Tonight was one of those nights I truly felt lucky to live in Boulder. Tonight, at the fabulous Boulder Theater, the Reel Rock Tour kicked off to a packed house, and Brenda, Leslie, and I were there.

The Reel Rock Tour is a traveling film festival celebrating rock climbing, in the extreme. Good god, it was fucking amazing. The only thing better than the photography was the amazing skill and daring of the people in the films. Well, that and the rocks; the rocks were amazing. From Eldorado Canyon—right here in Boulder—to Yosemite to Chamonix, France, these places served as playmates to people who tested their limits; their drive, determination, balls and boobs, as they climbed, slept on, and B.A.S.E. jumped off of some of the most amazing fucking rocks on the planet. It was awesome.

In case you didn’t know, Boulder Colorado is kind of a hotbed for rock climbing. More importantly, in case you didn’t know, Brenda (my wife) is really into rock climbing. I reveled when Brenda took a rock climbing course at the Boulder Rock Club, and enjoyed her stories every time she came back from the gym, and especially when she came back from Eldorado Canyon on a climbing adventure with her classmates from the gym.

So when I saw this film festival advertised, I jumped at the chance to check it out, and I ended up being totally sold on the idea of rock climbing.

By the time the feature event rolled, I was totally engrossed; the beautifully brilliant mountainous landscape projected on the screen was wonderful to look at, but then the reflected light from the screen revealed an amazing thing: the Boulder Theater was totally packed. Every seat was full, and people were sitting in the aisles and standing in the stairwells, to catch a glimpse of these amazing athletes groping their way up the most impossible of routes.

The alpine hikers were my faves, but there were so many characters both in front of and behind the lens that you just wanted to be your best friends, and the fact that half of them were in the audience watching the show (and occasionally tossing out swag, including climbing legend and Rob’s girlfriend Beth Rodden’s husband Tommy Caldwell tossing out shit like ten feet from us) just added to the drama.

All in all, a good night. I am so going to try rock climbing now!!

Brenda, Hooper & I all piled into the car today for a drive to Denver, to attend a birthday party for some friends of ours. Partners Greg & Ted share birthdays a day apart. Greg aged a year today, and Ted did the same yesterday. And so a joint birthday picnic/barbecue in the park near the Denver Zoo was in order, with dogs.

Greg & Ted have a pair of winning canines; Guinness the Pug, and Lucy the Mutt (I used to threaten to kidnap Lucy and take her home with us from their parties ever since we moved to Boulder; she is adorable and built just like Hooper). Many of their other friends have dogs as well, and so dogs were invited to the birthday soirée.

And so it was that we loaded a backpack with Nalgenes of water and a Tupperware container to act as a bowl, poop bags, dog treats and a couple of tennis balls, and rolled out towards Denver. We also had a secret weapon. We brought the basketball.

You see, Hooper is quite the ‘baller. He has an uncanny ability to dribble a ball around a field using his muzzle and his front paws, and this is a skill that he demonstrated the very first time I produced a bright yellow utility ball on one of our walks back in November of 2007. Hooper took to that ball like Pele, coaxing it around the field under the moonlight for over an hour, managing to steer the ball back to my feet every once in a while so I could try to kick the ball past him (which rarely happened). But suddenly, a pop and a hiss was heard, and the fun ended.

A regulation basketball is 30 inches in circumference, and comprised of a tough leather cover that can resist a dog’s attempts to bite through it, and we have one of these objects. And today, we felt that if Hooper was to be allowed to roam free on the grass of the Denver Zoo Park—with heavily trafficked roads bordering us—we wanted a reliable distraction to keep him close, hence the basketball.

When we arrived, we rolled the ball out onto the grass and Hooper immediately began working the field with the ball. People immediately inquired about how we “taught” him to do this. Shrugged shoulders and allusions to that cold November night followed. Hooper spent the next several hours rolling that basketball around, beckoning me and anyone else who was interested to kick the ball around, and to engage him in some goalie practice.

