Dog Day

The banana shipment hasn't come so I get the day off. The pup, whose name has of course evolved into various permutations (Kiddo, Squido, Hellion, Sophaloaphagus) looks at me with beseeching eyes as I linger over coffee and clementines. We go for a run because one of the main reasons I wanted a dog was for altruistic exercise: a good impetus to get out even when I don't care.

The unceasing freeze-thaw cycle means the snow has an eggshell crust and Sophie, who usually loves porpoising through deep snow, stays in the packed-down track today; crust-wallowing is hard for a little dog. When I break through it scrapes my numb shins.

Deep postholes marr the path for a couple meters; I realize they are hoof-shaped and look around for the moose, hoping he has already crossed the road and gone down to the creek banks. There is coyote scat in the trail and, fascinated, Sophie agitates the snow in the pawprints with her little claws and thrusts her nose deep into the well of scent. The droppings have ice facets growing on them so they're from yesterday but on the way back she stands still, her shepherd ears tense and pointing skyward. I get goosebumps and scan the hills adjacent. She senses so many things I am oblivious to.

At the end she is still energetic; four cold miles wasn't nearly enough, so I pledge to her an afternoon play date with one of the many dog friends we have.

Sophie's "Run me" face

So I (Er, We) Got A Dog

I grew up in a household of dogs, with grandparents who had dogs, with friends who had dogs. Now I live in a valley where every established monogamous couple, without fail, has a dog. Marriage and children aren't really "a thing" here. Dual dog ownership? A basic tenet of all solid relationships.

Tyler was lobbying hard. He also grew up with dogs. He wanted an animal to sit on his feet and nod when he made a point. He is very maternal. I was hesitant. I have been a dogsitter for years and really love dogs but I prefer them in rationed doses; I love them for their companionship and cuteness, but was never enamored with their high maintenance and dependency. I shelved the discussion until after the holiday trips.

Sophie, née Fizz

Then I saw this cute face on Petfinder, which I was trawling just like my mother did when she was hunting for her new love. Fizz was conveniently located in Hailey, a town south of Sun Valley where we were spending New Year's with Tyler's family. We went to meet her and within five minutes I went from wavering to "I WANT." The combination of my abrupt desire and our landlord's debilitating allergy to prompt communication resulted in a week of tenterhooks, as we slowly negotiated with the homeowners while trying to remotely reserve this cute animal. As soon as we got a solid "yes", I called in dog-crazy to work and drove to Hailey to pick Fizz (now Sophie) up before some other young settled outdoorsy couple could claim her. The quick phone conversation I had with my dad on the way home was gratifying; he seemed to think it was a long time coming and that folk of our clan are destined to be dog owners.

She might very well be the best possible critter the two of us could've found. She's sweet and friendly and easy-going for a puppy, and way smarter than either of us. She was born in May, is some ideal mix of fox terrier and other random bits and pieces, and weighs a muscular, trail-friendly thirty pounds. She has already settled in happily to our tiny household and lifestyle, which consists of walking around town and hanging out with lots of people and dogs. *Warning: this is probably the most gag-worthy and uncomfortable thing I've ever said on this blog.* Tyler is a great dog-owning partner. It turns out that we agree on consistency, tactics, and obedience without even having had the conversation beforehand, and his nurturing nature and short commute mean that he plans to give Sophie the utmost of attention. Theoretically this is indicative of other "lifestyle compatibilities", of which I refuse to give credence or blogspace to. Because I'm not ready to be that grown-up.

A Dry Spell

Grand Targhee delayed opening its fourth and finest chairlift for two weeks, forcing everyone to ride foggy, windy, mediocre Dreamcatcher. The rest of the mountain had been chewed up by holiday tourists and repeatedly battered by weird warm weather, but Sacajawea was untouched. I watched the resort website for news, fingers crossed for a Friday opening. My dream came true, so Tyler and I headed up early enough to snag a good chair. The lifties and locals alike were in high spirits; Sacajawea is the best. It has nicely spaced trees, bush jumps, rock hucks, cliffs, deep and resilient powder stashes, and plenty of opportunities to hot dog under the lift and get hoots and hollers from above or eat shit trying. What a day. We ripped hot laps, hopped and bounced and popped off every bush, rock, compression, and depression, rejoiced when patrol opened the cliff band. I skied fast and happy, reckless and loose, grinning the whole time.

