Just wanted to point out a great, great article on a “peakbagging club” in New Jersey:

New Jersey’s undeveloped peaks rise above the rest

Yes, you heard me. A club devoted to cataloging and “climbing” the many precipitous peaks in the grand state of New Jersey; high point: eighteen hundred feet, complete with monument to memorialize the majestic magnitude of the, uh, hill.

Five of the peaks aren’t even mountains per se — they’re called hills — and one of the more modest, Guerin Benchmark in Randolph, is about a five-minute jaunt from the parking lot.

The guys are totally tongue in cheek about it but at the same time it really does celebrate the hiking in NJ, of which there is plenty. Brenda & I discovered our love for hiking in NJ, not Colorado. It’s just that when you know you love something that requires certain natural features, you need to relocate to places that feature them. You don’t find a lot of surfers in Iowa, for example.

So while I am eternally grateful for living in Colorado and having access to amazing trails close to home and 14,000’ peaks not far away, this article reminded me of our humble hiking beginnings in the Garden State.

Enjoy.

Last Thursday, I hit the airwaves, yakking about lighting simulation. For some reason the Boulder Green Building Guild was interested in my take on the use of simulation in optimizing the energy efficiency of building designs in the US, on the latest installment of Footprint Radio.

It was a thrill to share the half-hour with Kostas Papamichael from the California Lighting Technology Center, and my buddy Mike Plann from Lightlouver. I hope one or two people listen, and are intrigued enough to explore daylighting design, or at least turn off the lights once in a while.

The cool thing is I’m now in the iTunes Music Store. Check it out by listening to the show on the BGBG’s website, or by checking out the podcast on the iTunes Music Store.

Thanks again, Tasha, for having me on the show.

Brenda’s been telling me about this tree, this tree they pass on their walks, she and Hooper. Apparently there’s a knothole at the base of this tree, where Hooper keeps one of his prized possessions — a tennis ball.

I was told where the tree was, and all I had to do was unclip his leash when we got close and say “go get your ball”, and off he ran. He bounded across the tall grass and hooked around the tree I suspected. I found myself running so I could catch up and see where he was hiding this ball, but, too late. He trotted out from behind the tree with a celebratory strut and a faded tennis ball jauntily held in the lower left corner of his jaw.

As it turns out, the hidey hole tree is conveniently located next to the Boulder mountain bike short track race course across the street from our house. This provides an excellent location for a Sunday evening walk.

Walking along, I threw the ball and Hooper would sprint down the track and fetch, like usual. But the variety of up- and downhill sections, the berms, the ruts, added a lot of fun to the proceedings. We made our way to the middle of the course, where there’s a high vantage point and from which there were steep dropoffs in every direction. I coordinated my throws so as not to send Hooper into a collision course with any of the mountain bikers who were also enjoying the evening on the course.

After a while, Hooper & I were really hitting a groove. He was familiar with all the varied ramps and dips, and my throws were timed just right so that Hooper’d reach the bottom of a particular hill just as the ball did, usually timing it just right so he could catch the ball on a bounce with a nice leap.

And then, the capper. Hoop caught air. Hooper caught air off a jump, so help me god. Hooper is better at BMX than I ever was. I threw the ball from the top of the hill, toward this steep jump; Hoop tore off down the hill after it, bolted up the slope, and leapt for the ball as it arced over. The jump was so steep and Hooper was going so fast that he literally caught air, as he flew up and over the jump and disappeared behind the mound. Moments later, he charged back over the hill, ball in mouth, ears flapping, and I just beamed with pride.

After an hour of this, it was time to go home. Hooper & I walked back to the tree, the special tree, and I guess we hadn’t exercised enough because I had to go put the ball away in the hidey hole. According to Brenda, when he’s really tired, he puts it away himself.

Hoop hasn’t moved much since dinner.

It’s tough to put into words how special this dog is.

Riding home from work tonight, I was struck by the nice dusk light and wondered aloud to my carpool buddy what it might be like to walk up the Shanahan Ridge Trail toward Fern Canyon. She was all about it. She said she often goes trail running around there with another friend. Suddenly it all made sense. I need to combine my evening walks with Hooper and some actual exercise.

