Denver. I took them on a tour of our Front Range mountains, and we stopped for lunch in Idaho Springs. Talk turned to Alan’s health. At this point, he was on peritoneal dialysis due to non-functioning kidneys, and he was blind in one eye as a side effect from an anti-viral drug. I commented that he struggled so much with his health, and seemed to get the most bizarre afflictions. “Do you know my whole story?” he asked. I was confused, no, I didn’t think so. “I’m HIV+, I have been since 1982.” I was dumbfounded. I’d had absolutely no clue. Then he said, “is it still OK if we stay in your house, now that you know?” I told him Eric could, but Alan was sleeping in a tent in the yard for asking such an idiotic question. We hugged and cried. 

I started worrying about Alan all the time.

Over the next 17 years, Alan, Eric, Andy and I would see each other. Andy’s work often took him to the Pacific Northwest, and he’d always visit “The Boys” if he had time. I went up for Alan’s 50th birthday. He told me once that in the mid-1990s, he was given three months to live. “Say your goodbyes,” the doctor told him. Alan thought to himself, “I’m not dying yet,” and he didn’t. He was down to 95 pounds and had AIDS, but he simply decided not to give up. He kept living - a few years after being told to say his goodbyes, he met Eric, the love of his life. So he told us he never thought he’d see his 50th, and he was just so happy to still be here.

Andy, Alan, Eric, and I became a great foursome over the past few years, and we would reunite at least once a year for Pride, and then other times as luck would have it. Over time, we developed those hilarious in-jokes and secret languages characteristic of the best couples. Most of my friends have probed the limits of my vulgarity, and I thought I had a pretty high bar for what was offensive. Alan and Eric would regularly vault right over that bar, leaving the four of us in hysterics. We also had a constant shifting of allegiances: Eric and I would sing the “Monorail” song from The Simpsons, prompting Alan to tell us that we should get married; Alan, Andy and I would harangue Eric for doing stupid things while playing board games; the boys would gang up on me for being a girl; Andy and I would make the boys faux vomit when we commented on certain decor items in their home that appeared vaginal. We always left our visits with Alan and Eric giggling for days. In recent years, that laughter was coupled with concern. Would Alan get a kidney transplant? When would the next crisis be?

One thing I always admired about Alan was that he never complained. He was always exhausted, he had to be careful with his diet, and despite a fierce desire to work he could never work full time because he always got sidelined by illness. I’ve never met anyone with so many interests and passions: he was a voracious reader, and amazing pastry chef, he was a pharmacy tech, he would have been a teacher but he realized the pay was idiotic...the list goes on. And for so many of the years I knew him, he never complained. Insomnia from dialysis? At least we have coffee. Loss of appetite from his meds? Great weight loss program. Nausea? Well, that one wasn’t too fun, but at least I’m still alive, he'd say, and I have marijuana. And for so many other complaints, he’d always say anything was better than being dead.

I really started to worry the past few years because he started to struggle. He admitted that his life was challenging. He started doing hemo-dialysis two years ago, and this meant going 3-4 times a week, for almost half a day, for dialysis. He told me that dialysis took an equivalent toll on your body as running a marathon (to put things into meaningful perspective for his runner friend), and afterwards he usually crashed for a few hours before dinner, and then having an early night. But he still said that he’d rather be alive and dealing with all of his problems than be dead.

It sounds cliche, but that’s how I want to honor Alan. He got mad at me once for making him cry on the bus (we were texting), because I told him he was the toughest human I know. When the going gets tough, I’m going to remind myself to remember Alan. That no matter how terrible things are, they really could always be worse. When life is good, I’ll remind myself that this is what I’m living for. And if I’m really trying, I’ll top off my PollyAnna (Polly-Alan?) with a sweet smile and a witty joke.

[rebeebit]

Grand Mesa 50M

July 27, 2019

I never write race reports, because they’re boring, long, poorly written, and don’t focus on any useful detail about the race. This race report will hopefully only meet two out of four of those qualifications. You should also be warned that if you want to learn something about the Grand Mesa 50M race, this probably isn’t the blog post for you.

For reasons that no one is interested in (remember how boring race reports can be? I’m sparing you here), my race had a lousy start. I wasn’t feeling super hot, and it took me about 5 hours to dig myself out of that hole. I will say the course was lovely, and if you’re ever on the Grand Mesa, the Crag Crest trail is spectacular. But back to my day: after about 27 miles I started to feel just fine, and was cruising along at a sustainable rate with hopes of finishing in 9 hours. Not a land speed record for this course, but it would have been fine with me. Another runner, Tayler, had caught up to me and we were chatting a bit and keeping each other moving, so things were looking up. 

We’d been cruising along for 30 minutes on some non-technical terrain, every step like the last. Then, I felt a snap under my left foot - like stepping on stick that breaks. But this snap was followed by some intense pain in my foot. I must have made some noise, because Tayler asked if I was OK. I waved cheerfully, “oh yeah, I’m fine,” I said, as I was gently lowering myself to the ground, removing my shoe to poke at my foot. “Well $%&* that hurts, maybe I can walk this off,” I thought. You see, I’m an optimist. I put my shoe back on and started to hobble, hoping the pain would go away. Tayler turned around again: “are you sure you’re OK?” I’d hobbled maybe 20 feet at this point, and I responded, “Oh, I’m totally NOT OK at all. I think I broke my foot.”

Tayler stopped. Since I didn’t have my phone, he called his dad and asked him to go to the Start/Finish and tell the Race Director what was going on. I decided I should walk back the way I came, as I was *only* 5 miles from the aid station. Tayler offered to stay with me, which was very sweet. Of course I told him not to, I didn’t want to ruin his race experience, but I was touched by his concern and unwillingness to leave me alone. In fact, every person I encountered on my return hobble towards the aid station stopped to ask me what was wrong, what did I need, how could they help. There was a lovely group of humans out on the trail that day, to be sure.

Tayler had given me his phone so the RD could call me back and problem solve. She did, and her partner and co-RD Scott was going to ride his bike from the aid station back to meet me. She urged me to please stay put and not walk on my broken foot. After a couple hundred yards, I saw the wisdom of this, took a seat on a rock, and began throwing myself a big pity party. As I sat there snuffling, feeling sorry for myself, I looked to the west - a storm was headed for the Grand Mesa, which has very little cover. The temperature started dropping and I started to get cold, so I got back up and continued my sad hobble. At one point I stubbed my toe on a rock and fell over on the trail, it hurt so much. I really did a number on myself!

I had hobbled about a mile in the pouring rain when Scott made it to me. I climbed up on his bike, and he pushed me out - four more miles on muddy singletrack in the rain. We had a nice time chatting the miles away (Well, I had a really nice time, I’m not sure about him), and arrived back at the mile 26 aid station about 3 hours after I broke my foot. Andy arrived at the aid station at exactly the same time, and gave me a piggy back to the car. 

