A Belated Announcement

I met a guy.

We skied Taylor together with mutual friends on a late March morning with the unresolved promise of rain. The snow was subpar. The boy was interesting and fun to talk to. I distinctly recall saying to my friend in the car afterward, "He's cute." My friend would go on to date my ex, so all's fair.

The guy and I developed a pretty great friendship. I inserted him into my big noisy group of roommates and extended friend-family, and when we weren't partying or riding with them he and I did something that I wanted so badly and didn't have a partner for: long runs. We talked constantly. I couldn't stop. I imagined bigger adventures, overnighters, traveling together out of the valley to find new mountains, feeding my craving for novelty.

I was an outlier in my friend group. Our ratio of getting high and drunk and socializing and hanging out versus going hard, going uphill, maintaining constant motion, was a little out of whack for my taste and I would get antsy and agitate for action. They put up with me but I was kind of annoying to them, and they were kind of annoying to me.

Also I had a boyfriend, had had one for over four years. He was strange and so smart and incredibly funny, loyal to a fault, passionate, stubborn, and polarizing. But he didn't run and hadn't read a book in quite some time, and while I thought we were probably going to get married, because I settled into that mindset pretty easily in relationships, I started to dream of climbing mountains, fastpacking, bikepacking, talking for hours about books and ideas. 

And then I did something about it. I poured my sadness and dissatisfaction and longing into a vessel that didn't fit and gave it to my boyfriend with little explanation. I moved out and forfeited the dog we owned together. I hid from our friends and tried to find normalcy and cried a lot.

But I also started pursuing this other opportunity. He was a big reason I did what I did, although I've barely admitted that to anyone. It's probably obvious to everyone now but I so, so, so didn't want to hurt my ex even more by putting that out into the world, that simple, common trope: she left you for someone else.

This guy though, he was sexy and funny and smart and interesting and engaged and kind and full of joy. He wanted to go everywhere and said yes without hesitating to every questionable adventure I cooked up. He was there for me always. Before we were together and I got the job at the newspaper, he was more excited and proud and supportive than anyone besides my parents. He still reads every article I write, and when I bought my house he threw his time, money, and expertise into the task of doubling the property's value. And he puts up with my fixation on the "right" way to wash dishes.

My mom and her sisters met him in 2018. That was five months after he first talked to my parents, when he stood outside the operating room and called to say I was under the knife after a potentially deadly ectopic pregnancy. Fortunately my parents are good, understanding people and appreciated him and that hard call, instead of placing blame.

Anyway, my mom obviously liked him, because he's easy to like. And then he came to New Hampshire,  to the Tellman stronghold itself, even though for a couple years I felt too burned by the decimation of my past relationships to try and draw him further into my family. But it was fine, great, he was an ally and he charmed my sister and was open and kind to everyone and during dinner prep one night my father, who has been able to find something to like in all my young men although he clearly wants the world for me, leaned over and said, "I love him," with that emphasis.

While it rained we talked in the New Hampshire breakfast nook about engagement and titanium rings and none of it was surprising. But then we were back at home and he did manage to surprise me, on one knee with a ring box as I turned back around after applying sunscreen on a mountain plateau during a run in the northern Teton range, with a titanium ring that he had bought even before my whole family asserted that I should have a titanium ring, and I shouted in shock and cried and wasn't sure, because what is marriage? And are all relationships really doomed to failure like I've already convinced myself?

I told almost no one about our engagement for three months because it's a small valley and I still didn't want to hurt the other guy. I couldn't figure out how it wouldn't hurt. It turned out to be okay, ish, and we actually went for a big bike ride, the three of us, on my birthday last year and it wasn't that tense. I also kept the engagement a secret because I didn't see myself as a fiancee, and because I don't talk about relationships a lot or post about them on social media. That was a habit I picked up when I was younger, when I was doing some shady shit. And I have this stupid idea that love makes you weak or vulnerable.

After three years I'm still one hundred percent into this guy. He's just so great and I have friends who still regularly comment on that fact, which I love. So that's why we're getting married in September.

It's hilarious that nearly half of the photos of us that exist are candid, awkward laughing photos at special events. We don't take photos together. Ever.