I don’t exercise, even though I should. Hell, these days I want to exercise. I’ve decided it’s time to exercise regularly, partly because I want to, but partly because I need to. I turned 42 last week, and I officially have a “spare tire”. Shirts of the “large” variety now hug my belly a little too closely. Extra large provides the tent-like drape I used to prefer but now rely upon, to hide forty-something girth.

So, it’s time to get moving, on some sort of regular schedule and reasonable intensity.

To me, exercise means bike riding, but winter around here is still being a sporadic bitch, and the bike is simply too efficient to make a good exercise buddy during the week — too long a ride is needed for any reasonable training effect. I have been thinking running might bridge the gap to summertime, but I got into road cycling precisely because my knees were giving me trouble all the way back in sophomore year of high school, when I ran the mile in track. And, of course, the first order of business when arriving home from a long day at the office is to walk the dog. How to fit in a workout and walk the dog?

So, the answer was obvious. Head to South Boulder, and walk up the Shanahan Ridge Trail toward Fern Canyon, one of my first hikes in Boulder, and still one of my favorites. I could simply use the incline to make a workout of things, walk as fast as I can, and get the heart rate up while not actually running. Hoop could come along for the stroll.

And so we did.

I had no real plan, but arriving at the trailhead at 6:30 I just wanted to get in a decent walk before the sun went down. We started off at 6:36, at a good clip. Hooper was down with this idea from the first step, but it also took him no time at all to nose out a stray tennis ball, so we had a game of fetch going as well. I decided I’d walk as fast as I could until 7PM; I had hoped I’d at least get to that big rock known as The Slab by then. Hooper seemed to be having a good time. I was huffing.

At 7PM, we arrived at The Slab, and Hooper wanted to know why exactly we were turning around. But around we went, and headed back to the trailhead. I want to do this on a regular basis, and so that is precisely why I did not overdo it tonight.

Hooper kept flipping the tennis ball in front of my feet, imploring me to toss it downrange, all the way down the hill. We had a blast.

Working on a familiar trail, I have a very obvious yardstick with which to measure any progress, should I end up doing this on a regular basis. And at the same time we incorporate Hooper’s evening constitutional. The uphill grind gets the heart rate up there, without the impact of running. Sure the downhill is hard on the knees, but I can always bring the trekking poles to take the edge off. I think this can work, and get me in shape so that by summer I can take the bike out on the weekend and actually climb some mountains, or at least post a respectable FKT (fastest known time) up to the summit of Bear Peak, one of my favorite places to be in Boulder.

Hoop is snuggled up next to me on the couch; I laid out a blanket and he hopped on up and has been crashed out for a while. So, he’s getting a workout too. Win-win.

Wow. So, once again, Brenda & I spent part of a February weekend checking out various films at the Boulder International Film Festival, and once again, we were not disappointed. This year, we had a nice manageable program: a movie a day, Friday through Sunday. Two were at the Boulder Public Library and one was at the fabulous Boulder Theater. The surprise of the weekend was that the library has a great theater; we hadn’t seen any screenings over there to date, and I was expecting folding chairs and a temporary screen. But it turns out that the Boulder Public Library has a really nice theater, on top of everything else it has going for it. And on Friday evening, at the Boulder Library’s theater, we saw “Split Estate”, a decent documentary about the shit going on in northwest Colorado and other southwestern states with the oil companies ruining lives and land right here in America. Check your listings on Discovery Channel or Green Planet or whatever, because it’s airing on there now. Pretty good.

On Saturday, we saw “Ajami” at the Boulder Theater, and the wonderful venue was a stark contrast to the brutal setting and eventuality of the film’s subject matter and gutting plot. The final shot of that film is burned into my brain forever, Gallipoli-style.

Today, it was time for “The Misfortunates”, and this film, this film was the highlight of the festival for me.

