A Walk in the Mountains

Like any good husband with a pregnant wife at home, I decided to spend my Sunday morning cavorting around the woods with two unmarried women.

Our goal was to climb and ski Williams Peak, a small, low-angled mountain near Glenwood Springs. A tour on Williams is really more about getting out into the mountains for a scenic walk and avalanche-safe descent, as the terrain simply isn't big enough or steep enough to offer a thrill or pose a threat.

Lori and Sara working the skin track along the ascent route. Lori previously taught with Lauren in Pennsylvania and made the move to Aspen at the same time in August 2006. My wife and I are still repaying a Karmic debt to Lori from that summer, stemming from a glowing recommendation Lauren had given Lori of some movers we were planning to use for our cross-country relocation. They had given Lauren an estimate that was $2,000 less than the competitiors, and my wife, God bless her, had apparently never been taught the age old adage, "If something appears too good to be true, you're probably getting mixed up with the Russian mafia."

Luckily, Lori took the bait and was the first to use the movers. I think she's still waiting for her kitchen table to arrive.

Nearing the wind-blown summit of Williams Peak. Cool Donnie Darko-esque cloud formations hovering above the peak.

Once on the summit, a couple of shots of the surrounding peaks. Here's a view of the Crystal Couloir on the western flank of Mt. Sopris. I skied from the east summit of Sopris in May of 2007, chronicled in great detail here, but have yet to make it to the west summit.

A shot of perhaps the Elk Range's most famous summit, Capitol Peak. By my best count, it's only been skied six times. Perhaps it's because the approach looks like this?

After a victory shot of the three of us standing on the summit (photo ommitted due to boogie issues on the only male member of the group. these things happen at 11,000 feet), we enjoyed six to eight inches of light powder on the northern flank of Williams. Here's Sara getting her tele-turn on.

/pulling out my best Chris Farley as interviewer impression.

Remember that ocular-illusion photo from the movie Mallrats? And remember how that guy from My Name is Earl becomes obsessed with it because he can't relax his eyes enough to see the hidden sailboat? And remember how at the end of the movie he gets so angry he kicks the picture and inadvertanty saves the day for that other guy from My Name is Earl? That was cool.

/ends impression. Sheds tear for Farley's early demise.

Well, this is just like that, except completely opposite. Somewhere in this photo is a big-ass porcupine. Can you spot him? No? Loser.

Moments of Clarity

Life's a rather funny thing. One minute you're a single guy on the prowl, boozing until 2AM, sleeping through noon, and generally leading a life of sloth and decadence. The next thing you know, you're pushing a shopping cart down the aisle of a suburban Denver Babies R Us, having an impassioned discussion with your wife as to whether the many uses of Butt Paste warrants its inclusion in your ever-growing registry.

I'm fairly certain every father has that "Come to Jesus" moment when the reality of their soon-to-be-irreversibly changed existence kicks them squarely in the ass. For some, that moment may come at the sight of the first + sign on some hastily purchased, self-administered pregnancy test, while for others, that moment may not arrive until they're slapped with a paternity suit while enjoying a light lunch at a local Denny's. Either way, it's coming.

For me, that moment undeniably arrived this past weekend, as Lauren and I made the three-hour journey to Denver in order to take part in the expectant parent rite of passage that is registering at Babies R Us.

Saturday also doubled as Valentine's Day, so I wanted to put on my best performance for my wife. The way I looked at it, she's shown infinite patience with my constant complaining about every ache and pain I've experienced for the past eight months. The least I could do was grin and bear it through a marathon effort in a crowded retail establishment, which if I understand my Dante correctly, is one of the seven levels of hell.

The first thing I had to overcome was the vernacular. If I spontaneously decided to take up cricket, the terminology wouldn't provide as great a hurdle to comprehension as the stuff I heard on Saturday. Pack and Play? Breast pump? The aforementioned Butt Paste? Look...individually I'm aware of the definition of each of those words. Hell, the majority of them have made me giggle like a schoolgirl for the better part of the past three decades. But put them together and I couldn't be more lost as to their meaning or their potential impact on my impending fatherhood.

My only source of solace was that Lauren was learning as she went as well, so we took the day slow and steady, emphasis on the slow. Like four-and-a-half hours in Babies R Us slow. And by the time we were finished, with 60+ items of varying price and practical application scanned and added to our online registry, Lauren and I were both physically and emotionally spent. After all, shopping is the most exhausting activity one can engage in, aside from soccer.

That night, as we rested in our Denver hotel, it dawned on me that somewhere in the seemingly endless string of bottles and strollers and blankets had come the stark realization that baby Nitti is fast approaching. And I couldn't be more excited.

Sure it's intimidating. And nerve-wracking. And more than a little bit terrifying. But damn if the exciting part doesn't win out more often than not. Lauren and I are going to be parents, and while we have absolutely no idea what that means, we're going to find out, and we're going to find out together.

I'd like to think I'm going to be a good father, and if I'm not, I really have no one to blame but myself. I've spent thirty-three years learning how to be a man from the ideal role model, and if I can find a way to be half the dad my father is, my son is going to be one lucky kid.

And I've clearly hitched my wagon to the right partner. I think anyone that meets Lauren walks away pretty certain that she was meant to be a mother, and a special one at that. There are some people that you cross paths with and for whatever reason, you just can't shake the feeling that perhaps it would be best if they didn't procreate. Maybe I'm biased, but from the day I met my wife, I've believed that the world would be a worse place if she didn't pass on her genes and raise children. That's why I knocked her up.

