If You Don't Like Pictures of Mountains, This May Not Be the Post For You

Facebook is a rather neat thing. It reunites lost friends and lovers. It provides a window to peoples' uncontainable insanity through awkward status updates regarding religion and relationships.  And most importantly, it proves once and for all that America's public school systems have left 98% of our country functionally illiterate.

It also has a kick-ass photo sharing function, so you may well have already seen these pics of my recent Aspen adventures. But now I'm adding narrative, which brings the photos to life! Enjoy.

Ten days ago, resident avalanche expert and all around swell guy Brian McCall got tired of passively waiting for the arrival of winter, and decided to do something about it. He invited me to join him on a climb and ski of Marble Peak, an 11,300 foot summit about two hours southwest of Aspen.

A view of our goal from our parking spot. Marble Peak's summit behind the trees.

Here's Brian doing what he does best: testing the snowpack for stability so we can avoid getting caught in one of these...

...a small pocket avalanche off the east face of Marble Peak's summit. The snowpack was in excess of 120cm at the top, and with the 20 cm of new snow bonding poorly to the existing snow, there were several signs of recent activity.

After 2,300 feet of mostly easy skinning, we arrived at the summit on a typical Colorado bluebird day. Here's a view towards Raspberry Peak, a line I've been eyeing up for quite some time but have yet to ski.

Buttery turns were found off the summit, a huge surprise for this time of year. Brian and I have made our first turns together three years in a row, and we've had good luck on all three occassions in finding unexpectedly good powder.

Brian reaping the rewards.

A final veiw back towards the summit. As you can see, we weren't the only ones with the idea to ski Marble Peak in recent days.

On Sunday morning, I took Poochie Brett out for a quick introduction to any self-respecting Aspenite's favorite form of exercise: going up.

The snow line was creeping ever lower, but I thought we could still get a decent hike in on a local trail, and start to acclimate Brett's legs and lungs to life at 8,000 feet.

Of course, no hike would be complete without Maci, as she led the charge up the 1,500 foot climb. We encountered some snow at the summit, which she used to cool off.

As I mentioned in my previous post, Brett is quite the photographer, and he lugged his equipment up the single track in hopes of finding some quality scenics. He succeeded.

Here's Brett the Jet with the twin summits of Mt. Sopris behind his left shoulder.

Maci making friends with the camera lens.

The day before Thanksgiving, Brian, Brett, two pooches -- Maci and Mickey -- and I headed out to Snowmass in search of soft snow.

I've gotta' say, having a photographer along on these trips is pretty cool. I would never have thought to snap this shot. They call this place Aspen for a reason, you know.

Mt. Daly in the distance.

Brian and I skinning up the western ridge of Snowmass. Brett getting the lighting just right.

A photo of our skintrack, the coolest aesthetic output of any backcountry adventure.

Mickey breaking trail, followed by yours truly, followed by Maci.

Early candidate for blog picture of the year in the "non-Ryan" category. Garrett Peak in the background.

Maci looking regal for the camera.

After two hours of breaking trail through boot-deep snow, I get to enjoy the down.

Maci getting after it, while still listening intently for lurking predators.

Finishing our descent as the snow turns thin.

One last hero shot of the pup.

After the big effort, a well deserved rest for a boy and his dog.

On Saturday, Brian needed to get up above treeline to check out the snowpack for his avalanche forecasting. We opted for the summit of Mt. Baldy, a 13,100 peak accessible from the backcountry gates atop Snowmass ski resort.

The summit of Baldy is the small, triangle shaped peak in the left-center of the photo.

Recent winds had scoured the ridge free of snow. Here's Brian making do with what we had.

Snowmass Peak, one of the Elk range's 14,000 foot summits, in the back center of the photo.

A shot of Capitol Peak, another of Colorado's "14ers."

A view of Garrett Peak from the ridge to Baldy.

Brian skinning the final stretch before we had to switch to booting. As you can gather from the pictures, the skiing was awful. Fortunately, no photographic evidence of my many falls on the windslab and breakable crust exists.

