Co-Ed Bachelor Party

Squad

In 2019 we started planning for a Canada mountain bike trip this month to celebrate our pending nuptials with Nate and Amanda, Sam and Jordan, and Chrissy, a group of people that could handle basically any ride, conveniently including women that would be happy pedaling all day and guys that were interested in goading each other into hitting gaps and stuff. But COVID happened and closed the border, as well as delaying my and Chrissy's passport renewals, so we cast our eyes elsewhere and came up with Winter Park, Colorado. That was the plan until last Tuesday, when we learned that Jordan, who went down early with Sam, had a major crash and broke bones at Trestle Bike Park. She needed surgery and they wouldn't be able to come along on the trip. 

Suddenly, Cy and I were thinking the same thing: Colorado is hot, Colorado is crowded, why were we planning to go there? He started pacing the kitchen and spouting the benefits of northern Idaho, his beloved old stomping grounds. I was soon convinced, so I called our other group members. Rather than resenting our last-minute change of heart, they were totally game to go northwest instead of southeast. 

Base camp, night one

We departed early on Thursday morning. After finding a campsite outside of Kellogg, we set off for what I'd mistaken for a short afternoon ride nearby. We were all immediately delighted by the dense dark woods and rich creek beds lined with ferns and huckleberries, but less so by the unrelenting climb that continued growing steeper and rockier. (The adjective "unrelenting" was used in the description of the trail, a detail I glossed over.) We finished the slog soaked in sweat, then descended over steep root tangles and scattershot rock piles and through stream crossings. One crossing was studded with the remains of a moose skeleton and Cy claimed a paddle for our bone garden at home.  

Top of a very hard climb

Friday was dedicated to Silver Mountain Bike Park, which quickly proved to be technical, challenging, fun, and humbling. We learned that black diamond trails are accurately rated and that I'm still a bit too skittish for real DH, but it was a great day. Cy and the Careys took extra laps while Chrissy and I drank beers and lounged in the sun, counting our blessings to not have sustained injuries or bike failures on the rough, feature-laden trails.

Silver Mountain was hairy

After sleeping in the Silver parking lot we headed over to Coeur D'Alene for an easy little dog ride, then kept going to Spokane where, Cy promised, there was a rowdy in-town trail system. We rode Beacon Hill despite the devastating (to our delicate mountain bodies) heat and sun, and found some of it absurdly challenging (chunky rock rolls into kitty litter) and some of it quite entertaining, including an impeccable pump track. After a quick splash in the very inviting Spokane River and a brief stop at a dispensary, we headed north into Idaho. The town beach in Sandpoint was wildly crowded so we ate some tacos and drove up to Schweitzer Mountain Resort. Cy's nostalgia grew palpable as we arrived at the ski hill where he held his first season pass and started down the path to becoming the person he is now.

On Sunday, I enjoyed an actual breakfast burrito at an actual coffee shop after a few days of campground granola, then Cy and I took the dog for a short ride. We all regrouped and pedaled a mellow but lovely trail to the Schweitzer summit, where Cy felt all the feelings. We took a rocky, loamy descent back to the base, set a shuttle, and dropped further down the resort road on a purpose-built downhill full of small and large features, ripe with good dirt and giggles. 

You can sense the nostalgia

Although we had planned to spend another night at the resort parking lot because it was easy, the previous night had been marked by strong winds that knocked over camp chairs and filled every crevice with sand, so the Careys lobbied that we descend. Fortuitously, we found a quiet, scenic campsite on the north end of Lake Pend Oreille and enjoyed an evening swim in the choppy but not too cold water.

A lovely evening at Pend Oreille

On Monday morning our paths diverged. The Careys returned to Silver (it was that good) and Chrissy moseyed home, while we had firm plans to go for a run that Cy loved. He truly undersold the experience. After four miles of perfect running trail we summited to massive, breathtaking lake and peak views and visited with some very docile, photogenic mountain goats. Definitely on my top five best runs ever list.

