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

It ain’t exactly “U.S. Marshals”.

Today, Boulder’s local paper ran a fairly well-reseached, honest piece of journalism, yet it reads like something out of The Onion. Ward, Colorado, you see, is in need of some new police. The town’s only state-certified lawman, Robert “Fuzzy Bob” Spratford, is retiring — leaving only two guys named Skinny Pete and Tiny to protect and serve.

Ward, Colorado is this quirky little semi-ghost town, a relic from the mining boom. Once the richest town in Colorado during the Gold Rush, it’s now populated with folks who thought even Boulder was too conservative and thus headed for the hills. Filled with anti-establishment types and a rather large collection of broken-down vehicles, Ward incorporated as a home-rule town and thus lives by its own rules, not necessarily those of Boulder County — hence the all-volunteer, all-hippie cop force.

I doubt Tommy Lee Jones would be cast to portray Fuzzy Bob Spratford; Willie Nelson’s a more likely candidate. After all, Willie’s already got the pony tail, and the truck that burns biodiesel.

Full Article: “Ward considers options as marshal steps down”

OK, that’s quite enough already, with the fuckin’ snow. I get it. I live in Colorado. But the shit’s only useful in the mountains, which is apparently where half my office is headed today, to ski. I wouldn’t know, but hopefully by next weekend I will understand what this snow fever is all about. Right now, to me, all it is is a friggin’ nuisance.

After dropping Brenda off at the bus and our car off at the dealer to have the damage from last week’s snowstorm(s) repaired, I strapped on the gaiters and plodded through the snow to my office. Looks like we got 8-9” here already, and it’s supposed to snow most of the day again. It wouldn’t be so bad if Brenda didn’t have to be in Denver for the next three days.

Suddenly our fun little front wheel drive, low slung car ain’t so much fun anymore.

So, last Tuesday, Boulder got hit with its first snow of the year. The forecasts were calling for the possibility of “flurries” later on in the day, but the way it went down was that the flakes started falling around noon, and didn’t stop ‘till Wednesday morning.

Around 6:30 pm, I decided that things weren’t going to improve for a long time, and, despite being totally unprepared for the winter weather, I headed home on my bike. No gloves, no hat, no rain gear. At least I had a headlight on my bike.

A couple minutes into the ride, my front was completely white and I was slipping and sliding all over the place. The tires I bought a month ago will make great springtime tires, but they are out of their league when the snow and ice comes to town.

By the time I got home, I was freezing and my fingers were starting to bark at me. It took a minute to get them to behave enough to enter the security code on my garage door, and once I got into the warm, things got worse. I stood in the foyer with Emma meowing at me for five minutes while I blew into my hands to warm them up enough to unbuckle my helmet! After changing clothes I headed to the bike shop for some real snow tires, and fenders are next on the list. It’s time to accept the reality that winter has arrived.

My fingertips remained numb for three days after that ride, but the view from our bedroom the morning after the first snowfall was worth it, I feel:

True to form, the sun came out in full force Wednesday morning and melted much of the troublesome snow away and dried the roads out. It snowed again on Friday night, but once again, by today things were basically dry, which was great because it allowed me to get out and ride my latest two wheeled acquisition, which is surely going to be talked about in the coming days…

Sometimes you look out and it looks like a postcard… I’m motivated by the mountains. For some people it’s the ocean, for me, it’s the mountains. - Scott Moninger

It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything, I haven’t hiked a step since our Long’s Peak ascent three weeks ago, but rest assured I’m still here and loving every second of Colorado living. Been on a few bike rides, and every time I go I’m awed by the backdrop of the Rocky Mountains’ Front Range. What really hit home for me though, what really smacked me in the face and told me that I’m lucky to be here, was the arrival of the new Colorado Cyclist catalog on Friday. This is a catalog that I used to get regularly back east in my Hoboken apartment, my Glassboro dorm, and my Blackwood home. And when I’d look at the pictures of the models wearing the cycling clothing they’d invariably have these unbelievably beautiful mountain backdrops behind them. I used to wonder who these people were, and what they did to deserve to live and ride amidst such beauty.

And now I live here, and ride the same roads, and stare at the same mountains. I still can’t believe my luck.