Open Season

Last week at an informal state of the snowpack talk, Don Sharaf of the American Avalanche Institute told his audience that, while the Bridger-Teton Avalanche Center forecasters don't like to turn the whole pyramid to green, it's officially open season in the Tetons. The frightening early season instabilities have healed themselves and slow, steady accumulation with negligible weird weather means the best possible snow conditions: deep and not moving.

"This kind of stability means you get your bucket of balls and just start teeing up shots," Big Don told us.

Indeed.

We had planned in advance to go use up a couple Mountain Collective days at Big Sky, so unfortunately we weren't taking as much advantage of open season as we could be, but decided to aim for a big walk on Sunday. Talking about it and poring over trip reports on the drive home from Montucky, we laid out a plan for Buck. We decided to approach the massive jutting peak from a different route than most people did, a route that added in a little chute and seemed to make more sense.

Buck is a beaut, for sure.

I had a vague sick feeling in my stomach thinking about the descent, mostly because a half decade of hyper-awareness and timidity around avalanche terrain really runs counter to the idea of skiing a huge, steep, open, east-facing aspect, completely at the mercy of those twin snow-movers, sun and wind.

But we packed all of our sharps (a whippet, ice axe, and crampons for each) and arose at 4 a.m. to tackle the peak, maybe. Our biggest fear was that the face would warm too quickly, but at the trailhead the temperature gauge read -10 degrees, and the shock of cold totally blindsided us. Our concern turned to the wisdom of leaving the dog in the car, which we usually do in the Park because it means she isn't left at home to her own devices for what could be twelve or fifteen hours. We fluffed jackets and blankets onto the seats for her and hoped the sun would emerge quickly and turn the van into a greenhouse.

After last week's mission I wondered if big tours were getting easier, but this week I wondered why I felt so shitty. We were both slow and dehydrated from a quasi-debauched Big Sky weekend with Bria and soon lost sight of the objective. Halfway up the annoyingly uneven Maverick skin track, we stopped to have that important conversation: we're not moving fast enough to tackle the summit.

Also, the standard way people get up the peak is via an airy knife ridge with 1,500 feet of exposure, and while we knew the bootpack had been well-established by purportedly fifteen skiers the day before, I loathe exposure. I'm not really cut out for ski mountaineering, obviously. We could boot up the less-exposed face instead but it'd be slower going and people might drop onto us at any time.

We skinned up a gusty, wind-slabby traverse to the top of Chute the Moon and I remembered how much I need to work on keeping my composure when the uphill is even a little bit sketchy. I fall apart every damn time.

So so so so so beautiful.

After skiing the mellow chute in crappy snow, we did another short, windy, butt-clenching climb that should have been a breeze, then pushed past that into the calmer sunshine.

Looking around the deeper part of the range in perfect visibility, it was astonishing to see ski tracks on some of the most consequential lines and faces. Wow, everyone got the memo about open season.  This weekend people tagged the biggest summits in the Tetons and tackled objectives that only get skied a few times a season, if at all. It's very inspiring, and very humbling, because I don't have the ability to climb or ski most of that stuff.

Backing off an objective but still getting to ski two couloirs in a day is pretty neato.

The line we skied, Buckshot off the north side of Buck, was very cool and very steep (for me), and because it has a big snowfield above it, I would never touch it in more dangerous conditions. As it was, the snow was edgeable but wind-battered and firm. I skied slowly, stopping often to catch my breath and shake out my legs.

We continued to admire ski lines all the way down Avalanche Canyon, then committed to the undulating luge through the trees that spat us out on Bradley Lake.

A quick snack stop on the lake. I'm so fortunate to have this one as my backcountry partner.

While we didn't even come close to the summit, it was worth the walk to look around at the majestic peaks in the range's interior. And being done by one left plenty of time for lounging in the sun, eating pizza, and bemoaning the new tanlines on my face. And the dog was fine.

Sparkle Day

The bloated moon hung low in the west. We piled into Sam's second homeowner SUV and made the quick trip into the canyon. It was a day of utmost sparkle. The trees were thickly laced with rime. We breathed in sequins.

I was still hanging onto one of those lame little winter colds that never fully evaporates. I coughed and blew snot. My lanky companions skinned away from me. Their long legs worked up and down like pistons. I tried not to be grumpy about always getting dropped. Immediately.

Our progress slowed when the trail turned elsewhere and we had to cut up to the plateau. The only sound was the gentle collapse of powder under our skis.

