Just Pictures of My New Dog

This is Jolene. 

She is a little two-year-old of unknown origin. 

 She really enjoys truck camping.

When we adopted her she had never been out in the woods before but she immediately loved singletrack.

 She would really prefer to never be left alone, thanks.

 And she will eat all the food. All of it.

• Photos courtesy of her primary handler/caretaker/co-parent Cy.

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.

Dad

A lot of women sense themselves turning into their mothers, experiencing that amused wince when a phrase escapes their lips and directly evokes mom. I more often find myself acting out Billisms, sometimes with delight and sometimes chagrin. The other day I was extolling to Tyler the virtues of our new barmaker (finally!), raving about her efficiency and attention to detail and that specific sort of intelligence that fits the job so well. Without looking up from his magazine he said, "It's like I'm listening to Bill talk."

My parents impressed upon me very salient lessons about quality of life, about worshiping at the altar of nature, about generosity of spirit and living with passion. They've never pressured me with bloated expectations of A Good Education, A Real Job, Grandchildren. When Bill and I used to go on our weekly long runs in the muggy rainforest of Pisgah, we'd end by soaking in a creek, him with a beer cracked, me perched on a rock because my body temperature had already plummeted. That's when we'd talk about everything and the subject of happiness came up often; he let me know they respected me for living in joy and contentment.

Bill was creating me in the image of himself very early on, giving me mountain bike lessons with utmost patience, bringing me to trail work days and participating as a mentor in youth sports (both of which I can do now in the Valley; trail work days happen all the time and the Tetons now have a high school mountain bike team). He taught me to never settle for a long bullshit commute to work, to listen to podcast compulsively (I've finally figured out how to stay informed on current events! And yes, Emily Bazelon is great.), to obsess over fine food and drink, how to work your ass off for no greater reward than personal fulfillment. In the year and a half at my job, I've battled small flare-ups of carpal tunnel syndrome, eczema, and plantar fasciitis. I found methods to beat each issue but it gave me new respect for (and incredulity of) his lifetime of manual labor.

I went through a pretty monstrous phase when I was younger. Bill sat me down once and told me what empathy was, and how it enables us to function as decent human beings in this world. I went on my wretched way but that conversation stuck with me and when I outgrew terrible tweendom, I embraced it and tried to exhibit empathy as much as possible.

Bill, I cannot adequately express your influence on me. Happy Father's Day.

Mom

In our family the kids are sort of off the hook for Mother's Day (although Bill still takes good care of her; she got a dropper post for her mountain bike this year). Debbie doesn't expect cliche cards and flowers and while a Sunday phone call is appreciated, she is not the sort to slather on the maternal guilt if the call is tardy or truncated. But I recently talked to her for half an hour about very pressing Grown Up Matters because I have been carrying around the idea of home ownership and worrying it into little pieces like Sophie does with her many bones and antlers. Debbie gave me some insight and a good dose of reality (for example, it is unreasonable to even consider houses over $200k).

Talking through Grown Up Matters with her is always helpful because she is already well-versed on all this stuff and has thoughtful answers; she is a smart and canny woman who is supportive but doesn't hand-hold. I was a little peeved as a teenager to have to pay for my own car insurance and gas while my moronic peers swanned around with their most recent Vera Bradley handbags, but I eventually figured out and appreciated Debbie's game plan. She nudged me and my sister towards financial responsibility and independence very early on but also arranged for us the precious gift of a debt-free college education. Now she helps me negotiate the waters of insurance, credit, and savings without ever entertaining the idea of a parental hand-out.

The folks are coming to visit around Labor Day. I've seen a lot of parents circulate through the Valley, but after a couple days' worth of majestic views and mellow footpaths, my friends get a little bug-eyed, knowing the only form of entertainment left is the clusterf*ck that is summer-time Jackson, where they listlessly browse all the turquoise and leather shops with their non-active families. They get envious and incredulous when I say my parents will be mountain biking together every day and drinking beer every night on the brewery lawn. "Even your mom??" Yep. She has only gotten more adventurous and badass with age.

So happy late Mother's Day, Debbie. Keep on reading voraciously, planning incredible trips to Europe, falling asleep during movies, "liking" posts on Facebook, and shocking employees with your foul mouth. Love you!

Comings and Goings

So the folks came to town, and Tyler left town.

