I ingeniously opted, about a week ago, to turn my 3-day weekend into a 4-day weekend by taking Friday as a play day. I had high hopes of making a trip somewhere but obligations and snow on the mountain changed my plans. Staying local was a beautiful idea.
My extended weekend started with a 4pm departure from work on Thursday and an immediate voyage up to SkiBowl, which boasts the largest night skiing area in all of the United States. Expecting icy conditions and lots of chilly lift rides, i was pleasantly surprised when i found the slopes to be well groomed and freshly dusted with some snow. I hadn't experienced any night skiing and it was a great time. The lift lines were practically non-existent and there is just something about skiing under the lights. The night was pretty peaceful but a flask of whiskey did come in handy when some teenie started shouting random things on the lift. It hurts me to think that at one point in my life i was that kid, what a prick! After a few hours balling down the mountain it was time to get my ski buddy back home so he could get some sleep for his work-filled Friday, sucker. There is something to be said about leaving work, skiing for a few hours and being home in time to get a decent night's sleep.
Friday was rather relaxing for me. I spent the day putzing around the house and waiting to hear news from the home front. Todd and Erin were expecting their first little one, my second niece, to arrive anytime. I got the call late Friday night from mom, baby Cedar was chilling in her momma's arms. Weighing in at just under 5 lbs she's a tiny one but doing well and showing all the signs of a healthy little Everline.
Saturday it was back to mountain. Dan and i took the lazy man's approach and didn't start our trip up to Hood until close to 9. We had expected some traffic delays but the roads were pretty clear. The conditions were great and the sky was a crystal blue. I would have some pictures to show you if only i hadn't left my memory card in the computer. After making a couple runs down the groomers Dan got me off the beaten path and into the trees. Slow and steady was the theme and i managed to escape the first couple runs without incident (that changes later). We headed to the other side of the mountain to meet up with some friends and kick up some fresh pow. The funny thing about learning to ski, having traditional downhill skis, and powder is that the three don't mix or atleast not for me. My somewhat skinny skis and deep powder make for a delightful cocktail called, "Scott's face full of snow." The ladies we met up with were quite the experienced skiers and ran amuck all over the mountain. I tried to follow but ended up lagging behind on just about every run. I wasn't too disappointed seeing as they have many, many more years of experience than myself. We parted at lunch and Dan and i headed back up to the upper meadow, aka powder town. I fared much better this time and seemed to be getting the hang of the fluffier snow. Just as i started to find my groove we headed back over to get in some tree runs before our trip into Hood River for pizza and beers. Feeling confident from my earlier experience in the trees i decided to make my own lines and let Dan do his thing. My tired legs were working against me. I took a stiff branch to the face, which nearly tore the goggles and hat off my head. I collected myself out in the courd and headed back into the trees only to find myself in more trouble. I took a path that appeared to be less travelled. . .and it was. . .for a reason. I found myself on a ledge about a ski's width, looking down a 15 foot ice wall leading down to a creek. I gingerly maneuvered along the edge and headed back into the groom. We made a couple more runs before calling it a day. We got home in time to grab a nap and head out to a house party of which we were supposed to, "party like we were in college again." The hard part is. . .well there are multiple challenges here: a) i'm old and most of the party goers were fresh out of college, b) i partied like i was in college when i was high school, so i was even further off my game than these damn kids, and c) after 1 am i turn into a pumpkin. It was a fun night but by the time my head hit a pillow, close to 4 am, i was ready for two days of sleep and my Geritol.
Sunday was a day for recovery in two ways, recovery from the night of heavy drinking and recovery from a long day of skiing. I don't think i moved from a bed until close to noon, ate some homemade Huevos Rancheros around 1, watched a movie and fixed a friend's itunes. Sunday night i had a futsal game, which was awful. The night of partying and day of lounging destroyed me. I hit the effing post a half dozen times, scored twice, and had three fouls. The game was scrappy but we walked away with a win. After the game we shared a few pitches at the Lucky Lab. It was just what i need to send me back into a sleep inspired tailspin.
Monday, el Presidente dia, it was back to the hill. Three of us left Portland, later than expected, to find the hill not nearly as pretty as Saturday. The day was to be a short one anyway, two of us had to get home and do some work, guess which two (hint: i took a nap when i got back). The snow was sparse and a lot of the runs had their share of icy patches. I ended up running black diamonds most the day, throwing down some hard turns, hand plants (on the slope of the hill) and some ass/hip glides. I managed to get served another "Scott's face full of snow" but this time i packed some into my ear just for good measure. After sliding about 30 feet downhill from one ski, face first, i laughed hysterically. Wrecking for me is still pretty common, mostly from being lazy or not paying attention. I've now wrecked into trees, in powder (a bunch), skied backwards (unintentionally), and nearly flailed into a creek but the worst wreck of them all is the above mentioned incident. Not because i had snow in my ears or because it was on a cake run, but because it was right under the chair, 100 yards from the lift, with my two friends watching the carnage unfold. All be told. . .i love skiing, it's the best, even if i'm not.
