Category: Colorado

Ten years ago next month, I started this blog.  Honestly, I can’t believe it’s been 10 years and I’ve kept it up.  Like a lot of my projects, it’s waxed and waned throughout the years, but it’s remained and I’m proud that over 152 posts later, I’m still at it.  I’ve been spending time the past few days rereading some of my earlier posts, with equal amounts of pride and embarrassment.  I have my favorites and others I wished had never been published, but they were and I won’t delete them (perhaps an edit or two) as they are as relevant and important as the ones that I hold dear.  There are some posts that still make me cry because I can remember how vulnerable and even broken I was when I wrote them and others that make me laugh or shake my head or cringe at how often I used adverbs, the bane of any writing teacher’s existence.  

So, what was the inspiration, the impetus, the drive or the idea that started this whole posting on a blog thing anyway?  Well, I’ll tell you and it wasn’t my idea.  It was my dear friend Susie’s,  who I’ve called my best friend since we were 15 years old, who came up with the idea.  I would write essays and send them to her periodically because I loved to write and loved to share what I had written even more.  She suggested I start a blog.  I thought she was crazy.  I told her I didn’t think anyone would want to read my essays and by putting them out there, it felt too much like bragging.  She told me I had one reader.  She would read them.  She added that having a blog would be a great way to store all of my writing.  Everything all in one place.  And so I took her idea and ran with it, well, not exactly ran, but walked fast, but with hesitancy.  My son, Grant, did the technical work and the design and I started writing.  I was in Frisco, Colorado when I started making posts and I wrote like a mad woman, finally with a place to put all of my words, although I became very picky about what I’d share, ( thankfully), only publishing my favorites. 

I remember sitting in what had become my writing chair, with beautiful views of Buffalo Mountain as my vista while I typed my thoughts into my new, not yet named, blog.  When I read my first few posts a few days ago, it took me right back to the time, the place, the view and even the chair I was sitting in. I finally had an outlet for the essays I had been writing for decades.  It was like an artist at long last procuring a studio with natural light pouring in through the windows.  I was beyond thrilled. I had a space, a platform and a view of the mountains to boot.  I certainly didn’t think that 10 years later and no longer living part time in the mountains of Frisco, Colorado, with a views so beautiful it seemed like they are just showing off, that I’d still be adding to the site that was started with so much reluctance and trepidation.  I still have the chair, but have added a desk to the mix where I sit and do most of my writing. The chair has become more of a contemplation station, a compliment to the desk.

Thank you to my dear friend, Susie, for believing in me and being my first reader and to my family who quickly followed suit. And to all of you who have read one or all (and I hope if it was just one that it wasn’t the one that makes me cringe on the reread), thank you.  It touches me deeply when I think of people I don’t even know taking time to read what I’ve written.  

In rereading so many of my posts, I’ve decided to recycle a few for the next month or two, or until I get tired of it. I’ll call it an anniversary gift to myself, posting my favorites – the ones that highlighted a time in my life that needed to be captured, not only in photographs, but also in words. 

Enjoy.

First off, the internet is off and on here, mostly off, so photo uploading is impossible.  I uploaded one in about 10 minutes.  New town, new internet connections, hopefully tomorrow.  Hopefully can post more then…

Today was hard.  Really hard.  Plain and simple.  But oh was it beautiful.

We were on the Camino by 7:30, which actually started right outside of our Bed and Breakfast.  The Camino is very well marked, and it’s first marking for where most people start walking, was a brass plaque set into the cobblestones.  It felt very exciting to cross it, even though yesterday, while walking around the small town, we crossed it countless times.  But today… today is official.  We are Pilgrims on the Camino, walking our journey.

The countryside was absolutely breathtaking and I’m afraid neither my photos or my words can do it justice, but I will try.  We walked into a low lying fog for several hours, at the base and well into the Pyrenees Mountains, which added to the mystic of our walk today.  As we climbed higher, we rose above the fog and it truly was mystical to look down into the valleys through a thick layer of cloud-like fog.  Susan and I, not necessarily planned, began to separate from each other, which really was a good thing.  I know for me, the setting and the one foot in front of the other for so many miles, were very fertile grounds for pensive thought.  I found that the trivial conversations in my mind subsided quickly and have to think the setting had a lot to do with that.  Besides, it was hard not to think about all those who went before me on this journey, starting a few thousand years ago.  Those people, clad  in leather sandals and wool robes, were the true pilgrims.  Although I’m retracing their steps, I’m doing it in high tech, quick dry clothing and am pacing out the journey in comfortable boots with good socks.  Not to mention a back pack to hold extra layers, a 3 liter water bladder and all sorts of food for those “just in case” moments.

As we ventured further and further into the mountains, the wind stared picking up and I spent a lot of time thinking about wind.  I don’t like it is what I came up with.  It was so loud that that whole thing about not being able to hear youself think really did come into play.  I had to walk with my head down, as I watched my feet inching forward so terribly slow due to the headwind.  If I raised my head, and believe me, I did that as often as I could as the scenery was so amazing, the wind would sting my face and blow the rim of my sunhat back giving me a bit of a “Little Debbie” look.  One man said he guessed the gusts to be near 70 mph.