In the aftermath, Sunday’s X-Ray revealed that I had a fracture, so they gave me a boot and told me to expect 4-6 weeks recovery. A follow-up orthopedic appointment the following Wednesday morning offered a different outcome: I had a Jones fracture, which meant 4 weeks in a cast (non-weight-bearing) and 4 weeks in a boot (also non-weight-bearing). A total of 10-12 weeks before I could really run again. To say I was bummed is an understatement. I was trying to console myself with thoughts of being whole by ski season, and having loads of time to problem solve why this happened and fix the problem before next running season. However, by the time I reached the work training I was supposed to be at after getting my cast, a black cloud of doom and self-pity had settled over my head. I plunked myself down in a seat at the back, wondering why I had come. Then I looked up, and a head had turned back to look at me. It was my friend Josh. Josh almost died in a horrendous road cycling accident several years ago. He was in the hospital for months, recovering for months, he’s actually not 100% better now, years later. He came over and hugged me and asked what happened. His response was “oh, that SUCKS!!” I told him thank you, and it was not even close to what had happened to him. Then I thanked him, that I needed the reminder that my situation was really not that bad!

I have several friends who’ve had or still have much worse health issues than me. In the grand scheme of things, having to cool it for 12 weeks isn’t that big of a deal. So I’m going to work on being grateful for what I can do and hope for a full, if not speedy, recovery!

Update: August 2 - at this point it looks like I might still be in the cast for 4 weeks, then weight-bearing in a boot after that. So this is an improvement. Also, I’ve had a couple of friends come through with an iWalk (peg leg walker) and a knee-scooter, so my mobility is not dependent on crutches alone. I will keep finding ways to keep my mind active if not my body: this is a great opportunity to play more piano, read more books, and make fun crafty presents for family and friends.

[rebeebit]

Chutes & Ladders: the Selkirk Mountain Experience

Last year, our friends Carrie and Dave abandoned the worst ski season in Colorado for whiter pastures in our Neighbor to the North. They came back with tales of amazing powder skiing, eye-popping terrain, and a very intense ski guide and his family who live for most of the year in a helicopter-accessed chalet at the foot of the Durrand Glacier in the Selkirk Mountains of British Columbia. They had a blast, but were thinking how much more fun it would be to have a crew of friends with them to enjoy the trip. Andy and I were lucky enough to be included among the invitees. So, on February 9, 2019, we assembled in the lobby of the Best Western in Revelstoke, Canada to begin our week of backcountry touring.

Below, you can see us  at the top of the Ruth Glacier, one of the hair-ball descents of the trip (read on...). Ruedi, our guide, is at left. In no particular order, we are Joe, Tryg, Heather, Peter, Carrie, Dave, Andy, Me, Erica, Bo, and our tail guide Nicole. Ruedi’s daughter and co-guide Florina took the photo.

The day-to-day of this trip was as follows: get up at 6 AM, pack yourself a sandwich and snacks for the day’s tour. Pack your ski pack and put on your ski clothes. At 7 AM, eat a monster breakfast: usually oatmeal AND eggs AND toast, and excellent Mokka-style coffee. At this point, you’ve gotten the directive regarding whether it’s skins on or off, and if you are not ready to leave by 8 AM you will be left behind. Ruedi, who established Selkirk Mountain Experience in 1985, is Swiss, and everything runs like a Swiss watch. On time, efficient, and exactly how he wants it. Then we set off for the day’s adventure of touring and fantastic skiing in the huge and wild Selkirks. We returned to the chalet each day by 3 PM (except for the two nights of hut-to-hut skiing, more on that later), where Chef Tommy had happy hour snacks ready for us. After some snacks, it was time for a sweat in the sauna and a shower. Dinner was the only event that didn’t occur at a precise time - but was usually around 6:15 - 6:30. Dinner was a gourmet affair: soup, salad, main course, and dessert. After dinner, we tried to rally and socialize, but usually didn’t make it much later than 8 or 8:30 before we all disappeared to our rooms to do it again the next day.

Ruedi & Florina, his daughter, were with us for the whole trip!

Dave, making lunch for the day’s tour.

The wacky Canadians, Jake and Gavin, convinced me to do a couple of snow rolls after sweating in the sauna. It was surprisingly refreshing!

I have only one other experience with guided skiing, but I think ski guides do try to push you to the comfortable edge of your limits. I certainly thank Jim and Peter in Japan for dragging me up Kurodake, where the butterflies in my stomach nearly had me vomit, but I had the best ski run of my life (at that point). Ruedi was no exception. After our first lovely full day of skiing, in which his powder-hound nose took us to the few closely-accessible powder stashes, he had made a decision about what our group was capable of. I would find out later that his idea of his client’s edge is a little different from mine!

One of the descents from day one. Fun! If you look carefully, you can see our tracks coming from the saddle to the right of the peak at left.

We received the pronouncement after Sunday dinner that our group would be embarking on a two night, three day hut-to-hut trip. Over the years, Ruedi has built two outlying huts on his land lease from the Canadian government: the Moloch (1988) and Empire Lakes (2014) huts. We were to assemble our gear for overnight (silk liner bags and headlamps, and a package of perishable food for dinners) and be ready to go in the morning.

The morning of our departure was a balmy -20 Celsius. A polar front had settled over BC, so we had all been skiing in every layer we brought - we were already a ripe-smelling crew by day 3. Our tour took us up the Durrand Glacier and to the top of Hidden Peak for a warm-up lap. I was heartened by the mellow skiing: the day before had provided some acrophobic thrills at the top of Tumbledown Mountain and a couple of steep ski pitches, so I thought perhaps our hut tour would be more relaxed. How wrong I was. At the bottom of Hidden Peak, we put skins back on for an easy tour to the top of Ruth Glacier. After a photo op, Ruedi gave us a directive for skiing the next line:

“You can ski right or left of my track. But when I make the traverse, do not short-cut in or out of it, because there is a crevasse.”

He drew a little picture in the snow to elaborate on where, exactly, we could die if we didn’t follow his directions.

I did not feel like the glacier was easy skiing, regardless of certain death awaiting me if I didn’t follow his instructions. It was quite steep (at least 40 degrees), and the snow was DEEP. With my heavy pack, I managed to bungle it pretty well, but only took two tele-barrel rolls. However, the group all made it down, and we traversed above some cliffs to the base of the Angel’s Crest. From here, Ruedi put in a series of kick turns up the steep slope. Just as I was thinking I didn’t need to have ALL the fun in one day and was wishing I was at the hut, we topped out. The turns down were absolutely worth it. See below.

This was fantastic skiing - 30 perfect turns on a consistent not-too-steep pitch. Ladies skied on looker’s right. The boys on the left made a big ol’ mess.

Of course, you don’t get anything for free, so the exit from this amazing ski involved a side step down a 45 degree couloir. 