Brenda had mentioned to me that a couple of the small children present at the party were terrified of dogs, and that we needed to make sure Hooper steered clear of them, and I was paying strict attention to his movements around the guests. But at one point, a couple of kids showed up with Hooper’s basketball, and they were fighting amongst themselves over who should be the one who kicks the ball toward Hooper. I watched with great interest and joy, as Hooper adapted to the kids’ erratic movements and gestures.

This one kid was literally pushing his friend out of the way, directing the action. He was moving the ball around and gleefully watching Hooper’s attentiveness and reactions to his direction. I had a great time watching Hooper play with the kids, but when I heard on the ride home that the one kid was one of those “afraid of dogs” kids, I just beamed.

Hooper is turning into quite a gentleman, and an ambassador. A saint.

Today is Hooper’s birthday, making Hooper one year old! In truth, we brought him home at six months of age, and he was picked up as a stray in Utah sometime before that, so unfortunately we really don’t know the exact circumstances or conditions of his conception, birth and early development. The vet guessed he was six months old, based on his teeth, when we took him in or his first checkup in early August. So we counted back from there and picked Groundhog Day as his “birthday”. In truth we’ll never know, and we don’t care. Just as we’ll never really know his genetic makeup. He’s Hooper the Dog, he’s ours, he’s one today, and we love him. So we took him out for a hike.

Up past Jamestown there’s a trail that meanders through the tall trees and it seemed as good as any for a winter hike. Hooper seems to love the hiking, the snow, the altitude, the adventure, as much as all of us. Once out of the car, he starts whimpering if we don’t get on with the business of plodding through the snow in a timely fashion. He’s generally uninterested in drinking water because that would involve stopping. Instead, he snags chunks of snow and ice on the fly, and keeps on marching.

Today’s hike led to a vague trail hidden by snow, and Brenda eventually became more interested in scaling a boulder for the view at the top than continuing to the summit. Hooper & I ventured onward, but he kept looking back at Brenda and I lost all sight of anything recognizable as a trail, so we headed back to join her. We snapped a few pics, headed back to town and picked up new treats and toys for the birthday boy. He’s cached out on his bed now, amidst the debris of yet another destroyed stuffed toy. Life is good.

Any doubts about Hooper’s hiking abilities, including high altitude, cold/snow, distance, have been put to rest. Hooper is a wonder dog.

With the holiday weekend winding down, and with the entire Front Range experiencing a very late start to the snow season, I decided to go up to Brainard Lake and scope out the trail to Mount Audubon, a hike that Brenda & I successfully did last summer. Mount Audubon stands over 13,000’ tall, so generally by this time of the year it’s totally covered with snow and is a challenge to summit. But with the dearth of snow we’ve had so far this year, I thought it might be a doable climb, and a great intro for Hooper to a longer and higher hike. Brenda’s been a bit under the weather, so she stayed home but Hooper & I headed out around 8:30 this morning to see what kind of trouble we could get into.

The access road to Brainard Lake is closed this time of year, which adds another two miles of walking just to get to the trailhead; I totally underestimated the impact of this, especially in winter with all the snow. Forty minutes after we left the car, we finally arrived at the Marshall Lake trailhead (I was totally going from memory of our hike last year, and I have to say I was pretty happy that I was able to find my way back!). At this point, I had already pulled a couple of chunks of ice from Hooper’s paws and his whiskers had icicles hanging from them, but he seemed interested in nothing but proceeding in a forward direction. I decided to hit the trail for a little while.

As we walked along the trail, I recalled the great hike Brenda, Bryce and I did up this trail last summer, and on we pushed, through the snow. I decided we should at least try to make it to treeline…

When you hike these high peaks, you eventually reach a point somewhere around 11,000’ there the oxygen is so thin, most vegetation gives up and heads for lower ground: treeline. You emerge from the cover of the thicket of trees and enter a rocky moonscape, windy and barren; ironically, I find myself the most alive when I’m up there.

And so when we emerged from the trees, and the winds began to blast us—no longer shielded by the trees—I concluded that we simply must continue on. I was not expecting to make the summit, but I wanted to press on for a little bit at least, in hopes of making the ridge before the final push to the summit where there are some spectacular views in their own right.