That's it, 4-days in the life of a fortuitous, drifting bachelor. Jealous. . .i think not. Sorry for the lack of photos; i'll be sure to have a memory stick i the camera next time.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
Mucky Luck
With all the weather forecasters, or as i like to call them, lying pieces of poo, calling for 7 inches of the white fluffy stuff to fall on the slopes of Mt. Hood my Friday night was mellow. Dan and i met up with friends for some wings and brew at "Fire on the Mountain." After dousing my burning palate with several hop infused beverages it was time to get in a restful night. I woke up early Saturday morning to check the ski report and fill my belly with nutritious goodness. I quickly discovered, via the wonderful worldwide web, that the day wasn't going to pan out as i had suspected. I could hear Dan rustling in his bedroom and i quickly turned his dreams of powdery goodness into nightmares filled with icy, edge scratching ice sheets. Yes that's right. . .another snowless week on Mt. Hood.
Left to my own devices i did what any 29 year old with a busted plan would do. . .i slept on it. When i awoke the day was bright, sunny and not effing snowing! I considered another trip into the gorge for another lovely winter hike but without Yak Tracks the adventure sounded dim. I decided to dust off the old fat tire and spend some time in Portland's very own Forest Park. After some tuning and lubing the ol' 7k was ready to ride.
I hadn't been on my mountain bike since i catapulted over my handlebars and onto some downed trees in Washington (over a year ago); all my riding had been on my commuter. Reluctant to get myself into a similar situation, i decided to stick to the more stable, less obstacle ridden double track of Lief Erickson Drive, an old fire road that cuts through 12 miles of the park. I threw my bike in the back of the truck and headed up to the north, and less stroller filled, portion of the park. The parking lot was nearly full when i got there, never a good sign. There were two d-bags tearing around the parking lot on their full suspension rigs. Once i got onto the trail i found it to be mostly uninhabited. I crossed paths with a thoroughbred, yes a horse in the city, and a few couples huffing through the hills. I rode about 6 miles out and in turn, rode 6 miles back. The trip wasn't too challenging, some rolling hills and sharp-ish turns. What it was was mighty muddy.
A clean, pre-ride face.
At the turning point.
My iron horse and map.
Two of my three ponies.
Sunday i spent most of my day in the office working on some convoluted project that earned me a bottle of Jack Daniels and a thank you card from the boss lady. Not a bad trade off. This week is "pray for snow week," as i have a 4-day weekend coming to me.
Please join me in prayer. . .
Monday, February 2, 2009
Much Love
I recently watched a movie titled “Surfer, Dude” featuring Matthew McConaughey, Woody Harrelson and Willie Nelson. I know. . .i’m surprised it didn’t win any Oscars, Emmys, Golden Globes or any other Hollywood recognition. The basic premise of the movie, other than finding a way to produce a movie where McConaughey doesn’t have to wear a shirt for 2 full hours, was of this legendary surfer, Steve Addington, who recently returned to his native Hawaii. When “Addy” returns he finds his Hawaii to be very different from how he left it, waveless. Yes, a waveless Hawaii. The rest of the story is pretty standard Hollywood; Addington falls in love with an unlikely love interest, surfers are all bummed out dude, and the waves reappear. The moral of this story is. . .a waveless Hawaii.
It’s kind of like a rainless Oregon. Yes. . .a rainless Oregon. Now, I can do without the rain downtown and yes, the sun is quite nice. But honestly, I’d give up the sun, the dry city and crystal clear skies for just a little snow! This year was to be Brody’s debut season and now, now, it’s one spent bike riding in the sunshine and hiking through the snowpack. We haven’t had a mentionable drop of snow in close to two months. I feel like McConaughey in “Surfer, Dude” only I’m not pursuing any unlikely love interests.
Dreams filled with falling snow and shredding fresh pow filled my head Saturday night. I laid my head down extra early with the hopes of hitting slopes in the morning. I was charging for fresh tracks. The weather reports made mention of snow on the hill and I was going to take full advantage of it. I was even so tempted as to drive up there Saturday night and sleep in the Yota. I woke early in anticipation of a full day of slopestylyin’ but what I found after checking the internet; there would be no slope stylin’. Somehow, they mountain actually LOST snow overnight. An entire inch of “packed powder” aka, ICE, fed into the local rivers and there was nothing falling to replace it.
Feeling dejected I refused to concede to mother nature. I was going to do something, a hike maybe. . .yes a hike! I cooked up a filling breakfast of eggs, English muffins (gotta love those nooks and crannies), and a protein shake. After breakfast I skipped the dishes and headed to the truck. I drove out to the gorge and crossed over the Bridge of the Gods onto the Washington side. Dog Mountain, a popular spot during the Spring and Summer months, was my destination. I have heard tales of the challenging hike and beautiful wild flower meadows. I wasn’t expecting to see much in the way of wild flower meadows but a challenge was in consideration. I saw a few folks in the parking lot heading up the main trail. In hopes of solitude I took the alternate route to the summit, along the Ausburger Mountain trail. The trail was free of people and my lungs felt just as free of air. I apparently don’t have the same hiking legs that I had over the summer. About 3 miles into the hike the trail became snow covered and icy in spots. I slipped and slid my way up (and sometimes back down) to the deeper snowpack and found the footing to be a little more promising. Once I got up to the ridgeline I had to break trail to traverse over to the main trail. There were some hints of trail but most of the tracks had been blown over with snow. I crunched my way over to the summit, soaking in a winter view of the gorge and headed back down.