No pictures of the actual couloir (I was a little busy), but Andy snapped the picture above of some of our group coming out. I was so grateful for the presence of women on this trip, and for Ruedi’s daughter Florina as one of our guides. It definitely takes a lot for me to face up to my fear of heights and scary things in general, and it was so helpful to have Carrie, Heather, and Erica to lean on when I got scared. Also, Florina was amazingly encouraging about everything - she was a great foil to her dad!

We were rewarded for the final slog up the Dismal Glacier (it’s really named that) to Moloch Hut with a fine dinner of risotto! Below you can see Ruedi, cooking away.

At breakfast the next morning, Ruedi wasn’t sure about the prospect of good skiing on the tour to the next hut, so he asked if we wanted to see the ice cave. Since the cave provided a brief respite from the frigid temps, we all agreed enthusiastically to the brief side trip. The cave is, unfortunately, forming due to climate change, but was a fascinating diversion.

We left the cave and set out across the top of the Dismal Glacier. The direction we were heading was straight into a rocky headwall, but to our left was a gentle slope. I was skiing right behind Ruedi, so I asked optimistically if we would be heading left.

“No. We go there.” Points straight ahead with ski pole.

I comforted myself once more with my friend Matt’s expression that “the trail always finds a way,” and surely there was a sneaky way to skin to the top of the cliffs I saw in the distance. Well, that thought at least quelled the butterflies for the half a mile it took to get to the cliffs. As we approached, I saw ladders attached to the rock. You read that correctly - LADDERS. Having spent two weeks in the Dolomites last summer, my heart sank. I knew exactly where Ruedi was taking us, but I had to ask anyway. Ruedi, I said, are we going up the ladders?

He stops. Looks at me. “You look very serious.” Keeps skinning.

Shit.

I’ve been practicing meditation for two years, and it really came in handy. My admonitions to myself to breathe and not think about anything else got me to the top with minimal panic. But still some panic.

Thus I learned that sometimes the ski tour is more intense than the skiing. That day and the following days, I experienced several moments where I had to go to my happy place during the tour and pretend I couldn’t see all the ways I could die, only to be rewarded with thousands of vertical feet of absolutely blissful turns. On the last day, we were to ascend Woolsey Peak, which Carrie, Heather, and Erica assured me was mellow and not scary at all. It was snowing that day, so we set off with warm (-5 celsius) temperatures and milk jug visibility. Most days started with 2-3 hours of touring, and this last day was no different. Up we went on a relatively gentle grade. We started to traverse a slope on which I was grateful for the lack of visibility: traversing steep slopes makes me nervous, but see no evil, fear no evil, right? We reached a narrow saddle, left and right of which looked like nothing I wanted to go up. Ruedi went up the steep slope to the right, and stood on a narrow perch. He knocked off a bit of cornice. Two of the guys had followed him up. I looked where he was standing and hesitated - why did we ALWAYS have to ski from the highest point? What was wrong with the saddle? Ruedi saw me balking.

“Get up here. You don’t have time to shit your pants!”

With those kind words of encouragement, what could I do but go up?

Once again, we were rewarded. The last big run of the trip was 3500 vertical feet of powder. Yes, we had to climb back up it, but it was absolutely worth it.

Above Nicole is leading the charge up Grizzly with part of our group. She was a fantastic tail guide! Loved being around so many tough women on this trip.

Andy and I went into this trip looking forward to spending a week with Dave and Carrie. Our trip to Japan two years ago with them had been so great, we were excited to take another ski trip with them. We hoped for good skiing, but knew that one has to temper one’s expectations on ski trips, or be sorely disappointed. Our expectations were exceeded, to be sure. Quality time with good friends filled my heart, as did the week of deep belly laughs with our new friends that we met through Carrie and Dave. It felt like a week of Adult Camp / Slumber Party, topped off with outrageous skiing. We will be back!

A few more pictures for your enjoyment. Below are Heather and Tryg, as we head back up Forbidden Peak after a stellar first lap of the day from the Empire Lakes Hut.

Carrie and Erica, bundled up to start the day’s tour from Empire Lakes Hut!

Left to right: Nicole, Bo, Andy, Jake, enjoying a few moments at the transition to touring. You had to watch Ruedi like a hawk during transitions. As soon as he puts away his sandwich and thermos and takes off his puffy jacket, you know you only have moments to be ready to skin before he admonishes you for taking too long!

All smiles on the first day!

Andy coming out of the chalet! That’s a LOT of snow.

Pow turns and more pow turns!

By the Numbers:

February 9-16, 2019

Saturday: beacon school, 4 miles, 2000′

Sunday: 10.5 miles, 5000′ (ish). Climbed Tumbledown Mountain and Glarona; skied the Swiss Meadows, Ricoletto and Tumbledown Gully

Monday:11.5 miles, 5500′. Climbed Hidden Peak, skied Ruth Glacier and Angel’s Crest

Tuesday: 7.5 miles, 3500′. Climbed Fang Peak, skied the Magic Flute

Wednesday: 11.2 miles, 6600′. Climbed Forbidden Peak, Snow Cap Peak. Skied the Snow Maiden

Thursday: 12 miles, 6000′. Climbed Symphony Peak, skied Centrale.

Friday: 10.3 miles, 5500′. Climbed West Woolsey, skied Grizzly, Boogie Basin.

[rebeebit]

I Dolomiti

A very belated blog post about our trip to Italy. The trip fell at an opportune time for me, as I was in peak training mode for the Wasatch 100, which I ran in September. So our goals for Italy were to hike and run, climb on vie ferrate, eat great food and drink great wine. All goals were achieved, go us!

BRESSANONE

We spent 5 days in Bressanone, which is in a valley between two ranges in the northeastern region of the Dolomites. I really can’t believe I didn’t take any pictures of the medieval town within Bressanone. There is a walled section of the city that is pedestrian-only cobblestone streets. It was quite charming, the food was excellent, and I don’t have any pictures. Stupid. You’ll have to see for yourself! We highly recommend a stop here: aside from the great food and charm, there is a free bus system that takes you the Puez-Odle park and some spectacular hiking/running/hut relaxing. The weather was quite warm in town, but a quick jaunt (on foot, by chairlift, or bus) up to the mountains takes you to cooler temperatures.

Above is a view from the Via Ferrata Gunther Messner. This was a good introductory via ferrata for me, although I found the knife edge hiking to be scarier than the actual climbing.

Above: my foot, and my husband.

Above is Andy, we’re descending from Passo Sas Ragais after an aborted attempt on via ferrata Sas Ragais. Your narrator may or may not have shed some tears.

So many cows. The Dolomites do not need more cowbell. I do, however, love the sound of cowbells in the European mountains!

An alpine chough, or “gracchio alpino” in Italian, a member of the Corvidae. I had resuscitated enough Italian to have a conversation about birds with a family I met.

