Trip Report: Williams Peak

With a brutally lean winter leaving the Colorado snowpack perilously unstable, skiers in search of backcountry powder have few options. With natural and triggered avalanches a constant threat, steep lines and big terrain are out of the question. This year, low-angle, mellow slopes are the destination of choice.

With that in mind, we made the counter-intuitive journey down valley to lower elevaton in hopes of finding snow days after the last remants of the most recent storm had been skied away from the resorts.

The goal was Williams Peak, a 10,000 foot summit in Glenwood Springs, 40 miles southwest of Aspen. The weather pattern has been tracking south of Aspen for much of the winter, leaving lower elevations like Glenwood with more snow than the major resorts further north.

Joining me on the climb and ski were Damien and Christine, as well as the obligatory dogs: Maci and Christine's pup Mika.

Here's Christine, with Mika checking the snow quality.

Maci letting us know that the skiing will, in fact, be quite good.

My favorite pic of the day: Mika checking to make sure her owner is on her way.

At the summit, Maci as enthusiastic as ever for the fun to follow.

Damien enjoying some power turns: an all-too-rare moment during this forgotten winter.

Christine getting her tele on. Can you spot Maci in the background?

Mika getting after it.

Maci seeking some rest in our tracks. As you can see, there was powder to be had.

While getting a face shot is the goal of every backcountry enthusiast, it's a bit easier when you're two feet tall.

Maci checking on Damien.

Christine and Mika finishing the descent.

All in all, a great day in a season without many of them.

The Boy's First Christmas: Grading the Gifts

It's Gay Ski Week here in Aspen, which means seven days of festive parades, flamboyant Karaoke performances, and late-night rendezvous in the gym saun...er, perhaps I've said too much.

Gay Ski Week also signifies the middle of January, which means it's time I get off my ass and offer up a review of the boy's bounty from his very first Christmas.

As with any Christmas at any age, some of the gifts turned out to be winners, while others...not so much. So if you're currently expecting or just looking for ways to entice children into your gingerbread house, take note.

Chico Baby Walker

Here's a little secret about being a parent for the first eight months or so: it ain't that bad. And it ain't that bad for one -- and only one -- reason: your kid can't move. So long as you don't leave lit fireworks or a heaping bowl of rat poison within a three-foot radius of wherever you set your little one, you can rest assured he or she will probably be just fine.

Limited mobility translates into ample opportunity for half-assed parenting. You can read a book, watch TV or cure beef jerky in your guest room while all the while remaining secure in the knowledge that your kid is rendered stationary by his still-developing musculature.

The idea is, the eight months it takes an infant to start crawling should afford new parents the necessary time to make peace with the fact that they're solely responsible for another life, to let go of the last vestiges of their inherent selfishness, and to be ready to put the remote down and focus. That's how nature intended it.

But like the inventor of the seatbelt, some meddling egghead decided to play God and speed up our kids' progress. As a result, parents are forced to harness their attention before they're mentally prepared. This is how accidents happen.

As you might guess by the name, the walker grants kids unlimited mobility long before they've earned the right. They can now move forward and back (though not side-to-side or back in time), instantly quadrupling their potential for household destruction or self-inflicted harm while proportionately decreasing the amount of your day you can spend dicking around on the internet.

Thanks Santa!

Parents Baby Teething Keys

Now here's something I can get on board with. Cliché as it sounds, it remains true that even with a room packed with expensive toys, your kid will only want to play with the one thing they're not allowed to touch, whether it be your cell phone, Ipod, or deep fryer.

But it's not simply an annoying trait; this attraction to the forbidden can provide a stumbling block to your child's development if not properly addressed.

As we've learned, the only way to motivate the boy to roll over or crawl is to dangle the proverbial carrot and place something typically off-limits, like car keys, within his reach. That Fisher Price shit won't cut it: the kid's got to want it. That's why these plastic keys are such a brilliant gift idea. Entice your kid with them, and while to you it's nothing more than another toy for them to chew on or walk towards, to them, it symbolizes victory. Unrestricted access to what was once unattainable. Even to infants, the forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest.

Goodnight Moon

Goodnight Moon is to new parents what Steve Miller's Greatest Hits is (was?) to college freshmen. While starting out foreign, over time many of your peers will extol its virtues enough that you'll start to feel negligent for not owning it. And while you'll valiantly resist where so many before you have caved, inevitably, you'll end up plunking down the $15 bucks to fit in.

Oh, and they both suck.

Goodnight Moon has no no plot. It preaches no lesson. As best I can tell, it's just twenty pages of saying goodnight to random, arbitrary, and in some cases, inanimate shit in some rabbit's rodent-ridden bedroom. Of course, the author is probably lighting a Cuban with a crisp $100 while I'm yammering away on a lightly-read blog, so what do I know.