When we passed into Spain, which was a no- event as really didn’t know it happened someone mentioned it, the “voilas” turned to “esta biens” quicker than you can say Camino and we couldn’t figure out why.  I felt like we were with the same group of people, more or less and they’d come and go leaving big gaps when you saw no one then there they’d be, all having a bit of a rest together.  It was strange though because at one point we were surrounded by French speakers and I swear, a couple of “around the bends” later, and Spanish was all we heard.  I’m happy.  I can talk again.

Today beat me up and showed me where my edges are and lo and behold, they extended out farther than I ever thought possible.  We hiked a good 9 hours, covering over 16 miles, most of it in the mountains.  We never really had a sense of how far or how much longer, which is just as good as it is bad.  Susan and I separated during the final downhill leg and I was so tired, with feet that were feeling slightly beat up, that when we did finally meet towards the end at a Camino sign, I didn’t recognize her.  Well, actually, I wasn’t really looking at her but heard a woman who I could see out of the corner of my eye, say, “Looks like we’ve only got 1/2 a kilometer to go.”  I responded with a, “Ok, sounds good…stood there for a good 5 or 10 seconds, then looked up and said, “Oh my gosh, I didn’t even know that was you.”  That was what she referred to as delusional tired.  Also a low point.

The other low point of the day, I’m not even counting the wind as it wasn’t a point, but rather, several hours, was when we got to the hotel and were told we were on the 3rd floor.  Of course we naturally asked where the elevator was and the very kind woman at the front desk, who looked so clean and fresh to our sweaty, grungy selves, said, “There isn’t one.  I’m so sorry.”

We both thought we were going to cry.  I’m not much of a swearer, but that’s exactly what I did for 4 flights up… 4 because it’s the European system and the ground floor is 0.

Beat up, sore feet, a bit of a mess but so extremely proud of what we did today.  We can’t think to far ahead to tomorrow as we’re still licking our wounds from today, but it was hard to not lean in an ear tonite at dinner when we heard the 100% chance of rain and muddy, slippery trails, I’ve got to admit, my heart kind of sunk.  I’m hopeful though…

On a side note, while thinking about 911, I had to think that as much pain as I was in from the fatigue and physical exertion, it pales compared to what so many are going through today.

 

What goes on on the Camino, stays on the Camino… (disclaimer, we both are still wearing our undies…)

 

 

Lots of these fellas on the Camino today…

 

 

 

 

Seriously.  Do NOT look down!

 

Thank goodness for the guardrails… although I doubt they’d stop a car from falling off the mountain, they offer a bit of security…

 

Oh geez… how’d I get here?

 

 

Rocky Mountain rapid pulse.

I am a bit of a white knuckled, turn off the radio so I can concentrate, don’t really love this but will do it because I have to, kind of driver.  If he’s still alive and if he could remember, I’m sure that my driver’s ed teacher, Mr. Hankins, would agree with this.   Perhaps it was the afternoon when I was required to demonstrate my mastery of parallel parking on the busiest downtown street in the small town I grew up in,  that reinforced my apprehensions with being behind the wheel.  My unmastered skills landed me on the sidewalk, smack dab in front of the TG&Y store. Being in the driver’s seat in the well-marked drivers ed car is embarrassing enough at that age, although I’m not sure why as it is a rite of passage for most, but having to get out of the car and trade seats with your teacher so he could maneuver the car off of the sidewalk and back onto the then getting busy street due to the side show, is not a feather in one’s driving school cap.  I passed the written test with flying colors, but barely eked by on the driving section due to the parallel parking incident.  Today, many decades later,  I’m still more than happy to walk the necessary blocks to avoid the whole parallel parking fiasco.  A city girl, I am not.

I’ve had face a lot of my driving fears head on simply because it was my only choice, short of staying home, my fears of mountain driving trumping all.

Several years ago while in Santa Fe on a ski trip with the family, I had to face those fears straight on and I’m happy to say that I triumphed.  After suiting up in our ski gear,  driving up the mountain to the ski resort, my youngest, Emery, who was 6 at the time, decided that she was done with skiing and wanted no part of it, that day or ever.  Period.  End of story.  Given that Charlie had already promised to ski with the boys all day, that left me with the choice of staying in the lodge with Emery and waiting, or having a day in Santa Fe, which ultimately meant having to drive down the mountain, then back up again to pick up Charlie and the boys at the end of the day. With the options of drinking coffee all morning, which no doubt would roll into beer early afternoon due to frustration, or putting my big girl driving pants on and forge ahead with some mountain driving  I opted for the latter.  So here I am, the mom, the one in charge, the all knowing,  explaining to my 6 year-old as we inched our way down the mountain, that I was absolutely terrified and could she “talk or sing me through it”?  She seemed to know exactly what I was asking and chattered and sang and kept the distractions going, hairpin turn after hairpin turn, until we made our way to the bottom of the mountain, then repeated the performance on our way back up again.  Round two was a lot easier and I swear, when I stepped out of the car and onto the parking lot at Santa Fe Ski, I was just a little bit taller.

A similar request was made of my right seated passenger while on the long and if memory serves me correctly, in the sky bridge to Coronado Island, south of San Diego.  Barely into the drive, my fear of driving over bridges overcame my rational side and my poor sister, Robin,  had to talk me through the process all the way to the other side of the bridge.  The memory comes up every time I’m on a bridge with her, but fortunately, my fears, although still present, have waned quite a bit.  Still, I don’t think she enjoys riding right seat while I drive her across bridges.  Memories shape us, whether they’re no longer accurate or not.  Sorry about that, Robin.  If I could have pulled over a switched seats with you, I certainly would have.