The pictures in the Colorado Cyclist catalog took on a whole new dimension for me this time around, because now they were actually familiar. After twenty years of staring at those pictures and wondering who those people were, on Friday I realized that now I am one of those lucky people. And the article in the latest VeloNews — the one that contained the Scott Moninger quotation quoted at the beginning of this post — was fun to read, because it essentially pegged Colorado as the great cycling state that it is. I felt a sense of pride knowing I was a resident. After just 15 short months, I feel a deep attachment to this state, its scenery and its people. I think that says a hell of a lot.

Cyclocross, that quirky combination of cycling, cross-country and steeplechase, was always a curious mystery to me back east. In two weeks, the inaugural event in the annual Boulder Cyclocross Series will take place, right across the street from our house. I have access to miles of bike paths right outside my garage door. My neighbor across the street is the head mechanic for the Trek Mountain Bike Racing Team. Can you believe this shit?

I’m surrounded by mountains and cycling culture and loving every minute of it.

OK so the other day I told y’all about the impetus for our attempt on Long’s Peak, and then I fell asleep. Lemme tell ya how the walk went.

Walking to the top of Long’s Peak takes time, lots of time. The most popular route is called the Keyhole Route, and it is the “easiest” way to go, containing the least “technical” sections and least “exposure” (refer to my previous post for the straight shootin’ definitions of these terms). The downside is that it’s just a damn long trail. Seven miles from trailhead to the summit means you’re looking at a 14 mile walk with some scary stuff at the end, so yeah, it’s going to take time. On top of that, the afternoons often bring strong thunderstorms complete with hail and lightning. The last place you wanna be when one of those dark clouds roll in is up on those rocks, so this is what leads you to a 3AM start time. Some people start even earlier than that.

And so it was 3:00 a.m. when Brenda & I woke up in our tent, shooting for a 3:30 a.m. start time. Camping, as I mentioned previously, still is not something I can get used to, but it’s a necessary evil in this case; waking up one mile into the hike is a good way to get a good start, after all.

With everyone dressed and fitted out with lots of water and food, we embarked on our adventure. By 3:50 a.m. we were on the Long’s Peak trail and headed in the right direction, seeing only what our headlamps could illuminate for us.

A couple hours later, we arrived at the “sky potty”, one of the highest johns in the park. As we headed off on the Long’s Peak Summit Trail from there, the sun began to rise in the east:

We were now well above treeline, the trail resembling more of a moonscape than a forest, and the stark, artificial light from the headlamps only exaggerated that effect. Slowly but surely, the sun painted the sky in a dazzling array of constantly-changing pastels. At this point, we were walking west, but we always knew when a major sky event was happening, because the rocks in front of us would change color and vibrance along with the sky. We were turning around every few minutes to witness a completely different sunrise scene.

Now about 4.5 miles into the hike and above 12,000’, the sun is fully out and shining, and the next big goals are revealed — The Boulder Field, and the route’s namesake, The Keyhole. Things are going well at this point, the hike is relatively easy and we’re making good time. Far off in the distance, the Boulder Field looks flat and The Keyhole is but a speck in the center of the photo below:

We walk along a stream, progressing toward the Keyhole. Long’s Peak — on the left in the photo — is starting to look really impressive. It’s as if it’s taunting us. The thing is massive, and beautiful.

Finally, we arrive at the Boulder Field, a broad expanse of giant rocks. Nothing else to do but keep walking, and now six miles and in and nearly 13,000’ high, we get a good look at the Keyhole:

There is no real trail through the Boulder Field, so you basically just aim for the Keyhole and try not to get into trouble. A very steep section awaits at the end of the Boulder Field that gets you up above the 13,000’ mark, and a great view of the giant hanging rock formation that seemed so small two hours ago.
The scale of this thing is unbelievable. That’s Bryce about to cross through the ‘hole:

We turn around for a quick peek at all the way we’ve come so far…

And now, at 13,200’ above sea level and after six miles of hiking, the hike actually starts.

The Keyhole is the doorway to the other side of the mountain, the final mile of the hike, and four distinct sections that each present their own challenges. The Ledges, The Trough, the Narrows and the Homestretch await. The last six miles took four and a half hours to complete; the final mile will take two more, all by itself.

