Status Quo

Our neighbor has again cut us off from the interwebs...steps have been taken, but I am for now disconnected, hence the lack of communication.

These days have been a quiet, pleasant malaise with a schedule dictated by the reliable weekly snowfall. Each Saturday morning I go to work aching from a couple days of powder skiing or backcountry missions. Aside from the Idiot Bosses, work is great. The clientele in Victor is the absolute friendliest, most low-maintenance group of folks I've ever had the pleasure of serving--I don't know what it is about the working class frontier mentality but invariably it results in easy, omnivorous, understanding, well-tipping customers.

We've had over a week-long dry spell, meaning crystal bright days and chunder-busting at the resort, and glimpses of the elusive Grand in its heavily-rimed, unfathomably huge glory. The sky here is the most evocative and expressive I've ever lived under. Weather systems send advance scouts days ahead, brushing the sky with altostratus, clumps of cumulus clotting the horizon, wisps blowing fast off the most prominent Tetons. Snow storms rest heavily at 7000 feet and obscure everything above. The colors defy description. Early morning shows shale and coral and sunset leaves the hills glowing for hours. Not to complain about great weather, but Tahoe skies are almost always a lovely but nondescript blue.

My social life lacks dimension, but there's something so lovely about cooking dinner and watching a ski movie or listening to my other roommate rhapsodize about fly fishing or sitting in a cluster of brewers catching up on work gossip. And not to be a total girl, but cohabitation has been perhaps the biggest upside of this new existence. We just get along so damn well.

I haven't figured out any long term aspirations but for now, skiing pow and working every once in awhile seems to be doing the trick.

The Deep End

On Saturday evening we were in various states of repose in front of the TV, recovering from a couple of hard-charging days at  Targhee, when Paul's buddy over the pass invited him for a big day of backcountry in Grand Teton National Park. Tyler and I quietly included ourselves in the invite and packed up our gear.

In the morning as we drove over there in the previous night's light snow, Paul got a text (a warning?) that one of the guys on the trip had experience guiding in AK and was a strict group leader.

"Oh shit," I said and sunk lower in my seat and gripped my coffee mug. My ability level and inexperience could easily be seen as a liability and a group leader would be justified in shutting me out in order to preserve the safety of everyone. Tyler and Paul knew it too and nervous silence carried us into the parking lot.

But there were no interrogations or sideways glances, just genial greetings and introductions, so we got suited up and hit the skin track.

Once we started climbing my inner naysayer quieted and I was soothed by the squeak-clunk of AT bindings meeting skis. I can go uphill, by god. And up, and up. We climbed from the parking lot at 6000ft to almost the summit of Shadow Peak at 10700ft. It was a brutal slog and up top the wind gusted and it couldn't have been warmer than five below. The two guys with extensive experience and snow knowledge dug a pit and examined the layers and tried to make the column fail, but not only was there an obscene amount of snow (170cm, as tall as my skis), it was also comfortingly stable. They decided to shoot for the original, most optimistic plan, a pair of secret couloirs with long fluffy run-outs.

On top of each, we peered down the dizzying slope, communicated a game plan, and proceeded one by one out of sight. My heart hammered and my legs shook but I made it down each obstacle, scraping over rock and pausing to quell the lactic acid in my limbs, but surviving and joyfully making turns in the fresh at the bottom.

No pictures of me exist, per usual, but here's Paul getting the fluffiest of turns.
Pic courtesy of Ian

Then we picked our way through a field of huge pillow lines, whooping up and over boulders and hoping our tips didn't get caught under rocks or hung up on saplings. The exit was a skin over a snow-covered lake and this had me gasping in more secret terror than either couloir. The threat of being submerged under opaque ice hurried me to the far bank, where everyone else seemed unfazed.

The last couple of miles were a relentless shuffle in the haze of major bonkage. When I finally made it back to the car, wet and frustrated and a little tearful, I recovered and hugged Tyler and took a swig from the growler and looked back at where we went, up the rough-hewn cleavage of the Tetons. This landscape of abrupt, daunting lines demands respect.

