Reason #4,327 Why I Love This Town

If one were so inclined, one could drive from my office to the base of Aspen Highlands, ride two lifts, hike 850 vertical feet to the top of Highlands Bowl at 12,300 feet, ski down to the car and be back at work in a 1 hour and 15 minute round trip.

Now the way I look at it, that's a borderline-egregious lunch in most offices. Two hours? Definitely over the top. One hour? Standard. But an hour and a quarter falls neatly in that beloved gray area, so on Tuesday I thought I'd throw caution to the wind and take advantage of the nearby mountains.

Once off the lifts, I paused to affix skins to my skis for the climb up the ridge. Rare to this time of year, there were only two other guys preparing to do the same. This may have had something to do with the brutal winds that were scouring the exposed ridge line (see picture above. that's not a cloud, that's snow being transported off the ridge). These two guys could have been anyone: overzealous Texans, Argentinean seasonal employees, local ski bums...but today I got lucky. On this day, I would be climbing and skiing with two of my heroes.

Meet Ted Mahon and Neil Biedleman, two seemingly average guys that have done some seriously badass things. Both have stood atop Everest, but their list of accomplishments goes well beyond the world's tallest peak.

Mahon recently became only the third man to ski all 54 of Colorado's 14,000 summits, making several descents along the way that have now become part of ski-mountaineering lore. (First to accomplish the feat was Lou Dawon, who I also was fortunate to share some turns with, chronicled here) To put it in perspective, Mahon's descent of the Landry Line on Pyramid Peak (shown below) was what's called a no-fall line: you fall, you die.

Mahon is also an accomplished trail-runner, having raced in several of my favorite races (Pikes Peak Ascent) and several I've only dreamed of (Leadville 100).

As impressive as these accomplishments are, they pale in comparison to what Neal Biedelman pulled off in May 1996. For those of you who have read Into Thin Air by John Krakauer, or the book that served as a response to Krakauer's take, The Climb by Anatoli Bourkreev, you may recognize Biedleman's name. He was serving as a guide in the spring of 1996 when a vicious storm blew in during their descent from the summit, leaving 10 people, including 3 guides, dead.

What makes Biedleman a hero is not his mere presence on the mountain that day, but in reading the two books written about the incident -- each with vastly different viewpoints on what went wrong and who was to blame -- he is the only person universally lauded as a hero. And this from a man who was climbing Everest for the first time.

I won't inundate you with details since I highly recommend you read both books, but Neil was responsible for saving several lives during the storm; this is not in dispute. One of the rescues literally involved strapping a lifeless man to his back and descending the mountain; now that's a mid 80's Van Damme movie level of badassedness.

For me, having the opportunity to ski with these two was akin to showing up at your local public course on a quiet morning to find you've been paired with Tiger Woods. Now, that may seem silly to you, but what do you know? You still wet the bed on occasion. That's right; I know.

On the climb, I did my best to not be overbearing and annoying, but I asked some questions I've long wanted to. Both guys were gracious in dealing with me, particularly when their oxygen would have been better left conserved while hammering uphill at 12,000 feet.

That's the funny thing about people: wind up in the company of some good ones, and even when the air is thin, your legs are burning, and a relentless wind whips your face, you'll find you still don't want the conversation to end.

The author enjoying a rare mid-week descent of Highland Bowl.

We've Tasted the High Life, and Predictably, it Tastes Like Cookies

Lauren and I have always considered ourselves common folk. Our modest sensibilities were forged through our respective lower-upper-middle class upbringings.

Despite living in one of America's wealthiest towns for the past three years, I'd like to think we haven't changed. Lauren still prefers Old Navy to Ralph Lauren and regular K-Mart to that uppity Super-K, while I still siphon gas from unsuspecting neighbors to fuel my beat-up Subaru and neglect to shave or shower for weeks at a time. It's just the way we were raised.

And until recently, neither Lauren nor I, in all our worldly travels, had ever flown first class. I've had some opportunities to do so in the past, particularly with some of my business travels, but to be honest, I just never considered myself a first class kind of guy. My father spent the better part of my childhood instilling in me the belief that our country had an elaborate set of checks and balances established solely to keep guys like me OUT of first class, and I guess I took those lessons to heart.

But sometimes life throws a twist at you, and you've just got to roll with it.

Lauren and I were scheduled to fly out of Newark for our return trip to Aspen at 8 AM on New Year's Day. That is, until Lauren decided to start throwing up soon after what remains of Dick Clark introduced the eastern time zone to 2009. When 5 am rolled around, it was clear she wasn't up for flying, and in her pregnant state, it appeared stuffing her in my carry-on bag and stowing her safely in the overhead compartment was out of the question.

