Tag Archives: flowers

petrichor.

23 Jun

A soft breeze blows gently.

It caresses my hot skin as though it were silk, whispering through the quaking Aspens that stand sentinel off of my front porch. My skin erupts in a cascade of goose bumps as the cool air rushes to catch up with the heady barbecue smoke drifting from the grill next door.

Rain is coming.

Perhaps it will bring with it booming claps of thunder and bright shards of lightning, baring off of their clouds as though running from the rain itself.

Perhaps it will blow south to Breckenridge, or perhaps north to Steamboat, Lake Dillon and our Rocky Mountains doing their best to redirect the wind, the rain, the lighning, the thunder, and the clouds that are shrouding Red and Buffalo in a fog of a brooding Aegean blue.

I recently learned that the smell of the rain hitting the dry ground has a name, an identity of its own.

Petrichor.

Somehow, the word, Petrichor, takes away from the scent that punctuates so much of the summers of my childhood in the Midwest.

Summer has a mythical quality that, at least in my case, stems from childhood.

The excitement of long days on beach, the sand, dusty and hot, between my toes and the chilling waters of Lake Michigan making my feet, my hands, and my spine ache with cold.

The shrieks and cheers of summer nights spent playing “Kick the Can” with neighborhood kids of all ages, our own little block party situated in the midst of our neighbors’ bushes and trees, all within 50 steps of the can, itself situated in the middle of the street.

The chorus of halyards as the lines sing their song against the mast; the gentle rocking of the waves as the harbor softly recites a lullaby and lulls you off to sleep.

Ice cream, Chocolate Chocolate Chip, dripping down your cone, down your hand and up your arm; a secret salty, sweet smack as you discreetly lick the drip clean from your appendage.

Petrichor.

Though the word is bit scientific for me, the smell, the identity of the rain?

It means everything.

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the peruvian chronicles, the jungle.

13 Jul

I never knew I had a preference.

I mean, I’ve always known that I love being outside; being in the presence of something bigger than myself and the little dramas that make up my life. Whether it be the desert, the mountains, Lake Michigan, heck, a gum-filled sidewalk in the middle of Chicago, I would always rather be there than inside.

So as we continued our descent deeper and deeper into the Peruvian jungle, in the midst of leafy green ferns and mammoth avocados that hung pregnant from the lush Avocado Trees, I was somewhat surprised at my indifferent, albeit appreciative reaction to life below 11,000 feet in the Andes.

Now don’t get me wrong, the humidity and heat beating down on your bare skin from the hot, equatorial sun was beyond refreshing after a few days in the snow and rain, and the flowers and birds? Holy cow. Everywhere you looked cheery greens and yellows flitted by overhead and violet and white orchids wound their way out of the thicket.

There was a relaxed meandering mindset that punctuated our trek down and into the lower Cloud Forest, which was the perfect opposition to the determined pace of the previous few days as we made our way up and over Salkantay Pass. As it turns out, it’s less of a challenge to wander through a lush green rainforest taking in surprise sightings of wild turkeys (distant relation to the Peruvian Mountain Turkey, which by the way, has made several visits to Summit County, CO…), hummingbirds, begonias, and puya cacti, than it is to climb a glacier garbed head to foot in garbage bags.

And the bugs. Ew. Ick. Blargh.

I have never been a bug fan, but some of the creepy crawlers that crossed our path were fairly impressive in both size and color.

And while the bugs and the birds and the flowers piqued my curiosity and the company kept me giggling, a little part of me wanted to head back in to the wilds of the Vilcabamba Mountain Range. Feel the enveloping sense of drama exuded by Salkantay and Humantay as they preside over the valley, the contrast of the jungle greens melding with the grays and whites of the glaciers, and the pinks and oranges of the setting sun illuminating the craggy peaks as they touched the sky.

Now this may comes as a shock to those of you who know me, but as it turns out, the mountains seem to be my preference.

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so here’s the thing about new jobs…

28 Jun

They take over your life!

I’ve essentially moved into the Inn at Keystone…ala “Eloise“, which doesn’t leave a whole lot of time for short stories about the magic of Peru. Having said that, that last few episodes of “the peruvian chronicles” are in the works, but in the meantime here’s a snapshot of the last few weeks. Come visit, I happen to know the manager at a cute little mountain hotel :).

In training for the USA Pro Challenge

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Frisco BBQ Challenge

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Hummingbird visitor off the deck

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Good morning from the Inn at Keystone

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Hike up to the 7:30 Mine in Silver Plume, CO

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Abbey Road and Gucci pup

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Summer storm over Lake Dillon, Dillon, CO

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Tommy moved next door! 

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Ska Brewing Company, Vinifera Stout 

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Drinks with the girls at The Warming Hut

yum

 

 

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bottoms up!

20 Apr

bottoms up!

Cheers to a fantastic season. Now it’s time to party!

encouraging spring.

20 Mar

 

 

CAUTION, HIGH ALPINE ENVIRONMENT! SNOWY, ICY CONDITIONS MAY (hem hem…DO) EXIST!

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Confession. I am ready for summer. 

I know, I know, we LIVE for pow days out here in the High Country. “Powder Hounds” run rampant on days forecasted to “nuke”. “Weekend Warriors” elect to sit for hours in traffic on I70, just to “huck” themselves off the cliffs in Vail’s Back Bowls. Heck, even I let out a “whoop!” or two when shredding some gnarly pow pow.

But there comes a time when even high country inhabitants crave the radiant mountain sun, the blues, greens, oranges, and pinks of the wildflowers, long hikes up neighboring 14ers, babbling mountain brooks, bike rides to the Dillon Farmers Market, dock jumping along the shores of Lake Dillon, camping at local gems like “the residence”, a delightfully cold Rum Runner at the Tiki Bar, flowy sundresses (ok, ok, that might just be me…), post-work sunset strolls, and breakfast/lunch/dinner on the deck. 

Therefore, Abbey and I celebrated everyone else’s first day of spring (let’s face it…Summit tends to skip spring and jump right into summer), by taking a meandering hike up Deer Creek.

Blue bird skies, crunchy white snow, 37°, chirping birds, and breathtaking panoramas in every direction.

I sweated, Abbey panted, we shared some banana chips, and we then thanked Mother Nature for allowing us to catch a glimpse of Spring. 

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