Now we have more photos of us together

Perfect, perfect running

Oh yes, there were goats

Despite obligations looming on Tuesday, we opted to make one last detour on the long drive home, splitting the distance with a Monday night stop at hot springs deep in unknown (to me) territory. Despite being very popular hot springs, we found them nearly empty and devoid of weirdos. An easy night's sleep at the trailhead and a six hour drive home ended one of the best road trips I've ever gone on.

A worthwhile detour

Idaho, it's terrible. Don't come here.

Bikesbikesbikes

On Sunday a bunch of us rode technical singletrack to a lake.

One of the reasons I moved west was because I was feeling burnt out on riding in Brevard. I still got stoked about the big nasty loops but groaned every time someone proposed riding Maxwell to Black or parking at Lake Imaging for some Dupont meandering.

There was a raft on the shore, so of course it had to be put out to sea.

I'm still a fiend for novelty. I'll always pick a new ride over a familiar one. But out here I discovered a much better way to manage that constant nagging desire: take six months off from biking every year.

The vessel could not by rights be called a two-person raft.

By October, I'm always so over it, so jaded, noticing every creak of my bike, annoyed by the constant maintenance costs, numbed by the sameness of the trails. Then I ski from November to April and it's glorious and I love it. Then my outerwear gets too dirty and my skis haven't been waxed in forever and my boots are causing blisters and strange growths on my feet and the spring snow is too variable to be fun.

Those who felt the craft was not seaworthy contented themselves with rock skipping and Dead Trapper Horseshoes.

Everyone starts talking about sun and dirt and mountain biking with palpable longing and I'm right there with them, not wanting to wear layers or stiff heavy footwear, or carry avalanche gear and shoulder the fear that accompanies it.

A feral creature, washing his moose skull before he caches it.

Bikes! The joy and bliss that those first rides bring is unquantifiable. The pleasure of traveling through the woods on the most perfect steed, chasing friends, getting muddy and sunburned. And it's an ego boost. I'm a reasonably confident skier after five winters but that's nothing compared to a lifetime spent riding. Being on a mountain bike feels so intrinsically right, especially after a long hiatus. I am a mountain biker. And I'm so glad it's finally May.

There was actually a little bit of mountain biking too.

Running Away

I've been wrestling with how to write this trip report.

My first yurt trip wasn’t a rosy experience. Last week's yurt trip was a massive improvement over that, even though the distinct taste of pure snowmelt still reminds me a little of ralphing for twelve hours.

I didn’t have a group, a gameplan, or any idea of what life would look like five months down the road, but in October I booked two March nights at Baldy Yurt.  They were a couple of the last nights available for the year.

My life did change in the intervening time. Tyler and I broke up last month. I am embarrassed to give the reasons because they look trivial and selfish on paper, but it happened. I moved out. I gave up my dog except for occasional custody.

I’ve been staying so busy that my new room is still full of unpacked boxes, and mounds of clothes have sprouted up on the floor because I haven’t had the time to deal with them…or I’m just avoiding facing the reality of life right now.

I had been looking forward to the yurt trip forever, but began to dread it. I couldn’t find enough people to fill the roster. I felt disorganized. I’m not a great trip leader. Should we plan meals? Was I going to end up footing the whole bill? Was the guiding outfit ever going to get back to me or could we just waltz up there with no confirmation?

A damn good crew
Pics courtesy of Cy

I pieced together the group with the only people in the valley who gave me a firm yes: a fellow Julia, new roommate Pat, frequent accomplice Cy, and all-around rad person Amanda.

Pieps and Pat, getting ready for a big day out

It seemed like an incongruous group and I was nervous about how the personalities would mesh, but it ended up being the most perfect union. Everyone was well-informed, decisive but not pushy, communicative, and happy to do yurt chores. I don’t want to say everything went smoothly because the chicks outnumbered the dudes but…that didn’t hurt.