We peered across the canyon at the objective. We gauged wind-loading and line choice. A lot of snow and a lot of wind had just happened. Concerning but perhaps not a deal breaker. Perhaps.

The first run was fast, a little sun affected. We straight-lined through a chute. Our fingers got cold in the shaded basin below. The climb out of the creek bed was taxing. We each felt fatigued for different reasons. The pistons pumped at half speed through untouched snow. We swapped pulls at the front.

The Grand emerged before us, an apparition with gusts of cloud wreathing it. I had a beer in my pack but I am rarely in the mood to drink on cold summits.

We picked our way carefully along the softly corniced ridge. My heart beat fast. Moving snow might lead to unmanageable consequences. No snow moved.

Cy was nervous. He was leery of the unknowns. There might be a cliff choke. The chute is a big empty expanse, an obvious slide path. He dropped first into the west-facing trees because he has an airbag. He radio'd back to us. We picked our way down. The snow was really really good.

Our nerves receded as the line revealed itself to be open. It hadn't been blasted by solar rays yet. Nothing moved under our skis. We slashed deep turns. Lovely. Not scary.

We soon had to put skins back on. It was that or wade through snow down the flat canyon. The walk out felt inexorable. My boots found new places to rub. My backpack chafed my shoulders. My nose burned. But all walks end eventually. We lounged by the car. Our gear was strewn around us in attention-seeking piles. I looked smugly at the cross-country skiers filtering in and out of the parking lot. I thought, Going uphill and downhill is far superior. 

This Decade

I'm kind of in the mood to do a decade retrospective, like everyone else, and I prefer the blog medium to more photo-heavy outlets, although I have sprinkled choice photos from the last ten years through this post. 

I start browsing The Plural of Danish, since it's appropriately just over a decade old, and I have a thesis in mind. I graduated college ten years ago; I must be a different person, I think. I've made two big moves, had several impactful relationships, bought a house, stumbled upon a career, stopped defining my life with bikes, started defining my life with a 50/50 split of bikes and skiing (quelle différence). Maybe I like myself more now. I do really like myself, and I've learned even as a woman that it's actually okay to like yourself. I like the people around me, I like my job, I just plain old like my life.

My last and best collegiate MTB nationals was ten years ago.

But I am actually a bit surprised, perusing old blogs with this thesis in mind. Turns out this is an ongoing theme in my life, the liking. Where is the earthshaking difference? While moving cross country felt so huge, like such a drastic shift in my life, so many people I know here did the same, often in worse situations, before it was cool. Moving to another community that feeds my need for connections in the same way that Brevard did was more of a natural progression than an abrupt change of direction.

Went to Arkansas.

My voice is so lively in early blogs. Cloying, sure, but much less self-aware than now. Now I always feel like I'm writing for too many people, an audience with whom I'm unwilling to share my whole self.

Went to Italy.

We are theoretically in the twilight of personal blogs and yet, according to my traffic numbers, my top ten most viewed posts all occurred in the Tetons, which indicates there is still an appetite at least among my friends for blogs about playing outside. Or it's just my mother reading trip reports over and over so she can gasp anew about all the dumb shit I do.

Moved cross-country.

I told my parents that, because I write professionally, the blog now feels like a chore, and writing in first person makes me feel like a tool. That's why my post numbers have dwindled. Seventy-three in 2009, twenty-one in 2014, eight in 2019. But it's also a good outlet for the stuff I definitely don't want to make available for mass consumption.

Thrived in Tahoe.

The biggest benefit in my job is that I've finally tapped into this boundless curiosity that I think I always had but wasn't using at all for a long time. I love doing the research and trying to wrap my head around new topics so I can reformulate them into accessible ideas for others to read about. I love gossiping with people who have power in the community after doing the work to prove I deserve their confidences. I love giving businesses an extra nudge with exposure. I love writing articles that parents want to cut out of the physical paper, even though sharing a link is so much easier.

Thriving in the Tetons.

I didn't mean for this post to be only about my job. I moved and grew and bought a house, one of my crowning accomplishments of the last five years in an economy that doesn't want young people to survive. I also got engaged. To be married. I keep forgetting to acknowledge that because of how unimportant the institution is to me. But I found this guy after over a decade of trying to figure out what I actually want in a relationship, and he is all of it.

Running is the best.

Owning a home is the best.

