The One I Haven't Written.

A few weekends ago, Brad and I went to Boulder to visit Megan and Ward. It was wonderful to meet the man who makes my friend so happy, and as I'd expected, Ward is a helluva guy. Funny. Supportive. Smart. Skilled at making things out of wood and steel. Nice to be around. I really like him.

In addition to meeting Ward and hanging out with Megan, Boulder afforded Brad the opportunity to climb with his buddy Fremont in Eldorado Canyon, which is one of my favorite places in the world. I didn’t climb, but I did boulder a bit on Sunday.

I miss Boulder almost as much as I miss Megan, who has been a sound voice in my life since our first run to the old airstrip in Carbondale, probably a month after we met. (That private airstrip, incidentally, is reportedly how Hunter S. Thompson got his drugs into Aspen. Entirely hearsay, but nevertheless, running up to it always made me feel part of the Gonzo Journalism movement.)

Megan is far kinder and more forgiving than I am, and her actions always make me act a little more nicely than I otherwise would. At the same time, she’s got a better sense of humor than 99.9% of the people in the world, and can make me laugh like few others. David Sedaris and Stephen Colbert excepted. Oh, and Germans. The Germans always make me laugh, with their “make photo” and their, “Schnell! Schnell!”

Saturday, after wandering through town and patronizing my favorite outdoor store (I needed new climbing shoes, and I like to support Outdoor Divas as much as possible), I went for a beautiful run up the Creek Path and into Boulder Canyon. Along the way, I passed moms pushing Chariots, adolescents pushing drugs, professional runners (actually, they passed me), speed-walking co-eds, labs straining against their leashes, homeless people sleeping on blankets, drummers pounding out beats, frat boys tossing footballs, high school girls trying to get their attention, old men mediating, couples napping by the river, families picnicking in the shade by the library and cyclists trying to cross town. It was Boulder – all of it mixed up and interacting – as diverse and beautiful as I remember. (It really is diverse, even though many people would have you believe otherwise.)

The night before, when Brad and I got into town, we went with Megan and Ward to the Med, which was always one of my favorite restaurants. As soon as we walked in, we saw two old friends, Chuck and Jonny, and found a small table in a crowded section across from the rowdy bar. Perfect. I’m not being sarcastic; it was perfect. It was busy and noisy and hard to hear and overwhelming, and it was nice to just sit with friends and drink vodka lemonades and talk and soak in the Boulder of it all: college girls dressed like hookers, dirty climbers with leaves in their hair, older academics frowning around and playboys out-talking each other at the bar. Everyone was different, and everyone was fine with that. I think I saw Matisyahu, but Megan says it wasn’t him.

Over the weekend, Megan and I went for a couple hikes around Flagstaff and Chautauqua, and I realized how much I miss her company, her advice and the Front Range.

As Brad and I walked through the parking lot of the Salt Lake airport after landing Sunday night, I focused on the thwacks of our wheelie bags rolling over the cracks in the pavement.

Boulder was my first great love, even though my years there weren’t always easy and blissful. In fact, they were peppered with hard lessons, heartbreak and loneliness, but still Boulder remains foremost in my heart, the setting for many of my fondest memories and a place I'd love to live someday with Brad and Arnie and Red.

Thwack, step step, thwack. Brad sped up on the down-ramp, and I shifted my interest from thwacking in unison to thwacking on opposing beats - first his heavy bag (filled with climbing gear), thwack, then my light one (filled with clothing that I didn’t need or wear), thwack. Thwack thwack.

I wondered if anyone else does things like that - listen for rhythms or actively change course to create rhythms out of the banal. I suppose the childhood warning, "step on a crack, break your mother's back," is of the same vein – a superstition that affects kids' footing the way my need for emotional stability affects my thwacking of wheelie bags.

It's probably not normal, but it’s a defense mechanism I use to avoid thinking about the things that might hurt, the things I’d rather avoid. It provided my mind with a safe task that didn't involve picturing the Flatirons at dusk, or the Mesa Trail at Dawn, or climbing in Eldorado after work. It allowed me some presence instead of situating me firmly in my life 10 years ago, when I arrived in Boulder a naive intern.