Oh yeah, it was really deep

Picking those two nights five months ago proved to be serendipitous. In the week before our trip, it dumped but conditions stayed stable. On our ingress we broke trail through deep, light snow and took turns shlepping the heavy sled of food and beer. Visibility was poor as snow continued to fall.

Oh yeah, it was really pretty

The sun came out the next day. Everything we could see was our playground. Big bowls, long steep runs, mini cliff lines tucked into trees, all untracked.  We were on the same page—open to walking a lot, stoked on skiing but not interested in tempting fate. Each lap yielded whoops of delight. 

Disco ball: essential yurt accessory

Footsore on the third morning, we cleaned and packed, and skied some more. The return track was fast and playful, the snow just on the cusp of turning to garbage. We drank beers on the tailgate of the Subaru. Everyone else’s smart phones were flooded with little dings and beeps from stale notifications. My phone stayed silent. It stresses me out to get messages after a hiatus from service, so I was glad no one missed me while I hid in the woods for a couple days.

I dragged my feet on reacclimatizing to real life, preferring to stay in my cocoon of post-yurt good vibes. Monday was tough, trying to crank out four days' of content and talking on the phone with recalcitrant interviewees.

I still think it's worth the comedown to have these perfect experiences. Strengthen friendships, explore the backyard, run away from sadness, and ski deep powder? Yeah, I'll take that.

Altered Perception

I hate letting weekends get away from me, so I start texting around early in the week to get a tour going on Saturday. 

We go to GTNP. There are six of us in the parking lot. All girls. I love it. We are noisy and colorful, and somehow alone at the trailhead--everyone else in the region is on the Pass, or at the Village, or the Ghee, or elsewhere in the Park. 

So many ladies
Pics courtesy of Erin

I break trail the whole way up, probably three hours of thigh-burning work. I am as happy as a hamster in a wheel. I don't even mind that we decide to turn around before the summit. We stay together and take turns slicing through the deep, sparkly surface hoar. We go to the Bodega afterwards, mill around and drink sloshies. Make plans to go out dancing that night. The band plays Klezmer music and Greek folk songs and the cellist has his instrument slung around his neck like a guitar. It's awesome.

Stoked to be in the Park on a sunny day

The next morning Dapper Dan texts everyone at Casa del Haters. Targhee backcountry? This thought has already occurred to us, so we organize cars for a Teton Canyon shuttle. 

I hear there are some big mountains here
Pics courtesy of Dapper

The frontside of the resort is haggard so we immediately drop out-of-bounds. Skin a couple laps on Steve Baugh and defile the once-virgin bowl with huge surf turns. 

Tyler gets some air time

After beer and snacks in the sunshine, we use the atlas to find the entrance of a south-facing couloir. Alex guinea-pigs the line. He radios to us, "It's a bit committing." Radios are cool. 

It's a good reminder of what a more consequential line feels like, what imperfect snow and wedging your ski against a rock and being out of breath from fear instead of exertion feels like. It isn't a hard line but I'm out of practice. I stay upright and ski out gracelessly. 

Somewhere in Wydaho...or maybe Colorado

The snow grows more affected, punchy, variable. We whip through willow saplings and brush. I am better at this than I used to be. I find myself on top of a little cliff band and I have to huck to flat on crusty snow. At the canyon floor, everyone transitions and starts the long glide out on the groomed trail. I don't get why people cross country ski for fun. 

On Monday I walk the dog before work wearing a light puffy, because it's sunny. My nose hairs freeze but I've gotten used to that sensation. When I turn the Subi on the engine grumbles awhile before it turns over. The temperature gauge reads -9°. Ah. The new norm. 

I am happy and satisfied at work. Sunshine, loud music, sketchy ice...writing articles, editing photos, eating Twizzlers. 

It's amazing how much a big weekend outside changes my outlook. 

In Praise of LDS Friends

I was recently moping that my fella doesn’t like the same kind of adventures that I do. A lot of couples function as each other’s primary backcountry partner, to varying degrees. The most extreme version of the outdoor couple speaks only in plural pronouns and is always posting summit selfies, arm in arm.