You know boys...they always want to be just like their daddies. Ryan has been rather jealous of my recent winter adventures, so Lauren and I dressed him in his burliest technical gear and stuck him in the fridge for three hours. Good times.

Our New House Guest is Half Joe Camel and a Third Fonzarelli

Judging by the ol' counter in the upper left corner of this blog, readership has slowed a bit lately. Perhaps I've alienated the childless demographic with the recent Ryan saturation. Or maybe the increasing fart-jokes-per-post ratio has turned off the cultural elite. Or maybe your you're all realizing I just don't write very good well, and as a result I'm loosing losing readers.

Regardless of the reason, I'd like to see it fixed. 

In theory, this bit of bad news should provide the motivation I need to improve my writing. Seek out some formal training. Maybe diversify my topics.

But I'm a lazy, lazy man.

So rather than work harder to improve my craft, I'll just look to my old friend television for inspiration. Teacher. Mother. Secret lover. 

Historically, sitcoms have attempted to boost sagging ratings by adding an unnecessary character in hopes of injecting new life into their stale programming. Happy Days brought in the Fonz. Saved By the Bell added that hard-ass chick, Tory. And yes, even the critically acclaimed Itchy and Scratchy needed a shot of Poochie the dog to reinvigorate their dwindling fan base.

Typically, these characters are nothing more than caricatures, cluttering up the scene and spouting contrived catch phrases at every turn. For example, when they were creating Poochie, the following directives were issued to the illustrator:

Creator: He needs attitude, attitude! Uh... sunglasses!

Consultant: Could we put him in more of a "hip-hop" context?

Krusty the Klown: Forget context, he's gotta' be a surfer. Give me a nice shmear of surfer.

Consultant: I feel we should Rasta-fy him by... 10 percent or so.

All Three: Oh, yeah, bingo. Yeah, that's it! There it is, right there! I love it!

The result was the rather "in your face" canine you see above. But let me tell you, Poochie created quite a stir amongst the Itchy and Scratchy faithful. It worked.

Taking a page from my favorite show-within-a-show, Lauren, Ryan, Maci and I are adding a little spice to our lives this winter and bringing in some new blood. My good friend Brett "the Jet" Friel -- lifeguard, budding photog, and collector of hilarious bumper stickers -- will be spending the winter in Aspen, and we're hopeful his experiences as a 25-year old single guy in a world class party town will spice up the blog.

What's refreshing about Brett, is unlike Poochie, he's no ridiculous caricature, born from some out-of-touch corporate desire to capitalize on ill-conceived requirements for "cool" like surfing and sunglasses and bad-ass attitude. He's a real-life, grounded, guy who...oh shit....

Perhaps you should ignore that last paragraph. Yes, that is Mr. Friel, apparently doing his best Poochie impression during a recent trip to Mexico.

In all seriousness, I'm extremely jealous of Brett. And not because he's younger, better looking, and judging from that picture, significantly more Rasta-fied than me.

I'm jealous because he's got the balls that I didn't at that stage of my life. To pick up and move to a ski town at his age on a whim, out of nothing more than a desire to experience a life he's always wondered about, is an act of courage I admire.

Look, I'm smart enough to know that I've got it pretty good. At 34, I'm living exactly as I've always dreamed, aside from the fact that Lauren and I don't spend our free time driving around in a van, solving mysteries.

But by no means was this a linear process for me. It has taken many steps -- some forward, many back, a few sideways -- for me to get from a twenty-three year old CPA at Arthur Andersen in Roseland, NJ to where I am today. And I'm pretty certain that if I had only possesed the cayones Brett has, I might have gotten here sooner.

Life is fleeting. This should come as a surprise to absolutely no one. As you're sitting in your cubicle or manning the assembly line down at the cracker factory, daydreaming of a different reality, the hourglass is emptying.