Leslie had told me all about these sections, and I had read other accounts as well. But I still didn’t get it. The last mile of Long’s Peak has whatever you’re bad at: afraid of heights? The Ledges and The Narrows feature plenty “exposure”, where you’re often walking on 12” wide rock with sheer dropoffs. Have trouble with the steep stuff? The Trough is an unbelievably beautiful bowl of steep, loose rock that seems to have no end, and the Homestretch is a slab of rock that’s short on places to stand.

These sections are so sketchy that sometimes the trail you’re supposed to take elicits a “you’ve gotta be kidding me” reaction. For this reason, they’ve spray painted little targets (called “fried eggs” or “bullseyes” in most trail descriptions) onto the rocks to guide you along. You can see one of the bullseyes between Brenda and Leslie in the pic below:

After the endless scramble up The Trough, we are greeted by a difficult gatekeeper of a rock that marks the entrance to The Narrows:

Your reward for completing The Narrows is called The Homestretch, and I guess in my head I figured this part would be easy, I don’t know why. It wasn’t. The Homestretch is a two tenths of a mile long slab of rock sloped 40 degrees, with chinks in the rock that often are the only hand and footholds available. Looking down, you can see that one slip at the wrong time could lead to a long but fast journey down the mountain, with a shitty ending. It’s scary. I got into a few dead ends on this stretch, and had to traverse some sketchy parts of rock to get to safer and more secure footing. Brenda, Bryce and Leslie looked down at me wondering if I was gonna make it, but at this point there was only 100 yards to go; there was no way I wasn’t.

I regret the lack of photos to tie in to this part of the story, but I guess that says something about the mood and difficulty of these final sections; I really needed my hands on the rocks, and couldn’t spare them for camera holding at this point!

A few more careful steps, and we were at the summit:

After a mountaintop lunch and some wandering around, I signed the register and we all posed for one more pic at the very edge of The Homestretch. What’s going though my head at this point is “this is going to suck way more going down than it did going up.”

The descent down the Homestretch was indeed scarier than the ascent, but we simply took our time and crabbed our way down the thing. Along the Narrows was a no-brainer but we turned the corner and shimmied down the gatekeeper rock to witness the Trough in all its glory, and some thunderstorms in the distance. Thinking how unpleasant the Ledges would be if soaking wet, we tried to pick up the pace and really hustle down the Trough, but the fact is it’s a long way down:

We got through the Keyhole and down the Boulder Field without incident and I thought to myself “phew, the hard part’s over”, but the fact remained that there was over five miles of walking left to do! We took a break while Lelsie treated some stream water for us (water is the key to not getting altitude sickness, I’m convinced), I inhaled another Cliff Bar and off we went.

Back along the stream and down towards the Sky Potty we walked, admiring some new scenery despite the out-and-back course; much of this area lay under cover of darkness when we passed it in the morning.

A deeply resonant rumble of thunder belched out from the south side of Long’s Peak, and we all looked at each other nervously. All around us was blue sky, but we imagined a large storm just on the other side. Would it march north and get us? Who knows. Nothing to do about it but keep going.

As we got below treeline I breathed another sigh of relief, feeling slightly more protected should a storm come in. Eventually we reached our campsite at Goblin’s Forest, and it was time to pack up and get outta Dodge. I wasn’t looking forward to carrrying all the extra weight of our camping gear for the last mile, but it actually wasn’t too bad. At this point I’m running on adrenaline, with the end in sight!

With a quarter mile to go, I saw something out of the corner of my eye and turned to look. Turns out a deer was standing about six feet from me, just off the trail. He would have been happy to let me walk right on by, but my stopping spooked him a bit and he ran back about ten feet. Brenda, Bryce and Leslie caught up to me and I simply pointed at the deer. We all stood there staring at each other until the deer got tired of that and stalked off.