In 2009 I was finding joy, pushing myself on the trail, loving my friends, and casually wondering what was next. This decade I became a camper, a dog owner, a drinker, a lover, a journalist, a landlord. I established myself in new places without the baggage of old, decided I am actually sociable, can be kind, love asking people questions, enjoy making new friends. I realized as I've lost people dear to me how important family is, and began to understand just how near to the tree this particular apple has fallen. But my own trajectory does not fit within my thesis. I haven't changed significantly.

This one is the best.

Building Character: The Teton Traverse

Last weekend after a couple lackluster pre-season Shoshone laps, Dapper Dan made a surprising suggestion: a November Teton traverse. 

In the summer people often run the Teton Canyon to Death Canyon traverse, which is a pretty mellow way to get from one side of the range to the other. In mid-winter some people exit from the back of the Village, thus starting high and finding some interesting lines along the way, but the Teton to Death traverse doesn't have much appeal to skiers. 

It's still low tide in the Tetons, but Dan's proposal started to make sense; route-finding would be straightforward because the summer trails are still visible under the sparse snow, avy danger has yet to really rear its head, daylight savings is looming, and the Teton Canyon road is still open, cutting off four miles of travel. 

I did my last big ski tour on Cinco de Mayo with Cy and BriAndrew. It was a long walk to a big line, the aesthetic (and amusingly named) Fallopian Tube on Mt Woodring. Hot, footsore, recovering from some moments of intense fear, and feeling exceedingly accomplished, I packed up my winter gear, took the batteries out of my beacon, and filed away the Grand Teton National Park skiing mentality, to be retrieved no earlier than 2020 (or maybe December if the early season was really deep). 

Yep, skied that!

So imagine my surprise to find myself once again at a trailhead before dawn in single digit weather on November 2, turning on my headlamp and shouldering a pack that was stupid heavy. 

Our expectations were completely realistic. The purpose of this undertaking was conditioning, covering ground, trying out weird new set-ups (Cy had awesome AT snowblades and Dan was using XC skis and mountaineering boots, very appropriate for what was basically an XC mission), and coming home with that full body fatigue that only comes with really really big days--a fatigue that I find hard to achieve in mud season when everything is kind of meh. 

I really didn't expect to be doing long approaches before dawn in November

Skinning along the Teton Shelf at sunrise

We wore running shoes and were glad about it, because the first three miles and the last five miles of the traverse were on dry dirt or thin snow. We emerged from the Devil's Staircase and finally started skinning on the Teton Shelf just as the sun rose, illuminating beautiful couloirs above us all along the shelf. After a snack break at Mount Meek Pass we started along the Death Canyon Shelf, wondering if we'd have to follow the circuitous summer trail all the way to the head of Death Canyon. Although the south-facing cliff band below us was alarmingly scoured, we managed to find one still sketchy but not completely bare path down to the canyon. I had the dubious fortune of bringing the only normal ski set-up, although Cy skied the choke and rocky apron with flair and Dan down-climbed with the agility of a goat. 

The only "skiing" of the traverse

Looking down the chute, I knew I couldn't ski as if it were my second day of the season, melting into the backseat as I tried to remember where to point my torso. Nope, I had to draw on memories from last season when we skied several lines outside of my comfort zone and I finally became a proficient enough skier that being locked into skis felt way safer than being on foot. 

So I made tight turns and a few long side slips down the chute. It wasn't pretty but it was safe and I didn't even scratch a base beneath the chute while bopping through the boulder field blanketed in a few inches of snow. 

Those few turns were the only ones of the trip. We put skins on and learned something about Death Canyon: it's flat as fuck. Down skinning for miles and miles is fairly offensive, especially when interspersed with short techy descents that rattled Dan with his strange but sort of perfect skis. 

So...much...skinning

After another much needed snack and beer at the Patrol Cabin we set off again but soon realized that the well-traveled boulder-strewn trail did not merit skis. Back into running shoes. We each settled in to bang out those last miles, numbing our thoughts with music or Star Wars audiobooks, one foot in front of the other. Dan had left his truck at the winter trailhead, not realizing the summer trailhead was still open, so, further demoralized, we trudged down the road. Eventually some nice Jackson bros stopped and drove us the final mile to the truck, much to my relief. 