CORVARA

Our friend Becky was adamant that we spend some time in Corvara on our trip. We delayed our arrival here for a day: the weather in Bressanone was perfect, and the forecast in Corvara looked stormy. While we were no strangers to lousy weather in the alps, we wanted to put our misery off for an extra day. It turned out Corvara has similar weather to our own Rockies, and we only endured one or two passing afternoon showers - usually from our lovely porch off our room, sipping grappa, and gazing at the mountains. So not too bad.

Corvara also had a great bus system, so we just never left the town and used buses to take adventures farther afield. Again, lots of running/hiking/climbing/alpine cocktails in Corvara.

A bridge that was part of Via Ferrata Fallon. Kind of Temple of Doom, I think.

The fun on Ferrata Fallon didn’t stop at the top of the via ferrata. There was still a good bit of scrambling after. We were glad we’d shelled out for a day pass for the gondola and chairlift. Sometimes being lazy is fun.

The Marmolada glacier, viewed from the chairlift. 

The next several pictures are from a jaunt we did from Passo Falzarego to San Cassiano. We checked out the World War I - era tunnels and ruins, and then ran on to a hut about 9 miles from the pass. We had a full lunch, then ran another 8 or so miles down to San Cassiano and fortified ourselves for the bus ride home with cocktails and gelato.

A view looking out of the tunnels.

Some WWI ruins. In the background you can see a very narrow pass - the trail switched back about every meter, it was so steep.

I did see horse on a menu once while in Italy. I don’t want to sound judgmental, but these horses look a little too Rubenesque for dressage - I’m guessing they’re headed for the plate.

Rifugio Fanes, or in the local language Ladin, Ucia Fanes. It was interesting to hear people speaking Ladin in the Badia Valley.

Mid-run fueling with eggs, potatoes, and beer. I skipped the beer and had bacon.

After rolling through some wild terrain above tree-line, we descended a horrendously steep, red scree slope. No pictures, oops. But it was pretty brutal.

Wild rock formations!

At the end, some well-deserved booze and sweets. Incidentally, the Italians know how to serve mid-day cocktails. If you order a drink before dinner time, it always comes with some sort of little snack. The best was when I got a whole plate of cured meats - all to myself, I was at a bar alone waiting for Andy to finish his adventure for the day. #winning!

Below are some more photos from a via ferrata and some running. Good times!

Via Ferrata Brigata Tridentina pictures above - it was a little airy, a good test for my acrophobia.

The hut provided a welcome respite from heights. And it provided bacon and booze. I regretted my single cocktail on the hike down - it was almost as nerve-wracking as the ascent.

The top of a peak near Rifugio Puez (below). There was another trail runner on the peak - we stared at each other agog, and then made a little small talk.

Rifugio Puez

Vallunga, below Rifugio Puez.

Flowers!

I was an ambassador for Darn Tough one year - their socks are still the best!

[rebeebit]

We left our sporks at Columbine Lake.

Since this is our third year in a row taking a 5 day respite from social media and the news by backpacking, we have decided that it is, officially, an annual affair. This year’s adventure took us down to the Weminuche Wilderness, where we completed a 40 mile approach to 300 feet below the summit of 14er Windom Peak. More on that later. You might recall that the Weminuche was the site of one of my previous solo follies, in which I was convinced that my compass was faulty and hiked in the wrong direction for an hour (if you haven’t read this post and would like a laugh at my expense, read it here). It was fun to return to the scene of my stupidity, but I was surprised to find that my sense of direction was challenged yet again on some of the trails. Fortunately I was with Andy, so my momentary lapse in navigational competence was checked by my dearest husband.

Our first day involved a summit of Rio Grande Pyramid, which is a Centennial 13er. Andy is trying to climb all of the Centennials, so I agreed to go up this one with him. There was some threatening weather, as you can see in the picture, but we were able to summit without incident. 

Below is a picture of The Window, a really neat formation just south or west (who can really tell in the ‘Nuche) of Rio Grande Pyramid.

We scampered off the peak, grabbed our packs, and continued on until we reached the junction for the Flint Lakes trail, my Waterloo of several years ago. This trail is no longer on the Trails Illustrated maps, and while faint, is still in use. We camped for night.

Below is the morning view from our campsite. Not too shabby, and not a human in sight!

Day two was a big mileage day that took us all the way to Columbine lake. The scenery was fantastic, of course, and our only challenge was the deadfall that clogged Vallecito and Johnson Creek trails. When we finally arrived at the lake, we were greeted by a trio of goat bros (we checked, they were dudes). Because of the goats, Andy insisted that we should pee directly on rocks. Mountain goats will paw at and lick the areas where one urinates, thus it is preferable to relieve oneself on a durable surface like rock rather than the tundra. Sure enough, in the morning the goat bros were fighting over the best patch of Andy’s pee rock. Gross. But the goats were charming in their goaty way.

Our third day was meant to be our summit day. We had a true alpine start of about 8:30 am and headed over Columbine Pass to attempt Windom Peak from Chicago Basin. The basin is, apparently, known for its large mountain goat population, so we were treated to the sight of many mama goats and their kids. All I really need to make a day great is some baby animals, but Andy’s definition of great includes standing on a peak, so up we went. The scrambling wasn’t too challenging until one itty bitty crux, at which point I decided that the threatening weather was too much. I didn’t want to scramble on wet rock, so I turned us back. At our furthest point from the car, 40 miles into our trip. 300 feet below the summit. Because that’s how I do. So we sauntered back over the pass to our tent. After lying in the intense sun for a moment, a few clouds rolled in and I hopped in the tent. Scout’s honor, within 15 minutes our tent was being hammered by pea-sized hail. Clearly, my concern for the weather on Windom was ill-timed, as we surely could have summited, but would have been pelted by hail on the hike back. I saved the day!

BABY GOATS!!!

We waited out the storm for 20 minutes, then scrambled to pack up the tent in the light rain. Our goal was to hike the 6 miles back to Vallecito Creek and camp. We made it down to the creek and set about our camp chores. However, as I was working on dinner preparation, our sporks were nowhere to be found. When Andy returned from purifying water I asked him about the sporks, and he was mystified. We realized we must have left them 6 miles back (and 3000 feet up) at the lake, so we improvised. It was a little feral, but it worked.

We retraced our steps over the last two days, with a couple of slight differences in route choice to mix things up - or just make things easier. The Opal Lake trail that we used to approach Rio Grande Pyramid was a mixed bag of crappy scree, willow whomping, or just not there. We opted for the much more pedestrian stretch of the CDT to take us back to our car. Once there, we hung up the solar shower, had a rinse, and plowed through a bag of chips in the shade of the awning of our van. Andy opened his birthday presents, and we headed for a birthday lunch in the town of Creede. Our annual trip was a success!

A few more pictures of the trip for your enjoyment:

Andy crossing Rock Creek. Too bad I didn’t take a picture of Vallecito Creek, which is almost entirely white rock - very pretty.

Looking back towards Flint Lakes, near the top of the low pass between the lakes and the Rock Creek drainage.