Anticipatory

I’m excited for the end of the workday, when it will still be light and I can take Arnie running in the mountains. It’s Spring – I don’t care what the calendar says – and my favorite time of year in the Wasatch. It’s cool enough to climb in the sun, warm enough to run in shorts and the days are long enough to be outside till I’m tired.

Our weekend plans changed; we didn’t drive to Indian Creek. Honey had a head cold and I was kind of tired from a long week. We kind of relaxed on Saturday – with intermittent trail runs, gym climbing and longboarding – and yesterday went climbing in Little Cottonwood canyon.

Our backyard and home crag, I have a love/hate relationship with Little Cottonwood. When I arrived in Utah three years ago, I marched into the canyon expecting to send everything in a season. What followed was a season of me getting my ass kicked, crying, screaming and declaring climbing to be stupid.

I worked very hard to avoid climbing in Little Cottonwood last season – “It’s too hot/crowded/overrun with rattlesnakes (true)/scary (also true)” – but now I’m excited to explore it. I’m even being cautious about the routes I get on, and working hard to not get in over my head on climbs that are too hard for me.

Is it possible that I’ve matured? Maybe, but doubtful. I think I just have a healthier sense of fear than I did when I moved here, meaning, I actually think while I climb. Brad used to holler at me to place more gear, and I’d look down to realize that I was 20 feet above my last piece. “Huh, look at that,” I’d think, wiggling in a stopper and shrugging. Now I holler at him to toss me extra cams because I’ve already placed my double set ofcams and all my stoppers and I still have 60 feet to the anchor.

(I’m not going to explain that, even though I know lots of you aren’t climbers and won’t know what the hell I’m talking about. Suffice it to say that I’ve crossed the line from dumb-but-brave to smart-but-unbelievably-chicken.)

But yesterday was wonderful. It was around 55 or 60 degrees, sunny and clear, and the rock temperature was perfect for the frictiony slapping that Little Cottonwood demands.

We went to the Mexican Crack area, and started on a mellow, 2-pitch finger crack. Well, it used to feel mellow. It felt kind of hard yesterday, but that’s all part of getting in granite climbing shape, I guess. We moved on to Mexican Crack proper, as well as some nondescript pitch beside it and a moderate 3-pitch route around the corner.

We were climbing with Brittany and JT, who are hilarious. JT is in standard form in his picture, which I took. I stole the picture of Brittany, who is a total badass. I think I took it from the Patagonia website. (That’s right, Patagonia, I stole it from under your titanium-frame-bespectacled noses.)



Anyway, it’s really fun to climb with these two. They’ve traveled to some of the more interesting parts of the world to climb, including Siberia and Oman, and I love to hear about their adventures, which remind me that even though I don’t climb all that much anymore, and when I do climb it’s often in the gym, there are still lots of routes out there waiting for me. Waiting for Brad and me. Big routes with long approaches and lots of pitches and beautiful settings. Routes that require air travel then bus travel then wooden-cart-and-mule travel.

Little Cottonwood felt like home yesterday. I’m looking forward to going back up there later this week, like I'm looking forward to big routes in faraway mountains, like I look forward to the Spring.

Celebrate something every day.

Marit asked what I'm celebrating today.

I'm celebrating this: The official start of climbing season.

Tonight, Brad and the boys (Arnie & Red) and I will hop into the van and drive to Indian Creek, (a climbing area outside Moab) for the weekend. I love weekends in Spring and Fall: leaving town Friday night, giddily anticipating a sunny weekend spent entirely outside. Arriving at the campsite after dark and just crashing, exhausted from the lone drive. The promise of Brad waking me up before sunrise with a cup of strong black coffee, just the way I like it. The day starting out cold enough for hats and down jackets, but warming up to shorts weather by mid-day. Good friends, laughing, trying hard, encouraging each other, getting sandy and dirty from climbs that have been rained and snowed on all winter. Being totally drained at the end of the day, drinking a glass of wine next to a campfire (depending on the camping rules, of course), falling asleep as soon as you close your eyes, and waking up stiff and sore and convinced you can't possibly climb until you step out of the van and look at the cliffs, pink and orange in the light of the rising sun, and suddenly you can't wait to get up there.

And I'm also celebrating the kindness of others. Bloggers I've never met offering supportive words, people I've just met helping me through a tough time, family members calling and emailing and reminding me that I'm loved. I'm a lucky person. I have an incredible support system, and I'm grateful for that.