I took the main trail back to the parking lot and found it to be a touch icier than my route up. After sliding downhill for a hundred or so yards I was back under the cover of the trees and onto what appeared to be less slick ground. I was introduced to the wonderful world of “brown” ice; a not too distant cousin of the better known “black” ice. Brown ice only differs in it’s location and deceptiveness. The trail may have looked “dirty” but in fact it was indeed anything but. Trying to find good foot placement was challenging and I learned to trust nothing. Eventually I decided to just make my own path alongside of the established trail. This proved to be far more rewarding, as I was actually making progress. The brown ice phenomenon only lasted a few hundred yards and then it was back to the more sure footed dirt trail. I jogged most of the way back to the parking lot, more out of sheer hatred for long downhills than out of ambition. I safely returned to the parking lost and headed back to Portland for some food and sleep.
Sadly, that’s the only adventure worth writing about lately. I have managed to score one day on the mountain for skiing and one for snowshoeing. I’m hoping, praying (a big deal for an atheist), for snow. I may just have to start believing in some fictional being if that’s what it takes to get some snow around here. I hope everyone is doing well and enjoying their winter months. In all honesty, without the rain, it kind of feels like summer up here.
It’s kind of like a rainless Oregon. Yes. . .a rainless Oregon. Now, I can do without the rain downtown and yes, the sun is quite nice. But honestly, I’d give up the sun, the dry city and crystal clear skies for just a little snow! This year was to be Brody’s debut season and now, now, it’s one spent bike riding in the sunshine and hiking through the snowpack. We haven’t had a mentionable drop of snow in close to two months. I feel like McConaughey in “Surfer, Dude” only I’m not pursuing any unlikely love interests.
Dreams filled with falling snow and shredding fresh pow filled my head Saturday night. I laid my head down extra early with the hopes of hitting slopes in the morning. I was charging for fresh tracks. The weather reports made mention of snow on the hill and I was going to take full advantage of it. I was even so tempted as to drive up there Saturday night and sleep in the Yota. I woke early in anticipation of a full day of slopestylyin’ but what I found after checking the internet; there would be no slope stylin’. Somehow, they mountain actually LOST snow overnight. An entire inch of “packed powder” aka, ICE, fed into the local rivers and there was nothing falling to replace it.
Feeling dejected I refused to concede to mother nature. I was going to do something, a hike maybe. . .yes a hike! I cooked up a filling breakfast of eggs, English muffins (gotta love those nooks and crannies), and a protein shake. After breakfast I skipped the dishes and headed to the truck. I drove out to the gorge and crossed over the Bridge of the Gods onto the Washington side. Dog Mountain, a popular spot during the Spring and Summer months, was my destination. I have heard tales of the challenging hike and beautiful wild flower meadows. I wasn’t expecting to see much in the way of wild flower meadows but a challenge was in consideration. I saw a few folks in the parking lot heading up the main trail. In hopes of solitude I took the alternate route to the summit, along the Ausburger Mountain trail. The trail was free of people and my lungs felt just as free of air. I apparently don’t have the same hiking legs that I had over the summer. About 3 miles into the hike the trail became snow covered and icy in spots. I slipped and slid my way up (and sometimes back down) to the deeper snowpack and found the footing to be a little more promising. Once I got up to the ridgeline I had to break trail to traverse over to the main trail. There were some hints of trail but most of the tracks had been blown over with snow. I crunched my way over to the summit, soaking in a winter view of the gorge and headed back down.
I took the main trail back to the parking lot and found it to be a touch icier than my route up. After sliding downhill for a hundred or so yards I was back under the cover of the trees and onto what appeared to be less slick ground. I was introduced to the wonderful world of “brown” ice; a not too distant cousin of the better known “black” ice. Brown ice only differs in it’s location and deceptiveness. The trail may have looked “dirty” but in fact it was indeed anything but. Trying to find good foot placement was challenging and I learned to trust nothing. Eventually I decided to just make my own path alongside of the established trail. This proved to be far more rewarding, as I was actually making progress. The brown ice phenomenon only lasted a few hundred yards and then it was back to the more sure footed dirt trail. I jogged most of the way back to the parking lot, more out of sheer hatred for long downhills than out of ambition. I safely returned to the parking lost and headed back to Portland for some food and sleep.
Sadly, that’s the only adventure worth writing about lately. I have managed to score one day on the mountain for skiing and one for snowshoeing. I’m hoping, praying (a big deal for an atheist), for snow. I may just have to start believing in some fictional being if that’s what it takes to get some snow around here. I hope everyone is doing well and enjoying their winter months. In all honesty, without the rain, it kind of feels like summer up here.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Winter Wonderland
Okay. . .not a lot of words, just pictures. I went for a snowshoe this weekend and this is what i saw. . . (except everything i saw was in color, it's just that the black and white worked pretty well)
and i didn't see this, someone else did
I hope all is well across the globe. I have more pictures but blogger is being difficult. I'll try again later when i'm not on the company dime.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
White Day That People Celebrate the Birth of Sweet, Sweet Baby Jesus (Christmas)
This will be short and sweet as i have a plan to catch. That's correct, i'll be leaving for the far east (Virginia) this evening, arriving tomorrow. . .east coast time. Stumptown was recently hit with the worse snow storm in 30 years. Wow! I think the hippies celebrated more than they do on Earth Day (coffee shops were closed, no work for the hippies). Here are some pictures from last week's and this weekend's vicious storm.
Because i know your first thought was, "i wonder how the porch sofa faired in all this wintery loveliness." You can rest your pretty heads friends. It made it through.
Because i know your first thought was, "i wonder how the porch sofa faired in all this wintery loveliness." You can rest your pretty heads friends. It made it through. S.E. landmark the Bagdad theater in all it's powdery glory.
