Tag Archives: winter

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.

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oh hey monday.

16 Nov

You are looking mighty fine!

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monster may.

12 Nov

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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.

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.

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winterspring.

13 May

“Wake me when it’s summer,” says Mayhem.

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the fifth season.

20 Apr

Those of you that have spent time in the mountains of Colorado are well aware of ski season; the winter and spring months that bring about epic runs and face-shots for days. You might even be aware that July is the best month to visit if it’s Columbines that you’re gunnin’ for and September, well it tends to bring out the true meaning of “Colorful Colorado“.

However, I am willing to bet that many of you are unaware of or have actively chosen to avoid, our fifth season. The season in which the ski resorts shut down for the summer, two-for-ones run rampant, demo sales are featured on the front page of the Summit Daily and locals are able to get out and enjoy the better known trails without the masses.

This fifth season, known to those of us calling the High Country home, is Mudseason.

So in honor of the all but three ski resorts in the state closing (you will have to hit up Winter Park, Arapahoe Basin and Loveland if you’re looking to relive ) and a closed hotel, you will find me embracing the mud and hitting up several front range 14ers, skiing sick lines (brah), parking in the spot closest to the grocery store, noshing on all the foods at all the hard-to-get-into restaurants and wearing yoga pants to work (sorry Mom).

On that note, congrats to everyone on a great season. Enjoy your time off and if anyone would care to join me on any or all adventures, you know where to find me 🙂

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Hager Mountain Shredding

 

mayflower gulch1

Mayflower Gulch, Mayhem’s First Hike

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Hanging Lake

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Hanging Lake

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Hanging Lake

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Mayflower Gulch

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Mayflower Gulch

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Hager Mountain Shredding

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Beer with a View, Pug Ryan’s

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Hanging Lake

 

 

 

 

shades of night.

7 Jan

I walked outside after work this evening thinking Abbs and I could take a stroll.

It had been a beautiful day. One of those winter days where bright blue skies, still air and hot sun almost trick you into believing that March had arrived two months early. That Winter had already delivered his worst; already covered the fir trees and rivers in a sheath of snow and ice and that March had arrived, like a knight in shining armor, to melt away the chill that had taken up residence in the inhabitants of this rough and tumble mountain community.

Abbey and I wandered down to the river, moseying and picking our way carefully through the crusty, knee-deep snow. I reached the bank and stopped for a moment, letting the sound of the rushing water envelope my senses and when I lifted my eyes, I was greeted by the very beginning of what would end up as a spectacular Rocky Mountain sunset.

I unzipped my jacket pocket in search of my phone so I could capture the orange clouds as they streaked across the still blue sky, when I realized that I had left my phone on the kitchen counter.

The slightest of waves of disappointment washed over me when I realized that my bragging rights had taken a dig, but the sky held me captive and I knew if I turned away to get my phone, the moment would be over and my opportunity to reawaken my senses would disappear in a flash.

So I stood there, with Abbey beside me, and watched in silence as the sky moved from orange to peach to magenta to violet, reaching a crescendo as the snow-capped peaks were painted in a rosy glow of pinks and purples. Ice lining the river’s edge, framing the river rocks in a halo of what could easily have been lace, cradled a reflection so clear that it was as if Mother Nature were modeling her prom dress in a mirror.

As the sun sank lower below the Continental Divide and the sky grew darker, the oranges and the pinks and the violets took on an ashy hue, announcing the arrival of Night and the promise of yet another beautiful day in the Rockies; another day whose beauty could inspire even the most cynical of shredders.

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