Thanks, everyone. Have a great weekend.

It's my Arnieversary, so Happy Valentarnie's Day.

I got Arnie 4 years ago yesterday. His actual birthday is December 26th, but he came to me - about 7 weeks old - on Valentine's Day 2004.

He came from a breeder in Northern Colorado. The owners are very protective of their pups, and won't release them until they've approved his or her new home, so they drove the him to my house in Carbondale (four hours away) intending to have a look around.

I flung open the door before they knocked, and without noticing the humans standing on my porch, I reached for the puppy, all huge paws and wagging tail. It was love at first sight, and the breeders didn't bother to run through their standard questions: Where will he sleep, what will you feed him, how much time will he be alone during the day.... They knew he'd be loved and adored and taken care of, so they happily left the pup and headed home.

I named him Arnie, and we were inseparable from that moment forward. I had never owned a dog all by myself before, so Arnie and I kind of grew up together. As I made mistakes as a "parent," we both learned the importance of training and discipline. I eventually learned that even though I love Arnie, sometimes I had to be firm with him - like when he rolled in dead animal carcasses, for example, and wanted to hop on the couch immediately afterwards....see, that's bad.

Arnie is very mellow. He takes everything in stride, doesn't seem to take it too personally on the rare occasions when I do have to put my foot down ("No, Arnie, you can't have a slice of pizza"). That said, there's very little that Arnie doesn't share with me. He is my running partner, skiing partner, road trip buddy and frequent pillow.

Arnie is an athlete and friend, family member and sage. On cold mornings, Arnie keeps me company when I shovel the driveway, making snow-angels, burrowing into the drifts, and reminding me to have fun, to relax. In the summer, Arnie and I swim in a creek near our house. He's learning to dive from the big rock into the deepest part of the swimming hole, and when he pops his big yellow head up from underwater, he snorts and sneezes and smiles at me, his wagging tail serving as a rudder.

Three years ago, when I met Brad, I worried that Arnie would be jealous. But he embraced his new friend, falling in love with Brad instantly. A firm "Heeler Man," Brad initially dismissed Golden Retrievers as silly (well, of course they are - that's why they're so freakin' awesome). Arnie was patient, though, and eventually taught Brad that Goldens are probably wiser than any of us - all open-hearts and compassion, love and warmth.

Brad is now a confirmed "Golden Man," too.

Happy Arnieversary, buddy.

In Which Brad Wears His Wedding Ring

Andrew took this picture of Brad after a particularly harrowing rappel into either Heaps or Imogene Canyon (don’t even get me started on canyoneering, but suffice it to say that I associate it with people who wear zip-off pants, no deodorant and enjoy eating gorp – no offense Brad and Andrew, I know you guys like canyoneering. And probably gorp).

What I love about this picture is not that my husband is especially adorable (but he is), nor that he’s sporting a bad-ass rope burn (from the aforementioned rappel) on his leg.

No, what I want you to notice is that he is wearing his wedding ring (on the cord around his neck).

For the first time.

Ever.

I’m touched.

Even if he only wears it in front of the canyoneering dorks (probably a lot like Dungeons & Dragons dorks, but with more gore-tex), it still makes me happy.

Oh, and the other item on the necklace is a Saint Bernard Charm. He’s the patron saint of skiers and alpinists, and while I typically disregard religion as a bunch of hooey, I often find myself praying to Saint Bernard.

It's like they somehow got inside Brad's brain.

Animals? Check.
Rocky theme song? Check.
Rocky training montage reference? Check.

Damn, they know him better than I do.

From the Self-Ascribed Nicknames Department...

Malpha.

Half man, half alpha.

Can you guess who's been referring to himself thusly?

Hint: IT'S NOT ARNIE.

I have to wonder, though, does that make me the Womega?

COME ON!

This is delighting me like little else ever has. Seriously. The best part is around the 22 second mark, when you can see the puppy's tail wagging.


The more you watch it, the better it gets... Not unlike THIS! (Yes, I KNOW it's a prairie dig, but "Dramatic Prairie Dog?" Please. Where's the rhythm?)


Now, as adorable as the puppy in the first video is, I just can't ever imagine doing something like that to Arnold or Red. They don't eat people food (except when Brad feeds them), and even if they did, they'd never stoop to such sophomoric forms of entertainment.