So I went to work on making alternate arrangements, only to learn that there were only two seats available that would get Lauren back to Aspen in time for school on Monday, and they were in... first class.

So we bit the bullet and bought the tickets, only to learn upon printing our boarding passes that at Continental, they don't call it first class, they call it "elite." That's right, elite, as in "best of the best," "superior to you," and "how dare you make eye contact with me."

As we arrived for check-in the next morning, I was fully prepared to voice my displeasure regarding Continental's passive-aggressive oppression of the working class when,wait...what's this? We don't have to wait in line? And what's that? No baggage fees, you say?

As we rid ourselves of our luggage and made our way to the lengthy security line, I found myself growing drunk on the power provided by my elevated status. Inside me a righteous anger raged as I took my place in line behind mere commoners, but I kept my indignation quiet, as I knew my loving, caring, sensitive spouse wouldn't be similarly effected by a brief flirtation with cultural supremacy.

And that's when I heard something I never thought possible; my kindergarten teacher of a wife looking down at her boarding pass, and loudly proclaiming to the man guarding the entrance to the security line, "We don't have to wait in this...WE'RE ELITE!!"

Now, I'm assuming if you're reading this you know Lauren, but if you don't, there really aren't two more unlikely words one can imagine coming out of her mouth. But that's the poison of privilege, I guess; it'll corrupt the best of us.

Once on the plane, the four hour flight quickly passed in a blur of fruit salads and spacious seating and complimentary headphones and fresh baked chocolate chip cookies and hearty shoulder rubs*.

Back in Aspen, Lauren and I slowly normalized to our usual feeling of inferiority, aided greatly by the abundance of private jets, fur coats and plastic surgery that tend to permeate our fair town come January. But deep inside, we'll always cherish those precious few hours when we were "elite."

* May be an exaggeration

Grass, We'll See You in June

Now, I'm no mathematician, but that looks like somewhere between three to four feet of snow between now and Monday night. And this on top of the ten inches we picked up last night. The skiing was fantastic this morning, and yet I imagine it may well be the worst day for a long, long time.

Late Afternoon: Snow and areas of blowing snow. High near 29. Windy, with a southwest wind around 30 mph, with gusts as high as 60 mph. Chance of precipitation is 100%. Total daytime snow accumulation of 3 to 5 inches possible.

Tonight: Snow and areas of blowing snow. The snow could be heavy at times. Low around 1. Wind chill values as low as -20. Windy, with a west southwest wind between 25 and 30 mph, with gusts as high as 60 mph. Chance of precipitation is 100%. New snow accumulation of 16 to 22 inches possible.

Sunday: Snow and areas of blowing snow. High near 14. Wind chill values as low as -20. Breezy, with a west wind between 15 and 25 mph, with gusts as high as 40 mph. Chance of precipitation is 90%. New snow accumulation of 6 to 10 inches possible.

Sunday Night: Snow likely. Cloudy, with a low around -9. Wind chill values as low as -30. West southwest wind between 10 and 15 mph. Chance of precipitation is 60%. New snow accumulation of 2 to 4 inches possible.

The Weather Was Changing; Snow Began Falling

Aside from representing lyrics from my sister Karen's favorite Breathe song (free tube of partially used toothpaste to whoever knows the song title. You pay S&H!), the title pretty much explains what's been going on in Aspen since the last post. The snow has begun to fall with earnest, and with it the quality of the skiing has improved exponentially. I got the opportunity to poke around in the backcountry off Richmond Ridge last Monday, but alas, no camera.

With the avalanche conditions getting a little hairy in the backcountry due to the mounting snowfall, Maci and I opted instead for a jaunt up Buttermilk resort, still a week away from its opening day. Here we are at the summit, where a kind gentleman had just finished his own climb and was willing to snap a quick photo.

A view of ominous skies and Highland ski resort falling away from Highlands Ridge. That's the Maroon valley to the right, the gateway to the Maroon Bells (America's most photographed mountains) and Pyramid Peak (world's tallest mountain*), none of which were visible on this day. That's also the route we took last fall on our hike from Aspen over Maroon Pass to the neighboring ski town of Crested Butte, chronicled in great detail here.

After a disjointed climb through some difficult snow conditions and a miserable descent, dog and owner needed some recovery time. Lauren walked downstairs to find this scene unfolding on the couch and was kind enough to grab the camera. Do I smell a Christmas card?

Currently, the Nitti family is making final preparations for their annual trip back to NJ for Christmas. I had suggested simply celebrating the holidays with our family via Facebook, but Lauren shouted down the idea.

Eh, maybe next year.

* May not be accurate

Ski Season #3 Begins

People who live in the mountains tend to say -- ad nauseam, if I might add -- "If you don't like the weather, wait thirty minutes -- it'll change." This weekend we witnessed that phenomenon firsthand.

