Nitti Family Trip Report #1: Hunter Valley

Five weeks into our son's life, Lauren and I were starting to wonder what all the fuss was about. Ryan was sleeping relatively soundly through the night, keeping his projectile vomiting to a minimum, and had taken to the boob and bottle with equal aplomb. Things were good.

Until this Tuesday, that is.

Up to that point, Ryan hadn't really done any crying without some obvious genesis to his complaint. With infants, it's typically pretty simple: if they're pissed off, they either need to sleep, eat, or be liberated from the pile of shit they've been sitting in for the past thirty minutes. Hard to blame 'em.

But on Tuesday evening, Ryan let loose with an unprovoked crying fit that would've risen Michael Jackson from the grave, had that hadn't already occurred three days after his death. Wait...what? You say MJ hasn't been resurrected and taken his place at God's right hand? Are you suggesting his measure as a man may have been grossly overstated in light of his early death? Balderdash, I won't hear it.

Anyway, the kid didn't stop for four freaking hours. Nothing helped: not the pacifier, not a feeding, not the highly acclaimed "Five S" technique. He just screamed and screamed and screamed, regardless of what we did. If you've never been fortunate enough to have been exposed to this type of relentless, high-pitched wailing, I assure you, it's excruciating on the ears. Try to imagine a chimpanzee playing a violin...with a diseased cat. All. Night. Long. By the third hour, I was pondering the benefit my impeccable police record might have on any sentence I'd receive when I snapped.

This scene repeated itself on Wednesday evening and into the wee hours of the night, so Lauren and I paid a visit to the pediatrician Thursday morning. The diagnosis? Ryan was "fussy." Now, describing what I witnessed as "fussy" is akin to labeling Adam Lambert as "slightly effeminate," but she's a doctor and I'm not, so what are you gonna' do.

That night, Lauren and I nervously awaited the inevitable eruption, but it never came. Ryan was back to being his well-behaved, rational self. You'd think we'd be pleased with that, but in a lot of ways, the damage had already been done. We were left with the knowledge that our kid has this in him, and that's a terrifying thing. Every time he cries for the next few years, we're going to go into a panic, wondering if it will last five minutes or five hours. Thanks for that, buddy.

To reward the boy for pulling it together, we thought it was time he get out into the wilderness for his first hike. We opted for the Hunter Valley, since we could park up high and avoid some of the more precarious climbing and descending that could potentially cause a tumble and leave me forever disowned by my inlaws. From our chosen start, it's a rolling hike through a pristine valley; a perfect place for my son to get his first taste of the beauty the mountains have to offer.

With Ryan strapped squarely to my chest, Lauren was responsible for Maci and the photographs. Here's an idea of the landscape:

Lauren reconnecting with her first child.

Dad playing the role of sherpa, short lining Ryan along the trail. It was 80 degrees and sunny as hell, so we kept the boy adequately shaded.

The Hunter Creek.

Wildflowers are in full bloom.

Lauren, Maci, and some more wildflowers.

Maci's not used to being on a leash in the wilderness, but she did pretty well.

On the return hike, you get a killer shot of the Elk Mountains, in all their splendor.

We hiked for an hour, then loaded up the car to head into Aspen for the Saturday market. Here's a shot towards Ajax from Red Mountain road.

Back at the house, Lauren and I got to work on readying for the upcoming Nitti family field trip to NJ. Maci? She had other plans.

Fourth of July Weekend

Much like the Republican Party, Sunday comics, and the defending World Champion Philadelphia Phillies, this blog has recently lost its way.

What started as an homage to life in the tiny mountain hamlet of Aspen, Colorado has somehow evolved into a glorified slideshow featuring my infant son in various staged -- if adorable -- poses.

And while the little guy is certainly growing on me, I'll be damned if he's going to take over the website I've poured so much of my blood, sweat, and employer's time into.

So as of today, A Little Place Called... is getting back to its roots, to a time when we regaled readers with tales of harrowing mountain climbs, exhilarating powder descents, and B-list celebrity run-ins. In other words, life in everyday Aspen.

This weekend, along with the rest of America, the Nittis' celebrated the 4th of July. Every year I get my hopes up for an Independence Day filled with high-octane action and excitement just like in that movie, The Matrix. Instead, it invariably ends up bland and disappointing, like that movie Independence Day.

Speaking of the Will Smith blockbuster that's become a staple of July 4th cable programming, while I like watching shit get blown up as much as the next guy, there's one thing about the movie that bothers me.

It's the Randy Quaid character. He's introduced early in the movie as the town drunk; a pathetic figure who attributes his hardships to what is universally percieved as a clearly fabricated prior alien abduction.

Towards the end of the movie, after scores of aliens have invaded the planet, the army is soliciting volunteer pilots to launch a counterattack. Randy Quaid volunteers, and adds to his verbal resume that he'd like a little revenge for his previous kidnapping.

And when he does, everyone in the vicinity of Quaid's story rolls their eyes and snickers at his "insanity."

For Chrissakes, at this point, is there really any reason to continue doubting the validity of the guy's story? What more proof does he need? The majority of Earth lies in smoldering ruins after interstellar attackers went all Hiroshima on our major cities, and yet everyone continues to dismiss him as a nutcase for suggesting he was once abducted by aliens. That's just plain insulting.

Sorry about that. It just frustrates me that -- cynics that we are -- a raging alcoholic can never get the benefit of the doubt. Instead, people just immediately dismiss all the wild bullshit that comes out of their mouth. Well, unless you're G.W. Bush, that is. Then they elect you for a second term.

Back to the 4th. Now, on my "favorite ways to spend a Saturday" list, going to a parade falls slightly ahead of a spinal tap and just behind an ass kicking. But the way I figure it, now that I'm a dad I'm facing a solid decade of doing things I once loathed, so I may as well hit the ground running.

All in all, parades in Aspen are just like those in New Jersey, only with a lot more silicone breasts and a lot less Springsteen. Oh, and unicyclists. Lots and lots of unicyclists.

Here's a shot of Aspen Mountain, devoid of snow for the first time since early November.

As you can see, Ryan was clearly enthralled by the doings a-transpiring. The single greatest part of life in Aspen is just how efficient you can be with a small amount of free time. On Sunday, I found myself with two hours of freedom and decided to head out on my bike and see if I couldn't get myself lost.

Not a shabby view from Hay Park, nestled in the Thomas Lakes wildnerness at 9,600 feet.

On the descent, I stopped to snap a couple photos of the wildflowers in full bloom.


And a shot back towards the Roaring Fork valley.

Back in the car and heading home, I had to shoot this close-up of the twin summits of Sopris.

All in all, not a bad little weekend. And as icing on the cake, I made it through an entire post with only one gratuitous shot of you-know-who. Isn't that a refreshing change of pace? Ah, who am I kidding, you've got to give the people what they want. Here's the boy, already one month old.