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.

Pierre's Hole 50K

I had originally planned on doing the 100k but summer got away from me and even 15+ mile rides were few and far between. The Kate hooked me up with a free entry because she is a sponsor/awesome, so I went out to the Ghee one weekend, rode most of the course, and did some race visualization. And by that I mean I visualized riding those fun twenty-five miles of singletrack, coming through the base area sore, dehydrated, and probably cranky, and having to continue out for a second lap of the same. 

I sat myself down for a talk. 

"You are not doing the 100k." 

"But people will think I'm not tough!"

"You know what's not tough? Falling apart with twenty miles to go. Remember the last 100k you did? And you were in shape that time. You're a starter, not a finisher. Your MO in all races is to get enough of a head start that when you implode, not too many people pass you. You're doing the 50k."

I went to sulk in a corner, smarting from my brutal honesty, but secretly relieved to be off the hook.

Race day was blessed by sunny skies after a week of rainstorms. The cool morning reminded me of collegiate, those first couple of weekends at ETSU and LMC when it started to smell like fall but before the rains came. I reverted back to usual race form, swaggering around registration feigning confidence, whining when it was time to kit up and warm up, sipping week-old water from a five-year-old bottle while everyone else carefully spooned electrolyte drink mix into clean, labelled bottles. Team Fitzy was out in force and the camaraderie on the start line made me feel almost like a local. 

The first half of the lap was a long climb and a long descent. I watched Fast Jackson Woman Amy take off and was content; I knew I could only catch her if she had a catastrophic mechanical. I simply enjoyed myself and actually listened, for the first time in my life, to the voices of Squirrel and St Marie in my head. Maintain. Race your own race. Use the descents. Stay loose on the greasy rocks. Drink. Eat. Better five years late than never, I guess. The course was in incredible condition: hero dirt, tacky switchbacks, no dust, phenomenal views. I was in heaven. I saw a moose and said, "Hey moose." I got to the first aide station and told the Fitzys I was having so much fun. 

Local pro Amanda Carey crushing it in picturesque high meadows
Pic courtesy of TMTB

The second half of the lap consisted of mellow ups and downs through meadows and aspen groves. That's where I saw that I was being chased. In races I prefer that the chips fall early and firmly. I don't like chasing and I hate being chased. One might argue this is the point of racing. Yeah, well...

I tried not to panic and worked to build a gap on the descents, but they weren't long or technical enough and she gained on me. Finally, on the bumpy and seemingly interminable trails of Rick's Basin, she caught me. 

"Nice catch. You're (expletive removed) tenacious," I said. 

"Good riding, girl. Robin's coming up right behind us too," she said. 

With that info I had my inevitable inner temper tantrum, but tried to keep going, alternating between pushing myself and wanting to sit down among the wildflowers and NOT race bikes anymore. A detached part of me was amused by how bad my attitude was, how bad it always is. 

I emptied the tank on the last couple of miles and collapsed after the finish line. Robin crossed the line only thirty seconds after me in fourth place. Tyler seemed at a loss; he has never seen me race and doesn't know how to deal with Broken Julia. After getting out of chamois and drinking a beer, I recovered and got my stoke back. The race organizer and trail builders absolutely killed it and the day couldn't have been nicer. I raced a little smarter and a little harder than I used to, so maybe experience and maturity is worth something? Blah blah blah, lessons learned (maybe) and if you ever want to do a really awesome endurance race on great trails with incredible views: Pierre's Hole. Do it.   

The only bummer was that there didn't appear to be a dedicated photographer on course, which is a shame because a: it was crazy beautiful and b: everyone knows that all bike racers are narcissists (me included). 

Just a Day

The other day I posted a gravel ride on Strava and Jenna commented on it, "Mandating a blog post." I thought about replying that it wasn't a very exciting ride and that I didn't have much to say about it, but today reconsidered. I have nothing else to write about, so those of you who expect updates can see how mundane (but pleasant) life is these days.

It's been raining this week, so a combination of cabin fever and curiosity compels me to ask for the morning off. I usually have Wednesday afternoons free for activity but rain seems inevitable so I figure I'll explore a gravel grinder in the weather window. Will says yes to most of my requests now because this summer the heroic number of bars I make daily has been the only thing keeping the company from a serious shortage.

I want to ride to the wilderness boundary and back in the three major canyons on the eastern side of the valley, on dirt roads that cut almost to the heart of the Teton range. It will be at least a minor improvement on riding on the flat straight roads of the valley floor. I don't know how long it will be and don't pack food, but I do anticipate getting wet and cold so I wear a jacket and leg warmers. (In early August! What??)

I pedal the bike path to Driggs and start poking into each canyon in turn. They are very pretty, if understated, those dramatic chunks of rock in the range's interior obscured by the canyons' walls. Collars of mist ring the cliffs, the dust from the gravel roads is tamped down, and the greens of aspen and pine are enhanced by gray skies. Hikers in SUVs peer at me as they drive past, their destinations mellow footpaths through meadows. I hum to myself and say Ow when I go over sharp rocks and harsh washboard surfaces. On the road that straddles Idaho and Wyoming I remember there was a mean dog who chased me once. That time I was going the opposite way and had a downhill to save me, but this time I am climbing. Heart hammering, I prepare for him, bottle poised, eyes scanning. Here he comes, barking ferociously. NO BAD DOG, I yell and squirt him in the face with water. He stops abruptly and looks nonplussed. That was easy. I am only rained on once and it feels nice. It ends up being a fifty mile ride but not a very hard one, aside from the discomfort of the Deutschbike, which I stubbornly refuse to alter.

When I finish I am wet, achy, and hungry. I wolf down some pasta and cold coffee, fail to find any houses for rent on the Internet, and walk over to work. The advantage of evenings is that I get to listen to my own weird music, cranked loud. My coworker's Pandora station has, through six straight months of airtime, become completely unbearable.

The new part-time barmaker is still there. It's her fourth day and today for the first time she is slogging through a full batch (thirty sheets) of the big bars. She is weary and didn't bring enough food, but is chipper even after eight hours. We chat about how great it will be to shred the Pass with another chick, once her new bike arrives.

Making bars is a grind today. I chug water and munch on Handle nugs (dark chocolate cherry almond) while making sheet after sheet of Tiki (coconut mango cashew). My back and arms hurt, but intermittent storms drum on the warehouse roof and make me deeply grateful that I already got out to play.

After six hours I finish, clean up, walk home, pour a glass of Sweetgrass from the ubiquitous growler in the fridge. Tyler walks in right after me. He has been at the brewery for twelve hours. We heat up a pizza because between work and play, we're usually too busy or tired to go grocery shopping, much less cook. We talk about beer and bikes and where the hell we're going to live in a month. He is plagued with skier's syndrome, dying for snow, while I am dying for summer to never end. We watch House of Cards and complain that no TV show compares to The Wire.

This is what I do. It's not compelling, but life doesn't have to be blog-worthy to be wonderful.