I don't mean to come off as preachy. Nor am I suggesting that people should spend every waking moment of every day pursuing their wildest fantasies. It's that type of uncompromising thinking that made the poor kid from Dead Poets Society shoot himself. We don't want that. 

No, real life doesn't work like that. Shit gets in the way. We have obligations and responsibilities and families and pressures that sometimes make it impossible to create seismic changes. I understand and respect that.

With that said, if there is somewhere or someone you'd rather be, and no compelling reason you can't make it happen, I'd implore you to at least have a plan. I may not have had any balls in my mid-twenties, but one thing I did have was a idea.  An image burned into my head of exactly what was important to me, and what I thought I needed in order to provide the best life for myself and the family I hoped to have some day. I kept that idea, that image, with me throughout the past decade, anxiously awaiting the one thing that would spur me into action. 

For me, it was all about the girl.

Once I met Lauren, everything fell into place. With her, I no longer harbored any fear of the unknown. Suddenly, picking up and moving to the mountains didn't seem impossible. If the town went bad, if my job went bad, I knew I'd still have her. She gave me courage. Unlike Brett, I didn't have the strength to go it alone.

I shamelessly admit my intent to live vicariously through Poochie Brett for the next six months. He's about to experience a winter he'll never forget, and I'm happy to be a part of it. When his life story is penned, the winter he spends as a young, single guy in Aspen won't make the first few paragraphs, but you likely won't have to flip too many pages to find it. This was his daydream, just as it was mine. And he'll soon be living it.

But our daydream likely isn't yours, and that's just fine. That's the coolest thing about daydreams: they're personalized. What's heaven to me -- living in a quiet mountain town two hundred miles from the nearest shopping mall -- would be hell to many. Maybe you dream of attending art school, or running your own business, or purchasing a really kick-ass watch. I've got no argument for that. I think it was Plato who said "The world don't move to the beat of just one drum. What might be right for you, might not be right for some." Smart guy.

Of course, these things don't come without risks. I 've taken them. Brett's certainly taking one. In all likelihood, you'll have to take one or two as well. If happiness were easy to come by, everyone would have it.

But you owe it to yourself to at least try. What's the worst that can happen?

Except for the whole Dead Poets Society thing, of course.

/As an aside, I think I've outdone myself with the Simpsons references in this post. I'm not sure there is an original thought in here. A shiny nickel to anyone who can count them all.*

* no nickel will be awarded

My Kid Is So Money, And He Doesn't Even Know It

My memory may be a bit fuzzy, but I think it was Randy Watson, frontman for the groundbreaking band Sexual Chocolate, who first sang the lyrics, "I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way."

Very true, Randy. 

But as parents, while we're busy indoctrinating our offspring into our love for the Yankees or distrust of foreigners or whatever it is that makes us us, we often get so focused on imparting our wisdom that we fail to realize that if we simply pay attention, we can learn nearly as much from our kids as they from us. 

Granted, Ryan is the first child I've ever paid any significant amount of attention to, but I've found him to be a pretty interesting dude. Sure he struggles with verbal communication and shits his pants several times a day (more on that later), but he's also seen more bare female breast in the last 24 hours than I have in 34 years, so he's doing something right.

In fact, he's doing a lot of things right, but if we adults could steal just three things from him, I'd recommend these.

Wear Your Emotions on Your Sleeve

Do you see that face? That's the look of pure joy I get treated to every time the boy is happy. It's a beautiful thing because for that moment, you can rest assured that everything is right in his world.

Children don't have the skills -- nor do they see the need -- to temper or hide their emotions. When things are good, they let you know. When things are bad, well...they'll sure as hell let you know that, too. 

But it won't last. As Ryan grows into an adult, he'll inevitably learn that sometimes it's in your best interest to appear happy when you're really not, and other times, it's best to appear sad when you're really happy, like when your wealthy grandmother dies. Emotions, with age, become more of a calculated response than a window to our soul.