Arnie prefers extreme sporting.

(Please note: This is Saint, not Arnie. Also note the excellent form of Saint's Downward Dog; my yoga teachers would be impressed.)

Um - and this is just a suggestion - if you're ever looking for something to do, just type "Surfing Golden Retriever" into Google. Again, just a thought. But seriously, though, not a bad way to kill 5 minutes while you wait for files to upload.

"The Time Has Come for Someone to Put His Foot Down. And that Foot is Me."

Last weekend – between margaritas and extended bouts of laziness – Brad and I joined Bill for a little tour in Toledo Bowl.

Following a junk show morning that didn’t even start till 11 am (for those of you who know my husband, you understand that our start was so late it might as well have been the NEXT DAY) and included one lost wallet, one tour of a newly finished basement, one missing ski, one boot flex test and one stop for lunch, we parked in front of the Deep Powder House and started skinning toward Pole Line Pass.

My memory of the short walk to Pole Line is a lot like my memory of climbing at the Minimum in Maple Canyon. This summer, after getting on the route 49 one time, I announced, “that thing’s, like, 5.10!” and proceeded to declare that I’d “totally flash it” my second try.

Not the case.

Similarly, as I toed into my Dynafits, I turned to the boys and said, “So we’ll be at the top in like, 15 minutes, so should we ski Cardiac today?”

Keep in mind that as I spoke those words, it was 2 pm. It gets dark at 5 pm. Between the three of us, no one is in particularly awesome shape right now, not was any of us really motivated that day (remember the 11 am kickoff?).

Both men looked at me, looked at each other, and without a word, put their headphones on.

Ok, so that’s not how it exactly how it went down – it wasn’t quite so choreographed. But they did look at me like I was a lunatic.

But that’s not news.

They do that all the time.

We ended up having a good, short tour. It was nice to ski with two of my favorite people, and it felt great to push a bit on the climb.

Here's Brad getting ready to point 'em.


And here's Bill's patented photo pose.

That for which I am thankful.

Laughter. People who make me laugh. People who laugh with me. Out loud and till my face hurts.

Family. Brad. Mom, Dad and John. The Barlages. My two boys (yes, they're dogs).

Friends. When they tell me "everything's gonna be ok," I believe them.

Places that inspire me. Knowing where they are and returning to them again and again.

Frost on the ground this morning. It's about goddamned time.

Tiger balm. I guess I'm getting old.

The woodstove all glowy and warm. Thanks to Brad.

Time to rest, to read, to knit, to relax. Not everyone gets that time. I'm lucky.

Brothers. Together Again.

Today when Brad and Red pulled into the driveway, Arnie was so excited to see his brother that he jumped up on the van and kissed Red right on the snoot. Red kissed Arnie right back and when he jumped out of the van, they wiggled and wagged and sniffed and smiled.

I almost started crying - that's how cute it was.

They missed each other. I can't believe it.

Later, we hiked up Grandeur and I stopped to take a few photos.

Happy boys.


Still happy.


More happy.


I have about 15 more images of the same, but my respect for your time prevents me from posting them. I know you're very busy people. I'm looking out for you.

Mouse in House, 2

There are more mice in the house. Ed killed one while I was away, and now I'm finding mouse droppings in our cupboards (not where we keep the food, nothing THAT gross, but in the under sink cupboards of the kitchen and bathroom).

I think Brad's annoyed with me because of my refusal to deal with the situation, but the thing is, while I don't like the mice being in our house, and while I worry about the dogs getting sick from them, I can't bear the thought of killing them, of scooping up their rigid, furry-but-blood-soaked bodies and tossing them into the trash can.

(Trash because our recycling bin CLEARLY states, "No Dead Animals." Now, how many people do you suppose tried to recycle road kill before the recycling company had to go so far as to print the rules on the can?)

Just like I haven't been able to eat meat lately, because the thought of hurting an animal breaks my heart (I know, I know, that's the reason 6 YEAR OLDS become vegetarians), the thought of placing a trap for the "critters we dun' got" just does not sit well with me. So Brad will have to deal with it when he gets home.

This is my act of civil disobedience. Well, this and my refusal to wear open-toed shoes in the winter.

666

Teri , whose blog is delightful, and who values her animal companions as much as Brad and I value ours, tagged me for "6 Things." My "6 Things" will take on the theme of "Katie's Perfect Day."