The Tetons from frozen Taggart Lake

Ski Wydaho, Where the Cows Outnumber the People!

Having spent almost a month in the Teton Valley, I am absolutely shocked that it isn't being billed as the new Jackson or Tahoe or Summit County. Sure, every single person you come in contact with is a settler from the midwest or south or northeast who came here to live out the ski-bum dream of manifest destiny, but the valley is still cheap, quiet, and slow-moving. And oh lord, the snow!

Relentless snow in November

I have eleven ski days already and only four at resorts. The backcountry possibilities are exciting and endless, and the community is very welcoming. Paul was in town for a while and on weekdays when Tyler worked Paul and I called upon casual acquaintances or friends-of-friends to take us out and show us stashes. I've learned so much about all kinds of snow and about safety and how to go uphill and sort of go downhill and how to keep wallowing to a minimum. Hopefully in time I'll even get to be a pretty good skier.

Obligatory summit shot on Oliver Peak

I thought Tahoe had spoiled me, but this place will absolutely ruin me. Reports indicate that the quantity and quality are almost unmatched in the country. And here I've found the indescribable bliss of initial turns on fresh powder, a high so intense that people who taste it go on to chase it their whole lives.

Back By Popular Demand

Apologies for the dead air. Our sanctimonious neighbor cut off our internet access a couple weeks ago and I've been reeling from the loss. I've developed quite a dependence on connectivity, who knew?

I have yet to find gainful employment, in large part because of the extreme half-assedness of my search. I am also crippled by the fact that I stubbornly do not want to drive to work, and if I do have to drive to work I DO NOT want to commute over the avalanche-prone pass or on the treacherous road up to the resort.

I'm being a princess. I don't care.

Being unemployed means mind-numbing boredom and loneliness, a miserable contrast to the communal excess of camp, and it also means unprecedented freedom and flexibility. When I'm not skiing the sands pass through the hourglass a single grain at a time. When I am skiing--well, that merits a whole separate post. But unemployment also permitted an impromptu trip to Salt Lake City, where I got to spend some quality girl time with Joh, and then relive the Cruisedays of fall by adventuring with a couple of camp friends.

On the same day as my return from SLC Tyler and I took off for Thanksgiving in Boise, where we did family stuff and he showed me his old haunts and we went mountain biking in the foothills a stone's throw from his neighborhood. It was great. Boise is a really cool and unpretentious city.

We were gone during a dry spell but arrived back in Victor on the eve of another storm, and now everything is coated in white again.

Insert John Muir Quote

The last few weeks of camp were, as expected, bittersweet. As one of the final hurrahs before departure we at long last made it down to Yosemite. It is as awe-inspiring and magnificent as promised. But even in November, to my annoyance (and yes, I am spoiled rotten), there were hundreds of people scurrying around the Valley floor like supplicants at the feet of their false idols. Lines of hikers plodded up and down the worn rockwork of the Yosemite Falls trail, and cars packed the scenic pull-outs and the Mariposa Grove parking lot.

But lord, was it beautiful

With that essential California experience checked off the list and the season over, I headed east. Halfway through Nevada, I was struck by a frightening and exhilarating revelation. Everything I owned was in my car and I had no obligations before or behind me. I could take any exit, go any direction, settle anywhere. I've never felt so untethered. But Victor seemed as good a place as any, and there was someone waiting for me there, so I stayed the course.

Then I made it into Idaho. The roads between Pocatello and Idaho Falls were long and lonely and it seemed like I could hear each slow breath of the great interior expanse of land. The sun set as I crossed through Swan Valley and over Pine Creek Pass, and my heart rose in anticipation. It's so different from California. Teton Valley reminds me of nothing so much as Etowah; a patchwork of farm plots, worked over by tractors and cows, latticed by dirt roads and creeks, ringed with trees, and grass (that rarest of commodities in Tahoe) everywhere. But then, unlike the countryside of WNC, the valley is buttressed by snow-choked mountain ranges: the Tetons, of course, but also the Snake River, the Big Hole, the Palisades, the Caribou.