Yes please. . .on the rocks.
I think they spelled suchi wrong.
No wonder they spelled it wrong; it's Santa Clause behind the counter. What does he know about suchi?
Put some fun between your legs.
I really wanted this picture to come out but it didn't. I'm putting it up here anyway.
As you can imagine, round-a-bouts, snowy streets and hippies in old VW's don't get along.
I know, i know, much to do about nothing. 12inches is not nothing my wintery friends. . .it's something; it's reason to celebrate wintery goodness.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Hippies and. . .Day 5
Day 5.
Rest day (kind of)! With rain/snow in the forecast and poor visibility we discussed the day’s plans over breakfast in the lodge. I told Todd I was going to take it easy and just tour the surroundings. I think he was feeling a little battered himself so we headed to the mountaineering shop for another guide book. Bishop, CA isn’t too far from Mammoth and I’d heard good things about it. It didn’t really live up the hype but we did manage to get in a damp hike through some of the best bouldering country around. Todd picked up a rather impressive bouldering guide book for Bishop and it directed us to. . .Happy Boulders. How can you go wrong with a place called Happy Boulders. The guide book claimed it was situated in a rain shadow but even rain shadows get damp every once in a while. We hiked around a ravine filled with a variety of different rock formations. Todd got onto a couple problems but the moist conditions and lack of chalk didn’t help his cause.
On our way back to Mammoth we made a stop off at the infamous Crab Cooker for another toasty bath. Like the previous two nights, the tub was occupied when we arrived. Todd and I decided to check out some of the other water features in the area to see if any were batheable. The funny thing about hot springs is that it can be tough to tell just how hot they are. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, all the springs we dipped out fingers into were too cold for bathing. When we got back to the truck it looked like the current tub occupants were going to be around a while. I pulled out the monocular to see what kind of situation we were looking at. After brief deliberation, we decided we’d join the three topless ladies (even through a monocular one of them appeard to be a dude). A very difficult decision, I know. The ladies were happy to have us join them and they were quite the social locals. We shared some stories about our recent adventures and got some intel on what the hot spots were in town. While we were in the tub the snow really started falling, big juicy flakes. We all just tilted our heads back and watched as the snow would drift down and onto our faces. In my own words, “This is like an acid trip gone right.” The experience was pretty fantastic, something I hope to have again before I leave this place. The ladies left and we stuck around for another hour or so.
Todd and I toweled off and ventured back into Mammoth for some dinner. We found ourselves at a Thai place, apparently just under the restaurant where one of our tubmates tended bar. Dinner was good and spicy. Nothing a few pints couldn’t remedy. We took the advice of our tubmates and wandered over to a place called the Clocktower, or Watchtower or something like that. It was a bar in the basement of some German looking restaurant. This is where the night got interesting. We were greeted by a friendly dog of some sort. The bar was empty minus a couple picking out tunes on the jukebox and two, what seemed to be, resort employees discussing whatever ski folk discuss. Todd and I ponied up to the bar and ordered some pints of Oregon’s Dead Guy Ale. I dumped a few quarters into the Golden Tee game while Todd made his daily call home to check-in on the wifey and developing lass. A few games of foosball were followed by some pool. The bar started to acquire some birthday party folk and before we knew it we were packed into the back of the bar chatting with some of the birthday crew. Todd being the ever-so attentive big brother to his not-so attentive little brother’s single nature, asked the birthday boy, Brian, if there were any single ladies who would be interested in playing pool. Brian responded quite quickly with a shout to “Caroline.” “You have to meet Caroline,” he says, “ She smells like Kama Sutra.” Neither of us knew what to think about this statement. Was it a compliment or a warning? Caroline and Brian joined us for another game of pool. Caroline seemed like a cool bird, slightly older (born in ’69), but cool nonetheless. We continued chatting through the evening; discussing everything from healthcare to literature. I kept the conversation up while Todd poached beers off other people’s pitchers. It was looking more and more like we may have a warm house and soft sofa to crash on for the night. Things ended up not working out that way but it was really no loss; who knows what kind of sacrifices I would have had to make just to have a warm place to sleep.
As we parted ways with Caroline and the birthday folk we crossed paths with a drunk “hippy” in the parking lot of the bar. He was looking for a ride back to his place. In typical Todd and Scott fashion (shades of the hippy dude we picked up in Mexico) we offered the cat a ride. About 2 minutes into our travels uphill we discovered we would have been better off letting him bum a ride elsewhere. The guy started talking about his “fat” girlfriend, who keeps him warm in the winter. She apparently sent him a text insisting that he stop contacting her, they’re in love. At this point he had yet to tell us where he lived. The “hippy” went on to tell us more benefits of his fat girlfriend, I’ll spare you the details, some because I have no clue what he was even talking about. Similar to our hitchhiker in Mexico, it was time to ditch the dude.