With more reflection I realized that I’ve never dated an adventure partner. My college boyfriend was the one I rode bikes with the most, but he was really into “training” and I openly mocked him for it. Before I moved west I dated a guy who was pretty good for a long trail ride, but he was so cold to me and so disaffected that the fun part, the bullshitting in parking lots and at intersections, was missing.

I could never date a boy that doesn’t do things, but I also don’t need a significant other for a backcountry experience. I’m kind of a hack but I’m self-sufficient enough to fix a flat, solve a problem, navigate, and keep myself warm and fed, without leaning on a person that is committed to supporting me because of some sort of relationship contract.

Tyler rides and he taught me how to ski and tour, but we have different priorities when we go outside and the breach seems to be widening. Thus the necessity of the “let’s do something” friend, or LDS friend, with apologies to Joseph Smith.

My father was my first LDS friend; he taught me how to ride, I taught him how to run, he taught me the importance of bringing a beer for after a run, and almost every Saturday at work, we’d have the conversation: “Do something this afternoon?” “Sure.”

I think that’s what makes a great LDS friend: say yes first, plan later. Spread a map out on the table and trace a potential route. Know that trying and failing is better than not getting out at all.

I had a lot of mountain bike adventure buddies, maybe because Pisgah breeds people who want to go lasso as much territory as possible into a brutal loop, and then drink novelty-sized Dos Equis afterwards. But running is more intimate and there’s less gratification, if you live for adrenaline.

I was overjoyed to find another LDS friend in Tahoe. Rebecca Duffy and I rode the whole South Lake trail system, her on an old beater Gary Fisher, not as confident on descents but just so down. We chased ideas across Desolation Wilderness. “We should create a Fallen Leaf Rim Trail, we should connect these peaks, OK I’ll steal some chips from the kitchen if you get a wilderness permit.”

The cliché is the boyfriend ditching his chick to get after it with his bros, but what if there’s a minor gender shift? I have a new LDS friend now but going off in the woods alone with a dude can be an awkward platonic proposition. Tyler totally gets it—he knows that since he’s unwilling to do the nonsense I want to do, he can’t be possessive and he can’t stop me from playing outside or I get all sad and bitchy and hard to be around.

Fortunately my roommate is also someone who is always down, even at dawn.
Pic courtesy of Cy

Yeah, I wish I had a great LDS lady right now, but I haven’t found one yet, someone who has a wide-open schedule and goes the same speed as I do and doesn’t already have a boyfriend who fulfills all her outdoor needs.

Maybe I’m just not the kind of person who gets that from a relationship. It makes me sad, but maybe it also sets me free.

OMG Opening Day

We all sit restlessly, thumbs up asses, waiting for ski season to start in earnest, building dumb little snow features off the backyard deck and proving to ourselves how deeply uncool we are. I feed the rat with long slogging wet-footed runs and we indulge in smelly hot springs and big gatherings and too much beer.

We are creatures that play outside but we forget that our moods are so reliant on the seasons, wondering where this listless apathy is coming from. We live in an oblivious sad fog until, hello, suddenly It Is Winter and Targhee, after a two week delay, gets a massive storm and starts spinning lifts and it’s dumping all day and we are all the happiest sons of guns you’ve ever met.

Opening day is usually a party scene but we’re all skiing so hard that we don’t have time or patience for beers. We are reveling in sobriety, lap after lap, hunting down those moments of flotation, snow blasting our faces, each of us starring in our own ski film with songs playing in our heads as we slow-mo through knee deep powder and yes it is early season and our bases are cheese-grated by lurking rocks but we don’t care, it’s so worth it.

No one waits for each other but it doesn’t matter because there are enough of us that you always find yourself in the (nonexistent) lift line with a friend and everyone is covered in snow and beaming.

My legs usually cry early season but the slogging runs have worked wonders and I can power through the day and ski so much stronger than I’m used to this time of year. A lot of people have quit by lunchtime to retire their noodle legs but the snow is still accumulating so on we charge.