The winds picked up as we pressed on, and there was little shelter available for relief from the wind. Checking my watch I realized we had been walking for almost two hours, and simple math makes that out to be a four hour hike to the car, so I decided we were done for the day. I found a spot that wasn’t quite so windy, fed Hooper some food, and snapped a few pics:

Here’s my favorite picture from the day, with Hooper looking at some hikers on a lower peak while Long’s Peak looms in the background:

After that pic was taken, we headed back home, and arrived at the car three and a half hours after we left. Looking at a topo map after we got home, I estimate we turned around just a little short of the goal, but sill walked about ten miles in total and got up well over 12,000’ high. After giving him dinner, Hooper has been asleep ever since, but I think he’s proven his mountain mettle. Next summer is gonna be awesome. You’ll be seeing us on top of many high peaks, you can bank on it.

It’s been a while, again. First off, it’s Facebook’s fault. That’s right, I joined Facebook and I can’t seem to stop checking in every day to update my “status” message and see how many friends my friend Lauren has. But, that’s not the purpose of this post. Discussion on the insanely silly endeavor of Facebook will surely follow, maybe after Thanksgiving.

Anyway, Brenda has been working crazy hours again, and it all came to a head over the last couple-few weeks, and finally ended this past Thursday, when the show she was building some suits for opened at the University of Colorado. And it turns out that the guy who she was working for has a condo in the mountains that was going unused this weekend, so we loaded up the truck and moved to Keystone… resort that is; snowbarders, movie stars…

Brenda & I (and Hooper) had not been in the mountains in the winter yet since moving to Colorado, and it was fantastic. So far this year, old man winter has not really visited the near mountains but that’s ok with us since we’re not skiers or snowboarders. But this gave us a chance to experience a typical Colorado mountain resort town at the beginning of the high season, and it was certainly entertaining for us.

With Hooper settled in the condo, we headed out into the village to find some lunch. As we walked through “town” (Keystone resort is home to several fabricated centers of Starbucks and clothiers and liquor stores situated maze-like, Disney-style, around the lifts) we started to absorb the amalgam of skier/snowboarder fashion/lingo/gait/attitude. At one point Brenda said “uh, yeah, we’ve definitely entered a foreign world”, and I could only laugh and agree. I have been soaking up some of the lingo just from listening to office conversations about ski conditions (apparently the amount of base is important, and for some, a nice run of groomers is awesome, but that definitely outs you as a skier and the boarders will, like, totally frown on you), and I caught some glimpses of the fashions in the sale circulars every week last year, but it wasn’t until we walked through a living breathing throng of True Believers that I really came to grips with the odd, different, and let’s face it, totally cool world of alpine sports.

There’s a certain swagger that the snowboarders have; it almost seems like they’re fully conscious of the outlandishly baggy nylon clothes they’re wearing, emblazoned with obviously targeted graphics that they’ve paid a lot of money for, but don’t care (and to those of you that truly don’t care, I salute you; especially those that can’t really afford all that shit.

The skiers, then: they have this cool way of slinging their skis over one shoulder and hooking their arms over the end of the skis, backing that up with a swagger all their own, a more muted swagger that seems to say “we were her first, assholes, don’t fuck with us (but boy, it sure does seem like you guys are having a simpler, cooler time of things)”.

I was struck by the sense that this was one big party that I had no idea was going on (god dammit); at every bar (of which there were several), there were racks out front where people would leave their boards or skis, after a hard day of sliding down the slopes. My initial reaction was to look for some sort of locking mechanism, but there was none; these people were leaving their high priced equipment at the door, unlocked! This did not compute for this northeasterner. Inside, people sat around and ate and drank in the gear they wore all day as they careened down mountains on slippery planks of various sizes with no brakes. I felt inadequate. I ordered a beer. Here’s what we woke up to, out the front door of our place:

Brenda, Hooper and I made the best of our abilities by going on a couple of short hikes, punctuated with Hooper discovering his love of snow (or perhaps re-discovering; Hooper was a stray from Utah and we figure he was born around early February of 2007, so he’s probably no stranger to snow, but who knows?).