Of course, your kid will freaking love Goodnight Moon, so prepare to read it to him or her nightly. Here's my recommendation for making it tolerable: read it in your best Christopher Walken voice, like so.

This should be done for two reasons:

1. Everyone should have a passable Christopher Walken impression.

2. Everything is more fun when saying it with a Christopher Walken voice. If the doctor would have only used his Walken voice when he broke the news that I had a brain aneurysm, I guarantee I would have managed a chuckle or two prior to being paralyzed with fear. (As an aside, this concept only holds true for two voices: Walken and Yoda. Trust me.)

Give it a try next time. You won't regret it.

Great Gund Wazoo Stacking Rings

                                      

At first glance, the photo above appears to be nothing more than a series of harmless rings of increasing size, designed to teach your kid spatial awareness and problem solving while simultaneously providing something desirable upon which to gum. But remove the rings, and you'll see that the good people at Great Gund have not-so-subtly given your child their introduction to a concept destined to provide a life-long source of sophomoric entertainment, regardless of gender: The phallic symbol!

                                     

As you may or may not be aware, penises are everywhere. They're in our architecture...

They're in our national history...

They're even in our golf trophies.

The sooner my son learns that most of life can be traced back to the male genitalia, the quicker he'll realize just how hilarious that is. That way, we can share a laugh together when we're watching football and some repressed analyst gets a little Freudian with a telestrator.

So in summary, skip the walker, get the keys, burn Goodnight Moon, and collect as many penis-shaped toys as humanly possible. Your kids may not walk until they're four, but I guarantee they'll have one hell of a sense of humor.

PSA

Hi! I'm Tony. You may remember me from such mildly amusing blog posts as "That Day I Went Skiing" and "Adventures in Babyshitting."

As you might have noticed, the blog you've come to know and read with relative disinterest has ceased to be. For four years, every detail of my relatively mundane existence has been chronicled on this here website: the dizzying highs, the terrifying lows, even the creamy middles. And now it's gone. Why?

Because you're all sick, that's why. No, not you. You seem to be on the level. I'm talking about the rest of you deviants.

This should come as no news to you, but the world is overrun with disturbed, nefarious individuals like child predators, identity thieves, and Pat Robertson.

Over time, we tend to become numb to this fact, particularly when we live in the insulated and protective "bubble" that is a small mountain town.

But then one morning you wake up, flip open the paper, and read about yet another act of unspeakable depravity, and it dawns on you that entirely too much of your family's personal information lives on the internet in the form of your blog. And this scares the shit out of you.

Call me paranoid if you will, but I've made the hard decision to archive all my old writings and start anew. After all, January 1st is not merely the time for fad diets, half-hearted attempts at exercise, and other meaningless gestures. It's a time to reinvent oneself and start fresh.

So the blog will continue, only in the more standard, "anonymous" blog form. It pains me to do it more than you can imagine, as I truly believe the only thing that made my blog readable was its honesty. People seemed to enjoy watching a young family grow in real time, while struggling with a bit of adversity along the way.

Obviously, my future posts won't provide that same window. This will disappoint you if you stop by with the sole hope of seeing videos of the boy or the misses or the dog, or reading detailed accounts of our everyday activities. But that's the way it's gotta' be. I've got a family now, and its incumbent upon me to take whatever steps necessary to ensure the safety of my most cherished love ones. And this way, my wife and son will be protected, too.

Every cloud has a silver lining, of course, and this situation is no different. While my newfound anonymity may cause this place to lose its personal touch, it should also result in an increased ability to sprinkle my writing with gratuitous profanities without fear of reprisal. I'll be free! Hell Damn Ass Free!!!!

As always, there will be Facebook for the more personal aspects of our lives; at least there you can rest assured pictures of your kid aren't being drooled over by some prisoner in Ohio.

Hopefully, you read the blog not merely to stay connected, but because you were also able to extract some small measure of enjoyment out of my writing. I assure you, if that was the case, you can still stop by and get your fill of fart jokes, opinionated ramblings, and Simpsons references, both obscure and popular.

The entire archive of my prior posts have been moved to another blog, and marked private. If you have any interest in reading the archives -- and if you do, your loneliness saddens me -- leave your email address in the comments section and I'll "approve" you for access.

Talk to you soon.

The One Where Maci Almost Dies, and More Simpsons Videos = More Threatening Emails From Youtube

I'm not much of a storyteller, but this one is just too strange to pass up.

Last week, the piece of shit lightly used previously owned Subaru my father sold me prior to running his dealership into the ground retiring broke down. I dropped the car off to be serviced in Glenwood Springs, a town 20 miles west of Aspen, and on Friday afternoon I got the call that it was ready.