In front of the fire at home we are all buzzing and glowing and drowsy, tempers realigned, souls rejuvenated, purpose rediscovered. Oh yes, we remember, we live here for this. We voluntarily give up stability and creature comforts and wealth for this and my god it’s so worth it.

Only took one lame picture all day because...powder

Redemption: Gravel Pursuit 2016

People kept on asking if I was going back to the Gravel Pursuit to "defend my 90 mile title" and I kept on sheepishly saying no. There was a high school MTB race in Twin Falls that weekend. But the longing to race it again wormed into my psyche and finally (after...coincidentally?...buying a new gravel whip) I opted to race instead of watching kids race. And then the kids' race was canceled because of torrential rain, which assuaged my guilt.

This is not a picture of my new toy, but you get the idea...Salsa Warbird...she's a sweet ride.

I rode up early Saturday morning with the Smithhammers and Don. We watched the rain beat against the windshield in the dark. It subsided in Island Park, leaving only the cold and the damp.

After the controlled chaos of the first miles, sprinting and braking and dodging deep rocky puddles that spanned the width of the road, I caught the leader, Ami, who was on a full suspension mountain bike. I'm always envious of people on mountain bikes when I'm riding drop bars, regardless of utility.

The road turned up for my favorite part of the course, the long mellow climb. My pack of riders melted away, leaving just Nate and a Jackson guy. Nate organized us into a little uphill peloton, which I didn't have any strong opinions about either way. As usual, I was under the mistaken belief that the race had been decided...twelve miles into a sixty mile race. I laughed at myself for my perpetual chicken-counting.

Of course Ami and Shae caught me on the descent, blasting by with a string of fellas in pursuit. I grabbed on and we blazed through the aid station. The group disintegrated and I latched onto Ami's wheel for the second long climb, but quickly imploded. Fingers stiff from cold, I wrestled with energy food packaging, hyper-aware of not dropping trash on the course.

I pedaled ever forward in no-man's land. I glimpsed Shae's jersey behind me and knew she'd close the gap any second. It motivated me to keep a steady pace, even as cramps perched atop my quads, waiting to attack. I fended them off with a hasty banana and a handful of pretzels at the aid station, still feeling the panic of pursuit. My fellow coach Kris caught me and let me know that Shae was in the throes of vicious cramps.

Relieved, I pushed onward, just wanting to get off my bike and drink beer with my friends. I thought about how predictable and inevitable my three-hour bonk is, regardless of the activity. I always feel invincible, fast, and strong for the first two hours and without fail I fall apart. It's a result of my inability to eat and drink adequately during races and my lack of intense endurance training, but I still soldier on, hoping I'll somehow outgrow this nonsense.

So I got second, smoked by Ami and with Shae hot on my heels. I didn't flat, I didn't take a wrong turn. I was more stoked on my friends' victories than my own, which is perhaps the reason why this race is so delightful; I'm not in love with the course but the feeling of community is unparalleled.

If there's not a podium shot, did it really happen?
Pic courtesy of JayP

The Petervarys put on another stellar event. Eric showed a ton of goodwill and patience by doing the timing again. Gary won the 120 mile, surprising himself more than the rest of us, and his narrative of the tough race proved he really did deserve the win. Nate put thirty minutes on me after we climbed together and got a top ten finish, despite having dedicated his summer to the kids' team. The rest of my friends and teammates all had strong finishes and spirits were high at the Pond's Lodge on Saturday night. 

The sun came out and we had a solid tailgate session while awaiting Gary's finish.
Pic courtesy of Nate

Twelve Hours of Disco, Give or Take Ten

I've been craving novelty all year so I got a wild hair to do a new event, Twelve Hours of Disco in Salmon. I was lucky to find three guys who agreed to join my team with minimal arm-twisting: my always-intrepid housemate Alex, friend and pub regular Eric, and random kid I met skiing, Cy.