Looking down the Johnson Creek drainage. This creek has carved a deep canyon that looks like the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, but I couldn’t do it justice in a photo. You will have to see for yourself!

A mine in Chicago Basin.

Also not the best picture, but Monk’s Hood is one of my favorite flowers.

[rebeebit]

2017 Limericks

Once again, we opted for a non-traditional format for our holiday letter. Here they are:

[rebeebit]

October 2017 - Buckskin Gulch

Since I turn forty this year on the day before Thanksgiving - the worst day to have a party, and the worst time of year for adventuring - I decided to pre-party in October and run an iconic slot canyon. Buckskin Gulch is about an hour east of Kanab, Utah, and is the longest slot canyon in the world. It’s not the hardest run I’ve ever done, but it certainly ranks with the most unique! Enjoy the tour in pictures of my day with Andy, Matt, Melissa, Erin, and Chris, who all made the trek to the desert to celebrate with me.

Melissa, soaking up some late afternoon sun on the day we arrived at camp.

Stemming Lemming Husband!

There was a fair amount of wading through shallow, silty pools. It was a funny novelty at first, then it became less novel.

Chris, with some spring in his step despite having run 100 miles at The Bear two weeks prior.

The canyon sometimes opened up into wider spaces - this gives you a sense of how tall the canyon walls were!

Some opportunities for sandstone stemming silliness presented themselves...

Mud. Matt forged a brave path through a mud puddle, and Melissa followed gamely. The rest of us found a dry route that circumvented the mud.

Swamp Thing. Matt and Melissa had their revenge, we were all covered in knee-deep mud after this mud pot.

Tarantula! Alive and in the wild!

The run was flat, but every view was mesmerizing.

We almost lost Melissa in this pool! The water wasn’t that cold, but wading in it for several minutes left you with the screaming barfies by the end.

Erin and Chris slosh through another pool.

Debris from a flash flood. This pile was at least eight feet tall.

Wading through hip-deep pools in the sunlight was a marginal improvement...

Our sunny lunch spot featured petroglyphs of Desert Bighorn Sheep!

When the sun was finally high enough, the lighting in the canyon was gorgeous! Get it? I said gorge-ous.

Nearing the confluence. The canyon had widened, and enough light penetrated to the bottom for trees to grow. At the confluence with Paria Canyon, the sheer walls of the two canyons made a T- intersection, with the rock walls rising a few hundred feet up. I couldn’t really get a picture to do it justice. 

Lots more light in Paria Canyon. At the confluence, none of us needed to fill up on water (especially as it was very silty), so we continued up, crossing the river every 100 meters or so. Our feet never dried. About a half a mile up from the confluence, there was a rotting deer carcass in the river. To say that we were pleased we hadn’t refilled water downstream from the dead deer is an understatement.

Weird sandstone formations.

At Suds Bros. Brewery in Fruita on Sunday night, I made a petroglyph-inspired drawing of our adventure. Here we are being chased by a Desert Bighorn, and for some reason were reviewing DNA base-pairing rules. 

[rebeebit]

September 2017 - Teton Crest Trail

I haven’t tumblred in a while...I have a few drafts in the hopper of other trips, but for the moment - my trip to Jackson Hole this past Labor Day.

I went with two fantastic ladies, Julia and Courtney, and we had a grand day. Like any big day out, there were ups (views of the Grant Teton, wildflowers, glacial valleys, swimming in high mountain lakes, waterfalls!) and downs (being the pep to counter some mega bonks due to intense heat, popping tylenol every four hours to dull the throbbing in my feet, having the run be two miles longer than anticipated, having to keep up with two gals that suddenly found leg speed 11 hours in). However, any difficulties fade in memory, but the good parts linger. Here is a visual tour of our day.

So ready to go! Mile 0 at Phillips Canyon of Highway 22.

Still very excited. The wildflowers were TALL!

Real perty.

Some CU students were on a backpacking trip, and they made an arch for us to run through!

Trail porn.

We made it 20 miles! Half way!

Don’t make Julia jump twice. Courtney got some air, however!

The heat is hitting Julia. I’m pointing at something, perky as ever. I think Julia wants to punch me.

Lake Solitude. It was cold, but I swam in it!

Courtney, taking in the views.

Amazing glacial valley. Geology rocks!

Heading for some technical trail on tired legs...

Still snow up there!!

Final descent down Paintbrush Canyon. The run was almost 42 miles, what a day. I couldn’t have asked for better companions or a better trail!

[rebeebit]

March 2017: Green-Wilson Hut

This was a banner year for ski trips, with hut trips in December, January, and March, and of course our trip to Japan. This trip didn’t disappoint: despite the VERY warm start (and finish, for that matter), in which we skinned to the hut in T-shirts, it started snowing on the first evening and didn’t let up for over 24 hours. This made for some interesting avy conditions, as the new snow was not sticking to the frozen layer below at all, and on the final day there were wet slabs going off spontaneously near the hut. But we got some good turns in and had an excellent time. Sadly, I did not get pics of all of the fabulous folk who were present, but will try to account for them all!

Two of our friends, Erin and Chris, are very silly and opted to use snowshoes (as their ski skills are still in development). These are their snowshoes. They enjoyed following us up our climb towards Pearl Peak (not pictured), and then charging after us on the descent.

Jim took Andy, Dave, and me up for a little ski on day one. The snow was crappy, the slope was icy and a bit steep, but I took a picture of the sunset that I hoped would be artsy. You can see from this picture how lousy the snow was. That was about to change...

Here is Dave, getting organized at the hut. On the left you can see my friend Matt’s skis. He managed to break a buckle on his boot on the second day when his ski dove under the snow. It was a heavy spring storm!

I did not take any pictures of day two, when it just nuked all day long, creating conditions that Jim likes to call “the ol’ milk jug.” Andy, Dave, Jane, Matt and I skinned towards Pearl Pass and Pearl Peak, ultimately falling short of either objective due to extreme navigational challenges despite lots of hi-tech and low-tech tools (and smart people using them). We had lunch at the hut, and went out for some riotously fun laps in the trees behind the hut!

Morning of day 3, we went out for a sneaky pitch before going for our main objective up the valley beyond the hut. The author would like to point out that she owns half of the powder 8 pictured above. The other half was laid down (first) by Jim.

Jim and Emily, the fantastic Kiwis! Jim was one of our guides in Japan, and he came to Colorado for two months to stay with Emily, who was patrolling at Arapahoe Basin. They made fun of us old people for not being able to drink as much as them. Call us in ten years, kids.

Andy, right before the binding apocalypse. His binding broke, and the amazing Kiwis strapped his boot to his binding so he could ski the 5.5 miles to the car. When Jim and Emily got Andy all set up, I asked Andy if he wanted me to come with him and make sure he got out. Jim said “Noooooo, come ski with us!!!” Didn’t need to ask me twice....

Here is the frankenbinding. It held for the trip out - those ski straps are handy things!