So...much...walking...with...skis

It was a hard day. Eighteen miles in ten hours. It was a little irksome that my skis only served as glorified snowshoes, greatly improving travel over flat, untouched snow but never eating up the downhill miles the way skis usually do. However, I wouldn't have chosen different conditions in which to do that traverse. In deep skiable snow the route still wouldn't be much fun, and if I tried to run it in the summer I would hate how flat it is. Why set an elaborate shuttle and go through the mountains when you can just climb to the top of them instead? 

We joked that we were prematurely preparing our bodies for ski tours that wouldn't be happening for another two months. But it felt really good to do something a little silly but very demanding, to remember my limits but to also know that I'm a stronger backcountry traveler than I ever have been. And to see the Tetons at first light from the heart of the range. 

But seriously, very beautiful

The Pronouncement

I was in the kitchen in New Hampshire, probably a fifth grader in a baggy tee and long shorts and lopsided glasses, when I made the pronouncement to my grandmother that I would not be having children. She considered the statement and then told me that she had found that people who didn't have children tended to be selfish.

That nugget lodged itself in my brain, because I think highly of her opinion and I certainly didn't want to be a selfish adult. I still couldn't imagine forfeiting my body to a parasitic entity and also had pretty strong views on overpopulation and the plight of unwanted children, so I resolved to adopt.

Ten years passed, and in another conversation with another woman, in which I attempted to assert my aversion to pregnancy, I was told in a patronizing tone that that would change in time.

As I aged I began to encounter friends who had tried to wade through the bureaucracy and expense of adoption, without a single success story among them. My doubt grew. This country is adept at obstructing women from abridging their pregnancies but does not appear interested in easing the postnatal experience. 

But for a long time I was in a relationship, what I thought was The Relationship, with a person who did love kids and was happy to imagine his future as a father. I laid waste to that relationship eventually but still carried with me this strange assumption that I would eventually be expected to procreate or at least shop for spawn.

Somehow it was only last year when the idea crystallized, perhaps because I work in an office of mothers, all a little harried and a little resentful, that I do not have to have children.

The echo of selfishness still rattled around in my brain so I decided to address it head on and realized that some of the most involved, philanthropic, selfless people I know have chosen to do without progeny. They are the mentors, the electeds, the heroes of nonprofits, the ones with their fingers in many pots, while the parents, granted, are probably finding their own kind of fulfillment, albeit a little more home-focused.

The couples I know without kids lead lives I want to emulate. They have enough money to be comfortable, they can go on adventures, and they can devote themselves to volunteerism.

The parents I know seem to always describe their lives with a dependent "but" clause. "I love my kids more than anything in the world, but..."

Fortunately my partner is in complete agreement with me. I just recently made my pronouncement to a friend and she asked, "Well, how does he feel?" even though she would never have asked that if I had said I wanted a boy and a girl, three years apart. And then she asked who would care for me when I'm old and lonely, but there's no guarantee that you'll get any return on your life's worth of investment with children. That's not how our culture works.

Now that I have truly made my decision, few days pass without a rushing sense of relief. Whether it's worrying about screen time, climate change, pink eye, strep throat, or autism, or wondering if the LDS kids would try to convert her or ostracize her, or if he would use slurs to impress his friends, or if she would be raped by a boy she trusted, or if she would dart in front of a car, or if work would dry up and the twenty plus years of endless expense would engulf and ruin me, or if parenthood would kill a partnership or suck me dry of motivation or excitement, the thought passes through my brain and is then swept out by a deep sigh of contentment: I'm not having children.

I Used to Do This

I wake up feeling antsy. And angsty. I've let too many sunshiney days go to waste. I have watched the evenings pass with beer in hand instead.

I don't want to go for a run, because for a couple reasons I don't like short runs here. I am particular. I don't like running trails that I'd prefer to bike, and the hard trails I want to run are populated with megafauna that I'm not tryna fuck with. It's too bad I don't have that perfect backyard loop like at Camp, or the miles and miles of steep ridiculous Pisgah trails to hurt myself on.

Oh well.

I decide to ride up to Targhee. The warm morning air feels heavy with moisture (like, fifty percent humidity, not real southern humidity) and black clouds are pushing north across the valley but here black clouds don't always mean a storm, especially not in the morning. I pack a jacket and go for it.

I feel fast. I love spinning. The road is quiet. It's opening day at the resort but no one is heading up because there's still six feet of snow at the top. Two trails are open to bikes.