In no area of life are these bullshit parlor games more prevalent than in love. We're never more reticent to show our emotional hand than when it's our heart at stake. We do it in the name of not "coming on too strong" or appearing overanxious or desperate, but clearly, it's simply a defense mechanism to protect ourselves lest things go bad.

Sadly, Ryan will be no different. At some point, the boy is going to meet a girl he really digs, and while sharing a beer with his buddies, will have the following conversation (warning: one NSFW moment towards the end)

What makes Swingers, and this scene in particular, such a classic is that every guy between the ages of 21 and 45 has endured this exact useless exercise at some point in their single lives.

It's all needlessly complicated. Wouldn't we all be better off if our emotions were an open book, like our kids?

Think about what I had to go through to win my wife's attention. The story has already been told, but long story short, I quit my job, risked my livelihood, and moved 2,000 miles to take a lifeguarding gig on the off chance that I might run into a girl that, in our one previous meeting, gave no indication that she was aware I was alive.

But what if it hadn't gone down that way? What if when I first met Lauren, she made the Ryan face upon our introduction?

Now, that would have sped up the process a bit, wouldn't it? Instead of six months worth of guessing games, I would have known immediately that Lauren was helpless in the face of my animal magnetism, and I could have skipped that return flight to Denver so we could start our lives together.

So if you're single and reading this, cut the bullshit. If there's some guy or girl or one of each that tickles your fancy, let them know. Give them the Ryan face. Send them flowers. Tell them you're meant to be together and threaten to kill yourself if they don't love you the way you love them. Go with your heart.

(Ed note: It is not recommended that you tell them you're meant to be together and threaten to kill yourself if they don't love you the way you love them.)

How to Turn a Humiliating Moment Into a Sympathetic One

The other day, Lauren, Ryan and I were at my client's office, introducing the boy to the people that indirectly pay my salary. When we arrived, Ryan was still asleep, so we sat around making small talk for a few minutes. As we were talking, he suddenly became unsettled, and what began as a wiggle and whimper quickly evolved into a writhe and wail. 

Then he farted, and was calm once more.

And this was no ordinary fart. It was loud, lengthy, and its scent stung the nostrils. 

Here's the thing...do you know what all the people in that room felt at that undeniably awkward moment? Pity. Not embarrassment, not disgust, but pity. We could see that the poor kid was clearly in a great deal of discomfort, and if he needed to let one rip in order to alleviate that discomfort, well..so be it.

Now, that may work fine and dandy as an adorable infant, but pull that shit as a 34-year old male random adult in a crowded elevator, and suddenly you're worse than Hitler.

It doesn't seem fair, does it? Who's to say an adult can't be in just as much gastrointestinal distress as a child? When you think about it, the boy only eats formula and breast milk, how bad could his gas be? Slip the kid a Wendy's bacon double cheeseburger and a supersized Coke, then let's talk about stomach pains.

But as adults, we don't get that free pass. People look past the underlying pain, and focus solely on the social stigma attached to ridding oneself of said pain. For anyone over the age of 6, every flatulent moment ends like this (warning: NSFW moment at very end courtesy of Seth Rogan):



The lesson here is simple: if you want pity, you've got to earn it. The next time you find yourself in a public setting and last night's enchilada rears its ugly head, ham it up. Kick, scream, do whatever you have to do to draw attention to the fact that if you don't fanny burp and fanny burp soon, you might not make it. Maybe, just maybe, instead of the evil eye that stranger standing nearby will offer you a "poor baby" and a pat on the head.

But I wouldn't count on it.

Learn to Laugh at Yourself

Last night, I was home alone with Ryan when Maci started to take an unusual amount of interest in him. At first, I thought all the sniffing was a sign of affection, until I realized the majority of the attention was focused squarely on the boy's butt.

And that's when I discovered the mother of all poops. Having burst free from the restraints of his diaper in search of sunlight, it was covering his back, shoulders and the inside of his pajamas.

Minutes later, as I diligently scrubbed shit off my son's scapulas, he looked up at me and laughed. And laughed. And laughed some more.