1. Strong black coffee in the brown stonewear mug I took from my parents' house when I went to college and still have. In fact, Brown Stonewear Mug is one of my oldest possessions, and one of the 2 things I brought into my marriage. (The other was Arnie.)

2. Long run with the whole family - the dogs running beside me, and Brad on his bike, pacing us and singing the Rocky theme song.

3. Healthy, homemade brunch including the careful combination of eggs, potatoes, spinach and cheese.

4. Throwing the Frisbee with Brad, while the dogs run and prance about happily.

5. Climb or ski.

6. Fire in the woodstove, homemade pizza and red wine, Scrabble.


Yes, I know that's more than 6. I sort of shoved a couple together to make it SEEM like 6, but you, my savvy readers, are very shrewd. You figured me out.

I tag you.

GRW - Arnie is not tote-able.

Brad loves to tote Arnie. You know, just walk around with an Arnie draped about his shoulders like a cape. It's REALLY normal behavior. Most people walk around with dogs (who weigh HALF AS MUCH as they do) around their necks.

Arnie's so mellow, though, that he never really minds, especially when he's really stoned, as he is below:


Arnie isn't as into it when Brad tries to get him all fired up. Arnie doesn't do "fired up," which is unfortunate, because Brad doesn't do mellow. Yet, like Bert and Ernie, they get along famously. As you can see.


Oh, and the wetness on Arnie's head, that's making his fur all cowlicky? That's where Brad was biting him.

This Was Fun.

Sunday, the 21st of October. The first day of the season. We put in 2560 feet at Alta. There were 200 cars in the parking lot by the time we left (noon), and the lifts weren't even running. There were more people skinning and hiking and snowshoeing than I'd ever seen in one place, and everyone was happy and psyched and enjoying the warmish temps and 24 inches of snow.

Brad and I went out with Ed, who took the photos below; we met Mitchell, John and Jaima. Fun day. Can't wait for another, but it looks like all those nice storm cycles have moved on for the time being. That's ok, too; it's still nice to run on the fallen leaves.

Skinning felt great on Sunday, though my skiing was a little rusty. I just love Alta, the part of Little Cottonwood where the road ends and the mountains begin.

Here's Ed, mugging for the camera and the folks on the Eastern seaboard:


Brad and me on top of lap one:


My favorite photo from the day, ripping skins for the first turns of the season:


Again, all photos courtesy of Ed Maginn.

Date Night with Power Tools.

We've been in town the past couple weekends, not necessarily by choice, but because we've had engagements around here. It's a good time of year to be tethered near home, though, because it gives us a chance to stock up on wood for the coming winter.

Left to my own devices, I would probably not spend Friday evenings traipsing through the woods looking for dead trees, aka, future firewood. But the truth is, last Friday, just before dusk, when the air was cool and still, I could think of nothing I'd rather be doing.

We went to Lambs Canyon with Andrew; there was a downed pine near the Samuels-McLean property that needing chopping up. The old green truck climbed the canyon in first gear, and as I creeped slowly forward, I thought back to last winter, skinning up the same incline, thinking that it wasn't all that steep. Maybe Brad's right about that truck not having any power.

While the boys - Brad and Andrew - handled the chainsaws, I stacked wood into the vehicles, watched the light change across the valley and felt greatful to live in the Wasatch. The air was sweet with pine-dust and decaying leaves. I saw moose tracks up the road. The wood promised warmth for winter.*

*Of course, if you know my husband, you know that being warm isn't an issue. More pressing is being so overheated that you start to hallucinate and run outside to bury yourself in snow becaue the house is topping 100 degrees. But for the sake of poetry, I'll keep the text as is.

Before we headed home in our low-riding, timber-filled vehicles, I decided that I should learn how to operate a chainsaw. After all, Brad loves them so much he has one for each hand.

Andrew snapped a few pics of my damage. You'll notice that Brad couldn't even watch my destruction of his beloved Homelite, and I can't say I blame him. Rather than yielding the neat, stackable shape that others seem to produce, my efforts with the chainsaw were rewarded with what Andrew described as a "spiral cut ham."




In fact I didn't actually make it through the log. Once the sawdust cleared and the gentlemen assisted in the cutting, the remaining mishapen hank of wood was relegated to a chew toy for the dogs.