I wasn’t aware but Todd already had an exit plan on his mind. The truck took a turn into a cul-de-sac, moved on through someone’s driveway and into their backyard. Todd claims he thought the yard was an extension of the driveway. An easy mistake to make when everything is covered in snow. The Yota didn’t like the soft soil/snow combination and refused to move. The “hippy” and I got out to push. Just as the truck broke free I attempted to jump into the truck so we could execute the “ditch the hippy” strategy Todd had planned. On my way back into the truck the door struck the back stairs of the empty house’s deck. The door bent in the wrong direction and made an uncomfortable noise. Now with the passenger door lodged on the deck stairs, the truck had new difficulties. It took a few swift kicks and a lot of laughter but the truck door was eventually dislodged from the stairs. The newly freed Yota rolled back toward the neighboring house and nearly crushed me against the back corner of the house. Thankfully, all those years of ninja training paid off because I was able to squeeze out of the way just in time. Todd muscled, as much as you can muscle a 4 cylinder, out of the hole and onto the roadway. I briskly jogged to the truck, held the door shut and we were off. . .sans hippy. Before you pass judgment. . .just know that this “hippy” was saying some pretty offensive things, particularly about women, more specifically about his fat girlfriend and wife (two different ladies). We did what we had to do out of respect for all of womankind (come on. . .you have to give me credit for trying). I decided that since we had told the hippy about our sleeping accommodations, that we should probably find a different place to park the truck for the evening. On our way back to the new crash spot, Todd pulled off into a parking lot so we could kick the passenger door into a more favorable position. . .closed. We really weren’t trying to embark on a two day drive back to Portland with the navigator also being responsible for keeping the door closed. A swift kick to the door panel and we were back in business. Todd found a nice flat spot in the Mammoth hotel parking lot and it was off into a giggle filled slumber for the two of us.
Rest day (kind of)! With rain/snow in the forecast and poor visibility we discussed the day’s plans over breakfast in the lodge. I told Todd I was going to take it easy and just tour the surroundings. I think he was feeling a little battered himself so we headed to the mountaineering shop for another guide book. Bishop, CA isn’t too far from Mammoth and I’d heard good things about it. It didn’t really live up the hype but we did manage to get in a damp hike through some of the best bouldering country around. Todd picked up a rather impressive bouldering guide book for Bishop and it directed us to. . .Happy Boulders. How can you go wrong with a place called Happy Boulders. The guide book claimed it was situated in a rain shadow but even rain shadows get damp every once in a while. We hiked around a ravine filled with a variety of different rock formations. Todd got onto a couple problems but the moist conditions and lack of chalk didn’t help his cause.
On our way back to Mammoth we made a stop off at the infamous Crab Cooker for another toasty bath. Like the previous two nights, the tub was occupied when we arrived. Todd and I decided to check out some of the other water features in the area to see if any were batheable. The funny thing about hot springs is that it can be tough to tell just how hot they are. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, all the springs we dipped out fingers into were too cold for bathing. When we got back to the truck it looked like the current tub occupants were going to be around a while. I pulled out the monocular to see what kind of situation we were looking at. After brief deliberation, we decided we’d join the three topless ladies (even through a monocular one of them appeard to be a dude). A very difficult decision, I know. The ladies were happy to have us join them and they were quite the social locals. We shared some stories about our recent adventures and got some intel on what the hot spots were in town. While we were in the tub the snow really started falling, big juicy flakes. We all just tilted our heads back and watched as the snow would drift down and onto our faces. In my own words, “This is like an acid trip gone right.” The experience was pretty fantastic, something I hope to have again before I leave this place. The ladies left and we stuck around for another hour or so.
Todd and I toweled off and ventured back into Mammoth for some dinner. We found ourselves at a Thai place, apparently just under the restaurant where one of our tubmates tended bar. Dinner was good and spicy. Nothing a few pints couldn’t remedy. We took the advice of our tubmates and wandered over to a place called the Clocktower, or Watchtower or something like that. It was a bar in the basement of some German looking restaurant. This is where the night got interesting. We were greeted by a friendly dog of some sort. The bar was empty minus a couple picking out tunes on the jukebox and two, what seemed to be, resort employees discussing whatever ski folk discuss. Todd and I ponied up to the bar and ordered some pints of Oregon’s Dead Guy Ale. I dumped a few quarters into the Golden Tee game while Todd made his daily call home to check-in on the wifey and developing lass. A few games of foosball were followed by some pool. The bar started to acquire some birthday party folk and before we knew it we were packed into the back of the bar chatting with some of the birthday crew. Todd being the ever-so attentive big brother to his not-so attentive little brother’s single nature, asked the birthday boy, Brian, if there were any single ladies who would be interested in playing pool. Brian responded quite quickly with a shout to “Caroline.” “You have to meet Caroline,” he says, “ She smells like Kama Sutra.” Neither of us knew what to think about this statement. Was it a compliment or a warning? Caroline and Brian joined us for another game of pool. Caroline seemed like a cool bird, slightly older (born in ’69), but cool nonetheless. We continued chatting through the evening; discussing everything from healthcare to literature. I kept the conversation up while Todd poached beers off other people’s pitchers. It was looking more and more like we may have a warm house and soft sofa to crash on for the night. Things ended up not working out that way but it was really no loss; who knows what kind of sacrifices I would have had to make just to have a warm place to sleep.
As we parted ways with Caroline and the birthday folk we crossed paths with a drunk “hippy” in the parking lot of the bar. He was looking for a ride back to his place. In typical Todd and Scott fashion (shades of the hippy dude we picked up in Mexico) we offered the cat a ride. About 2 minutes into our travels uphill we discovered we would have been better off letting him bum a ride elsewhere. The guy started talking about his “fat” girlfriend, who keeps him warm in the winter. She apparently sent him a text insisting that he stop contacting her, they’re in love. At this point he had yet to tell us where he lived. The “hippy” went on to tell us more benefits of his fat girlfriend, I’ll spare you the details, some because I have no clue what he was even talking about. Similar to our hitchhiker in Mexico, it was time to ditch the dude.