It seems like every year since Brenda & I have been going to this festival, we have seen at least one film that has resonated with at least one of us, a film that renews your appreciation for why people make films in the first place. Films that strike a chord, films that make you laugh, and cry — with actual tears, and make you want to do the following: be a better person, call some people on their shit, take better pictures, and write more.

“The Misfortunates” was the film for me, this year, that did it all. A coming of age flick of sorts, set in Belgium; the protagonist, this poor kid, is screwed from the beginning by his situation: crazy family, surrounded by alcoholics and no supervision, no money, crazy uncles, general class angst. And yet this fuels both a fucked up childhood, and, well a fucked up adulthood, but an adulthood that ultimately makes the best of things. This is the best movie I have seen in a long time.

In past years, we have seen “C.R.A.Z.Y.”, “Sunshine Cleaning”, “Anvil; the True Story of Anvil”, and “Diameter of the Bomb”; for the most part, these ended up in mainstream theatres or on cable, but it was fun to see these years ahead of the rest.

I’d say this year was the best of all the years Brenda & I have been attending the festival, but every single year we seem to see at least one memorable film, one that sticks with us forever. I can tell you, “The Misfortunates” is one of those films that will not only stick with me, it will inspire me — forever.

Been a while, I know. Will have more to say later. For now, we are having us a nice little blizzard here in Colorado. The best part is that my favorite bar is on top of things. Here’s an email I received today:

From: mtnsun@mountainsunpub.com Subject: Cold Rain and Snow won't close us Down!! Date: March 26, 2009 5:47:49 PM MDT To: rpg@rumblestrip.org Happy Spring Blizzard Phamily and Phriends We ARE open today at the Mountain Sun Pub & Brewery. (11:30 AM till 1 AM) The Southern Sun Pub will be open regulars from 4 PM till 1 AM. The Vine Street Pub in Denver is open from 4 PM till 1 AM.(1700 Vine) Please DO NOT drive! Walk, Snowshoe, or ski in! Please tip well...Many of our folks are working doubles to stay open! If anyone got any extra Phish tickets...We have 100 hardworking employees looking for extras! Enjoy the snow!

(yeah, Phish; whatever. You take the good with the bad, right?)

Brent Graber was a guy I casually knew, a co-owner of a fun little dog named Delaney.

Brent and his brother were regulars at the ballfield near my house where Hooper & I spend many an evening. Last month, while Hooper was recuperating from his knee injury, Brent got hit by a car and had been in a coma ever since. I found out about Brent’s unfortunate predicament a couple weeks after the fact, when Hooper & I returned to the ballfield. Ever since learning of Brent’s unfortunate turn of events, I had been keeping tabs on him through a website his family had set up, and silently held out hope for a recovery of any kind.

But tonight, at the ballfield where I had collected all of my personal experiences with Brent, I learned of his death. His injuries proved too great for his body and especially his mind; he passed away last evening, after spending the last month in a coma.

I am mostly sad for Brent’s family and close friends, as I was but a peripheral acquaintance. But at the same time, I am pissed off about the way his death came about, and at the way it has been reported and dealt with.

Brent was hit by a car from behind while riding his bicycle a mere quarter mile from my house. He was hit at night, by an 82 year-old. The newspapers reported the age of the driver, but also mentioned that Brent was not wearing a helmet and that his bike did not have a taillight or reflector. What was not reported—in the initial story or the initial “death report” news story— is whether or not the driver was in the shoulder, or in the lane she was supposed to be keeping her fucking car in, when she plowed into this 30 year-old guy and killed him. The papers mention that the driver was not ticketed, in a single sentence paragraph. I would assume that is an indirect way of saying Brent was in the middle of the lane when he was hit, but based on the way most bike-versus-auto accidents are reported, investigated and prosecuted, I seriously fucking doubt it.

The age of the driver and cyclist, the lighting conditions, and the fact that the cyclist was not wearing a helmet or that his bike lacked a taillight are important points. But so is the location of the 2,000 pound motor vehicle when it struck the cyclist. I would argue that that last fact is the most important one in fact, and it really pisses me off that that little detail has been consistently left out of the discussion. Why is that? Seriously; why the fuck is that? Seriously.