Well, not really. The dogs were scared of it.

Up Up up.

It's definitely getting colder, growing dark earlier and there's snow on the peaks. I'm so happy. As you all know by now, I'm not much of a warm-weather person. Really, though, more than the weather, I'm just excited about skiing. We're very lucky, in Salt Lake, to have almost immediate access to the backcountry, and last night, Ed and I were talking about the dozens of absolutely wonderful ski partners in this town. Here's an image from a day, two years ago, when Brad, Ed, Bill B., Anna R., Matt T., Dylan F. and I skied Bonkers, one of my favorites.


Dylan must have taken that picture, because he was ahead of us most of the day...it could have been Bill, though...so the credit goes to one of them. I should be careful to give Bill the credit he deserves, because as you can see, he's not one to tangle with:


I remember the day getting off to a rocky start. I forgot my boots and didn't realize it till I was at the trailhead, so I was 30 minutes behind the group (see what I mean about easy access, though? I drove home, got my boots and was on the trail skinning in just half an hour). Brad came with me, so I felt bad about cutting into his ski time (and thus became Katie the Mean, or rather, Katie the Guilt-Ridden). It was so beautiful, though, such good snow and such great people, that my standard, pre-skiing nerves ("will I be able to keep up?" "will I be good enough?" "will everyone be laughing at me behind my back and wondering why Brad married me?") (Ahem, I know what you're thinking, and for the record, I'm already on medication) faded away in 30 minutes. Which is like, a record for me.


Either a Brad or Bill photo, Katie the Happy.

A New Low

Last night, after an atrocious Scrabble performance by myself, Brad and I were channel-surfing before bed. Flipping through all our new tv stations, we came upon this show.
Wow.

Really?

Brad, though, didn't share my dismay, and was entranced by the antics of the sort of fit-looking participants as they hung from a rope, ran across a bridge and jumped approximately 4 feet in the air.

"I'd CRUSH this thing!"

And actually? I'm sure he would.

Homesick

I ran in Mill Creek tonight, 9 or so miles along the Pipeline Trail, all lined with fallen leaves. The valley was clear; the scrub oak (I think) already reddening. It was a perfect run. Arnie a few paces in front of me, until we met a "very scary" and frail woman who looked to be older than dirt and seemed about as threatening as a ground squirrel.

(For what it's worth, the Iranians take the threat of squirrels very seriously.)


After that, Arnold stayed on my heels.

I got home and drank some chocolate milk, my new favorite recovery drink, and went grocery shopping. Kind of homesick for a Pennsylvania Autumn, I decided to bake cheese straws and make chicken soup. The house is warm, the air outside growing cooler and Brad just called, on his way home with a van-load of firewood. We'll unload the van tonight, stacking the wood into very specific piles (if you know Brad, this is no surprise) and imagining winter, fires in the stove, skiing, sleeping under the quilt, the dogs curled near.

Now for the Funny

This weekend, in A-PLACE-THAT-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED, Brad was working on a tough route that he couldn't seem to free. After he ran a coulpe laps, Arnie thought he'd give it a go.


Even with the Evolve shoes, .5 splitters are hard for Arnie. I mean, he doesn't have fingers, so he can't exactly secure ringlocks. Not that I've even learned what "ringlock" means yet, so far am I from ever perfecting the form.

It was a nice weekend, though, with beautiful weather (we were at 9,000 feet, so I was almost not too hot) and amazing terrain. I like to think that part of the pleasantness came from my new cookie recipe, samples of which we took with us to
A-PLACE-THAT-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED. Here's what they looked like:


Minus the silly box and cheesy ribbon (I mean, chiffon? Ew. Why not a velvet ribbon? Or Grosgrain?). I used organic flour, brown sugar, eggs and butter, then threw in some non-organic vanilla (it's all I could find in the pantry) and added dried cranberries (no sugar), dark chocolate shavings and coconut.

Good, but not perfect. They just weren't quite right. Maybe too much "stuff" in them? Maybe oatmeal dough next time? I don't know.

And yes, by telling you this, I'm now introducing another feature on this here blog (in addition to everyone's favorite: Golden Retriever Tuesdays). It's called: Getting Baked on Sunday!

Stay tuned; there'll be more goodies to come.