I wasn’t aware but Todd already had an exit plan on his mind. The truck took a turn into a cul-de-sac, moved on through someone’s driveway and into their backyard. Todd claims he thought the yard was an extension of the driveway. An easy mistake to make when everything is covered in snow. The Yota didn’t like the soft soil/snow combination and refused to move. The “hippy” and I got out to push. Just as the truck broke free I attempted to jump into the truck so we could execute the “ditch the hippy” strategy Todd had planned. On my way back into the truck the door struck the back stairs of the empty house’s deck. The door bent in the wrong direction and made an uncomfortable noise. Now with the passenger door lodged on the deck stairs, the truck had new difficulties. It took a few swift kicks and a lot of laughter but the truck door was eventually dislodged from the stairs. The newly freed Yota rolled back toward the neighboring house and nearly crushed me against the back corner of the house. Thankfully, all those years of ninja training paid off because I was able to squeeze out of the way just in time. Todd muscled, as much as you can muscle a 4 cylinder, out of the hole and onto the roadway. I briskly jogged to the truck, held the door shut and we were off. . .sans hippy. Before you pass judgment. . .just know that this “hippy” was saying some pretty offensive things, particularly about women, more specifically about his fat girlfriend and wife (two different ladies). We did what we had to do out of respect for all of womankind (come on. . .you have to give me credit for trying). I decided that since we had told the hippy about our sleeping accommodations, that we should probably find a different place to park the truck for the evening. On our way back to the new crash spot, Todd pulled off into a parking lot so we could kick the passenger door into a more favorable position. . .closed. We really weren’t trying to embark on a two day drive back to Portland with the navigator also being responsible for keeping the door closed. A swift kick to the door panel and we were back in business. Todd found a nice flat spot in the Mammoth hotel parking lot and it was off into a giggle filled slumber for the two of us.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Hippies and. . .Days 3 &: 4
Disclaimer:
The contents below are part of a multipart series of events that took place during Thanksgiving week 2008. Please be sure to read from the bottom up, otherwise you will read the story in reverse. The events are told as i remember them. Names, ages, and locations have not been altered to protect the innocent. . .or guilty.
Day 3.
Todd and I woke up to sunshine, glorious sunshine. For those of you who don’t live in the Pacific NW, you may not understand this sun worshiping habit. Up here in this corner of the U.S. cold weather = rain. Apparently in California, cold can mean anything it wants. . .damn liberals. The first thing I sought out, after my down jacket, was some water. The funny thing about water is that it freezes or gets mighty slushy if you sleep in sub 32 degree temperatures. I awoke to a near frozen, exceptionally slushy jug of water. Regardless of its viscosity, it did well to curb the impending hangover. We flipped up the tailgate of the truck and headed down to Mammoth Lakes for some breakfast. There is something interesting that seems to happen on the west coast (and possibly the east coast but I just haven’t noticed). For whatever reason, people, restaurant owners in particular, feel the need to make some East Coast claim when it comes to naming their establishment. For example, we ate at a New York bagel place, in Mammoth Lakes, California. It’s as if there is something special about New York that makes their bagels better than anything produced on the West Coast (I was recently told it was the water)?
After some delicious New York “style” bagels we headed up to the mountain for a day of serious shredding or. . .shreddin’. It was time for Brody to break out some of the moves he learned last year, only. . .Brody is still just learning to turn his skis. The resort claimed to have a base of 12-48 inches which turned to be more like 0-48 inches. There were a few bare patches on the hill but nothing I couldn’t fall over or around. The riding was good but I felt bad for holding Todd up, he didn’t seem to complain though. After trying a few different runs we pieced together a nice long route from just below the top down to the lower parking lot. The run provided for several options on its lower section, one being through the terrain park. I didn’t do much more than granny my way up and over a couple jumps, while Todd took on a rail or two. The upper part of the run started with a steep turn, usually crowded with beginners like myself, that swept down into a large shoot that afforded us with some gorgeous views of the mountains that make up the east side of Yosemite National Park. From there the ride was pretty open and mellow, not that any of that kept me from falling.
Just one of the many views on the lift.
A long day on the slopes calls for a few things. But first things first. . .an Everline will not be denied; we made a second attempt at the hot springs. Since the lifts closed at 4pm we had enough light to actually see the fabled “green church” that represented the gateway to the hot springs. Daylight seemed to be the missing element from the night before because the Green Church stood out like a sore thumb. After taking the prescribed left at the green church we were one step closer to finding the sought after hot springs. There are a few springs all in line with one another, all being within a mile or so from one another. We stopped off at the first spring, Hot Tub (creative name I know) only to find two hippies and their dog, enjoying the warm water. No worries, two more springs to choose from. We made our way to the furthest of three springs, Shepherd Hot Spring, again we found inhabitants. This time a hippy dude and topless hippy chick (the dude was topless as well but not really worth mentioning, even though I just mentioned it). After wandering around on desert roads and some creative map reading, we found our way to a hot spring tucked a little further off the beaten path, Crab Cooker. Feeling the dire need for a bath and armed with a 12-pack of beers, we decided to wait out Crab Cooker’s residents. We broke out the FlashFlight and tossed the disc around until the spring was free. Todd and I jumped into our suits and headed down to the spring. What we found was sheer hot spring bliss. 