Thanksgiving morning dawned sunny and bright, so while the calendar dictated that it was the beginning of Aspen's ski season, it sure didn't feel like it around town.

Undaunted by the green landscape, I decided to head up to town and make some turns on Ajax. A quick shot of the current year's quiver. Each ski, like the clubs in a golf bag , serves a specific and vital purpose, with no overlap or redundancy.

Here's a quick view of the Little Nell from the gondola. As you can see, snowfall has been a rarity in the early season.

At the top of Aspen Mountain (Ajax) a ceremonial pre-first run photo. Behind my head and just to the right is Highlands Bowl, perhaps the best inbounds skiing in the continental US, with consistent 40 degree pitches for 1500 vertical feet. Just to the left of my head are the Five Fingers, backcounty pitches accessible from the top of Highlands Peak.

The skiing, as you might imagine, was awful. Only a few runs were open, and with hundreds of people eager to start their season scraping away the snow with every turn, it wasn't long before the conditions became downright scary. After about an hour of getting my legs under me, I made a hasty retreat to the safety of my couch.

As we settled in for dinner later that evening, storm clouds rolled in from the west, and before the last of the apple pie was consumed we had already accumulated nearly a foot of new snow in Aspen. This gave me all the motivation I needed to wake up early the next morning and take Maci for a climb and ski.

Applying skins to the bottom of my boards for the first time since April. For those of you unfamiliar with ski-mountaineering, skins -- when combined with a releasable heel on your binding -- allow you to climb on your skis without sliding.

I took the dynafits out for two simple reasons: they're really light and I'm woefully out of shape.

While there wasn't much new snow at our starting elevation of 8,000 feet, by the time we had ascended to 9,000 or so, Maci was up to her shoulders.

It was snowing heavily during the climb, and with visibility limited, most people chose to stick to the resort and Maci and I had this peak to ourselves.

Throughout the climb, Maci is free to roam ahead, frolicking and digging where she may. But when I call, she comes a-running.



Once we hit the ridge, the combination of cold and wind became too much for both of us so we decided it was time to do some skiing. As you can see, Maci gets a touch excited when we make the preparations to start heading downhill.

Once we start skiing, my main concern is keeping Maci from darting in front of me. Many a dog has been sliced open by a ski edge when they got a little too close. With the snow as deep as it was, this wasn't a huge concern as Maci is working so hard just to keep moving downhill, she doesn't have any energy to waste attacking my ski tips.

The dog and I made it downhill in one piece, even enjoying about 18 inches of powder for the first 900 vertical feet or so. All in all, not a bad start to the season.

Giving Thanks

Three weeks ago, Aspen held its annual ski swap at Lauren's school. The swap is a rite of passage for valley residents, as it offers an abundance of discounted gear just in time for the upcoming season.

Lauren, being the person she is, always volunteers to work the swap, while I, being the person I am, volunteer to use my spousal privliges in order to get in early and horde the best deals. We work well togther that way.

The swap started at seven, so Lauren hung around after school to work in her classroom. Meanwhile, I grabbed dinner with a friend downtown, with eyes on swinging over to the school right when the doors opened for the special "friends and family" shopping period.

Dinner ran a bit late, however, so I didn't make it to the swap until nearly 7:30. By then, shoppers were everywhere, and my wife was buried deep within their midst. I hadn't called her to tell her I'd be late, but rather than use my cell phone to track her down, I figured I'd start perusing the goods and when I ran into her, I ran into her.

As I turned down an aisle of clothing, I spotted Lauren about 30 feet away, near the end of the row. She was in mid-conversation, and hadn't yet noticed my arrival.

As I worked my way down the aisle, Lauren finished her conversation and turned towards me. She took a couple of steps, looked up, and our eyes met; and when they did, her face lit up with a look of excitement that's burned into my memory.

And that, in this year of so many miracles, both minor and major, is what I am most thankful for. That my wife, after all we've been through, after all she's endured, still looks at me the same way she did that first summer down the beach. Nothing has changed.

To be strong for your husband when he needs you is one thing; to not over time let that pressure and burden taint or diminsh the way you love him is another thing altogether.

Oh, and my dog likes to wear a wool hat with a brim when we're waiting for Lauren in the school parking lot. I'm pretty thankful for that as well.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

Looking Back

Six months.

It doesn't seem possible that its already been half a year since the surgeon opened up my head and clipped an aneurysm that was ready to rupture. But the calendar doesn't lie. Just look at all that's happened since May: the economy has collapsed, the once-promising Christian Slater sitcom has come and gone, and in a landmark, world-changing moment many skeptics believed wouldn't happen in our lifetime, the Phillies won the World Series. Oh, and we elected the country's first black president.

