something to be said.

19 Nov

There is something to be said for racing down a hillside as fast as gravity will carry you, legs churning and lungs burning; and there is something even bigger to be said about running down that hillside as fast as can be, in the snow.

It’s the slow burn of the steady resistance that the knee-deep snow creates against the muscles in your legs and knobby footing of your boots. It’s the way the snow feels as it gets kicked up in your erratic gallop, smothering the atmosphere in glitter and snow dust.

It’s the joy you get from allowing yourself to fall out of control, even for a moment, as you slip and slide down the snowy field, a giggling shriek emanating from deep within your chest.

And when you’re finally at the bottom, collapsing to the ground into a pile of cold cotton and feeling the effervescent spray coat your face as the glittery dust cascades back to Earth.

Yes, there is definitely something to be said.

[d]hog heaven.

18 Nov

Happiest dogs in the whole, wide world.


oh hey monday.

16 Nov

You are looking mighty fine!


i get it from my mama.

14 Nov

Not everyone can boast about their fabulous relationship with their mother. A relationship in which you actually seek out opportunities to travel together, have a night at the theater together, watch the Sunday Morning Show “together” (though 1000 miles apart), and have virtual fashion consultations on a weekly basis. A relationship where you can quite honestly say that you are each other’s favorite people, where non-stop giggles are commonplace and date nights always come with dessert.

A few weeks ago we were fortunate enough to jet-set away to New Mexico for an epic chick trip exploring the Land of Enchantment. We began our getaway in Santa Fe where we shopped, gallery hopped, listened to live music in the town square, hiked around Bandelier National Monument, caught up with Tommy Moe, and noshed on some delicious New Mexican cuisine.

From Santa Fe we made the trek up to Taos where we nestled into small town life, hanging with llamas, making friends with our B&B neighbors from New England, traipsing across the Rio Grande Gorge with migrating tarantulas, were blessed by the sacred dirt from el Santuario de Chimayo, and checked out the quaint New Mexican hamlets of Red River, Chimayo, and Questa.

What a lucky girl I am!

12105791_10102594250967138_8174083364418720046_n (1)
12088591_10102604528211458_6996799891819566859_n (1)
12115500_10102594252558948_1298935439357710997_n (1)
12074720_10102594252519028_6965122192575324840_n (1)
12113290_10102594252469128_5483529011837255980_o (1)
12143061_10102594251206658_3716841540583873375_n (1) 12079437_10102594251466138_2715685061917052419_n (1)

monster may.

12 Nov


I was hopeful, that after almost a full year as a mountain pup, Mayhem would grow into a dog who is at least tolerant of the cold. Alas, that does not seem to be the case and tolerance does not seem to be in Miss May’s vocabulary.

So long as the temperature is above freezing and it’s not actively raining or snowing, thereby mussing up her stripes, Mayhem enjoys romping through the snow; running at full speed and launching herself off of snow banks into piles of the fluffy white stuff. But the minute her head gets wet or her little paws get chilled, her romping quickly evolves into pitiful howls and shivers that wrack her body with their tremors.

This morning, with the temperature sitting at a crisp 4°, May flat out refused to go outside; opting instead to remain snuggled up with her bone by the fire.

She is a diva, I tell ya.

A diva.

the man in the moon.

28 Oct

Three years ago the cycles of the moon were far from the top of my mind. What, with streetlights, headlights, traffic lights, the lights at Wrigley, or even the lights shining out of my neighbor’s kitchen window, my bustling city was alive with color and light 24 hours a day.

Several days a week I went for morning runs, oftentimes up an hour before the sun made its lengthy climb to the top of the sky. And though the sun had yet to rise, I never concerned myself with anything more than the reflectors on my shoes and running vests, as I knew that the headlights on the cabs whizzing down the darkened street would make me glow, announcing my presence to their drivers.

Up here in the High Country, where power outages are bi-monthly occurrences and streetlights are nearly unheard-of, the cycles of the moon play an integral part in our daily lives.

On evenings where the New Moon is nestled deep in the night sky, it is as though the moon has extinguished all that is left of the shadows of the day. It buries the Earth’s surface in a blanket of darkness so thick it feels as though you are swimming through an ocean of black, unable to see but a few feet in front of you, feeling your way down the street lead only by your sense of touch and your sense of smell. On nights like this, the stars are on full display, drawing your gaze upwards to witness them dance and twinkle their way across the indigo sky, a trail of star-dust left in their wake.

The darkness of the New Moon is followed by the light of the Full. Where the New Moon extinguishes the shadows left by the day, the Full Moon creates shadows of its own, reflecting on and bouncing off of anything that intercepts its rays. The Full Moon enshrouds the mighty peaks in a glowing cape of yellow light, reflecting off of the snow and illuminating the clouds. On nights like these, I lay in bed and bathe in the soft glow of the moon settling in above my window; letting it wrap me in a gentle embrace, caressing and soothing as I am lulled to sleep.

old man winter.

22 Oct

It seemed darker than usual this morning when the tinny song of my shrill alarm announced the start of the day. Even Mayhem hadn’t stirred from her cozy slumber, tucked into her kennel among layers of fleece and down.

I lugged myself out of bed and roused May while layering up, anticipating the frigid temperatures that punctuate Fall mornings in the High Country. We had yet to wake up to snow, but most mornings we found that our windshields had been decorated by a diligent Jack Frost, dancing his way over the cold, hard glass.

As we made our way downstairs, I glanced out the window and noticed fat, white flakes drifting down from the heavens, settling nicely into the crevices between the pine needles of the Lodgepoles that line our yard. Layering our deck in what looked like inches of cold, soft, cotton fluff.

It’s funny, how quiet the world gets when it snows.

It’s as if every breeze, every bit of trickling water, all of the traffic noises, and life’s silly little worries hush and settle in under thick blankets to watch the flakes fall, creating contrasts between warm and cold and black and white.

Processed with VSCO with b1 preset

Processed with VSCO with g3 preset

Processed with VSCO with c1 preset

Processed with VSCO with x1 preset

The Shameful Sheep

shit storms, shame, and stories that make you cringe


hacking health, designing life

Where's my backpack?

Romancing the planet; a love affair with travel.

Jeep Accessories

Latest Jeep News


The low down on what's good in Denver, CO.

The City Girl's Guide to the Wild West

Taking Summit County one ski hill at a time!

Swanning Around

[Verb] swan·ning - to wander around aimlessly in search of pleasure

Peaks and Passports

Chronicling my adventures in the Vail Valley and beyond...


Oahu hikes

The Neighborhood

formerly known as Kendall F. Person, thepublicblogger

Myblog's Blog

A topnotch site

Girly Camping®

It's Not Just For Boys...

A lifetime's exploration

A photo-diary of my travels and top tips for each location


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 225 other followers