Fast forward several years and once again, I find myself on roads that have my pulse speeding… mountain roads in Rocky Mountain National Park.  Mountain roads I of course expected while driving through the park, but being on a narrow shelf roads that had me feeling like I was driving in the sky, was totally unexpected.  I’m a flatlander who has spent most of my life in Kansas.  I don’t think of these kind of driving scenarios.  Thankfully, there was very little traffic and I could hug the mountain side, often putting me in the wrong lane, while keeping careful watch out for oncoming traffic.

“Don’t look down, don’t think about it, you can do this…”

With no one in my right seat, I had to take on the process of “talking her down” routine to myself by myself…

I returned home a different route, avoiding the shelf roads all together, but with a smile on my face for having done it.  Even after having done this multiple times now since I started spending so much time in Colorado, it is still a big dang deal for me that adds another layer to my driving badge of courage each and every time.

Last week I drove to Aspen to see a friend of mine and thinking I was so tech smart and clever, I simply put her Aspen address into my phone and drove, not giving a second thought to the route Google Maps would choose for me.  In my car with good music, a full cup of coffee in the holder and nothing but blue skies ahead, it was simply perfect… until the roads got tighter and narrower and the hairpin turns began.  I thought it would be for just a short bit, then back onto easy, straight, no hairpin roads, until I saw the sign….

“INDEPENDENCE PASS”

Seriously?  The Pass I hear people talk about and most of them not in a “cool, let’s drive Independence Pass to Aspen” kind of way.  Again, I pulled myself up to the steering wheel as close as I could get (no idea about this, but it seems to make me drive better), turned off the radio so I could concentrate and started “talking myself down”….

“Don’t look down, don’t think about it, you can do this….”

And I did.  When I arrived at my friend’s house and my first comment out of the car was in regards to the white knuckled drive, she said,

“Oh Laurie, that’s a PASSENGER drive!  You don’t drive that!  It’s too scary!  You let someone else drive it, while you’re the passenger.”

Again, I think I may have been just a tad bit taller when I pulled my shaking limbs from the car.  It would appear that I am now a somewhat experienced, albeit not liking it, mountain shelf driver, who will do it if she has to, but has learned the hard way to find an alternate route rather than simply let Google Maps make the decision, because Google Maps does not know me, otherwise they’d probably suggest I look into the bus schedule.  I took a different route home.

I will never be the one to quickly say “Me!!” when the question as to who is going to drive is thrown out, nor will I ever purposely put myself in a driving situation that raises my pulse, unless I have to and although those “have to’s” are coming more and more often during my times in the mountains, I still don’t enjoy them.

I realized that I may have passed this driving fear trait onto my daughter the first time I had her out on a parking lot the size of a football field, with nary a car in sight, and she began to maneuver her way behind the wheel for the first time.

“Why are you slowing down so much, Emery?”

“Because, I’m about to crash into that light pole!”

That would be the light pole that was a dot on the horizon, barely visible it was so far away.  Bless her heart; she’s the recipient of yet another one of my traits that has worked its way down to her via genetics, the good with the bad, and she lives in Colorado of all places.  Unlike her fearful behind the wheel mom, who put her time in on the flat roads of Kansas at her age, she will conquer this fear with a lot more speed than I did because she’s will be thrown into the deep driving end of the pool on a far more regular basis than I was.  Bless her heart even more.  I have not doubt that just like her mom when the knuckles turn white and the radio goes off to concentrate, she’ll begin to talk, sing or mumble her way around every mountain pass until the comfort sets in.

“Don’t look down, don’t think about it, you can do this…”

Or maybe she’ll geographically personalize the mantra and go old school Colorado and sing John Denver.  Whatever works.

 

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I had been in Colorado for a few weeks with no new snow and snow melting temperatures,  so when the day came with a forecast of a few inches of snow, which overnight turned into a quick 7,  I was very anxious to strap  on my boots and skis and go play.  I’ve never been a skier who feels the need to make the first tracks down the mountain, so with the Copper Mountain bus schedule in mind, I set a leisurely 9:30 as my departure (9:35, specifically), which would have me comfortably in the usually short lift line by 10:00ish.

I made it to the bus stop (a short block from my house, 96 paces to be exact) with time to spare, but minutes before the bus was to arrive, I realized that I didn’t have my ski pass with me, so knowing full well that I’d miss the bus and would have to catch the next one 25 minutes later, I leisurely walked back to my place and grabbed my pass.  Once back to the bus stop, I realized I had neither a credit card or cash with me, so, once again, I walked BACK to my place and grabbed my credit card, this time with time to spare before my now 2nd bus choice.  At this point, things were not looking good, but I stayed the course in anticipation of the fun ahead.  While waiting,  I saw my neighbor and started talking to her and was so distracted that when the first Summit Stage bus came along,  I said  goodbye and jumped on without a thought.  When the bus driver started going a different direction that I was used to, I realized I had gotten on the wrong bus  (the bus to Breckenridge comes one minute before the Copper Mountain bus).   I could have gotten off at the next stop, but my pride got in my way (who gets off at the hospital stop with skis??  Or the high school stop??)  So, pride winning, I decided I was in it for the long haul and rode to the Breckenridge station, while trying to make the best of the unscheduled tour that I had just added on to my normally 15 minute ride.