The hot springs on the east side of the Sierras have a reputation of being some of the best in the country. They are well maintained by the local community and Crab Cooker proved to live up to the national recognition. Unlike many of the springs in the area, Crab Cooker had an intake and exit valve allowing the user to “control” the water temperature. It also came with a gorgeous, secluded view of the Sierra Mountains. The tub was thrown together by what I would suspect to be a stoned stone mason but fit our needs just fine. A bench rimed the inside of the tub providing a perfect seat. Crab Cooker was also deep enough to attain full submersion, a nice touch after sleeping in a truck for several days. We spent a couple-a-few hours in the Crab Cooker. Throw a few beers in the mix and it was exactly what the doctor ordered after a long day of skiing. The biggest problem one runs into when soaking in a hot spring for multiple hours is. . .getting out. Crab Cooker treated us well while we were in the water but could do very little (nothing) to protect us from the cold air hanging around outside of the tub. 
. . .I opted for some sleep
Following an awkward cold air, half naked dance, it was time to fill out stomachs with more than just beer. We hit up “Gomez’s” for some fine Mexican dinning. The food was great but the effects of sitting in a hot spring and drinking beer really started to kick in. I was so exhausted I could barely finish my margarita. I may have briefly, just briefly, crashed out on the table between bouts of stuffing my face with chips and salsa. It possibly happened again while waiting for the bill. Todd nearly had to carry me out of the joint. Good thing he didn’t have to because he barely had enough energy to get himself out the door. We decided to skip a drive down to the snowy meadow for the night and crashed right in the parking lot of the ski lodge.
Day 4.
After an uneventful night of sleep it was time for some nourishment before another day of shredding. Crab Cooker really seemed to loosen up the ol’ joints and tenderized the aching muscles that the first day on the slopes left us with. Todd and I headed into the lodge’s “marketplace” for a cafeteria style breakfast. The options were broad the prices weren’t nearly as bad as expected. With full bellies we lined up at the Broadway lift, ready to start our day on the mountain. We left off where we started the day before, back on the full mountain run. The snow seemed to be a bit harder and more sparse than the day before. We ran the mountain pretty steadily until 2ish. We walked back to the truck to get a little break and something to snack on. My knee and ankle were still a bit tender from the header I took on my bike so I opted to spend the rest of my afternoon in the bar (not getting any damn service), while Todd headed back up the hill for a few more runs. 
The mountain. 
Taking a break and soaking up the scenery.
Todd and I grabbed a few beverages at the bar and headed back to Crab Cooker for another evening soak. There was a family getting in their nightly bath so we waited in the parking area and enjoyed a beer and I snapped off a few pictures. It wasn’t long before the family was on their way back to their car and we were headed down to Crab Cooker. We had the tub to ourselves for a second night and enjoyed the sun as it set behind the Sierras. I drug down my camera and tripod with hopes of getting a few soaking photos. Todd’s point n’ shoot came away with better photos than my fancy rig could pull together. 
The, what now seemed ritualistic, dressing dance took place and it was off for some tasty treats at the Whiskey River restaurant and lounge. We both picked the portobello mushroom sandwich. Todd added a prefix of artichoke dip. The Whiskey was by far the classiest place we had dined at during the trip. They had real silverware and cloth, yes cloth, napkins; a real swanky place. After dinner we took our pints over to the pool table for a couple games of billiards. I crushed Todd, game after game (or so remember) and we left, one head hanging lower than the other. The Crab Cooker did us in again. Like a couple of old men in our assisted living village. . .it was (head)lights out by 8.30.
The contents below are part of a multipart series of events that took place during Thanksgiving week 2008. Please be sure to read from the bottom up, otherwise you will read the story in reverse. The events are told as i remember them. Names, ages, and locations have not been altered to protect the innocent. . .or guilty.
Day 3.
Rise and Shine!
Todd and I woke up to sunshine, glorious sunshine. For those of you who don’t live in the Pacific NW, you may not understand this sun worshiping habit. Up here in this corner of the U.S. cold weather = rain. Apparently in California, cold can mean anything it wants. . .damn liberals. The first thing I sought out, after my down jacket, was some water. The funny thing about water is that it freezes or gets mighty slushy if you sleep in sub 32 degree temperatures. I awoke to a near frozen, exceptionally slushy jug of water. Regardless of its viscosity, it did well to curb the impending hangover. We flipped up the tailgate of the truck and headed down to Mammoth Lakes for some breakfast. There is something interesting that seems to happen on the west coast (and possibly the east coast but I just haven’t noticed). For whatever reason, people, restaurant owners in particular, feel the need to make some East Coast claim when it comes to naming their establishment. For example, we ate at a New York bagel place, in Mammoth Lakes, California. It’s as if there is something special about New York that makes their bagels better than anything produced on the West Coast (I was recently told it was the water)?
Morning slushy.
After some delicious New York “style” bagels we headed up to the mountain for a day of serious shredding or. . .shreddin’. It was time for Brody to break out some of the moves he learned last year, only. . .Brody is still just learning to turn his skis. The resort claimed to have a base of 12-48 inches which turned to be more like 0-48 inches. There were a few bare patches on the hill but nothing I couldn’t fall over or around. The riding was good but I felt bad for holding Todd up, he didn’t seem to complain though. After trying a few different runs we pieced together a nice long route from just below the top down to the lower parking lot. The run provided for several options on its lower section, one being through the terrain park. I didn’t do much more than granny my way up and over a couple jumps, while Todd took on a rail or two. The upper part of the run started with a steep turn, usually crowded with beginners like myself, that swept down into a large shoot that afforded us with some gorgeous views of the mountains that make up the east side of Yosemite National Park. From there the ride was pretty open and mellow, not that any of that kept me from falling.