Finally, around 5:30 p.m., we arrived at the Ranger Station and our car. We’d just completed 13 hours of walking, with challenges and amazing views all along the way. It felt good. As I pulled my boots off I thought “well, that’s that, I don’t have to do that ever again”, but I’m already thinking about the next time. Hiking has (clearly) become an addiction for both Brenda and me, and it’s these big peaks that really do it for us now. The views are incredible and the effort is fun. The sense of accomplishment you feel when you look up at something like Long’s Peak and think to yourself “yeah, I was up there”, is really hard to put into words.

Another great day in Colorado! I love it here.

What started as a mild curiosity turned into a fascination, and then, a goal: Long’s Peak. It’s got a catchy name, it sounds distant and imposing, and it is. It’s tall, it’s beautiful, it’s scary looking at times, and get this: Brenda & I summited the damned thing this past Tuesday.

Standing 14,255 feet tall, Long’s Peak is the tallest mountain in Rocky Mountain National Park and a very popular destination for hikers, but it’s not the easiest “fourteener” to summit. Every recent year, some 15,000 people attempt to make the summit and about 9,000 succeed. Usually weather is the culprit for failed summit attempts, but many simply turn back after reaching one of the five obstacles that await the hapless hiker after six or so miles of hiking; places called The Boulder Field, The Ledges, The Trough, The Narrows, and The Homestretch. I should have realized that if a little patch of trail gets its own friggin’ name, then it’s probably got something to it.

This all started when Brenda & I were buying our home in Boulder, CO, and we and our home inspector got to talking about Colorado in general and hiking in particular. “Oh yeah, you’ll love it out here,” he said… “the hiking is great; you’ll have to go up to Estes Park and hike in Rocky Mountain National Park… a big one is Long’s Peak; the views are great and it’s a great hike… because of the afternoon thunderstorms you have to be off the mountain early in the day… most people start early (I’m still thinking 6:00AM is early) so they start at two or three in the morning, with headlamps… the views are incredible…” — Headlamps?!? These people hike in the dark? What the hell is wrong with these people? Where in the hell have we moved to, I thought. I looked for pods in our garage, but didn’t find any.

Well, let me tell ya what’s happened. Since that day, Brenda & I have moved into our little condo in Boulder and have started hiking the many local trails that are within miles of our home, some leading to peaks that afford views of the Rocky Mountains that are simply breathtaking. I mean it; these views are fucking breathtaking. Like, you go “holy shit” when you look, and then think to yourself that not only is this an amazing thing to see, but that you’ve got yourself to this amazing place.

Green Mountain, Bear Peak and South Boulder Peak followed in short order after moving here. Our eyes turned westward, toward the higher peaks; as luck would have it our friends Bryce and Leslie were into the hiking scene too. Talk of doing Long’s started while Brenda was down in Santa Fe; Leslie had done it last year and was ready for another attempt this year, and regaled me with tales of the hike while we did Bear Peak a couple months ago (this was the same hike where I sniffed a tree, which Bryce counted as a personal triumph and remains a bit of material worthy of a blog post, but I digress).

And so it was with motivation from two friends and my own stupid fascination with the peak of Long’s that Brenda & I began to train for the higher altitudes, with the goal of summiting on Long’s Peak this week. First, we did St. Vrain’s Mountain, then we did Mount Audubon. Lastly Brenda & I did Mount Elbert together, the highest mountain in Colorado. I thought we were prepared. We were, sorta.

See, the problem is the word “exposure”, and maybe the term “Class 3 climbing”. You read in the books and on the websites that Long’s “can be dangerous”, and that “there is exposure” on the hike. Let me clarify these terms for you all, in the best New Yorkey way I can:

“can be dangerous” means: IS fucking dangerous.
“exposure” means: you can die on this section, easily; bad fucking luck is all you need.
“Class 3 climbing” means: you will be clutching little fucking chinks in the rock, clawing your sad ass to a safer place, cursing motherfucking gravity and all the previous goddamned authors of a Long’s Peak ascent the whole fucking time.

This was hard, and not because I had to camp again for the first time in 14 years (it still sucks ass, despite the advances in sleeping bags and the advent of Thermarests). It was hard because it was still far (we camped at Goblin’s Forest campground, a mile or so from the trailhead, but still miles and miles and miles from the summit), and it held untold surprises, despite all the stories I had heard leading up to the hike.

A step-by-step account is in order, but for now it is time to go to bed, sorry.