This was a pivotal moment for me.  I could either regret, bemoan, continually look at my watch and sigh with the stupid mistake that would cost me a few hours of skiing once everything was said and done,  OR I could just go with it, and try to find the positive in the situation, which I did.  While getting off the bus to transfer, I asked the driver when the next bus to Frisco was (I was going to have to start all over on the process as there was no bus to Copper Mountain from Breckenridge), and he gave me an odd look, or so it appeared, as I could hardly make eye contact given my embarrassment.  He directed me to the stop, which had a timetable posted and with skis in tow, I got off and waited for the bus to take me to where I had just come from.  Again, make the best of the situation.

There was a woman waiting at the stop with me who was headed to the hospital as she had fallen a few days earlier and thought she may have broken a rib.  I’m guessing she was about my age, but it was hard to tell as she was bundled up in a long wool coat and a scarf that could have doubled as a blanket.  We started talking and she told me about her stupid fall (her words) and how her friend from Iowa had come to visit her and had done the same thing and was now at her house unable to get up off the couch.  She was from Alma, a small mountain town on the other side of the Hoosier Pass, and had driven down to Breckenridge (a drive that scares me on a dry pavement summer day) to catch the bus to the hospital.  She told me that she and her friend had planned on coming to Breckenridge for lunch and a nice afternoon before for the falls happened, but with her friend prone on her couch and her on the bus to the hospital,  all bets were off for fun in Breckenridge. The shift of plans, and with an out of town visitor no less, made me feel just the tiniest bit guilty for the focus I was putting on what now seemed to be nothing.  Big deal.  I got on the wrong bus.

A few minutes into the ride, she pulled a paper plate out of her large tote bag,  peeled back the plastic wrap,  and before digging in, asked me if I wanted some.  I wasn’t sure what it was and was so struck by the fact that she was toting a plate of food in her bag that I’m sure I had an inappropriate gaping mouth stare for far to long than I should have.  I thanked her, but nicely declined.  The norm would have been a Cliff Bar or maybe a piece of fruit.  I liked that she carried a plastic covered plate of food instead.  It seemed charming in an eccentric sort of way.

After she got off, my focus shifted to a mother and her two sons (7 and 9, I guessed) who’s accent told me she was likely from New Zealand.  The boys were high energy and quite frankly rather annoying and after scolding them several times and asking them to play quieter (they both were playing video games on a shared phone), she finally got up and moved to the seat behind them, in a bit of an exasperated move.  The boys got up and tried to sit with her several times, but she wasn’t having it and in an firm voice that she was trying to keep to an unnoticeable whisper, she gave them multiple warnings. With two boys 18 months a part, this was a very familiar scene to me and I admired her moxie for simply getting up and changing seats.  There was a time I wouldn’t have considered that to be “mom legal”  but maybe rules are different in New Zealand.  Although I could hardly blame her, there was a  part of me that wanted to tell her that yes, they are loud, they are annoying, they are exhausting and frustrating,  but there will be a day when they are in their late 20’s and maybe or maybe not living close by, that you will miss this…obnoxious, over-energized behavior and all.  Holy cow.  I’ve turned into that mom who looks longingly at other moms with kids who aren’t yet shaving or in make-up and heels.  Even though it’s been a couple of decades since I was scolding young boys and telling them to keep their hands to themselves,  there are times that it really does seem like it was last week.  More than once, I can remember hearing from moms a few decades ahead of me, that the time really does fly by and to savor the moment.  I’d kindly thank them while  quickly returning to the task at hand, which usually wasn’t real pretty.  Only when you have reached that point in time can you understand.  Note to all moms with kids still young enough that you’ve got a bit of hands on hips, stern faced control over them, time really does speed by and what becomes important is rarely what you anticipated.

I got off at the bus stop near my house, waited for the Copper bus and was back in route, this time the right route, and was in the lift line just short of 2 hours later than what I had planned.  Honestly, I didn’t miss all that much, but rather collected a couple of fun and interesting memories that nudged me to be present, find the good, the interesting, and the inspiration in the moment and simply be grateful because it really is the journey that is far more memorable than the destination.

I remember the sky was blue, the sun was shining and the mountain had a nice fresh coating of powder, but it’s the woman in the big coat with a plate of food in her bag and two energetic boys and their tired mom that have become the bigger memory for me that day.

 

As of yesterday afternoon, I’m back in the saddle…. or hiking boots, more specifically.  Feeling ready and anxious after almost two months of babying my injured shoulder, I ventured out on a real hike with boots, poles and a full camelback.  I hiked  Mt. Royal and although it’s not a long hike (only a mile and a half to the top), it’s not easy as during that short mile and a half, 1,500 feet of altitude are gained, translating to pretty much straight up with no switch backs.  This was a hike that I did several times over the course of my stay here last summer as it was literally right behind where I was staying so there was ease and no excuses in getting to the trail head.  It also became my measure of how much I was improving, which speaks to the Virgo in me.  My first time up was a miserable journey that took over two hours to get to the top and the last time I journeyed up last summer,  I had bettered my time to just over an hour – an accomplishment that I’m quite proud of.  While making my way down that last time and feeling quite smug with my improved time and generally efficiency, I passed my neighbor, jogging up the rocky trail and with still enough breath that he stopped to chat.  So much for my thinking I was “all that…”  I’ve learned while living part-time in this very physically active state that the safest person to compare yourself to IS yourself, otherwise you’re likely to be disappointed.