My temporary housemate Poochie Brett, shown here posing seductively in front of Pyramid Peak, was kind enough to offer me a ride to the Springs to reclaim my car, and I happily accepted. As we were leaving the house, I felt the separation anxiety that befalls me everytime I leave Maci behind, so I invited her along. The three of us piled into Brett's Nissan Frontier, Maci resting comfortably on my lap in the passenger seat.

So there we were -- Maci, the dog with whom I have an unhealthy attachment, and Brett, the unwelcome guest to whom I'm fairly indifferent -- cruising down Highway 82 at 65 mph when BLAM-O!

The next thing I know, I'm kissing an airbag, with a death grip on man's best friend. As the car slowly cruises to a stop on the shoulder of the highway, I look over at Brett, who says simply "deer."

Now, far be it for me to accuse a 26-year old kid in an obnoxiously large truck of driving irresponsibly, but I feel the following video is a fair reenactment of our drive to Glenwood.

 

The worst seemingly over, Brett and I took inventory of ourselves (fine), the Canyanero Frontier (busted up), and the dog (losing her shit). As we exited the car, Maci decided she'd had enough of the current situation, and did her best to break loose. Luckily, I had a strong hold of her collar. Until, that is, her collar snapped.

Now free, my insane-with-fear pup sprinted away from the wreckage, running against traffic along the shoulder of the busiest highway the Roaring Fork Valley has to offer during its Friday afternoon rush hour. I gave chase, screaming fruitlessly and waving my arms like a lunatic at the cars buzzing within four feet of my dog.

As I watched Maci pull farther and farther away, I accepted that at some point, she would deviate from the straight line she was holding along the shoulder, giving her a 50% chance of heading into traffic where instant death awaited. Not only would my best friend die, I realized, but I would watch it happen, ensuring me a lifetime of heavy therapy sessions.

One hundred and fifty yards from the accident, Maci hit an intersection. If she went straight, she's get drilled. If she went right, she'd get drilled. Luckily, she turned left, into a parking lot we frequented on many trail runs over the spring and summer. By the time I reached the trailhead, Maci was nowhere to be found, but I eventually stumbled upon her, terrified and shaking beneath a tree.

We were eventually able to coax Maci into Lauren's car, and she curled up on the passenger side floor as Lauren, Brett and I dealt with the cops, filled out the necessary paperwork, and arranged for a tow. Two days later, she was like new, as evidenced by this photo of her standing triumphantly atop Buttermilk ski resort, with Pyramid Peak in the background.

Advice From a Kick Ass Dad: FAQ Edition

Six months.

This morning, as I reflected on the half year that's passed since my son joined us, it dawned on me that to the surprise of many, I've developed into one kick-ass dad. I willingly change the nastiest of diapers. I rock my son to sleep at 3 AM if he’s fussy. I happily feed the kid pears and sweet potatos and the occasional Slim Jim when there's football to be watched. Cliff Huxtable ain’t got shit on me.

Sure, sometimes I’m not as “attentive” as I could be or as “nurturing” as I should be, and yeah, from time to time I may "go missing from the house for days on end with no explanation,” but the numbers don’t lie: Six months + minimal concussions + zero toes chewed off by rodents + only one near drowning = STELLAR GODDAMN PARENTING.

The truth is, raising a kid isn’t all that hard. Of course, most of the complaining you hear traditionally comes from the martyrs mother's side, so perhaps it's just easier for us dads. 

Either way, if you’re new to this whole parenting gig, you’ll probably need a little help to get you on your way. That’s why I’ve put together this handy little FAQ (“frequently asked questions, for the layperson), compiled from my six months of hands-on experience, to give you the kick start you need.

Take the appropriate notes, and perhaps your kid will end up half as cool as mine.

Q: Ryan seems like a rather low maintenance baby. Why is that?

A: Because we named him Ryan.

You’ve all heard the joke that if you name your daughter Candy or Bambi she'll inevitably wind up a stripper, right? Well, the underlying concept holds equally true for a boy. As a parent, your son’s name is more than just the collection of letters you’ll sign as you liquidate his college savings to pay off your gambling debts; it sets the tone for his entire life.

We chose Ryan because it’s simply solid; a name that will beget a steady, drama-free life filled with moderate levels of hard-earned achievement. As parents, that’s really all you can hope for.

To give you an example of our thought process, Lauren and I briefly flirted with the idea of naming the boy A.J., until we realized that this would destine him to play high school tennis, pledge a fraternity, and develop a raging coke habit in his early twenties. And nobody wants that.