I am sure of one thing: Lauren and I will do everything in our power to encourage our son to lead an extraordinary life. And by "extraordinary" I don't mean by the standard idea of extraordinary as reality television has come to define it-- the accumulation of fame, fortune, or power -- but rather by the willingness to dream and the determination to pursue those dreams.

My parents have always encouraged me to chase my dreams, nonsensical as they must have seemed to them. Now at 33, despite being fairly anonymous, relatively broke, and as powerless as a Nevada boxing commissioner, I believe my life to be extraordinary. I'm living exactly as I daydreamed it throughout college and my twenties: a simple mountain-town existence with my soul mate and my faithful dog, free from the shackles and monotony of corporate office life. It's not for everyone, but to me it's extraordinary. And as my son grows and develops his own definition of extraordinary, I'd like nothing more than to help him see his dreams to fruition.

After all, at the end of the day, isn't that what I'm here for?

Reason #2,564 Why I Love This Town

Forgive me if I'm starting to sound like one of those Aspen propaganda advertisements they run on an endless loop on Channel 2 in local hotels, but I really am quite smitten with this place.

Wednesday was Maci's birthday. As you've probably gathered by now, Lauren and I have a borderline unhealthy obsession with our two year old yellow lab pub.

What's not to love? She's my best friend, office-mate, running partner and ski partner, and her incessant need for playtime helped me regain my strength this summer when all I could do was drag myself to the back porch and fling a frisbee for her to catch. More importantly, she's single-handily forced my wife to do a one-eighty in the dog department. Lauren never grew up with dogs, and frankly, she was quite terrified of them when we first met. Now, Maci rides to work on her lap every morning and Lauren has helped more canines (dogs, to the layperson) in the last 18 months than the ASPCA and the Surrey County, VA Police Department combined.

/crickets chirp as obscure, semi-dated Michael Vick joke goes unrecognized.

Sorry about that one. To make it up to you, here's Maci exacting her revenge on the worlds most famous dog-abuser.

Anyhoo, Lauren and I agreed to wake up extra early on the big day so I could take Maci for a climb and ski before work. There was a time when this was a thrice weekly tradition for the pup and I, but this year has seen us head out less than ten times total, so I rationalized this early morning excursion as akin to giving Maci a birthday present.

After coercing a reluctant wife and dog out of bed at 5:30AM, we dropped Lauren off at work and climbed Tiehack, which happens to serve as the backdrop of Lauren's school. If she weren't so tied up with 19 five year olds, she could actually look out her window and see her husband and dog making their way up the easterly facing slopes of the mountain.

After a cold climb and descent, here's a shot of the birthday girl, looking resplendent in her Ruff Wear softshell, her only defense from the 10 degree temps we were greeted with on this fine morning.
From there we were off to the office, where Maci quickly slipped into a deep slumber. She didn't move until 11AM, when I woke her for a walk over to my client's office to pick up some work.

As we walked in the office, Debbie, Kym and Teree -- the three women that run the show for my clients -- greeted Maci with their standard enthusiastic petting and hearty serving of cold cuts. Kym then pointed to the table in the conference room, and belted out a heartfelt "Happy Birthday Maci!"

Atop the table was a decorative box filled with all the treats and toys a puppy could ever ask for. The three ladies came into the room, opened up the box, and put it on the floor for Maci to enjoy.

Again, these are CLIENTS. Not co-workers, not long-time friends, but clients. To take the time to even bother remembering a dog's birthday, let alone showering her with what had to amount to $80 dollars worth of gifts, is an act of kindness bordering on the unbelievable. I mean, how do you put a price on a novelty tongue with a ball attached, so when a playful puppy picks up the ball, this is the result:

And that is what I love most of all -- yes, even more than the skiing -- about life in this town. There's such a strong sense of community; a feeling that people are, as Kym described it as I incessantly thanked her for this display of generosity, "looking out for one another."

Now, I've never been the best guy in the world. I've lied. I've cheated. And like most people, I've killed a homeless man just to see what it was like. But when you're on the receiving end of such a random act of kindness, you can't help but want to pass that along to other people in your life. It feeds off itself, it really does.

And yes, I am wearing the same pants to my client's office that I wore to ski in that morning. Thanks for noticing.

24 Hours of Sunlight

This weekend was the one year anniversary of the 24 Hours of Sunlight endurance race, which, depending on how you choose to look at that sort of thing, last year either nearly killed me or saved my life last. Good times.

Lauren and I stopped by the race to cheer on some friends, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a bit jealous of those competing. It was a bluebird day, temps were in the high 30's; perfect conditions for one of the most enjoyable races I've ever been a part of.

In case you weren't around one year ago -- when my Aspen-based squad proudly finished 8th out of 83 teams by climbing just over 48,000 vertical feet in the 24-hour event -- the idea of the race is that you ascend from the base of a ski resort to its summit on skis, where you quickly strip your skins, lock your heels and haul ass down the 1,500 of vertical back to the base where you tag off to your teammate, who does the same. This goes on and on and on from the starting gun at 11AM Saturday until the finish 24 hours later. At the end of the race, you're emotionally and physically destroyed, and all you've got to show for it is a finishers medal and a hotel room that will likely smell like feet for the next 3-5 years.

The quality of the racers was much higher this year, as a lot of guys were consistently laying down ridiculously fast times. No world records were set as Eric Sullivan did last year, however, by single-handily climbing over 51,000 feet. Now, I'm no mathematician, but that's roughly the equivalent of climbing from sea level to the summit of Everest in the same day, then going back down and doing it all over again. That's relatively bad-ass for a guy in a one-piece, spandex suit.