We left early on Sunday, took a scenic way home along the Peak-to-peak Highway, and got home in time to enjoy an early dinner at Zolo Grill, one of our favorite restaurants in Boulder. All in all, a great way to spend Brenda’s first free weekend in a long time.

OK, I know it’s been a while. Here is what’s on my mind:

• When you own a dog, you clean more than ever, and yet your place is generally messier.


• It’s snowing on the high peaks. Winter is just about here. While I like the look of the mountains with the snow on them, I’m dreading the thought of a winter like we had last year here in Boulder.


• The Colorado Rockies (baseball club) are absolutely tearing it up, and they remind me of the Phillies of 1993, another team of lower-paid gamers who ended up playing like a team instead of a collection of overpaid egos. I’ll be rooting for a National League team this year in the World Series.


• Speaking of baseball, I would love to see the Red Sox fold like the bunch of pussies that they are. They should already be declared the losers of the ALCS simply for Manny Ramirez’s bullshit posturing when he hit that home run last night. Sorry, I just fucking hate that guy. Actually, I’m not sorry. He is a douchebag.


• Speaking of baseball, who’s idea was it to have Dane Cook do ads for major league baseball!? I truly believe I’d rather watch Carrot Top try and generate enthusiasm for the game than this no-talent ass wipe.


• I got a new camera; just wait ‘till you see the incredible pictures.


• I saw my sister and my brother-in-law.


• Things are generally good.

Brenda turned forty yesterday (happy birthday again, Brenda!), and you know what that means, ROAD TRIP!

Yesterday we rolled out of Boulder many hours late, the end result of Brenda being busy with work, my inability to do laundry, and the need to get Hooper up to the kennel in Longmont. But we had a nice drive over the mountains while listening to the Rockies beat the Phillies (more on this whole baseball madness later), and ended up in Grand Junction, CO as the sun was setting. We had a nice dinner in town and a nice breakfast at the B&B with a couple from Philly, of all places. Mountain bikers, to boot. Then we headed to the Colorado National Monument, which is just a few miles up the road from Grand Junction. It’s like a mini-Grand Canyon; it was interesting to start the hke by descending, rather than ascending, but great views awaited nonetheless. Down in the canyon we saw some Bighorn Sheep:

...and lots of other images that need to get downloaded off my camera.

Back at the B&B, we popped open some champagne and watched the sunset; a severe thunderstorm was in the vicinity as the Yankees were having their asses handed to them by the goddamned Indians. I took some pictures of a sunset:

Tomorrow, we roll out southbound, headed for Durango, and will ultimately rendezvous with my sister and bother in-law in Santa Fe, NM in a couple days. Yeah!

One thing I miss out here, having moved 1,797 miles from Yankee Stadium, is of course the chance to see the boys in pinstripes with the white interlocking “NYs” on their chests take the field. Last year was my first full major league season living in Colorado, but the Yankees didn’t make it out here for inter-league play. This year, while reviewing the Rockies schedule I noticed the Yankees were coming to town and I suggested to Brenda that we go; she was very non-committal. I should have figured out what that meant, but of course I didn’t. I found out on my birthday, when I opened my present, which was a pair of tickets to game one of the series, tonight. Not only that, but we would be sitting behind the visitors’ dugout. The Yankee dugout.

The road grey uniforms took some getting used to, as I’d never seen those live before. Another change was the Harley Davidson animated motorcycle race through the Rocky Mountains replacing the festive little “subway challenge” animated subway race they do on the scoreboard back home in Yankee Stadium. “The four train! The four’s a LOCK!” I would yell, every time; so I went for the green Harley tonight, but he lost. Just like the goddamned Yankees. Oh well.

