Skeeters and Smiles

The first practice of the year is on Saturday morning. We all stand in a circle and I gape at the number of kids. Unmanageable, amazing. Fortunately we have enough coaches to break into small groups. Instead of getting to know new kids, I just want to ride with the fast gang, the veterans that I’ve watched progress over the last two years. I take the lead on the singletrack and they doggedly hold my wheel as their noisy drivetrains grind out a cadence.

This gang of speed demons made me work hard to stay in front.

After practice Cy and I pack up, marveling at the absence of stuff. Bikepacking requires so much less than car camping.

It is hot, finally, blessedly hot. I coat myself in sunscreen. Not bug spray though, unfortunately. My skin is now a patchwork of red bumps that I’m trying so hard to resist.

That's a one-of-a-kind dry bag right there.

I have only a vague idea of the trails I want to hit, no map, only an untrustworthy phone app. We have a day and a half to poke around the Caribous and no plan.

Wet feet, wet chain, wet butt.

Start on gravel, turn off on two track, mellow climb through greenest meadows under a heavy sun, sit in a creek, purify water, start a smooth singletrack climb off the edge of the mental map, relish having a granny ring and a bulldozer of a bike, gain a ridge, make a decision knowing that to drop into another unknown drainage means inevitably climbing back out, navigate erosion ditches and moto ruts, meander along a creek on a brown ribbon of dirt through overpowering greenery, encounter a familiar trail, recall with little fondness its swamps and bushwhacking, find a grassy flat spot next to a stream unadulterated by beavers, perform little camp tasks, drink a single warm beer, eat Indian food, burn sage and stand directly in the smoke to hide from mosquitoes, retreat to the safety of the tent before the sun sets.

Oh, Bear Creek, I didn't miss you.

Wake up, do camp chores, eat oatmeal, attend to mud encrusted chains, don used chamois, pack up quickly, the systems already growing rote, mentally prepare for the climb out of the Bear Creek drainage, pedal and push slowly, pouring sweat, wiping away the minor irritants of cobwebs, hair, mosquitoes, and sunscreen, muddy gloves leaving streaks, then summit, surprised at the ease, see other mountain bikers for the first time and they are valley friends, descend smooth trail through the woods, entirely content, seatbag only occasionally buzzing tire, sit in the same creek, polish off the last of the salami, purify water, climb more doubletrack, clean steep sections only because the surface is dry and tacky, watch butterflies glance off hands and leaves and bags, top out on a beautiful ridge with views and wildflowers, prepare to go downhill, swoop down roller coaster doubletrack with wall rides and whoops, and finish on gravel.

Gratuitous posing with the extremely capable Half Chub.

Remove wet socks, gloves. Leave piles of detritus around car.

Dangle feet in the Snake River. 

Reflect. Bask. 

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.

Quiet

I was just feeling a little critical of myself because I haven't been keeping up with regularly scheduled programming on this here blog, and then I read this and it says all the things way better than I could:

Skinning with Bearspray

I fortunately don't feel the mental pinch as badly as he does because when I'm writing for work, I'm writing about city council and softball and the forty nonprofits in the valley instead of trying to polish and monetize lyrical pieces about playing outside. I get to keep the adventure pieces and the emotional pieces all to myself. That's a privilege.

There are also extenuating circumstances that have dictated my reticence. I'll deal with that eventually I guess.

Meanwhile, this is pretty:

Trecenti

Three hundred blog posts.

My first post, written over eight years ago, was really dumb.

This is how old I was when I started blogging.

It took me years to get a better handle on my tone.

When I started posting, everyone had a blog. Writing grammatically dubious race reports. Spewing inside jokes. Referring to friends by their dumb nicknames.

All those blogs are now mouldering in Blogspot limbo. You can still find them if you try. Most of them were last updated circa 2010.