Annoyed as I was, I knew there was something to be gained from this experience. If the kid can laugh through his worst moments, why can't we? Who among us hasn't tripped while running for the bus, or yelled "Hold on...I'm just cutting the cheese!!" in a crowded supermarket, or woke up late on a Sunday morning and forgot to wear pants to church?

And when this stuff happens, we've got two choices: we can either hang our head in shame and half-heartedly protest the church's outdated, oppressive pants requirement, or we can have a good laugh at ourselves and move on with our lives, like children do.

Sure, you may argue that Ryan was laughing because he doesn't know any better, and the timing was merely coincidental. But I think it was more than that. Perhaps, in their simplistic world view, children understand that we're all going to shit our proverbial pants at times, and there's no sense in getting worked up over it.

And that pretty much sums up how kids work. They smile when they're happy, cry when they're not, pass gas with impunity, and laugh off moments that would scar adults for decades. Meanwhile, parents are forced to hold in their emotions as well as their gas, and we take our setbacks far too hard.

So who's raising who?

It's One More Day Up In The Canyon

With winter playing hard to get in this here mountain town, the unseasonably warm weather has allowed for some fantastic early November bike rides. Today I took a break from my fatherly duties (read: financial support and spankings) and headed out for a quick jaunt up to Ruedi Reservoir.

While Denver and the surrounding foothills were pounded by a late October storm, the Roaring Fork Valley hasn't seen any significant accumulation as of yet. Here's the rather green view from 7,500 feet, a few miles up the Frying Pan Road. Coincidentally named Frying Pan River to the right.

Once out of the shade, here's the Frying Pan River illuminated by the vibrant sunshine that's been the norm around these parts for the past few weeks.

Fifteen miles and 1,200 vertical feet from the start of the ride, here's my goal for the day, the Ruedi Reservoir. Not much to look at here.

Zoom towards Hagerman Pass. While the valley is green, the high country is donning its traditional coating of white.

A beautiful view from the descent. This pretty much sums up why I live here.

Nearing the town of Basalt, Mt. Sopris peeks out from behind the foothills.

A close-up of the twin summits of Mt. Sopris. Thomas Lakes bowl begging to be skied from 12,995 feet.

Advice From A Kick-Ass Dad: How To Scare the Shit Out of Your Kids Before Someone Else Does

Lauren and I have this friend. To protect her identity, let's call her Melissa X. No...wait...that might give it away. Let's go with Mrs. Maguire. Yeah, that's better.

Mrs. Maguire has a three-year old son. On Friday, she woke up, got her little boy all dressed up as a tiger or elephant or mutant ninja turtle or whatever it is three year old boys dress up as for Halloween, and headed off to his first preschool costume party. Her son was, predictably, rather excited for the day. This was going to be his first real Halloween, and it was going to kick ass. (My words, not his.)

When they arrived at school, they were greeted by a room full of similarly dressed, similarly enthused toddlers. There were princesses and pandas, Doras and Diegos, butterflies and Batmans...you get the idea. Everyone was having a great time.

Until that one kid showed up. You know, the one dressed as an extra from 28 Days Later, all blood and gore and festering wounds. Once he crashed the party, all the excitement of dress-up and Jack-O-Lanterns and Trick-or-Treat promptly disappeared, as 19 preschoolers peed themselves in unison upon the realization that Halloween isn't all puppy dogs and ice cream. It's meant to be scary, dammit.

As you can imagine, Mrs. Maguire was none to pleased about this. Nor were the rest of the parents. They were the ones left holding the bag, desperately attempting to salvage Halloween for 19 traumatized, pee-stained kids.

And I've gotta' say, I couldn't agree with Mrs. Maguire more. As a new dad, the potential for this kind of situation in my near future infuriates me. If anyone is going to emotionally scar my son by exposing him to stuff he shouldn't be exposed to, it's going to be me, godamn it, not some other unfit parent.