The forecast was dismal so we crammed the Subi with as much precipitation prophylaxis as possible and rolled out Friday afternoon. The venue is a pit surrounded by sagebrush hills and moto tracks. I slept warm and dry under a rainfly and canopy but the outlook was grim in the morning. Bike tires packed up with gritty mud on the trip to and from the johns and big mean storm clouds threatened. The start was postponed and postponed again. It finally got underway at 9:30 and Cy with his jammy pack and seven inch bike fought his way off the start line. I warmed up and waited. A lot of guys went off course and showed up twenty minutes early. Bummer. Cy came in late because he'd backtracked instead of cutting the course. 

At least my fender game was on point
All pics courtesy of Vivian, awesome team cheerleader and photographer

I took off and mashed as hard as possible. Fastest lap time was on the line and I really wanted it. The course was nondescript, a ribbon of dirt meandering up and down. I was wary of letting loose on the smooth descents because the trail was hemmed in by tiny cacti with vicious quills. 

The wind roared and rain fell as I finished. When Alex wasn't astride his bike in the transition zone I knew the race was on hold. While I was changing out of my wet muddy gear the skies opened and the officials made the call--no more Disco this year. 

Thanks to GTBC for keeping us dry AND well-lubricated

We had a decision to make--pack up our sodden belongings in the rain or start drinking and hope for the best. Fortunately the Teton Tailgaters opted for the latter. Alex and Eric were good sports about not getting to ride. It was a long pleasant day of draining kegs, playing dress-up, standing around the fire, hiding from cloud bursts, and eating food cooked by the Pocatello crew (the hardiest partiers of all). 

Teton Valley's finest 

When the sun came out, the costumes did too

 The next morning showed much more promise. The local shop owner gave us a guide book and directed us to a fast-drying ride north of town. We climbed out of the drainage on a mellow mining road and contoured the velveteen hills on a half track covered in elk droppings and balsamroot. The descent was a dream, alternating between alpine choss and forested loam.

Riding bikes in Salmon does not suck
Pic cred: Cy, who takes beautiful pictures for a living

The radiator on the Subi was leaking and gave off an artificial maple syrup smell so we loaded her up with goop and coolant and headed south to find a much-ballyhooed hot spring. We hiked up a canyon to reach the cascading warm pools overlooking the rocky landscape. An hour of soaking made me sluggish and happy but time waits for no man; we had to get back to "real life" at some point. The drive home was fueled by sour candy and punctuated by radiator checks.

Goldbug Hot Springs: not your usual riverbank cow puddle

I love exploring the playgrounds of Idaho and driving through its vast empty country beneath unfathomable skies. We chased huge curtains of rain into the valley and the Tetons glowed pink and azure. What did I do to be so lucky, going out to play with people who are down for adventure and then coming home to this arresting place.

A Winter Spent Whining

The season has been disappointing thusfar. The snow accumulation numbers don't reflect it but the temperature stats certainly do. Tyler, whose years of ski bum experience give some credence to his armchair meteorology, says, "It's El Niño, this is typical of El Niño, every cycle, and next winter, oh, La Niña..." He says La Niña's name with wistfulness. '10-'11 was the last strong La Niña year and people still speak of that winter with grave longing: "That year, I got so tired of skiing deep powder days...I just wanted sunshine and groomers for a change."

I've finally learned to temper my expectations and now can find contentment, after yet another warm wet spell has quickly rotted the fruits of intermittent snow storms, in seeking out new stashes and savoring the five or eight good turns before the going gets heavy, crusty, or slushy.

A questionable start to a resort day
Pic courtesy of Sam

It helps having friends in town. Sam from Brevard came back out to play with his buddies and their presence motivated me to hunt harder for the goods instead of retiring to the couch in a mid-winter funk. By the time they left I was sore and sated from four full days of skiing. Erica and Alex (Tyler's best friends from his Colorado days and probably my favorite benefit I reap from our relationship) visited this weekend because they live in northern Utah and while I bemoan the state of our snow, we still have more of it than just about anyone. When they come up we always play outside a little half-assedly and then eat, drink beer, and talk shit with gusto. On Saturday we walked the bike path into town with cans of Ranger in our pockets to see a show, the floor packed full of people on weird drugs dancing feverishly. We tried to hang but were all feeling our age by the end of the night.