In keeping with the open and honest approach I’ve decided to take with this blog, I’ve got to back up a bit and do some re-wording.  I hiked Mt. Royal, but I did not make it to the top and I must say, it’s one of the prouder non-accomplishments I’ve had this summer.  It’s real hard for me to not barrel ahead when I can all but see the end, ignoring any physical or emotional signs that are telling me, “enough already!”  Well, yesterday probably within 10 minutes of the top, I experienced one of those “enough” signs.  Up to that point, I had been hiking like a 95 year-old woman in stilettos on ice with a tail wind… being very mindful of foot placement and with an eye on constant patrol for mud, or exposed roots or loose rocks, as I know too well that a quick slip can and does happen.  That’s the part that kind of sucks.  I rather liked that barreling ahead with an eye on the prize and full confidence that I’d summit without a scrape, take some time to revel in the beautiful views and with a proud pat on my own back, would make it down again.  No problem.  But knowing that accidents do happen has changed the way I hike – or at least I was changed for the inaugural hike.  I feel more apprehensive, more cautious and certainly more timid, yet still with the confidence that I can do it as I’ve done it before.  But I also want to do it in a manner that doesn’t require a trip to the ER.

I had to stop several times to catch my breath, totally normal, but by the time I was almost within shouting distance to the top, I started to feel a bit dizzy.  My town of Frisco sits at 9,097 feet, an altitude that can easily have an effect on even the fittest if not acclimated and that’s what I’m going to blame it on.  Having only been back in town for a little over a week, I called myself acclimated, but more than likely was not.  So when that feeling of apprehension, laced with a bit of dizziness came over me, I was very thoughtful of the messages and opted to abort the nearby summit and head back down.  As disappointing as it felt, at the same time I felt very grown up for having listened, very carefully, and followed through with what my body was telling me, which was go home… you already did most of it.  It’s OK.

By the time I got home, I had come to an easy place of peace with my decision and knew that honoring that slight twinge of a feeling was the right thing to do.  And so, in keeping with my hiking tradition of eat what sounds good post hike because I’ve earned it, I sat down to a plate full of spaghetti and several heaping forkfuls of sauerkraut because that’s exactly what my body was asking for… oh yea, and a cold beer…I mean two cold beers, to round it off.  And good it was.  I never falter on post hike refueling.   It’s truly one of my favorite luxuries of the sport.

Views of Frisco and Lake Dillon while on my way up…

 

The only non-climbing part of the hike… really…

Views for days…

 

The very majestic Mt. Royal (also the mountain I have a view of from most of the windows in my house).

Today, rather than revisit my not quite accomplished hike from yesterday, (which will happen and soon), I opted for big views, low physical expenditure.  And it worked… satisfyingly well.  The Lower Cataract Lake in the Eagles Nest Wilderness area never ceases to amaze me.  It’s not a hard hike as there’s little to no altitude gain, but it’s enough of a workout that I still get to savor the post hike accolades of feeling strong, committed and a little bit more in tune with nature than I was while driving to the trail head.  I’m not sure I can’t think of a better way to spend a sunny Sunday morning.

Accomplishments come in all sorts of packages and it isn’t necessarily the straight up journey to the top that has given me the most pride.  Yesterday it was NOT making it to the top that made me the proudest.  Next time…

Views around every corner…

 

Nature’s painting…

 

 

Wildflowers in full bloom…

Several years ago, while driving to Eureka Springs, Arkansas to celebrate my parents 50th anniversary, my brother-in-law, John, told me I was a good driver.  Who, me??  He could have told me that my hair looked nice or that my shoes were cool, both which would have likely been forgotten by now, but hearing “you’re a good driver”.. well, those words have stuck with me longer than any shoe compliment would have.  I’ve remembered it because it was something I had never heard before, possibly because it may not be true, but he simply caught me on a really good driving day.

The words that I usually hear sound more like this:

“You drive like an old lady, or… Mom!  Pay attention!  or… Do you really have to sit that close to the steering wheel???”  (which I think all three of my kids have asked me at some point).  Yes.  I need to sit this close.  It makes me feel safe.

Those were sentences that came with a history.  “You’re a good driver” was standing on its own that day, and with that newly found pride,  I tried my damnedest to prove him right the rest of the trip.

So, John may think I’m a good driver, but driving was never something I enjoyed nor did I feel like I was very good at it.  Those feelings may have been birthed on the day during driver’s ed when I was taught how to parallel park.  Obviously, the self esteem of an insecure 15 year-old were hardly considered when I was asked to demonstrate those newly acquired skills directly in front of the TG&Y store on a busy Saturday.  It’s not easy to parallel park with one eye scanning the crowds for the popular kids while the other worked solo on the parking task at hand.  And yes, that’s my excuse as to why I ended up with two wheels up on the sidewalk, while the remaining two were on the street. In the short amount of time that it took for me to trade places with my instructor,  have him get all wheels street side and trade back again, my self-esteem retreated straight back to the awkward 7th grade girl, who longed to be a cool girl who knew how to drive.