That's why I plan to indulge Ryan's every desire to watch any scary movie that intrigues him, regardless of his age or its level of appropriateness. It's much better to have him ease into a lifetime of debilitating phobias while in the comfort of his own home rather then have them thrust upon him while he's bobbing for apples at his preschool Halloween party.

Phobias like these:

The Clown From Poltergeist

There are a lot of scary movies out there, with many a disturbing scene, but for my money there is no more crippling fear a kid can develop then the realization that when you least expect it, something as seemingly innocuous as a stuffed clown can flat out wreck your shit while you sleep.

In case you've forgotten the movie, here's the clown in it's not-yet-possessed-yet-still-exceedingly-creepy state.

I was seven when Poltergeist came out. I had a stuffed clown hanging from a shelf in my bedroom. You can see where this is going.

Each night before bed, I would turn that clown around so it faced away from me, and every time I opened my eyes, I fully expected it to have gone missing. Every shuffle, squeak or creaky floorboard I heard throughout the night could only be that murderous clown, slowly making its way from the shelf to my bed and preparing to unleash hell. And if I dared to look...well, we all know how that ended for the kid in Poltergeist.

Eventually, I toughened up, waited until the light of day, and hid the clown in my sister's room. Let her deal with it.

The worst part of being subjected to Poltergeist at such a young age wasn't so much the sudden fear of clowns as it was the newfound distrust I quickly developed towards all of the inanimate objects I harbored in my bedroom closet. If a freaking clown could be the end of me, what about those toys better equipped to do some serious damage? Curious George, is that you? GI Joe? Hungry Hungry Hippos????

The Twins from The Shining

You know, for the first hour or so, The Shining really isn't all that frightening. Then Danny Torrance decides to go for a little cruise on his Big Wheel, and stumbles upon these two.

Meet the Grady twins; loving daughters/brutal axe-murder victims of Charles Grady, the former caretaker of the Overlook. They want Danny to come play with them forever...and ever...and ever.

If you saw The Shining before the age of 17 and claim that this scene didn't 1) leave you terrified of identically-dressed twins, and 2) forever change your expectations when you turned the corner of a hotel hallway, then I'm calling bullshit.

The truly debilitating aspect of this Shining-induced phobia is that it doesn't fade with time. Any reasonable adult will eventually come to realize that they probably won't suffer death-by-stuffed clown, but you can never be absolutely certain what previously went down at that Motel 6 you just checked into.

Sweet dreams.

The Shower Scene in Psycho

There's an episode of The Simpsons where Homer, in an attempt to cheer up a despondent Mel Gibson, tells him, ''Before Lethal Weapon 2, I never thought there could be a bomb in my toilet, but now I check every time."

If you've seen Alfred Hitchcock's original Psycho, as I did as an impressionable 13-year old, you know where Homer's coming from. I haven't showered while home alone since 1988 out of fear of being viciously stabbed by a cross-dressing lunatic. Adherence to this policy has kept me safe from harm, though it has made for some awkward elevator rides.

The real power of this legendary scene is that it forces you to accept that you aren't safe anywhere.  There you are, enjoying a hot shower, scrubbing your back, belting out your finest falsetto to that Aaron Neville-Linda Ronstadt duet you dig so much, when BAM...butcher knife through the shower curtain.

Now, by today's standards, these three movies are relatively tame. And that's what pisses me off about Mrs. Maguire's experience on Friday. Thanks to today's cinematic efforts, by the time he's seven, Ryan will very likely be terrified of a whole bunch of shit that I haven't even considered. God knows, if he stumbles upon Paranormal Activity on Starz one night he'll be sleeping in our bed until his late teens. He certainly doesn't need the rest of his classmates' help in introducing him to the concept of fear.

The lesson here is simple, yet so many parents seem to struggle with its implementation. If you want to be irresponsible and screw up your kid, by all means have at it, but kindly make sure you're screwing up only your kid. Don't go screwing up my kid. I can do an excellent job of that on my own, thank you very much.