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.
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?
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.
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.
In case ESPN hasn't already altered you, it's X Games Weekend here in Aspen. For you, that means four days worth of quality alternative sports programming on your television. For Lauren and I, it means we can't swing a dead cat in town without hitting some 5'5" sixteen year old sporting a double-XL jacket and a bandana around his neck. Good times.
To be fair, the games really are a spectacle worthy of seeing up close, but with Aspen nearly doubling in size for the four days of events, the logistics involved in getting to and from the venue have just become too much for Lauren and I to overcome.
As a result, this was a relatively lazy weekend for the Nitti family. On Saturday morning, I headed up to town to work for a few hours, and as I sat in my office, a storm blew in and dumped a foot of snow in less than three hours. Knowing that Ajax would be desolate with all the action unfolding on neighboring Buttermilk, I decided to head out for a quick afternoon ski in search of some powder. There's the bike armed and ready to go.
The mountain, as expected, was deserted. I dropped into Last Dollar trees -- usually tarnished with tracks minutes after the first gondola of the day unloads -- and found no signs of recent human activity. It was such a rare sight, I decided to stop and snap a photo. The skiing, as you might presume from the image above, was sublime: perfectly spaced aspens and 12-18 inches of new.
On Sunday, I snuck out early in the morning to take Maci for a climb and ski. When we reached the top of Tiehack, we stumbled upon Ski Patrol digging out from Saturday night's storm.
Maci, as she's known to do, quickly befriended the female patroller and decided to participate in an impromptu yet carefully orchestrated game of toss and catch:
And a quick action still as well:
On the ski down, I thought I'd shoot a video to prove to my wife the level of insanity we're dealing with when it comes to our dog. Here's Maci, for the first 200 vertical feet or so of our descent, jousting with two 180cm skis armed with razor sharp edges. Despite my best efforts (as evidenced by the violent pole swinging in the video), she doesn't relax until a quarter of the way down the mountain, when she's burned off some of her excess exuberance.
If it seems like these pictures are suspiciously devoid of Lauren, that's because my wife took the weekend to relax around the house and knock out some report cards. You can't imagine how time consuming it can be trying to determine if little Jimmy deserves an Alligator or Giraffe in spelling.
Aside from the two quick trips discussed above, I was right there by my wife's side all weekend, partaking in my latest obsession: learning to play guitar.
I've always had a bit of OCD in my DNA, and the guitar is just the latest in a long line of life-consuming endeavors. Looking back, my 33 years can pretty accurately be summarized by the following "Ages," each identified by whatever unhealthy fixation dominated my days at the time.
Ages 0-5: Flinstone Vitamins. I once hid behind the couch and ate an entire bottle. In case you should find your own son/daugher in this predicament, worry not. It didn't kill me, but I did pee florescent green for a week. Thirty years later, a prominent neurosurgeon would inform me that this obsession was responsible for my super-human strength.*
Ages 5-11: The Hardy Boys. The adventures of Frank, Joe and, to a lesser extent, Chet kickstarted my love for the written word. I read every book multiple times, and in my earliest years, would give myself headaches by refusing to stop until I'd finished a book in one sitting. This period came to a crashing halt when my older brother Dave pointed out that the tales of my beloved sleuths were rife with homoerotic undertones.
Ages 12-18: Girls and soccer. Neither would bring me much success during this period.
Ages 18-22: Binge drinking. And thus ended the soccer obsession.
Ages 22-23: Self-loathing. Hating myself, nothing I did was ever good enough; standard early 20's post-college reaction really.
Ages 24-27: High protien diets, clean living, and exceedingly tight shirts.
Ages 28-30: Triathlon. Ironically, this age was identical to the self-loathing age, only I could run faster.
Ages 30-33: Skiing and mountaineering. This age was rudely interuppted by the short-lived "brain surgery" stage.
And that pretty much sums it up. I'm not sure how long this "guitar age" will last, but with a kid on the way, I imagine I'll at least make it a priority to learn enough to allow me to torture our offspring with unrelenting, nonsensical songs about him/her.
As I've discovered, the irony inherent in learning the guitar is that the songs that lend themselves to a beginner's skills may not be the songs you're yearning to play. For example, I was quite pleased when I learned how to play Green Day's "Time of Your Life" until it dawned on me that, you know, I have no desire to ever sing or play Green Day's "Time of Your Life."
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 Mahonand 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 AnatoliBourkreev, 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.
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."
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." 
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.