Jim had this great idea that we should make for the col in the upper right of the photo above. There were tracks, so it was doable... I was a bit nervous, and luckily or not we hit a dead end where the slope was too steep and snow too unstable to continue. Jim and Emily proceeded to tussle about who would get to set off a slide on the way down. Ski patrollers have their own idea of what is “fun.” However, since we didn’t get to ski a nutty line, we were back at the hut for lunch and were able to fry our sandwiches (some Kiwi brilliance there) before leaving.

Jane and Dave made for Pearl Pass while we went for turns!

We pondered our excellent work from the morning while eating delicious fried sandwiches. On the way out, Jim and Emily wanted to ski one more pitch (they have two winters a year, and still love to pack as many turns as they can into a day), so we climbed above the hut in search of a shortcut to the track out that would provide some fun. Granted, Jim is a ski guide, but he is always willing to bash through some trees in hopes of good skiing - and he usually finds it.

Another successful hut trip. When are they not!?

[rebeebit]

JaPOW 2017

Andy and I decided last spring to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary by going skiing in Hokkaido, Japan, with our dear friends Carrie and Dave. We scored our plane tickets with Andy’s airline miles in April, and 9 months of anticipation finally came to a head on February 4th of this year.

A few days prior to our departure, we started receiving mixed reports from Carrie saying that some snow was great, some was terrible, and we realized perhaps we had better temper our expectations. We reasoned that many, many people take ski vacations in Colorado with the promise of amazing pow, only to be skunked. With measured enthusiasm, we packed our bags for what was sure to be a great time, even if the snow didn’t blow our minds every second.

To say that we were pleasantly surprised would be an understatement. But skiing wasn’t the only great thing on the trip, I’ll break my trip report into four parts:

THE FOOD

I thought this would not be a very cultural trip, and as I had spent ten months in Sapporo in 2001-02, I felt I had a good handle on Japanese culture anyway. However, we experienced the gestalt of Japanese cuisine - and if food isn’t considered cultural, I don’t know what is. I forewent coffee for most of the trip, opting for tea in the morning (about 1000 cups of it, the cups are so small! But this was good for hydrating me for the daily ski tour. Oh, I shouldn’t deceive you, reader: the coffee tasted like grimy dishwater, so I drank the tea because it was all I could stomach.). I weaned myself off western fare at breakfast, and after a few days was eating rice, fish, miso, and eggs, along with other sundry, often unidentifiable, items. The sticky rice is so named because it sticks with you - I could power along the ski tour all the way until lunch without a snack!

Andy (ahead) and I, skinning up to the alpine on day 3. The snow just kept getting better...

Dinners were divine. Of course, you probably think of sushi when you think of Japanese cuisine; some of you might include tempura as well. However, you can’t forget ramen (not the crappy 99 cent kind), okonomiyaki, monja, shabu shabu, and the offerings of the izakaya (think tapas, Japanese style). Some pictures of this excellent fare are below.

The snack aisle in the supermarket is a little different...

Shabu shabu! Dunno what all that was, but it was tasty.

Pushing back some savory sushi at the kaiten (conveyor belt) zushi.

Okonomiyaki, savory pancakes. The name means, roughly, “what you like,” and we did like. Carrie and Dave, getting hungry....

Monja, a specialty from Tokyo. The restaurant owner cooked both these and the okonomiyaki at our table. More experienced restaurant guests are allowed to cook their own, but I’m pretty sure we looked ignorant of the ways of the okonomiyaki-ya.

Ermergerd, ermergerd, ermergerd. All the little sea critters are so delicious! I’m ruined on sushi for a few months - there is no way any place in Denver can top this meal.

THE SKIING

I could go on and on here, but since many readers are not skiers, I’ll just say it was FABULOUS. We skied powder every day, and were treated to one day of the snorkel-worthy deep snow that has made Hokkaido an iconic ski destination. We didn’t take any pictures on the snorkel day - we were too busy skiing as much as possible. But you can get an idea from this:

The stoke for this run was palpable. We’d already had one blower run, where I was veritably submerged in powder on each turn. I was ready for more!

Didn’t need to see that much, just go!

On a different day, but almost as fluffy. Here Andy drops into a nice tele turn.

We decided to hire guides for this trip: since we only had a week, we wanted to efficiently pillage all of the best snow. While it wasn’t the cheapest way to ski Hokkaido, it was certainly the most stress-free! We’ve never done a trip like that, and lucked into having two exceedingly competent, very witty Kiwis to take us to the best skiing.

This is Peter. His super slangy Kiwi accent made for some hilarity - we learned words like mongrel, pancake, and frizzah. Sweet as. Peter liked to be a little bawdy and find the rowdiest line on each pitch.

Jim, the serious one, but he tolerated us admirably! Both guides worked in Colorado as ski patrollers, which was quite a coincidence.

I will brag a little, and say our guides were excited about us (as excited as you can be about working, I suppose) because we were very content to ski uphill, and ski a lot, and ski up big peaks. Granted, the latter required a little coaxing on their part for your author, as she is afraid of heights and generally underestimates her ability to do anything on skis.

Carrie and me, summiting again. On the first summit, Jim asked “who’s excited, and a little nervous?” Carrie and I raised our hands. He told us we’d be just fine. We informed him that if Andy or Dave were trying to get us up here, we would have been cursing and whining and turning back! I said I really believed he didn’t want to kill us.

The peak we skied two days in a row. 1500 vertical feet of pow, followed by another 2500 vertical of fun, sometimes rowdy, tree skiing. Steepest trees I’ve ever skied!

THE ONSEN

Onsen, or hot springs, are a Japanese cultural institution. When I taught English in Sapporo, my students would often come back from the weekend telling me about their trips to the onsen in various quaint villages near Sapporo. My experience at onsen was limited during that first trip, but I remembered that there are lots of rules to follow. First and foremost: onsen are not clothing optional, they are clothing forbidden. There was much humor regarding personal grooming habits when I first informed Carrie and Dave about this, but I won’t describe such vulgarities here. Once you have your clothes off, there are more rules, explained by the picture below:

We quickly developed a habit of going to the onsen after skiing, as every hotel has one. If we were en route to a new hotel after skiing, we would stop at an onsen straight away - nothing worse than cramming six smelly people into a van for a long ride. On the third morning, our guide Jim mentioned that he likes to hit the onsen before breakfast - start the day the way you want to end it, he said. We realized the wisdom in this, and started to double down on onsen. I don’t think anyone managed a triple onsen, however. The best ones were those that had outdoor baths, as you can see below. I couldn’t get very many pictures of onsen, as I’m guessing most folks would take umbrage to having their photo snapped while in their birthday suits.