So if you’re having a son, choose the name wisely. Try to avoid today's sissified “flavor of the month” choices, unless of course, you'd like your son to grow up and front a mildly popular boy band. Instead, go with something that will stand the test of time and set your kid up for a lifetime of success. While I recommend Ryan, the following would also be suitable:

Michael
Kevin
Eric
Hunk Golden
Sir Hotbod Handsomeface
Dr. Lawyer InvestmentBanker

Q: I’m a single woman who wants a baby, but I’ve grown sour on men. Can I raise a child on my own?

A: Sure you can. Of course, to quote Chris Rock, you can also drive a car with your feet, but that don’t make it a good f--king idea. Next question.

Q: I’ve heard having a baby will destroy your social life. Is this accurate?

A: Depends. If poker night, happy hour, and Sunday morning tailgates are still staples of your weekly routine, then yes, prepare for a rude awakening.

This is precisely why I encourage people in their twenties to hold off on having kids for a while. At that age, you’re supposed to be doing this type of silly shit. Bring a baby into this world, and if you’ve got even a minimal sense of responsibility, you’ll be shutting that stuff down prematurely. Inevitably, you’ll wind up resenting the kid, your spouse, or both when you’re stuck reading Curious George while your buddies are six bars deep into the St. Paddy’s Day pub crawl. That can’t end well.

Q: If you knew before Ryan was born what you know now, what would you have done differently?

A: This one’s easy. I wouldn’t have waited so long to start watching Nick Jr. Childrens' programming freaking rocks. The lessons these shows espouse are not solely for the benefit of the young.

Thanks to Dora the Explorer, I can now understand seven words on Telemundo’s soccer highlights. After meeting Diego, I’ve stopped torturing small animals for pleasure. And the Fresh Beat Band has taught me the appropriate way to deal with the adversity of getting my tap shoes stuck in a tree hours before my big performance. These are real life solutions to real life problems.

Q: What will be the most surprising benefit of fatherhood?

A: Hmmm....the easy answer would be the realization that your child is a living, breathing amalgamation of you and your soul mate and a physical manifestation of your love for one another. The correct answer, however, will be your wife's breasts. 

Q: Have you set any life goals for your son?

A: You mean aside from these? Yes, I have, and they start and end with this: Don’t be an asshole. I think my brother Dave put it best when he told me, “I could care less if some day my son tells me he’s gay. I just really, really hope he doesn’t grow up to be an asshole.” Brilliant.

It's tempting to guage our success as parents by whether our child meets any number of predetermined -- and in the grand scheme of things, meaningless -- standards we establish, most of which are reflections of our own shortcomings. We get so wrapped up in whether little Johnny becomes a baseball star, or a high-priced attorney, or a city-wide karate champion, we tend to forget that none of these things matter much if in the process, he also becomes a world-class asshole. 

As Lauren puts it, we just really hope our son is a good kid. Nice, generous, and above all, respectful.

Don’t get me wrong, everyone is an asshole at some point in their life; whether it manifests itself in how we handle a tough day at work or an incorrect order at McDonalds. We all have it in us. Our hope for Ryan is that he limits his inherent asshole-ness (word of the day calendar!) to those isolated moments of weakness or frustration, and not let it become his defining characteristic.

You might see this goal as rather unquantifiable, but you’d be wrong. Assholes abound in our society and are easily identifiable to the trained eye.

As a guideline, the following people are assholes:

Spencer Pratt
Kobe Bryant
Dick Chaney
Kobra Kai
The Balloon Boy’s dad
Duke graduates 1892-present

So long as Ryan doesn’t end up wedged between two of these names on some blog thirty years from now, then I’ll consider his life a raging success.

Q: Your son is stunningly handsome. Why haven't you pursued a modeling career for him?

A: Strangely, he doesn’t seem particularly interested in it. For some reason, he seems perfectly content to just lie around the house all day, eating, sleeping and shitting his pants to his heart’s content. I guess he’s just not as driven by the prospect of 15 minutes of fame as other  parents babies.

Q: They say any guy can make a baby, but it takes a real man to raise a child. Is this true?

A: Absolutely not. The easy way out is to stick around and help raise the child you’ve made. I know a guy who ran off with a 23-year old co-worker while his wife was pregnant with their second kid. Now that takes balls.

Q: On the extremely rare occassion when you do screw up, how do you make amends to your wife?

A: If you take nothing else away from this FAQ, take this: a long list of egregious parenting mistakes can be remedied with one simple gesture. At least once a week, surprise your wife by hopping out of bed the minute the kid starts to stir in the morning, and take him or her as far from your sleeping wife as humanly possible. Give your wife an extra two hours of sleep she wasn't counting on, and you'll find that you can get away with apathy, ignorance, and even the occasional negligence.

There you have it. Inspired words from a man who knows how to ski. (Bonus points to whoever can name the movie!) If you have any additional questions regarding child rearing, feel free to email me please consult your local library.

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.