Tyler got a job at Grand Teton Brewing Company, the most ideal of situations but rather more abrupt than I'd hoped, so he packed up and hightailed it to Victor, ID. I have two months of his absence to contend with before I too make the trek. He is already in love with the place. 

Meanwhile Mom and Dad spent a week at camp and embraced wholeheartedly all the best parts. Faculty lectures, kayaking, wine on the deck at sunset, Bill merrily identifying each exciting new kind of flora and fauna he encountered, Deb announcing she wanted to hike Tallac ASAP and accomplishing the feat with aplomb. Their presence and bright-eyed enjoyment of this lovely little place renewed some of my own wonderment, in remission for the past months and slightly soured. It was great having them here, and when I left them to their own devices and they traipsed around seeking adventures and playing outside, it was quite apparent where I get it from.

Taking on Tallac

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)

Lest I Forget My Roots

It refuses to snow in South Lake so upon my return I brought the Deutschbike out of hiding, cleaned off the filth of a cross ride two months past, unearthed chamois and road shoes, and disembarked warily. Turns out, to express the most painfully obvious truism, it is just like riding a bike. For the first hour nonstop I enjoyed what could only be called a full body high. Climbed to Luther Summit and remembered that going uphill was, of course, my first love. Bombed the descent, meandered back into town. There is no finer mode of self-propulsion.

The Holidays

This Christmas was my first away from the bosom of Brevard, but circumstances convened to make it a very special one. On one snowy night the roommates gathered to decorate the tree and listen to the Nutcracker Suite. My folks sent me a loaf of stollen so I could nibble it and drink tea and miss the frenetic rush of holidays at the bakery. 

East coast love

Just so quaint

The weekend before Christmas brought a mind-blowing quantity of fluffy dry snow and I had three days off to enjoy it. Even better, Thad and Jenna arrived with arms full of Trader Joe's goodies and all manner of skis, and we went out and played hard every day of their visit. Thanks to them I felt like I progressed a lot in a short time, chasing Jenna through the trees and goading Squirrel onto the black runs. We spent the evenings stuffing our faces and drinking Old Chico and hanging out with my favorite people, and Thad proudly did his first shotski. On Christmas after a full powder day at Kirkwood we celebrated by having a taco tequila Tecate Tuesday, as tradition dictates.

Just so dorky

I even found time to see the Bay clan; Tyler and I ventured out of the highlands for long enough to enjoy a holiday meal with the Nichols and Ryans, and go riding for the probably the last time this winter. Now the year is coming to a close in the best way possible. The HR job ended on Saturday and I've already started training at the coffee shop, which has been non-stop inundated with cold tourists desperate for their candy-cane mocha lattes. And I love it.

The In-Between Season



Saw this on the way to work
Pic courtesy of Merrill

South Lake is a weird and not unpleasant place. Despite being (sort of) a resort town, the kitsch is kept very isolated in the actual Heavenly village, and the rest of town isn't at all precious. It's kind of gritty and trashy and low-income, but it's beside the point to focus on the all-night wedding chapels, the conflagration of neon, the proximity to that classiest of states, Nevada, when towering over us on every side are the Sierras in all their craggy majesty, and at every sunrise and sunset the lake is awash in pink. South Lake doesn't feel very "California" in the accepted sense, because even though there's kombucha sold at gas stations and Bay Area Asians flood the town during the holidays, it's still a slow-moving, blue collar kind of place. It keeps growing on me, especially during the most recent mountain and cx bike forays, when I keep finding more pockets of national forest land sandwiched between neighborhoods and honeycombed with trails.

The view from the backyard trails...ignore the bike
Pic courtesy of mtbr

Meanwhile all my friends are stricken with snow fever. I learned how to ski last week at Kirkwood, the nearby resort beloved for killer terrain and crazy snowfall. Weather and time have prohibited more slope action but this weekend heralds snow and most likely the end of my late-season cycling.

I've fallen back into the routine of normal life, so different from camp life: going grocery shopping, forcing myself to ride to work at least once a week despite the cold, going to the library, trail running with a headlamp after work. The inhabitants of LA Ave managed through the power of Craigslist to create a very cozy home on a very limited budget. It's a pretty quiet household but the five of us sometimes convene for movies or card games. My "other house" is a lot more lively, with dogs underfoot and frequent potlucks and a group of really close-knit friends.

Now I just need this late-autumn stasis to end so I can see if I actually like this winter sports thing.