Tyler scoring some just-opened action

The next day we went back to the Ghee, but I'd forgotten how to ski. I'd lost that ephemeral je ne sais quoi and the snow, so smooth and rewarding on Friday, was haggard by Saturday. But we hiked to some of the resort's traffic-free sweet spots and rode with a rotating cast of friends through the day and ate Wydaho nachos at the Trap and it was fine. Not every day can be the best day of the season.

That night was the GTBC holiday party. The brewery employees and their partners are all awesome people that like spending time together outside of work, on the trails, in the snow, or at the bar, so the party was devoid of those stilted conversations between ensnared work acquaintances. I sat with a bunch of friends, enjoying the familiarity of the staff trivia quiz and the belly laughs of the white elephant gift-giving, as well as the exquisite lamb and on-point beer pairings (thanks as usual to Max the cicerone). The raucous after-party gravitated to the closest employee's house and so of course Sunday morning was a slow-moving endeavor. 

Knowing all ski options were dubious, we opted to tour Oliver Peak, five minutes from the house and better known as the Valley's own personal hill (no J-holes allowed). The snow quality was sub-par as anticipated and the springlike temps warranted bare skin, but higher up the outlook was rosier; the snowpack was deep and stable and the surrounding bowls and glades and gullies were enticing and untouched. 

A lifetime's worth of backcountry opportunities

We took a northwest slide path down from the summit into Stateline Canyon, making big picturesque turns in what was probably six sugary inches on top of a firm but yielding layer. The goods. Lower down the snow became laughably bad, a thick crunchy turn-averse crust that made the sapling-dense creek banks scary. Our old roommate Bill had just taken a digger in similar terrain a couple days before and did something alarming to his knee. I took the unusual precaution of putting my skins back on for the safety of extra friction and was very pleased with the decision, arriving back at the car without any of the wallowing and sweaty frustration that low-elevation gully skiing usually causes me. 

Rare is the day that there isn't a front moving into or out of the Valley

And thus, I survived another high-pressure weekend despite being spoiled rotten by constant snowfall in the Tetons. 

I Can't Function Because Snow

I was going to compose some lengthy-ish post encompassing a variety of topics:

-My sexy new bike. After a couple months of trail time it has finally revealed to me its name. The Bronson will hereafter be known as The Stag. because of the way it bounds gracefully and powerfully through the woods, but also because riding it is like going stag to a party: scary and exciting and you never know how it's going to end.

Oh baby

-The glorious Indian summer we've been in the throes of; no mud, warm temps, great colors. The crusty locals claim this autumn has been the loveliest in memory.

October gave us stellar weather

-How much I'm turning into my dad. Riding the two miles to work in various gnarly conditions, because warming the car up annoys me more than donning every piece of clothing I own in order to pedal in sub-zero temps. And listening to endless podcasts because I have run out of music to entertain me sufficiently during the mindless daily seven hours of barmaking.

-How excited I am to be going home for Christmas! All thanks to the benevolence of Tyler's employer.

Yep, I was going to turn those garbled thoughts into semi-coherent paragraphs, but all of a sudden there's a foot of snow on the ground and it's dumping and I'm overcaffeinated and severely distracted. Miraculous, beautiful, long-awaited winter is here again.

If you think I'm stoked about this weather, you should see Tyler

I Voted

My mom emailed me to say she'd gotten my "voter report card" in the mail and that I'd voted in the last three out of three elections. I felt a twinge of pride. Even if the sole purpose of one of those forays to the polls was to elect Dickson (i.e. KOP) councilman.

I am woefully uninformed on the world at large. Gone are the days when I can just sit at the dinner table and absorb my parents' analyses of current events. Now I'm too busy reading articles about biking, skiing, books, and music to ever check the news (except Ebola, which has reignited my lifelong and morbid fascination with plague). But I do hold a certain naive pleasure in being a part of the democratic process, maybe because the first time I voted was the first time North Carolina skewed blue since, oh, I don't know, Reconstruction?