The shoulder is so wide and the pavement is so smooth. I breathe hard but don't think hard. I feel like my thoughts are left trailing in a wake behind me. I can't hold onto any thoughts when I exercise. Bye, thoughts.

Daily rain showers have left everything so green, the greenest, the most emerald, jade, lime, verdant, in contrast with the peaks, still snow white. I look at flowers, look at the corpses of little birds and squirrels on the road, look at the rumps of what might be elk tucked down next to the creek, look at big boulders and think about the book Sylvester and the Magic Pebble. What if all those boulders were actually donkeys?

This ride feels like when I used to get out all the time in the mornings. Before I felt constrained by a nine to five schedule even though my job is flexible and there's no way my boss could fire me. Back when I was an athlete. Now I'm enthusiast. But this is why I was an athlete. Because I used to do this. I resolve to do this again. I haven't ridden to Targhee that many times, because I don't like out-and-backs, but it's a twelve-mile climb on a beautiful road that ends at 8,000 feet. How did I get so lucky as to live here? Why wouldn't I like this? A quick hour and a half in the morning and I'm a happier person. I will do this again.

I believe one is contractually obligated to take a photo at this vista if one pedals to Targhee.

Stud Run in the Bone Zone

In my relentless pursuit of novelty, I couldn’t resist signing up for the Angry Horse gravel bike race in Bone, Idaho. I registered for the 82-mile version, the Stud Run, because, I mean, why not. And I signed Cy up too, because misery loves company.

The "town" of Bone is tucked into the Caribou foothills east of Idaho Falls. As we drove through a wind farm at 5:30 a.m., the turbines turned sluggishly and I wondered if that boded well. Turns out, yes. Barely any wind until the race ended. 

The 82-mile race was one big loop, which as you might have noticed by now is something I find deeply appealing. It's made up mostly of excellent dirt roads. I started out at a very conservative pace, chilled to the bone and annoyed by all the roadies around me. The first forty miles swooped through farmlands. Rain from the previous evening had turned some sections into slick, churned up mud but it was never quite bad enough to be problematic; rather, the mud added interest to the ceaseless up-and-downs of the ag roads. I knew that the course elevation profile was mellow at first, with a series of long climbs coming in the second half of the race, and I was impatient to be done with the rolling terrain. It made my knees hurt and these roadies kept leapfrogging with me. When the climbing started in earnest I settled in happily. I love long climbs. Also the roadies dropped me. Whatever. 

With the elevation gain we emerged into a crazy beautiful new ecosystem of aspen groves, wildflowers, and lush fields with little brooks trickling beside the road. The landscape was so hyper-saturated with green that it felt like the plants were beaming their own light onto my face and arms. The temperature was perfect and the wind never picked up. Caribou Mountain, still snowy, stood sentinel in the distance and over one rise I saw the Grand Teton on the horizon. 

Words and photos do not do it justice. It was SO BEAUTIFUL out there in Bone.

Near the end of the race we dropped into a scenic creek canyon, then had to climb ten miles out of it to the finish line. It was a slog, and scary to get on a busy highway for the first time all day. Idaho Falls drivers don't give one solitary fuck about safe passing of cyclists. The cumulative miles wore me down and my upper body felt withered and weak, but I finished the race in much higher spirits than usual. I never descended into that dark place where I hate everything and want to quit for no good reason.

It definitely helped to have my perpetual riding partner at my side. I did not want to ride with Cy the whole race, because I think those kinds of couples are gross, but he has become a real endurance athlete and I could not for the life of me drop him on any of the climbs. He was actually putting time into me on everything but I'm wickedly stubborn and consistent if nothing else. This is the first race we've done in which he crossed the finish line before me. But just barely. 

In a pretty strong field of roadie women, I placed sixth. It's kind of a shitty finish but as I’ve come to learn in recent years, I can either choose to prepare for races or I can just wing them and accept mediocrity. And every time I opt for the latter.

Anyway, the Angry Horse was a nice run-up to the premier event of the season: this weekend's Teton Ogre Adventure Race. The race directors had us all convinced that last year would be the final chapter in the Ogre book, but apparently they love hosting the challenging bike-and-trek scavenger hunt as much as we all love doing it, so it’s back for 2019. I can’t wait to see where the Ogre will take us this year.