SAPPORO

I had the opportunity to reconnect with my old friend Brendon on our last night in Sapporo - we worked together when I lived here in 01-02. It’s always great to catch up with someone where it feels like it has been 15 minutes, not 15 years, that you saw them last. He guided us to a fantastic sushi restaurant (food pictured above), where we let him do the ordering - and ended up eating fermented squid, some weird green crab thing, and (hooray!) lots of raw prawns. After dinner, we took in the Sapporo Yuki Matsuri (Snow Festival). It was just shutting down for the evening, but we had enough light to capture the mammoth creations in Odori Koen (Big Street Park) in the center of the city.

Some of the snow sculptures are at least two stories tall. I think Andy didn’t believe me when I told him that - then we saw them. He was impressed.

I’ll leave you with this parting shot of the USA’s sorry excuse for a leader and his apple pen, whose sculpture was inspired by a Japanese viral video.

[rebeebit]

2016 Haiku

[rebeebit]

In memory of Elliott Schwartz

I took Elliott’s 20th Century Composers class in 1998, not knowing on the first day of class that I would get a life-long friend along with my education. Of course, I was won over by his passion for music, but what truly impressed me was his investment in each student. I will always remember the time I popped in for office hours for some advice on a composition. Know that I was a biology major who happened to dabble in piano and choir, and I really don’t have a music-writing bone in my body. Elliott was so kind and so excited to have NEW composer in his office, and was so genuinely encouraging, I even believed I might be able to write music some day. By the end of that year, Elliott also provided encouragement for my piano performance, volunteering to be a test audience for my senior recital.

I kept in touch with Elliott after graduation, emailing him periodically. I was always surprised that he took the time to write a nice reply, so we continued the correspondence. I think what touched me so much was, as a 22 year old, I was so surprised that a retired music professor would want to be my friend. It’s an interesting lesson in what makes a kindred spirit - they don’t pop up in likely places, to be sure. I loved when Elliott wanted to share music he had written recently with me, and when he asked me about my silly running obsession. A friendship with Elliott was a lesson in friendship itself: how to care, how to cultivate wonder and love because of, not despite, disparate interests, and most of all how to just keep in touch.

Elliott and DeeDee came to our wedding ten years ago, and luckily ended up at the rehearsal dinner. I saw them walking to a table, so I hopped over to say hello and invite them to join our party. Of course, they didn’t want to intrude, but I assured them that they were most welcome and everyone would love to meet them, and that I would be excited to spend such a special evening with them as well. And this is the point: over the past few months, I saw Elliott post about the “parade” of former students coming to visit him in Brunswick. I think we all told Elliott how much we cared about him in life, so I hope we all have no regrets about that. I had lunch with him in July, and it was so strange leaving and knowing that was probably the last time I would see him. But we don’t always get that chance to say goodbye. I’m grateful that I could, and I’m grateful that my life was touched by such a kind and wonderful man.

[rebeebit]

Indian Peak Follies

Never, ever say to yourself “well, this day has been uneventful.”

I’d been planning a loop in the Indian Peaks Wilderness for almost a year (see map below). I was turned back last fall due to weather and - I hate to admit it - inadequate gear, so I was champing at the bit to try again. When I couldn’t find any willing co-conspirators, I readied myself for a big solo day in the mountains. Hooray!

The route I initially mapped on CalTopo is not shown on the map above, and my original estimates (for the much longer route) were around 27 miles. Some refiguring (after the fact) show that my actual (shorter) route, had I made it, would have been around 30 miles, so something went terribly wrong with my initial estimates. (Side note: since initial reckoning, CalTopo has made improvements, including a “snap to” feature when adding lines for mapping, that make estimation of distances more accurate. So in this case, while the reader might assume a user-error on the part of your narrator, your narrator thinks it might have to do with the accuracy of the measurement tool when initially used.)

Back to the first sentence of this post. My route up King’s Lake Trail to Devil’s Thumb Pass and down was relatively uneventful. Just a note for those unfamiliar: my route took me from the east side of the Continental Divide to the west, from near the town of Nederland to the towns of Fraser and Winter Park. I moved at a Goldilocks Pace - not too slow, not too fast - and was enjoying the views and the trail. Some pictures of my route are below.

The view from the first high point, Corona Pass, down to King’s Lake.

Looking down on Devil’s Thumb Pass

Upon reaching the junction near the Junco Lake Trailhead, I realized I was perhaps moving much slower than anticipated. It had taken me five hours to get that far. I don’t use a GPS watch, so I estimate mileage based on my perceived effort. I figured I had to be averaging four miles per hour, so I started to worry that I would be out for much longer than I planned (and packed) for. You can’t see it on the map above, but I had planned to go beyond Junco Lake to the Arapahoe Pass trail, and then head east back over the Continental Divide. In my present position, however, this idea seemed foolish. After getting water from a creek, I checked my map and realized I could head east on the trail to Caribou Pass, traverse to Arapahoe Pass, then down, down, down to my car. Sweet! Off I went, and reached Caribou Pass in about an hour. I took some pictures.

The view north from Caribou Pass....before I knew certain DEATH awaited me on the trail.

From Caribou Pass I double-checked my map: I was at a junction with no signs to indicate direction, so I busted out my trusty compass to set me straight (see last summer’s post, as I now know that my compass is never wrong!). I looked in the direction I should head, and had a moment where I thought “boy, that looks gnarly.” I remembered the wisdom of my friend Matt, who says “the trail always finds a sneaky way through, and you’ll be just fine!” Matt is often very wise, but in this particular case he was DEAD WRONG. I walked a quarter mile on the trail and found myself facing cliffs, spires, REALLY steep snow, and no way through. I should perhaps add that your narrator has a recalcitrant case of acrophobia. Had someone with more guts than I accompanied me, this person would have said “Becca, it’s not a problem, come on!” But left to my own devices I flipped out, cursed roundly and loudly, and started wondering what the *&^$#% I was going to do. Nope, no pictures of the crux of this route, you’ll just have to believe that certain death awaited me had I attempted forward progress on the trail. I did, however, find pictures of the trail when it is DRY. Big difference. So check out the picture below, and then imagine with no trail, the mountainside covered in snow. You even turned away from your computer screen because you were so horrified.

Photo credit to http://colorado-lifestyle.blogspot.com/2014/10/lake-dorothy-and-caribou-pass.html

Good karma awaited me, however.

The wrap up to this story is brief. I texted my friends Kamini and Nate from Caribou Pass (technology is amazing! I love the future!), as they told me they were going mountain biking in Winter Park that day. I ran down to the trailhead (near Fraser), explained my plight to the ranger, and an eavesdropping bystander offered me a ride to Winter Park. Kamini and Nate were still in Winter Park, so I caught a ride with them back to Golden. I took Lyft up to Boulder, where my dear friend Stephen took me up to my car, and as a thank you I took him out to dinner. So to sum up, I had a lovely run in the mountains, a brief moment where I thought I was going to have a rough day, and then a great night with an old friend. Not bad!

This is Cindy. She overheard me explaining my plight to the trailhead volunteer, and asked if she could give me a ride somewhere. Why yes, yes she could. She’s a retired middle school science teacher - kindred spirit!