The potential is overwhelming.

Who is this lucky asshole who got to see Half Dome and the Grand Teton in one week??

Snow Days

Stoked

Much to my delight, my weekend brought with it a solid eight inches of early season snow and all the absurd activities it entails: a stroll through the wonderland; spontaneous and heated friendly fire; a polar bear plunge; a pedal boat redneck yacht club in sub-freezing temps, complete with bloody marys.

Stupid? Fantastic

Redneck yacht club

The next morning the Adventure Team headed out for a challenging snowshoe into Desolation. After we crested the brutal climb of Cathedral Bowl, the novelty wore off and we trudged through deep glades to Gilmore Lake. I sometimes forgot to look around at the crazy beauty because I was distracted by the heavy-breathing monotony of pushing through a foot of powder. The trees on top of the ridge were rimed with ice and the sky cast a somber light on the half-obscured Crystal range. Duffy and I were dressed in a lightweight athletic manner that felt great and fleet-footed on the move but did not permit a pause of any more than a minute. I'm still figuring out winter wear, which is essential when I want to be able to go uphill and downhill in comfort.

The flingage factor is high with snowshoes

!!!!!

Today it was back to shorts and a t-shirt as I ran a quick out-and-back in the disappearing slush. The only sounds were the plash of snow melting and the distant buzz of sawyers amassing their winter reserves. Along with the smell of baking pine needles and the crunch of bike tires on decomposed granite, the ethereal combination of snow and warm sunshine is a California feeling that will linger long after I leave.

Broken Record

Do I have to say this ad nauseam? Sammie insists that I blog again but I have nothing new to report: I live in an amazing, beautiful place with a bunch of incredible people. As excited as I am about the upcoming transition to a more "grown-up" life of partnership and stability (and permanence?), at the same time I want the passage of days to slow so I can exist in this little space for as long as possible.

Fitness has fallen by the wayside because I'm too busy carpe-ing the diem. It doesn't result purely from laziness; escaping the tyranny of nonstop exercise fixation means spending time with a wider array of people, doing things that don't necessarily burn calories or leave me joyfully exhausted and sore, but still satiate some hunger within, the hunger for lingering experiences and a sense of togetherness. Sure, railing tacky berms before work is still the rush it always has been. And the other day we set out for a run on a rainy cold morning and were rewarded after only 500 feet of elevation gain by soft snowfall on autumn foliage, and we luxuriated in the western cliche of radiant yellow aspens in a white-dusted landscape.

Twelve miles of heartbreaking beauty

But piling out of a caravan of cars and behaving typically touristy with a huge gang of coworkers in an old mining town in Nevada, or in the apple orchards of the Sierra foothills? 

Camp escapees, Apple Hill tourists

Taking a casual bike ride down the road to see the kokanee salmon spawn and die by the thousands? 

Poking dead salmon with sticks (I never outgrew it)

Watching the sun sink over a shelf of rolling granite from our campsite next to the cascading pools of the American River? These are feelings I won't relinquish any time soon. What did I do to deserve this lush technicolor life?

Special Places

This spring I bemoaned my own jadedness and assumed camp would never hold the same magic for me as it did last fall. 

I have been eating my words with gusto all month. 

This fall has been even better than last. I feel really close to so many people at camp and now, not only do I say yes with regularity, I also instigate once in a while. In September I've found myself in so many special places with special people. 

Doing a relay triathlon with two girls who got to experience the undeniable rush of the podium for the first time.

Riding up and down snow-dappled mountains with my favorite fellow masochist.

Partying with people who will get dressed up at the drop of a hat.

Celebrating a stunning eastern Sierras vista.

Enjoying an omelet on top of Tallac at sunrise.

Cruising to the hot springs in the most majestic of seasons.