This blog has been a casual project for so long. I never expected it to land me a job. The editor at the paper is a friend of mine, so he saw when I occasionally posted blog updates on Facebook. He knew I could write and even used my material once. When he asked for a couple quotes about the high school mountain bike team, I was casting around for a new pursuit. I asked, "Are you hiring?"

By some serendipity (or lots of turnover at the paper), he was looking for a reporter. I had no experience or education, so I scored the job merely by dint of knowing lots of people in Teton Valley, and by promising I could discard blogginess and replace it with AP Style.

I never wanted to be a journalist, but I've really enjoyed moments of it. I'm scared of interviews but I love it when people get on a roll, running off at the mouth about something they're really passionate about, and then apologizing that they've been inarticulate. Never apologize about that. Only apologize about being monosyllabic.

I love being edited, even though I sometimes take poorly to criticism. When the other reporter debates my grammar and syntax it raises my hackles, but talking through a piece with the editor is exciting and revelatory. He's great at taking something I've already given up on and shuffling my words around so that I no longer hate it. And I'm better at ruthlessly cutting out flab and passive voices and anguished phrases now. (But I can still do whatever I want in my blog, so there.)

I also think local journalism is more important than I, as someone who never used to pay attention to news, ever realized. It's about cutesy stories and repetitive event previews, but it's also about holding local politicians accountable. Informing people of decisions that were made at meetings they couldn't attend because their kid had hockey practice. Attempting to present all sides of an argument in an atmosphere that has turned so vindictive and polarizing.

My trajectory towards adulty mileposts like marriage was recently interrupted, but working at the paper is a huge step towards doing what I Want To Do When I Grow Up. And that happened because I started a blog. Because all the bike racers were doing it. Life is funny.

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.

It's the End of the World As We Know It...

The world is ending in Jackson. I wrote a story about it: TVN

It's not so bad over here. I wrote a post about that too: Snowbrains

We have a mountain range as a buffer. We have more space to breathe around the massive plow piles. We still have arteries out of the valley that are open. We're on the periphery and Jackson is in the maelstrom, as roofs collapse and crews toil to resurrect the downed steel utility poles and the mountains shed their mantle onto the highway and the skating rink streets flood with water freed in the thaw.

I guess this is what California has been facing all winter.

I feel numb. None of this directly impacts me. I'm caught in a tempest of my own creating.

But at least there's skiing.

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. 

Resolve

I did a tour in GTNP a couple days ago, this tour but with a less complicated descent.

The conditions were identical: deep, light snow, single digit temps, no wind, cloudy skies.

Skinning across Taggart Lake...I love GTNP
Pic courtesy of Cy

The journey was completely different. Three years ago, I was still really new to skiing. I did fine on the uphill but the downhill was painful. I slowed down the group, I wasn’t a competent skier, and it was irresponsible for me to be out there. I think we all have to go through these deep end experiences and hopefully are able to learn from them rather than dying from them.

Now, in my fifth season of skiing and touring, I’m a different person. I’m probably more conservative than I was then, because I don’t let other people make decisions for me. I can make my own observations, do my own research, and navigate somewhat adequately. I often don’t get it right but every time is a learning experience, and I’m never a passive follower going in over my head without any knowledge. I can’t handle emergencies yet but I have the everyday systems dialed, and I’m a pretty good skier. Not pretty, and not good, but pretty good.

I like the word resolve more than the word resolution. Resolution is fluffy and aspirational; resolve is iron-spined.

 I set little goals every year. I don’t always remember them, but mostly I follow through. At the dawn of 2012, I vowed to shake up my life. In 2013, I wanted to say yes to everything. I remember talking to my dad on the phone early last January and saying that I wanted to write more. I was scared to say it out loud because then I was accountable.

My 2016 goal came true in a more definitive fashion than I could ever have predicted.

What do I resolve to do this year? Have more adventures, probably. Keep learning. Maybe get outside my comfort zone. Maintain my obsessive quest for novel experiences. I did a lot of that last year but I don’t want to lose momentum.

And now it’s in writing, so I guess I'd better do it.