Todd doing some map reading mid-slope.
Todd dropping into the killer run.
Brody shreddin' on the long run.
The chute on the golden run.
Just one of the many views on the lift. A view from the gondola up the mountain.
A long day on the slopes calls for a few things. But first things first. . .an Everline will not be denied; we made a second attempt at the hot springs. Since the lifts closed at 4pm we had enough light to actually see the fabled “green church” that represented the gateway to the hot springs. Daylight seemed to be the missing element from the night before because the Green Church stood out like a sore thumb. After taking the prescribed left at the green church we were one step closer to finding the sought after hot springs. There are a few springs all in line with one another, all being within a mile or so from one another. We stopped off at the first spring, Hot Tub (creative name I know) only to find two hippies and their dog, enjoying the warm water. No worries, two more springs to choose from. We made our way to the furthest of three springs, Shepherd Hot Spring, again we found inhabitants. This time a hippy dude and topless hippy chick (the dude was topless as well but not really worth mentioning, even though I just mentioned it). After wandering around on desert roads and some creative map reading, we found our way to a hot spring tucked a little further off the beaten path, Crab Cooker. Feeling the dire need for a bath and armed with a 12-pack of beers, we decided to wait out Crab Cooker’s residents. We broke out the FlashFlight and tossed the disc around until the spring was free. Todd and I jumped into our suits and headed down to the spring. What we found was sheer hot spring bliss.
Crab Cooker.
The view from Crab Cooker.
The hot springs on the east side of the Sierras have a reputation of being some of the best in the country. They are well maintained by the local community and Crab Cooker proved to live up to the national recognition. Unlike many of the springs in the area, Crab Cooker had an intake and exit valve allowing the user to “control” the water temperature. It also came with a gorgeous, secluded view of the Sierra Mountains. The tub was thrown together by what I would suspect to be a stoned stone mason but fit our needs just fine. A bench rimed the inside of the tub providing a perfect seat. Crab Cooker was also deep enough to attain full submersion, a nice touch after sleeping in a truck for several days. We spent a couple-a-few hours in the Crab Cooker. Throw a few beers in the mix and it was exactly what the doctor ordered after a long day of skiing. The biggest problem one runs into when soaking in a hot spring for multiple hours is. . .getting out. Crab Cooker treated us well while we were in the water but could do very little (nothing) to protect us from the cold air hanging around outside of the tub.
While Todd washed off the funk. . .
. . .I opted for some sleep Following an awkward cold air, half naked dance, it was time to fill out stomachs with more than just beer. We hit up “Gomez’s” for some fine Mexican dinning. The food was great but the effects of sitting in a hot spring and drinking beer really started to kick in. I was so exhausted I could barely finish my margarita. I may have briefly, just briefly, crashed out on the table between bouts of stuffing my face with chips and salsa. It possibly happened again while waiting for the bill. Todd nearly had to carry me out of the joint. Good thing he didn’t have to because he barely had enough energy to get himself out the door. We decided to skip a drive down to the snowy meadow for the night and crashed right in the parking lot of the ski lodge.
Day 4.
After an uneventful night of sleep it was time for some nourishment before another day of shredding. Crab Cooker really seemed to loosen up the ol’ joints and tenderized the aching muscles that the first day on the slopes left us with. Todd and I headed into the lodge’s “marketplace” for a cafeteria style breakfast. The options were broad the prices weren’t nearly as bad as expected. With full bellies we lined up at the Broadway lift, ready to start our day on the mountain. We left off where we started the day before, back on the full mountain run. The snow seemed to be a bit harder and more sparse than the day before. We ran the mountain pretty steadily until 2ish. We walked back to the truck to get a little break and something to snack on. My knee and ankle were still a bit tender from the header I took on my bike so I opted to spend the rest of my afternoon in the bar (not getting any damn service), while Todd headed back up the hill for a few more runs.
The mountain.Going up?
Todd hiding from the sun.
Monster lift.
Going down? A view from the top of the mountain.
Todd heading down hill.
Taking a break and soaking up the scenery.Todd and I grabbed a few beverages at the bar and headed back to Crab Cooker for another evening soak. There was a family getting in their nightly bath so we waited in the parking area and enjoyed a beer and I snapped off a few pictures. It wasn’t long before the family was on their way back to their car and we were headed down to Crab Cooker. We had the tub to ourselves for a second night and enjoyed the sun as it set behind the Sierras. I drug down my camera and tripod with hopes of getting a few soaking photos. Todd’s point n’ shoot came away with better photos than my fancy rig could pull together.
The last bits of sunlight from Crab Cooker as it dropped behind the Sierras.
Steamy.
The brothers at bath time.
The, what now seemed ritualistic, dressing dance took place and it was off for some tasty treats at the Whiskey River restaurant and lounge. We both picked the portobello mushroom sandwich. Todd added a prefix of artichoke dip. The Whiskey was by far the classiest place we had dined at during the trip. They had real silverware and cloth, yes cloth, napkins; a real swanky place. After dinner we took our pints over to the pool table for a couple games of billiards. I crushed Todd, game after game (or so remember) and we left, one head hanging lower than the other. The Crab Cooker did us in again. Like a couple of old men in our assisted living village. . .it was (head)lights out by 8.30.
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