This bodes well.
Pic courtesy of Heavenly

 

Where I Find My Heaven

if i were a genius i would somehow bottle the sensation of running pilot mountain on a clear fall day and give it to friends for christmas. the sweat, the burn, the hubbub of late cicadas, the beech trees trying to outshine the sun, the musk of wet leaf carpet (which is the most evocative seasonal smell i can think of, besides, well, ferns, smoke, frost, mown grass, bradford pear trees...). the trail climbs up endless switchbacks, so high that all the leaves have been stripped away by wind and weather, leaving only dog hobble and mountain laurel. the summit is so beautiful it hurts. mountain ranges stretch unobstructed in all directions and the leaves have turned only in the higher elevations, like a dusting of cayenne on each peak. i'd run many times farther just to earn that view. and afterwards comes the the sense of gratification, the well-deserved brownie. i'd bottle all of that.

because i am the opposite of a genius i failed to bring a camera and so could not even ineffectually capture one-tenth of what i was experiencing.

come with me next time.

Ode to Pisgah

I hadn't been running in awhile so I decided to go hurt myself on Pressley Cove before work. It was a beautiful day, just like every other day in February. My heart pounded and my legs burned as I puffed slowly up the climb, which must attain a thirty degree slope in places. Although my brain was addled and anaerobic, reasons to love Pisgah kept popping into my head.

Passing by that incongruous chimney built off to the side of Maxwell, I stopped to read the plaque commemorating it as a historic feature. I have always liked the utilitarian history of the forest. It was not protected for or shaped by hikers and bikers; before there was IMBA, Tom Ritchey, or Gary Fisher, there was Gifford Pinchot, Carl Schenck, and George Vanderbilt.

Scanning for that secret connector that would spit me back out on Avery Creek Road, I thought with affection of the trail maintenance grudgingly performed by a small cadre of forest rangers and independent contractors. For the most part they leave us to our own devices; we avoid the puddles, brush away the briars, and mold the trails with heavy travel, whether by foot, hoof, or tire.

I love the delicious snobbism that we've cultivated living here. "Oh, you have eighty miles of trails? Well, we have hundreds of thousands of acres of national forest. Oh, you have a gnarly rock garden that everyone sessions? Well, we have Daniel Ridge. Oh, you drive an hour on weekends when you want a change of scenery? Well, we have Dupont."

I love the miles upon miles of gravel roads upon which you can beat your brain into submission. I love the seasonal trails; just as the weather turns glum, we have them to look forward to like early Christmas presents. I love the glittering exhilaration in the eyes of a newcomer after that first descent of something super sketchy.

I love the friendly hikers with their day packs and ski poles. And even the not-so-friendly ones; their snarling possessiveness just means they love it too. I love the fevered masochism of people who compete in the Double Dare, the stage race, or the Pitchell 100k (sheer insanity). I love the tourists who lumber around the parking lots like corpulent dollar signs, because they never defile the quiet havens a half mile from their cars. I love the rugged, majestic views you encounter on almost every trail.

It's times like this, when I know I haven't seen half of what Pisgah has to offer, that I question my (or anyone's) need to leave here for even a few years. I will definitely go somewhere else, but I will just as definitely come back.

Aftermath of a White Christmas

Yesterday I went for a snowy bike ride and today I went for a snowy run, and I was tickled to follow my own tire tracks down the trail.

Maybe the only cool thing about lingering snow is that it works almost as a census taker. In town you call tell who doesn't drive very often by the sheets of snow on their cars; some people have pristine yards, proof that they either don't have children (or a sense of child-like wonder) or that their children were too preoccupied with new Christmas video games to bother with sleds and snow pants.

In the woods you notice that for some reason Upper and Lower Sycamore are the most heavily traveled trails; that lots of people are trying out their shiny new hiking poles or xc skis; that there's some fascinating carcass or excrement down below Mountains-to-Sea that has all the dogs investigating; that only one person has been dumb enough to ride Grassy and she was running a Captain in the front and a Sauserwind in the back. Best of all, you see evidence that families make full use of the forest--and each tiny set of bootprints trudging behind grown-up size steps, with paw prints dancing in and out among the human, is a little love letter to Pisgah.

It's All Been Said Before

I love:

-friends and family
-bikes
-sunshine
-girl rides/runs
-Christmas parties
-this town.

That is all.