I complain but it's still really good here

When we went for a ski the first turns were so good we rejoiced. Then the snow got crunchy and I was going too slowly and haphazardly and Sophie scooted in front of me and I plunged my tips into the snow and we both tumbled. She seemed unphased but the blood on the snow told a different story. I had sliced her elbow with my ski edge. Tyler taped her up and she trotted merrily back to the parking lot. When we cleaned and rewrapped her leg and Tyler picked the gauze off her wound while I tried to hold her squirming, resentful little body, he decided she needed stitches. I was wracked with guilt and worry so Tyler had to deal with my histrionics as well as ministering to Sophie. She got three stitches yesterday and was just fine besides a little drunken weaving and minor consternation over her leg bandage.

Sophalope just wants to go downhill already

There is no actual point to this post except, in no particular order, A: I have my computer back from the repair shop and a real keyboard is one of the most wonderful things in the world; B: dog ownership is greatly improved by having a willing partner to share the responsibility and love; and C: life is good, friends are awesome, snow is plentiful, and I don't have anything to complain about.

Special Places

This spring I bemoaned my own jadedness and assumed camp would never hold the same magic for me as it did last fall. 

I have been eating my words with gusto all month. 

This fall has been even better than last. I feel really close to so many people at camp and now, not only do I say yes with regularity, I also instigate once in a while. In September I've found myself in so many special places with special people. 

Doing a relay triathlon with two girls who got to experience the undeniable rush of the podium for the first time.

Riding up and down snow-dappled mountains with my favorite fellow masochist.

Partying with people who will get dressed up at the drop of a hat.

Celebrating a stunning eastern Sierras vista.

Enjoying an omelet on top of Tallac at sunrise.

Cruising to the hot springs in the most majestic of seasons.

Dispatches from the Western Front

Monday was Tyler's birthday and he pulled some strings at work and got us a party boat. Ten of us piled on and doused ourselves in sunscreen and blasted "Blurred Lines" on repeat and set to work on the mimosas and Torpedoes in the cooler. When it got really hot we jumped in and climbed up to the Tea House, the quaintly named rock edifice in the middle of Emerald Bay. Paul drove donuts at the mouth of the marina before we headed back in with the setting sun. It was the most fun I've had in a long, long time. Clearly the best place to enjoy Tahoe is from the middle of it.

The Tea House

Too. Damn. Good.
(Pic from Katie)

After a surprisingly successful return to "competitive" running (a firecracker 5k barely merits the title), the bug has bitten. Again. Sigh. In September I will have the great pleasure of running up the mountain I skied down all winter, and with my padre nonetheless! Riding in the Graeagle area last week got me thinking about the Lost Sierra Endurance Run and I've actually managed to get my ducks in a row for that as well. I even did a long run yesterday, a long, hot, flattish run that ended as usual with a plunge in Fallen Leaf, and that made me feel pretty good about a 30k* in two months.

*Not 50k because I'm not insane

Office run
(Pic from Merril)

And I got a new pair of fatty fat skis for my powder-centric future plans.

So sexy

Every Friday night at camp the musically endowed counselors set up on the deck and perform for an hour, and every Friday night I stand at the huge window overlooking the lake, in my palatial office, and watch the show, and every Friday night the musicians finish with a rousing rendition of "American Pie", and every Friday night everyone dances and sings along, staff and toddlers and grandfathers and surly teenagers and tipsy soccer moms, and every Friday night, despite the disturbing sense of deja vu, the communal happiness and wistfulness at the week's end is palpable, even from the second floor. And then the sun sets and every Friday night, it's the most beautiful thing ever.

The view from work
(Pic from Nichole)