But I supported the troops, with the standard Yankee war chant: “LET’s go, YANkees!” (clap, clap, clap-clap-clap!) I did this until my throat was raw. It was a great game, really, despite the loss, and the popularity of the Yankees actually brought the pain of attending a MLB game back to the fore; the 41,000+ fans that showed up for the game actually stayed ‘till the bitter end, so the mass exodus was a study in group dynamics and the effects of alcohol. It also took 30 minutes to get out of the parking garage, and this was due to retards paying with change—just goes to show you assholes are everywhere, not just in New York. By the way, we parked several blocks from the stadium because the main lot was full, and all the commercial garages within several blocks of the stadium were charging between $25 and $40 to park for the evening. The best part was the handwritten signs with “$40” written on them, hastily taped over the normal $15 charge on the event parking signs they were all displaying. Do pirate parking lot attendants travel with the Yankees? One wonders.

The experience was in many ways a taste of what I miss about New York, and what I don’t. But above all, it was a great birthday present and a great night at the ballpark. Thanks, Brenda!

Brenda & I went to the east coast this past Thursday, our makeup trip for our postponed christmas Visit. Our christmas Visit was postponed due to weather. Perhaps in honor of that fact, we encountered more goddamned weather.

Booked on a noon flight Thursday, our flight pulled back from the gate promptly at 2:15 so we could sit on a taxiway for another 45 minutes before departing. Upon arrival in the NY metro airspace, we commenced a precision hold for another 45 minutes before landing at Newark NJ. Upon arrival, the NJ Transit train we boarded for New Brunswick was horrifyingly similar to the one I left almost two years ago when I finished my tour of duty, but at least this one arrived on time—unlike the one we tried to take the next day to Philly. That one was delayed—thanks to similar weather we experienced when we postponed out trip back in December in the first place—30 minutes, then 45, then disappeared from the planet as the one after it was delayed, then canceled. My brother-in-law picked us up and eventually we arrived at my sister’s house. I am here to tell you that New Jersey Transit’s Northeast Corridor Service is as horrible as it ever was, and I hate the entire miserable corporation with every fiber of my being.

The trip was good, overall, delays notwithstanding. We saw family and friends and saw some old neighborhoods. Unfortunately we did not get to see everyone, but our shit was delayed so what do you expect? Sorry John, Davis, Lisa & Pete, and the gang at RDG.

The big revelation was this: I love where we live now. Yes, New Jersey is where I grew up. Yes, New York City is where I was born, and where my ancestors immigrated to. Yes, the New York/New Jersey Metro Area is where the majority of my family continue to live. And, big yes, I hate when people smugly compare one living situation to another, but you know what people? I earned this, and I wouldn’t trade it.

Most of my family back east still don’t quite get why we love it out here, and I understand that; after all, back home we have cold cuts and the Yankees. But here, there is less shit on the sidewalk; people are, on the whole, nicer; the weather is, on the whole, nicer; there is less horn-honking; less attitude; more bike paths, mountains and beer. And that is the nicest way I can say it. I spent the last five days compiling a long list of sense memories of what I don’t miss, but it’s silly to list them here. Suffice to say it’s a long list.

I’d say I’m done with New York, but we all know life doesn’t work that way. Time will tell. But I’d like to say that I felt a palpable relief when I saw the Front Range out the window of our plane on arrival, and I breathe easier out here. I’d like to stay right here.

Today Brenda & I got up to Brainard Lake for some snowshoe hiking. It’s nice to be able to access some of the trails we liked in the summer, and snowshoes allow us to do that. We got our snowshoes all the way back in October, and we used them exactly once—long enough to figure out that we needed some waterproof pants to enjoy ourselves up there. Between then and now, we had lots of blizzards and Brenda was very busy with work, so we have not gotten a chance to get back out there until this weekend.

It was worth the wait; we hiked on the snowshoe-only trail up to Brainard Lake, which afforded great views of Mount Audubon which we had hiked last summer. The deafening silence of the woods is muffled further by the snow, and the blanket of white everywhere lends a new feel to a familiar trail. I hope to get some more snowshoe hikes in before the end of the season, but I gotta tell ya, some other outdoor enthusiasts caught my eye: cross-country skiers.

Gliding along the snow with their long skinny skis, these people seemed to be having a lot of fun as I plodded along in my big clunky snowshoes. I think this is next on the list of things to try. Meanwhile, here’s a link to some photos from today:

Snowshoe Hiking Photo Album