This is Emily, Cindy’s daughter, who lives in Winter Park.Lucky gal!

This is Dan, Cindy’s husband and Emily’s dad. It was about a 30 minute drive to Winter Park from the Junco Lake Trailhead, so I was lucky to have such nice folks give me a ride!

[rebeebit]

Wind River Wrangling

For Andy’s and my tenth wedding anniversary, we decided to go backpacking. Full disclosure: we’re headed to Hokkaido, Japan in February 2017 for some skiing, so we decided that we didn’t need to do it up all crazy-like for our anniversary. Besides, backpacking seemed just right, since we have so many fond memories from our two-week backpack on the Colorado Trail five years ago. So I guess we opted for symmetry. Where will we backpack for our 15th anniversary? Suggestions welcome!

Our view as we crested Jackass Pass. No, it wasn’t named after me. You can see Lonesome Lake, and the beginning of the Cirque of the Towers.

After soliciting information from wilderness-savvy friends, we settled on the Wind River Range in Wyoming as our romantic destination. We were warned: there will be bugs, and you will get wet, so be prepared! We dutifully packed rain gear, Jungle Juice, and at the behest of a friend, some mosquito head nets. Luckily, Andy had purchased a wicked awesome cuben fiber tent (from Z-packs, if you’re interested) last fall. This tent was actually the cause of some friction, mostly from me saying “you’re going to pay HOW much for a tent?!? I’m NOT splitting that with you!” Fortunately, I wasn’t forced to sleep in the rain on the first night. That tent is a bomb shelter. Or a hail shelter. I congratulated Andy, belatedly, on his smart purchase on our first night.

Here is the tent, being a tent. This was NOT a picture from the first night. On night three, we had a campsite overlooking Pyramid Lake, below Pyramid Peak. The driest night we had!

Andy will be sending his application to Sea to Summit to become a mosquito net model.

After hiking almost ten miles the first day, we were overtaken by a sudden deluge. We huddled under a tree to get shelter, and used the break to treat some water. We used a SteriPen on this trip, instead of a filter, so we were able to treat under the (relative) dryness of the tree, rather than sitting creekside in the downpour. (We are eagerly waiting to see if we get a smashing case of giardia, as it seems like using a SteriPen in a water bottle could lead to loads of cross-contamination. Check back in ten days for updates!) The rain abated, we hopped the creek, and a minute later were walking through a nice campsite. The rain picked up in earnest. We had a brief tete-a-tete in which we explored the merits of continuing on versus pitching the tent ASAP. It started to hail. Andy pulled the tent out of his pack, and we congratulated ourselves for having practiced setting up the tent in our yard the day before. The tent was pitched in a flash, and we settled in for two hours of hard rain and hail.

We thought this was a big creek, and were proud of how dry we kept our feet. Oh how futile those efforts turned out to be....

This was a great opportunity for us to start our read-aloud book, “What Mrs. McGillicuddy Saw,” by Agatha Christie. We read aloud on the Colorado Trail five years ago, and it was so much fun we made sure we had a good book for this trip. A mystery was just the thing, as during the day we speculated on whodunnit, who got done, and why. Also, since the characters in the book are British, there were some hilarious and horrible accents used for the characters. We would often continue speaking in these accents during the day - you get a little silly when you’re with the same person for 120 hours. But back to our story. After some napping and reading, the rain and hail finally stopped and the sun came out. We had a terrific view from Lizard Head Meadows, which is where we found ourselves camped.

The Cirque of the Towers from Lizard Head Meadows.

There really is nothing like the smell of wet socks and running shoes, and there is no feeling like putting on said wet items in the morning. But we did - and so began four more days of wet feet. Our trip took us through spectacular scenery: we walked along ridgelines, through limber pine forests (which I think are very Seussian), over huge granite slabs, across snowfields at frozen lakes, through bogs, through marshes, through creeks, and through more bogs. Once we realized our feet would never dry, we ridiculed ourselves for hopping carefully from rock to rock, when we could literally hear our socks squish with each step. 

The creek crossings got bigger....

...and our tactics more aggressive. This is a creek that flows into Maes Lake, near Pyramid Lake.

Hiking across an expanse of granite between Dutch Oven Lake (seriously - I didn’t make that up) and Moss Lake.

View west from Grave Lake. Looks like rain...

Heading up to Hailey Pass. Ten minutes after snapping this pic, it started hailing. How apropos.

And let’s round out the day by crossing a snowfield.

Several of our friends with experience in the Wind Rivers highly recommended that we do some off-trail travel. Once we got there, we realized that our friends hold us in higher esteem than perhaps they should. At least where we were, we found spectacular views and solitude, and were quite content to stick to the trail. However, we did opt to do a little cross-country travel to a couple of different lakes and up Pyramid Peak. We also did a bonus hike up to Washakie Pass (on trail), where the wind nearly whipped me into South Dakota, but we were pleased to look down into the Washakie Creek drainage, where we had been two days before.

Washakie Lake, from Washakie Pass.

The lake above Shadow lake, which is not named. We sat on a rock at the far end and continued our book. Alas, it was too darn windy for a swim!

Our last night found us at Shadow Lake. We marveled at how few people we had encountered on our trip. Of our four nights out, three of them were spent in complete solitude. Shadow Lake won the prize for best view, and was a great spot to finish up our murder mystery. It turned out that both of our suspicions were completely wrong. We lay awake until past dark (which is all of 10 pm at this time of year) discussing motives, and clues in the book that we had missed. (Aside: for any teachers reading, I did a read aloud once with seniors in high school. They loved it! So proof that you’re never too old to appreciate being read to.)

View from our campsite at Shadow Lake. This lake was all ours for the night!

On this trip, Andy and I appreciated how much we’ve learned about backpacking in the last 14 years. On our way to Shadow Lake, we came upon a couple who informed us that we had “missed the show.” We got very excited, thinking there might be some charismatic megafauna ahead. But no, the woman had fallen in the creek, because she was crossing barefoot with her hiking shoes on her hands. She then informed us that she takes FOUR (4!!!) pairs of shoes with her when backpacking. We were dumbstruck. Four Pairs’ boyfriend said he was jealous of our small packs. We assured them that we used to carry big packs too, and that we’d learned a lot over the years! However, Four Pairs will have to ditch the jewelry. She was a veritable Claire’s Boutique of accessories.

This is my bling for the trip. Hey Saucony, your shoes have holes in them. These shoes were promptly deposited in a gas station trash can. The stench would kill a horse!

Our hike out on day 5 was easy and uneventful. We met a guy from Utah who was thrilled that we had finally made it to the Winds. As we got closer to the trailhead, backpackers began to stream in from other points. We were pleased to have picked the less-crowded route. We hustled the ten miles to the car by lunch time, and concluded our anniversary vacation with a shockingly mosquito-free lunch at a picnic table near the car. 

Here we are! 

Your narrator. Hooked on phonics.