Brent was always smiling at the ballfield, always laughing at his and the other dogs whenever they did something silly, which is to say Brent was laughing all the time. He seemed to be enjoying himself in his life, and at 30 years of age, his ended too quickly.

I am pissed off about the way his horrible ordeal has been reported in the local papers and suspect we don’t know the entire story, but knowing the way Brent approached everyday life, I’m going to simply toast him now, and say “salut”.

A wildfire is raging in the foothills just north of Boulder; it started this afternoon, and really high winds and lots of open (and dry) land have provided the perfect ingredients for disaster.

Already, several homes have been destroyed, and people are evacuating all over the place. This was the view from my front door when Hooper & I got home from our walk:

This is a view looking northwest; you can see the main line of the fire, and the trail of little fires left in its wake. At that time, the fire line is probably six miles from my house as the crow flies, but it’s a LOT closer to the edge of town than that! People I know have voluntarily evacuated their homes, and one of my co-workers is a Boulder County firefighter so I’m thinking of them tonight. Last time I looked out the window, the fire had died down quite a bit (as had the wind), so hopefully the firefighters will be able to get a handle on things, but they have a long night ahead of them.

So about a year ago Brenda bought me an “introductory lesson package” gift certificate from the soaring school at Boulder Municipal Airport. I finally got a chance to get on the schedule.

I have flown gliders exactly one other time before, back on the east coast. A friend of a friend offered me a chance to fly a Schewitzer 2-33 from Van Sant airport in Pennsylvania, and I had a ball despite the overcast day which meant no thermals, which meant we went up, and basically came right back down. Since moving to Boulder, I have pretty much stopped flying airplanes save for a few checkout flights, due to cost and time constraints. But apparently Boulder Colorado, in addition to being a veritable Mecca for cycling, rock climbing, hiking and trail running, is also somewhat of a worldwide destination for soaring. Boulder’s location, tucked up against the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, makes it a great spot to launch from. The summertime Colorado sun generates plenty of thermals and the wintertime wave action over the mountains creates conditions ripe for skilled pilots to take a motorless aircraft to altitudes above 20,000 feet. Naturally, I was intrigued. I guess Brenda got tired of hearing me say “I really need to go over there and try the gliders”, because she got me this really great Christmas present last year that I finally got to cash in on this past Saturday.

Unfortunately, the weather was rapidly deteriorating (a huge front swept in Saturday night and dumped a bunch of snow on us, and it’s 1 degree outside right now), so I only got to do one tow. My instructor was originally from Hawaii, and with me from New Jersey, we met in Boulder, towed to 2,000’ AGL and proceeded to get the shit knocked out of us.

But what a view!

This is us approaching our release altitude, with Valmont Reservior to the left and the Flatirons filling the windscreen. The turbulence was fairly severe, and several times there was an uncomfortable amount of slack in the tow rope as towplane and glider each got smacked around in their own little shitstorms of air. After we released, we were able to easily hover in place if we pointed the ship directly into the prevailing west wind, which was fun, but my instructor sensed it was only going to get worse and so we cut the lesson short and headed back to the airport.

I still have two tows coming to me and hopefully I’ll get those in sometime soon. I am in the enviable position of working a mere mile and a half from the airport these days, so a lunch hour launch is not out of the question.

Getting the glider pilot’s license is merely an add-on rating for me, since I already possess a private pilot’s certificate. Rental rates are cheaper, and since the gliders don’t burn any gas, after the tow, it’s a pretty sustainable activity. So, I’m certainly interested in pursuing the rating, but it’s still an expensive hobby. We’ll see. At the very least I can look forward to a couple more flights, and I’ll be sure to document the fun right here.

It’s been a while, but tonight I finally tried something new: rock climbing. More specifically, I took a belay course at the Boulder Rock Club, that included a little rock climbing. Brenda got into rock climbing about a year and a half ago, and at the time I had no interest in joining her. I was riding my bike around while she was hanging from tiny little pieces of plastic bolted to the climbing walls in the gym (and later, from chinks in the rocks of Eldorado Canyon), and that was fine with me; she had her hobby, and I had mine. Once she started her classes last year, Brenda absolutely fell in love with the challenges: the physical challenges as well as the mental puzzle-solving challenges that go with the territory. Still, I just thought rock climbing wasn’t for me. I’m too heavy, too klutzy, too weak. Too outta shape.