When in later years (my 20’s),  I’d dream with my girlfriends about what we’d do if we won the lottery, I was the only one who said I’d hire a driver. I didn’t even care what car said driver would be driving… just so it wasn’t me.

So back to my hating to drive but I’m evidently, I’m good at it…

The “but you are so good at it” got tested last Sunday, when two sisters (Robin and I) were taking the third sister (Susan) to the Denver airport from Frisco.  We had both bad weather and Sunday traffic,  so planned ahead and gave ourselves a large time cushion, which was smart as the weather began deteriorating rapidly once we got into Denver.  After a nice lunch and a stroll into a shop or two, Susan offered to get to the airport a few hours early with hopes that we’d be able to stay ahead of the bad weather on our return trip to Frisco.  I  tend to have a “I’ll deal with it when I have to” attitude and wasn’t really nervous until the 3rd or 4th flashing road sign that warned of ice and closed roads, which had me wondering if my cavalier attitude of “Oh no worries… I know how to drive in the mountains on ice and snow… you know, in my roots, born here,  and all that…,” needed to be re-examined a bit.   15 minutes west of the airport, Robin and I learned that I-70 was closed at Georgetown to the Eisenhower Tunnel, which incidentally had also been closed due to the weather.  The part of me that craves adventure, felt her pulse go up a bit at the thought of unplanned hotel stays and or sleeping in the car adventures that would make for a much more exciting blog post.  The other part of me, the one who had been pretty quiet with questioning confidence, began to worry about the whole driving situation.

And so the true test of my driving began.  With white knuckles clutching onto a steering wheel for dear life, Robin and I made our way through snow and ice and I-70 closing then eventual re-opening after we sat on the highway for a good 45 minutes and waited.  From that point on, we inched along with little visibility,  windshield wipers that were constantly icing up, and speeds that barely registered on the speedometer.  I was very thankful to have Robin in the right seat, reminding me to breathe, relax and go as slow as I needed to.  I was fine until I saw a 4WD vehicle turned upside with a couple of people trying to remove someone through the back window.  I made one of those of long, deep, profanity laden sighs followed by a “I can’t do this…” That’s when Robin told me to stop looking.

I couldn’t help but think back to shortly after high school when I was driving in the winter and slid on an entrance ramp to the highway.  I was driving a VW beetle, not great in the snow or ice, but I think the incident was more about the fearful me and less about the car.   I doubt my “slide” was more than a few inches, but it was significant enough to scare me to the point that right there in the middle of the entrance ramp I turned my car off, pulled up the emergency brake and walked up the ramp to a nearby gas station where I called my Dad and told him I needed help.  Twenty minutes later, without judgement, scolding, belittling or hesitation, he got in my car, backed it up off the entrance ramp and onto the dry street,  then got back in his car and was on his way. Saved.  Again.  Dad did a lot of that for me during my early driving days.

Although I’ve gotten a lot braver over the years, simply out of necessity, the combination of ice, snow and mountain roads had me returning to some of those feelings.  Whether in my teens in a poorly equipped car on an entrance ramp or in my 50’s in a 4 wheel drive vehicle on snow in the mountains, there is a point that it’s all the same.  Fear is fear and the feeling skips over any logic while it sends you back in history.

Four hours later, we made it to Frisco,  with hands cramped from a death grip on the steering wheel and shoulders that had inched their way up to the tops of my ears, where they remained until mid-way into my 2nd glass of wine.

We made it home, safe and sound, without a slide or a swerve and I felt both relieved and proud of my accomplishments to the point that I  began to think that John Clarke just may have been right.  Maybe I am a good driver…

I rode on that sense of accomplishment high for almost 48 hours, until I realized that a good driver may have paid more attention to the tire pressure light on the dashboard that lit up shortly before we even left for the airport.  Robin did a check and ended up putting some air in one of the tires while we were still in Frisco.  The light eventually went off and I just assumed all was OK.  Later, during our harried drive back to Frisco, the light went on again.  I have experienced this before and it ended up being an altitude issue (when in doubt, blame that crazy altitude…), and given all the rest that I had to deal with, I convinced myself that the tires and their pressure were just fine and that once we were down in Denver the following day on our journey back to Kansas, the light would more than likely go out.  It didn’t.  I learned the following morning at the Toyota dealership,  that I had been driving with three nails in my tire as I went to the airport in less than favorable conditions, returned to Frisco, then made the trip home to Kansas the following day… at least 800 miles.

No doubt we had a guardian angel riding along side us who thankfully, wasn’t scared off by the mountains or the weather…

Meanwhile, with every 677 mile trip I make from KS to CO and back, I’m continually trying to earn John’s assessment of my driving abilities.

Inching along I-70, east of Georgetown, where we sat and waited for I-70 to re-open.