Politics are polarized here. You can pedal through a neighborhood and tell who you might want to hang out with; it's easy to discern the Momo houses from the outdoorsy houses by the campaign signs. I went to the courthouse to do my civic duty and realized that by wearing a brewery hat, I had basically stapled a completed ballot to my shirt. Alcohol is one of those lines in the sand. In a recent battle to maintain Victor's ability to have beer sales at the lucrative summer concert series, the predominant argument against alcohol was that it "enabled child molestation". Of course.

The race for county commissioner is really important, my friend the campaign manager tells me. Fifty votes decided the last outcome. So many of the young people that flock to Teton Valley for the deep pow and gnar trails simply can't be bothered about the future of education and the economy here, even though it could very well impact our lives. The incumbent commissioner deals in shortsightedness, idiocy, cronyism, and aggressive anti-bicycle rhetoric. Some argue that anything would be an improvement.

I've gotten to know a lot of people who are a part of the Valley's alphabet soup of non-profits, maybe because involved, impassioned people often like to play outside. Weird. Regardless, I've never encountered such a fervent "us against them" attitude in local politics, but I suppose the dichotomy between deeply old-school Mormons and the influx of outdoor recreationalists is unusual. It's a battle between progressive, pro-education, pro-growth liberals and the stalwart, book-burning, regressive fundamentalists.

Tyler, to my bemused frustration, is a non-voter. It's odd because he's the one with a poli-sci degree and the one who used to have aspirations to be a city planner. He reads the local rag to raise his blood pressure and always rides his bike by the aforementioned commissioner's ranch to make a political statement. He had a Subaru and NPR upbringing in Boise's most liberal neighborhood. But then, as a native, he's well-versed in asinine Idaho politics and knows the futility of voting Democrat here. That doesn't change the fact that he should rally for the local race, but I think he's been harangued by one too many strident campaign volunteers who haven't spent a tenth the time he has in Idaho, and he is nothing if not a stubborn contrary bastard. To each his own I suppose...but that statistic of fifty votes still haunts me.

My intractable partner aside, I await November on tenterhooks because I do sincerely believe that local elections matter, as one who plays outside, as a local employee, as a potential future homeowner, dog-owner, parent, whatever (WHOA, words). Sometimes I like to pretend I'm an adult.

Hey, You!

it occurred to me that some people post a blog every day, five days a week. fat cyclist, dicky, jill outside, goodness! i really struggle with that kind of output, to my mother's annoyance, but here's my blog post for today: if you only look at one thing on the internet, well, look at my blog. if you only look at TWO things on the internet, after you look at my blog, check out the a-line. bless their hearts, those little kids are making cool stuff.

Only Thirty More Years Before I'll Be Considered A Local

About this time last year Tyler had already moved to Idaho and was settled in, while I was still doing the Camp thing. In our truncated weekly phone conversations he told me, "I love it here. You'll love it here." I wondered if he was just trying to reassure me, or both of us. I viewed the future with some trepidation; I was Committing, to a boy I'd been dating for less than a year, to a state I'd never been in, to an underhyped little dot on the map that I'd chosen on a whim. Was I suited for a Western life? Or, more specifically, a life in the northern Rockies, the last stronghold of swaggering American frontier spirit? I trolled Facebook, checking out the local places of business, getting a pang of relief with each discovery of an essential amenity: library, bakery, acclaimed bike shop with a coffee bar. I tried to ignore certain facts: average monthly temps, the percentage of the population that is entrenched, fundamentalist Mormon, the six months of winter and eight weeks of summer. I scanned Google Maps religiously, checking out the landscape and major roads (all two of them), trying to imagine the twisty drive up to the Ghee or over to Jackson. I zoomed in and walked through Victor and Driggs in Street View, noting with apprehension the piles of dirty snow, the dreary storefronts and abandoned subdivisions. But the Street View images must have been taken on some bleak January day; they don't encompass the rich farmland, dynamic skies, and inviting mountains. (I just revisited Street View and it must have been updated recently because now the Valley is a lush green surrounded by snowcaps, under a blue sky heavy with cumulus clouds. Seems about right.) 