And then I saw some climbing movie, and everything changed. I want to do that, I thought. And so tonight I made the first tiny baby step towards becoming a rock climber, by signing up for the Wednesday night “Belay Basics” class taught at the Boulder Rock Club.

I showed up at the Boulder Rock Club after work tonight and met Joe, my instructor. Turns out I was the only person signed up this week, so I got one-on-one instruction for the whole lesson! He gave me some shoes and a harness; I thanked him for the gear and realized that he could have handed me a pair of Crocs and a garden hose and I would have thought I was properly equipped. I would spend the next hour or so becoming familiar with these pieces of equipment as well as the belay device, a simple piece of aluminum with a cable attached to it that allows the belayer (the dude on the ground) to stop a fall easily.

Joe gave me a tour of the place, a large complex of several rooms with ceilings over twenty feet high, with ropes everywhere, and all manner of hardbodies—men and women who could totally kick my ass—hanging from the ropes like they lived there, and others doing Spider Man impersonations all over the climbing walls. I was intimidated. But then we went upstairs to what apparently is the beginner room. A few nine year-olds were wandering around and doing their OWN best Spider Man impersonations. I was intimidated, again.

But no matter, I was simply here to learn to belay, this requires one’s feet on the ground. Baby steps.

Joe taught me the basics of checking your harness, how to tie the knots one needs, and the basics of belay jargon before he set off on his merry way up the wall, providing a real-live belay experience for me. Some pointers ensued, and after a few more runs up and down the wall, he said to undo the belay device and he handed me the other end of the rope and the next thing I knew I was standing in front of the wall and I hear someone going “OK give it a try, why don’t you follow the blue tape, that’s a 5.6 route, nice and easy.” It was Joe, and he was talking to me.

Right. Wait, what? Step on these little things?! Well shit, the nine year-old is halfway up the goddamned thing, so I guess I’d better get moving…

Next thing I know I’m at the top, and for lack of a better thing to do I tapped the bar at the top of the climb and then Joe said something and then apparently I needed some training to descend too. (I was trying to go down the way I came up, sort-of like descending a ladder, but you’re supposed to lower your butt stick your legs straight out, and enjoy the ride down.)

After riding a slide down to the lower floor, we looked for some more free ropes to continue the lesson. There were none free in the back room, so we headed toward the front, that room by the entrance. By now I had been all over the joint, and I had a decent idea of the lay of the land: we were now in the inner sanctum. The walls here often splayed away far from the vertical, the muscles on the climbers here were ripped. Chalk dust coated everything and everyone, and they all seemed to be in some sort of zone.

Joe set us up out of the way and I got some more practice belaying, lots of belaying. Taking up slack, braking the rope to arrest Joe’s falls, etc. I was getting pretty comfy with all of that. And then he decided I should try another climb. In the inner sanctum.

By now I had sort-of gone into a trance of my own, the end result of being exposed to so many senses and experiences all at once. So, up I went, following the brown tape. Encouraging words from Joe in a couple spots, and… tap. Twenty feet up, I start the ride down, looking at my neighbors hanging from their own ropes, and I smile.

Sensing we are wearing out our welcome, Joe retreats us to the back room again, where we find a free line this time. A harder route still. I finally run into a dead-end. I fall off the wall trying to work it out. Joe lowers me and shows me a couple things (after all, this was supposed to be a belay class, but since I’m the only student, I get some free climbing tips in the bargain). I try again, and this time I get past that first hurdle, and past a few more, but I never make it to the top. I am done for the night, tired, but really happy. I take a look around from fifteen feet up, and glide down.

I have to go back in a couple days to do a belay test with another instructor to make sure I remember everything, but then I can rent some shoes and a harness and start climbing!