When you look at it like that, six months seems like plenty of time to recover from a little brain surgery. So now seems like as good a time as any to reflect on all that's happened.

First and foremost, it's awful nice to be alive. As Lauren and I look back on some of the things I was doing over those last few months prior to the diagnosis, it's a miracle the aneurysm didn't give out. From the 15,000 feet of climbing at the 24 Hours of Sunlight, to the climb and descent of Hayden Peak just 10 days prior to the discovery, to my run up the Arbonny Kittle trail the day BEFORE the diagnosis, the thing sure had ample opportunity to rupture, and if it had, there's a 70% chance I'd be gone.

So there's that. It's something I think about quite a bit because sadly, most aneurysm stories don't end so well. I was one of the lucky few that had advance warning, in my case in the form of a wicked migraine while out climbing with my dog one afternoon.

Then there was the surgery. We were given all the standard warnings and statistics regarding the potential for problems; including but not limited to disability and death. But my surgeon, as he's known to do, pulled through with a kick-ass job.

Two days after the procedure, as I lay in the hospital running though my own self-imposed, informal neurological testing, I realized that everything was still there. From my childhood phone number to the 1991 Final Four participants to Homer's alias while he's temporarily crashing at the retirement home (Cornelius Talmidge), it was all there, and for that I was grateful. My biggest fear going into the surgery was that I would come out and not recognize my wife, or even worse, recognize her but not be able to communicate. But fortunately -- very fortunately -- that wasn't the case.

Since the surgery, I have slowly progressed to my pre-operative state, but not in anything resembling a linear or predictable manner.

Three months after the operation, as Lauren and I returned to Aspen and the physical pain had finally diminished, I considered myself "healed." I was back at work full time, I was running every other day, I could even enjoy a cold beer or three if I so desired. By any clinical definition, I imagine I was indeed healed.

And that's precisely when the trouble started. Not in any tangible physical sense, but in a mental and emotional sense. In retrospect, I never really processed all that happened until the recovery was "complete," and when it hit me, it hit me hard.

I'd always fancied that if tragedy or adversity did find its way into my life, I'd handle it admirably. I was wrong. I let the fear of a recurrence take over my life for much of the fall, and the pain from the intense emotional overload -- both physically and psychologically -- was in many ways worse than the surgical pain.

But time heals all things. Well, time and a wife with infinite patience. Lauren, god bless her, has bore the brunt of all my weakness over the past few months, and she's carried me through this.

It's an interesting thing, love. On the one hand, if it weren't for Lauren, I probably would have spent the better part of the past few months curled up in the fetal position and sucking my thumb like Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber.

On the other hand, one could make the argument that it was the way I feel about Lauren that made the recovery so difficult. Before I met her, what did I have to lose? As I rejoined reality back in Aspen, the fear of a foreshortened future dominated my thoughts. And it had nothing to do with the fear of dying and death's effect on ME, but rather the effect it would have on Lauren and the sadness I would leave behind. There are few things in life as depressing as waking up in the middle of the night, looking over to the other side of the bed at the person you love with all your heart, and fearing that you won't be around to grow old with them.

But that's the price you pay, isn't it?

As the six month mark rolled around, Lauren and I reached the conclusion that the best way to put these fears to bed was to take some more diagnostic tests and prove to myself that this aneurysm was what the doctors said it was: a one-time, freak occurrence that while life threatening, had a permanent fix.

So last week, I walked into Aspen Valley Hospital, where this all began, and took an MRI and an MRA to test for any new aneurysms and make sure the healing was going according to plan. I was fully aware that the brain takes a long time to completely recover, and that as much as I felt "healed" in September, it will be a full year before I am truly back to my pre-operative state. Nonetheless, we thought a six-month check-up was warranted.

The results are in, and the news is happy. No new aneurysms, and my brain looks healthy and ripe with useless knowledge. The MRI did reveal two tiny areas of dead brain tissue, but I am expecting to hear from my doc that this is the inevitable by-product of the surgery. Plus, as the radiologist reading the MRI pointed out, I have no neurological deficit, so the dead tissue likely isn't impacting me in any way. Although come to think of it, I have been having some trouble with names lately. Oh, and I forgot to wear pants to work today. Boy was that embarrassing. But I'm sure it's a coincidence.

So while I don't consider this chapter of my life closed, we're definitely getting near the bottom of the page. I still get some pain on the surgery side, and it seems to be exacerbated by intense exercise. Not a great thing when the snow should start falling any day now and there's roughly 100 ski days in my immediate future.

Those are little things, however, and with these new test results the fear should soon start fading, and perhaps now I can fully appreciate the simple joy of being alive. That'll be nice.