Always a silver lining… photo opportunities.. icicles on bicycles

I didn’t take the photos, by the way…

About as good as it got…

For those of you who already scrolled down in search of the photos, sorry, there are no illustrations and no, I did not chose that title to snag readers… well, not entirely.  I do wear pants when I ski and a jacket and all the stuff that goes underneath,  but emotionally,  while standing in hesitation at the top of a steep ski run, I’m as naked as it gets.  The combination of fear, doubt and insecurity has more than once pulled me into an emotional heap that has me totally understanding what’s going on in the heads of those few people I’ve seen walking down the mountain with their skis in tow.  Believe me, I’ve looked down at my skis while contemplating their removal with a hesitation long enough that people passing me on the mountain may have thought I was praying, and I suppose I  was.  Naked.  Without clothes.  Vulnerable.  It’s me up to bat in the 4th grade and hearing “easy out” from one of the boys in the infield.  Same girl.  Same emotions, only this time I  have the benefit of experience, maturity and confidence on my team,  suited up and ready to leap off the bench when I need them,  as well as the wisdom to know what’s coming into play here.

It’s those moments of hesitation that quickly become full out fear that make the pride soar when the skis do eventually point down and go.  Those moments remind me why I continue to ski.

Last year I froze on a steep narrow section of a run at Keystone.  Froze.  Couldn’t move.  Didn’t want to move.  The person who I was skiing with and receiving instruction from, told me I had to move as I was in the blind spot for the skiers and boarders who were flying down the mountain behind me.

But I can’t….

And that’s when he told me that there was nothing wrong with taking off my skis and walking down until it felt comfortable.

Absolutely not.  That was the beginning of the nudge I needed….

To that he added the advice of thinking of some of the scariest experiences I’ve encountered in life and obviously survived.  THEN point ’em down and GO!

I thought about the first time I flew an airplane by myself… not just take-offs and landings, but my first solo cross country flight (don’t be impressed by the “cross country” in that sentence… it was only across Highway 50 from the Johnson County Airport to the small airport in Warrensburg, then back again, but still…).  I thought about the fishing camp I worked at in Alaska and being stuck in the bath house with a brown bear outside, likely weighing in at over 1,000 pounds, scratching himself on the tar paper covering.  I thought about the first speech I had to give in college and having to set my notes down because my hands were shaking so much that the moving paper in my hands became the subject matter that had my audience captivated. Yes, that was just as scary as any big bear or being up in the air in a small plane by myself.

Enough already.   I pointed ’em down and skied.  And I didn’t die.

The next time I did that run, several days later, I couldn’t even find the spot that had scared me so much.

Life experiences pile on top of each other, changing where that point sits of being afraid and being brave, but it’s always there, and that kind of vulnerability, that facing life humbly in all of your nakedness and conquering, is where the growth is.  Funny though while finding myself in the jaws of heart-racing fear,  knowing that I’ll be stronger, wiser, bigger, better once on the other side, staying right where I am and skipping the growth, sounds just fine at the time.  Not being able to move can feel like a very safe place to be as there’s little danger in standing still, right?  Peace in the pause, or something like that.  Inertia and I have have palled around a lot together.

I skied my last run of the season yesterday on a sparsely populated mountain with wind,  blowing snow and a layer of confidence that was far too thin to be able to save me had I needed it to. Why did that happen when just a few days ago, I was invincible?  My instructor, Tiger, told me the other day that skiing is 80% mental, which I suppose would have to mean that you’re only operating 20% on a physical level (likely not the way the math works on this as 20% physical hardly seems like it could take you down the mountain… in any form), but his 80% mental words have proven themselves right as rain (or snow?) countless times for me.  I didn’t have enough of a positive swing on my mental 80% yesterday to get me down the mountain with grace, dignity and clothes on.  Nope, skiing when that 80% head talk is saying “you can’t do it…easy out,” puts me high on the vulnerability scale,  exposing my naked self to the mountain, other skiers and more importantly to myself.  I recognize that girl all too well and teeter between wanting to scoop her up and tell her it’s OK, to wanting to shake her by her shoulders so hard that her teeth rattle out of sheer frustration.

I don’t think it’s always a negative thing to end on a bad run.  It gives me the motivation to get back out there and get it right the next time, even if that next time is a season away.  I know that may be backwards thinking for some, but after skiing naked, you really do look forward to being able to put on some layers of confidence and flex some muscle at those taunting voices in your head that remind you that yes, you rarely hit the ball in softball, but is that 4th grade boy who humiliated you while you struck out, once again, on the mountain contemplating difficult runs while standing on a snow-covered mountains in skis?  Yea… that’s what I thought…

No, this is not a steep run… but isn’t it pretty?

Just point ’em down and go!

And she did….

Views, views, views!

I love winter, really, I do, and anyone who knows me at all knows that.  I do NOT complain about snow, ice and wind chills that are in the single digits and below, but once the temps go over 85, combined with the predictable  Kansas humidity,  all complaining bets are off.  My sister says that summer officially starts when I start complaining.  I suppose that’s true, although I can’t say that I’m very proud of it.

And I still love winter, even after having spent the better part of it in real winter territory… the mountains of Colorado, and I’ve not complained yet…

Today I drove into Denver to go to REI to exchange my snowshoes.  Although I’ve used them multiple times, I’m not happy with them (a simple design flaw that results in a flapping strap, which becomes very annoying after a few hours…) .  I know that REI stands behind their product, so was hopeful to make a quick exchange and tie it in with a little field trip “to the city.”    I  enjoy my trips to Denver as a destination rather than a pass through on my way to the airport to fetch or deliver,  or on my way out of town (or into town, depending how you look at it).  It’s a pretty drive and still feels a bit adventurous to me as I really don’t know my way around, short of a few of my favorite spots.  Thank you google maps.  You’ve made trips on unfamiliar highways to places I’m not sure how to get to a whole lot easier.

