It's Not Fair

Tyler and I were in Boise for the weekend, officially to work a beer event but also to eat at his favorite burrito joint multiple times, see his grandparents/take advantage of their hospitality, and mountain bike on dry trails with the pup.

I stole his Iphone to peruse social media for a second and a notification from a Fitzy member popped up on the team page: this news item. I didn't comprehend it at first and then it hit like a sledgehammer.

They all worked at the company next door to Tram Bar World. I only knew one of the men, and not as well as I would've liked. AJ was our neighbor, and taught our avalanche course in December, and was the best racer of the Fitzy team. He radiated competence and kindness and humor, and wrote riveting trip and race reports on his blog, which I read before I even met him. I don't have any ownership over this grief. I am not his loving family. Once I stuck my head in his house looking for a star hex wrench. He wasn't there but his visiting father, as lanky and trim as AJ, was doing yoga in the foyer. He didn't even mind when my dog stepped all over his mat. That friendly man must be so unfathomably sad. I am not his chipper, involved wife, or one of the dozens of NOLS students that he mentored, or one of the equally mellow but intense skiers with whom he did crazy backcountry tours. Those people have to learn to use the past tense, and deal with the sucker punch of grief every time some little memory surfaces.

I am gutted with empathy for all of them, and sad that I had finally decided he was approachable and was going ask him to show me the guerrilla mountain bike loop in the hills behind our neighborhood. It feels wrong: someone who went after big ski-mountaineering objectives, someone who was healthy and beloved and influential, felled by something as stupid and terrible and unexpected as a plane crash.

No one in the community is unaffected by the tragedy. Driving back into town, I imagined a pall over the valley. I think this is the part where I should talk about how everyone pulls together and takes care of the bereaved and sees the silver lining but I don't want to say those things, because I think this thoroughly sucks.

Valley Problems: Too Warm to Ski, Too Wet to Ride

I got so much attention for the last post that I've been resting on my laurels for a month, which sounds better than "I am a slacker and my life is boring." People in real life, people who are not constant blog stalkers like me, would come up to me and enumerate the reasons why I am so a Teton Valley resident. "Julia, you own three bikes." "Julia, you drive a sticker-covered Subaru." "You make granola for a living." "You date that guy," (indicating Tyler in all his mustachioed, Carhartted glory). Yeah, yeah, y'all. I know.

It would appear that I sneezed and winter ended, so seasonal affective disorder has set in. Tyler, with no outdoor outlet, comes home from work frustrated and unloads his unhappiness on the counter like a grocery bag of old fish. I listen and sympathize and we talk about some of the unsustainable elements of our existence here: his grindingly heavy workload, the housing crisis, the labor shortage that will probably hamstring my company's attempt at increased production, global warming. Sobering.

But it's St. Patrick's Day and my bike shop throws a party every year, so we suit up in any over-the-top green attire we can find and ride over to the venue. All the cyclists have crept out from wherever they've been hiding all winter and we greet each other with great cheer. There is a new ski company in town, and before the young owners had even moved here we adopted and/or ingratiated ourselves with them, so when they arrive we all cluster together at a noisy table. People stop and say hi. The Kate makes a surprising appearance and we talk about anything but work. The party is a good representation of my tiny Victor compass rose: beer shop, bike shop, ski shop, Tram Bar World. I bask in happiness.

It fixes my perspective for the time being. Our issues are manageable and the payoff is significant. Being a part of this community and living in a mountain playground are worth the minor compromises we make.

Nine Reasons Why I'm Not A Very Good Teton Valley Resident

As I might have mentioned once or twice, I really like Teton Valley and feel that it suits my lifestyle well. I even got a dog so I could fit in better. But I realize now that I have certain shortcomings that will forever prevent me from being a true Valley girl.

Warning: gratuitous photo-stealing ahead

1: I don't backpack.