I did as much research as possible but nothing on the Internet could've prepared me for what it's likes to be a part of this place now, to make new friends all the time because of the constant influx of young outdoorsy people, the way it smells on the ride home from work as the seasons change, the way it feels to linger in the sunshine outside the pub while all the dogs and little kids play in the grass. The Internet didn't tell me that everyone here is at least competent if not badass in a couple sports but that each person is defined by the primary one, the one he or she talks about with passionate longing in the off season. There are the Boaters, the Climbers, the Skiers, the Fishers, the Dirt Bikers, the Snowboard Mountaineer (that would be Dapper). To all our friends, I am by default The Mountain Biker, which tickles me. 

This weekend we went camping with some of the most avid Climbers to a paradise in the middle of nowhere, Idaho. (Most places of note in Idaho are lodged squarely in the middle of nowhere.) City of Rocks is apparently renowned and steeped in climbing history, and how could it not be? It's an expansive natural playground of huge freestanding towers, statues, slivers, and megaliths, all granite, crack-strewn, and jug-covered. The campsites are strewn throughout the rocks, tucked under trees at the ends of little footpaths. 

The gang was rained out Saturday and we spent the day playing cards, perfecting our tarp structures, drinking, and carousing. Sunday was dry so the Climbers set up cool routes and we all played for hours on hundred foot walls. I am a total beginner and hopeless with the gear but I climb above my pay grade through sheer pigheadedness and a healthy dose of ego. 

The drive home from the City retraced some of the roads I took from Tahoe to the Tetons, and I studied the vast empty land and remembered that feeling of being untethered and unknowing. It was so different from how I feel now.

Pretty much all of Saturday
Also, I FINALLY bought a waterproof camera! Wow! Maybe I will post more pictures. Maybe.

Tyler climbing, Dapper belaying

Some of the City

The aptly named Bloody Fingers route

La Gastronomie

I spent a rainy Saturday reading a Peter Mayle book purloined from Tyler's grandparents, and it transported me back to my parents' unrelenting Provencephilia and those hard-won seven days we took in the south of France each spring for several years. The book is so evocative of sunshine and light wines and hours devoted to each meal, busy marketplaces and alarmingly narrow roads and friendly, leathery locals, each trip an experience I probably didn't appreciate enough at the time but which has stuck with me in a very sensory way.

On the same day we attended a farm-to-table beer-paired dinner, taking advantage of an absent brewer's ticket. The brewery staff and significant others took over a whole table and I was happy to be friends with all of them. Teton Valley has a Slow Food chapter and a thriving locavore scene and the dinner was hosted in the weathered but architecturally inspiring barn at Snow Drift Farm, who provided the bulk of the produce. GTBC is not of the hop-aggressive Cali or Colorado breed; the head brewer and cellar master have a firm and affectionate grasp on classic Belgian and German styles, which are far more conducive to balanced and complementary food pairings. The cellar master, twenty-four but already resembling a high school history teacher, is the wunderkind of the brewery, deeply passionate and knowledgeable about any and all genres and styles of beer, and he led each course with an insightful discourse on the offering. The executive chef of the Four Seasons in Jackson introduced the food, eyes aglow with excitement at the produce and game with which he was presenting us.

We lingered over five courses with flawless pairings, light yeasty wheat beer with crisp vinegary greens and pickled turnips, Oktoberfest lager with 2-row barley (culled straight from the brewery's supplies) and the richest, most delicious rabbit I've ever had, warm raisiny Scotch ale with bison that tasted like the flame it was seared in as a dedicated sous chef crouched over the fire in the drizzling rain. The plates were beautifully arranged but not precious. Dessert was a sweet and sour Berliner Weisse paired with honey lavender panna cotta and a couple pieces of various fruit, each candied, grilled, or frozen to achieve its full flavor potential.

I love good meals for the food, but I also love good meals for that first forkful of each course, where eyes around the table pop from surprise and delight. A meal undiscussed and unappreciated is not nearly as wonderful. It occurred to me that most gustatory experiences I've had up to this point been have been with or enabled by my parents. Even if they weren't at the table with me, even if they were separated from me by hours or an ocean, I would still scurry back to them, literally or figuratively, and give them a play-by-play. My food upbringing has had such an influence on my life, and it is gratifying to know that I have found another place that celebrates food with people that are open to the experience.