I left Frisco late morning in jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, a fleece vest, down jacket, snow boots and a knit hat – clothing that was totally appropriate for the weather… here…

By the time I got to Denver, the temperature was 72.  Again, donned in down, fleece, a hat and snow boots, I did what I could to be comfortable and shed the outer layers,  but was still left in jeans, a long sleeved shirt and snow boots.  I didn’t feel out of place until I got in the store, then my boots just seemed big and clunky next to sandals and tennis shoes.  I kind of felt like I had come down from the hills…  Oh wait… I had…

The store matched the weather and had made the big switch from winter gear to summer gear and the snowshoe corner was now filled with bike gear, which meant that a simple exchange of my snowshoes was not going to happen, unless I wanted to totally switch sports and go with biking instead.  The salesman helping me was very apologetic but I assured him that it really wasn’t a big deal and I should have thought ahead and dealt with the issue a few month ago while it was still winter at REI.  While he was explaining the winter to summer shift that the store makes, I was staring down at my pile of snowshoes heaped onto the counter (did I mention that it was two pair of snowshoes?  My guests can’t opt out of going with me simply because they don’t have the equipment… I’ve got ’em covered..)  I then realized that a small rubber band would fix the problem. Maybe that’s what I should have done in the first place before hauling 75 miles to the store where I bought the snowshoes – look at them for 20 seconds,  then use the hair tie that would most likely be on my wrist and fix the problem.  Oh well.  Since I was already in the store, and already in the women’s section (hey, how’d that happen?), I quickly perused the new spring/summer inventory and found a red rain jacket that wanted to go home with me.  Spring was in the air, with rain in the forecast,  or at least in Denver.  I drove almost to Evergreen before I had to put the windows up, and even had the air conditioning on for a bit until I realized that part of the heat issue was that my seat heaters were on.  I don’t think they’ve been off since October.  Once past Evergreen, I was back in business with high 30’s,  and heat and hat quickly followed.

On a whim, I pulled off at the Bakerville exit, which is where the trail head is for Torrey and Gray mountains, my 2nd and 3rd fourteeners that I climbed back to back last summer.  I only drove as far as the trail head sign because the road was not plowed and I had a pretty good view from where I parked on the side of the road, with the trail head sign in the foreground and the two mighty peaks behind it.  It was the perfect pondering place to recall that very early morning last August, when with much anticipation and fear, I drove up that road in the dark for 2 miles of about as rough of terrain as I had ever driven on.  I was more afraid that morning than I had been during my entire Colorado stay last summer.   I was afraid I’d get stuck and even worse,  I had no cell phone signal.  But what really scared me more than anything was what was ahead…several miles up two different mountains, both measuring in at over 14,000 feet and crossing the saddle that connected them.   I needed to sit in that spot, feel how afraid I was and remember that I kept on going.

Torrey and Gray’s snow-capped peaks in the background. I know now why I needed to stop and look…

A few memories from last summer… first peak…

2nd peak…

and the view from the top…

I’m learning to listen… to everything… to the nudges that life gives you to slow down and pay attention because it’s trying to tell you something… something that you need and most likely don’t even know it.    I needed to see those mighty peaks today and remember that strength followed fear that day in August and if it did it then, I’m guessing it could do it again.  And more importantly, I needed to stop and listen to what the mountains  had to tell me…

“You did it.”

And that’s why a 3 1/2 hour round trip drive to Denver for a 15 minute run in and out of REI that did not result in different snowshoes but rather a rain jacket that I probably didn’t need, was totally worth it, but I didn’t realize that until I made the Bakersville exit detour and I wasn’t sure why I took the exit at all until I sat in front of the two mountains.  I’m glad I felt the nudge.

By the time I got back to Frisco, it was winter again – real life CO winter with wind, snow and temps in the low 30’s.  It is almost April and  6 to 8 inches of snow is in the forecast for tonite and more snow tomorrow.  I’ve not looked ahead, but think the snow trend is supposed to continue for the next several days.  Again, I love winter, but…

I heard that Spring doesn’t really arrive until June(ish) and that it’s more commonly known as mud season around here, rather than spring, which then rolls into summer.  So is that when the forsythias bloom and the tulips come up?  Through the mud?  Not that I’m doing the math, but I skied in mid-November and from November to June is 8 months.  Oh yea… that’s the other thing I heard.  Winter here is 8 months.  OK, I suppose I am doing the math.

Still…I love winter and I still love Frisco, but oh my would I like to see a forsythia dancing in the spring breeze about now.  My little jaunt through crowds of spring-clad folks at REI made me really miss the excitement of those first warm spring days that have you wanting to clean out the garage, dig in the dirt and put on clothes that aren’t fleece lined or down filled.

I’m headed home, home to Kansas, in a few days, unless the snow storm keeps me here, and if it does, then I’ll throw ideas of forsythias and tulips out the window and will slip back into down and fleece and winter and might go skiing.

Springtime in Frisco, CO