Or even camp for that matter. I just bought my first tent last year. Everyone around here will go spend the night in the woods at a moment's notice. Not me. I haven't figured out the mechanics of sleeping outside and sleep deprivation gives me a gnarly headache. And there are more civilized ways to remove your contacts than by the light of a headlamp, balancing your contact case on your knee while you root around in your eye with fingers that smell like campfire. Also, I don't like walking, particularly with something heavy on my back. Too slow. Fast-packing appeals to me far more, but in order for that to happen I need lightweight gear and a willing partner, and as of now I have neither. 

Typical Teton Valley residents backpacking
Pic courtesy of Ashley

2: I feel pretty meh about Yellowstone. 

Some people treat this like a blasphemy, because it's nearby and a national treasure or something. But A: it's a park, which is code for "no mountain bikes allowed", B: it has no big mountains to speak of, and C: two million visitors annually. 'Nuff said. 

3: Crossfit. 

Oooo, gonna step on some toes here. I would much rather get doughy on the couch while watching Taylor Swift videos than work out inside, and Crossfit, because it's expensive, isn't within walking distance, inspires fanaticism, and is often paired with weird and obnoxious dietary trends, is by far the easiest workout program to hate on. But there are two Crossfit gyms in the Valley. That equals a lot of acolytes.

4: I don't listen to jamgrass/psychedelic rock/"polyethnic Cajun slamgrass"/insert hippie noodling jam session festival music genre here. 

People who live in mountain towns love going to shows and festivals and watching artists perform long-winded solos. I'll tag along, but only if it's free, within walking distance, and very danceable. I will spend money, time, and effort only on shows where I can mouth along to every word of every song in a haze of joy, and Phish/Leftover Salmon/Yonder Mountain String Band/String Cheese Incident do not fall into that category. 

Typical Teton Valley musical performance
Pic courtesy of Idaho Falls Josh

5: I have an aversion to Floating. 

Teton summer weekends are like unicorn butterflies: shortlived and magical. You gotta grab those suckers and hold them tight for as long as you can. The way I do that is by mountain biking or doing other high-intensity stuff. Floating, i.e. joining a bunch of people on rafts to meander down the Snake River and drink lots of beer, is a very popular and common summer activity, but is entirely too sedentary for me to waste a unicorn butterfly on. And let us not even speak of Fishing. 

Typical Teton Valley resident Floating the Snake
(This particular resident probably climbed the Grand the day before this picture was taken. I am not implying that Floaters are inherently sedentary.)
Pic courtesy of Dapper Dan

6: I can't handle my whiskey.

Or any liquor, honestly. I think most activities are improved by a beer during or after, but the hangover I get after a single shot of anything hard is unbearable. Admitting this will probably get me kicked out of the west. 

7: I'm reluctant to go to The Desert.

Everyone goes to The Desert at least once a mud season, to climb or mountain bike. I have no Desert experience yet so my reluctance is unfounded, but these weekend trips always involve at least a ten hour drive each way and Lord knows I'm not traveling that far to rock climb. I'm hesitant to mountain bike there because A: I love trees and green stuff and roots and B: every time I go riding after a six month hiatus it's a scary endeavor and if I ride in The Desert I'm afraid my inaugural crash will be something especially unpleasant like plunging my front wheel into surprise sand at the bottom of a five foot rock drop and performing the mother of all endos. Seriously. This scenario replays itself in my head every time someone mentions Moab.

Typical Teton Valley resident visiting The Desert
Pic courtesy of Andrea

8: I'm not enthused by the frontier lifestyle. 

Good Teton Valley residents garden, have chickens, tend to their wood stoves, and hunt, or at least speak of those activities with longing. I'll be okay without ever bagging the obligatory elk (and it's amazing how generous friends are with their meat when they realize a whole elk won't fit in their chest freezer). For the most part I'm too lazy to take care of other living things, and I include wood stoves in that category because they're almost as high maintenance and demanding as chickens or gardens. Maybe I'll buy a share at the CSA. And then I'll turn up the thermostat. 

9: I can't grow a beard.

Trust me, I'm bummed about it.

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.

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