The Last Ski Trip

Over a foot of snow fell in Vail last weekend. Then another foot throughout the week. Two feet of snow and we heard that it was still coming down steadily on Friday evening. I went to dinner with Dave, Elijah, and the Tucker sisters around 7-ish. Dave was calling people frantically throughout dinner to find a way to get up to Vail and a place to stay up there. I was mildly interested to see if he could pull it off at the last minute, but I had no real desire to join him. It was snowing in downtown Denver. It was snowing in Golden. It was snowing in Evergreen. It was snowing in Georgetown. It was snowing at Loveland Pass. It was snowing in Silverthorne. And it was snowing in Vail. The entire 75 mile stretch of I-70 that connected Denver to Vail would be covered in snow pack and ice. And every passing minute, the conditions would grow worse.

Also, the next day, Saturday December 8th, marked the official opening of Blue Sky Basin at Vail. Unofficially, this same day would mark the unofficial opening of just about all the Colorado ski resorts along I-70 because before this weekend there wasn't an inch of snow on the ground. It would be safe to assume that thousands upon thousands of Denver-ites would be hightailing out of the city for the first big ski weekend of the season. This means that from Saturday morning through Sunday night, it will be nearly impossible to get on and off the I-70 corridor from Denver to Vail without major traffic delays. Toss in a healthy dose of snowfall into that equation and you have a recipe for a major roadway quagmire.

With this information stewing around in my brain throughout our dinner, I could only allow myself to be mildly interested in Dave's attempts to join in on the mad dash up into the mountains. Then Dave relayed two new pieces of information that changed my mind completely. First, I found out that the Beeby's were on their way up to their condo in Vail's East Village and would be there alone. That meant two open beds and a couch. The Beeby's are close friends and would happily allow us to crash at their condo. Second, I found out that Tom Lekan would be willing to drive up to Vail immediately and had room for two people in his All-Wheel drive Subaru Outback Sport Edition. Two years ago, I drove behind Tom Lekan and his Subaru up Rabbit Ears Pass in a complete white out. I knew first hand that he had a great car for driving up a snowy mountain and I knew that he had good experience doing so.

With these new pieces of information at hand; a safe ride to Vail, a free place to stay with good friends, two feet of new snow, and the official opening of Blue Sky Basin, I was ready to invite myself along in Dave's journey.

We finished our dinner, and ran home to pack our ski equipment. Tom picked us up and we were on the highway by 9pm. We could have waited till the morning to drive up, but Friday night is usually the best time to drive up I-70 if you are forced to ski on weekends. If you drive up on Saturday morning, you have to get on the road before dawn to beat the traffic. So Friday night was our best bet and it worked out well for us. The highway was mostly clear of traffic. The snow and ice slowed us down quite a bit, but Tom's car is well equipped to handle the conditions, and we made it to Vail in just under 2 hours.

We met the Beeby's at their condo and found out that they were in a minor accident on the way up. A girl in a Jeep slid into their truck and put a huge dent in the driver side door. No one was hurt and both cars could press on, so they all continued on. We stayed up late drinking cheap beer. I sat in silence most of the time while I tried to understand the language that Tom, James, and Dave speak to each other. They are all computer hardware junkies and spend a great deal of energy critiquing any and all operating systems, software, and hardware. On this Friday night, the discussion centered mostly on the feasibility of running Flash on Tom's new cell phone. I had very little to contribute to the technical aspects of this conversation, but I did know of some good porn sites that used Flash, so I detailed the pros and cons of those sites while the three technophiles acknowledged my profound expertise in the field of internet porn research.

Saturday morning came upon us quickly. We ate a quick breakfast, suited up, and headed for the mountain. I felt terrible. A combination of too much cheap beer, bad diet, poor physical fitness, and high altitude made me feel quite nauseated. I ignored my queasiness and tried to focus on getting my snowboard attached to my feet and riding it properly down the steep mountain trails.

We took the most direct lifts and catwalks over to Blue Sky Basin. My first run was one of the most amazing ski experiences of my life. For the first time ever, I was able to ride through deep, untouched snow. I leaned back so the front edge of my board peeked out over the snow, I placed my right hand down on the top of the snow for extra balance, and glided through the snow without having to turn much or slow down at all. It might have been the most euphoric sensation I have ever experienced on a snowboard. Leaning as far back as possible and carving through untracked, waist-level snow with no one around me, nothing in my way, and no worries about falling or hurting myself because the snow would simply engulf me like a bed of pillows if I did happen to fall down.

Eventually, I did fall down. That was when I realized that the deep, untracked snow wasn't such a good thing when your snowboard and half of your body are buried underneath it. There is nothing hard packed to prop yourself up on while you try to pull your snowboard out from underneath a hundred pounds of snow. The snow just continues to give way underneath you and the snowboard continues to sink underneath that same snow as you flail around and flounder your way to exhaustion.

Needless to say, it was a short day of snowboarding for me. When I was upright and moving in a downward direction, snowboarding was effortless and blissful. But when I was stopped and laying on the ground, it was frustrating and exasperating.

There was one brief moment where I got myself stuck in the snow, but it was not so infuriating. I was on a run that was totally unfamiliar. I was following someone else's tracks and I figured I was on an easy route to the bottom. All of a sudden, I was riding along the edge of a 15 foot drop. Up ahead I saw nothing but red polls. Red polls usually mark the last spot of terrain before a large drop off. I realized I was heading towards some kind of precipice. I stopped myself right on the edge of the 15 foot cliff, rather than proceed on to another section of the cliff that could be much, much larger. I quickly sank to the bottom.

Rather than waste all my energy flailing around for half an hour, or longer, to get my snowboard detached from my feet and walk back towards safe tracks, I inched my way forward to the very edge of the cliff, and dropped off. I fell into another deep patch of snow that totally absorbed my fall and allowed me to maintain just enough momentum to ride out of the snow and back towards a steep enough pitch that I could ride down easily to the bottom. It was a supremely gratifying experience. I have never been able to psyche myself up enough to jump off a cliff of any substantial height. The alternative of flailing around in the snow to the point of exhaustion made it an easy venture for me to throw myself into; literally.

In the early afternoon, after about 5 or 6 runs, I started to lose the requisite energy to carve through deep snow and dig myself out of it when I fell down. Near the end of a run I fell twice while I was going top speed. Back-to-back cartwheels and a solid strike of the helmet to the ground, and I was ready to call it a day.

The rest of my crew were better skiers than me, and didn't seem to be battling altitude sickness or a hangover, so they continued on a little longer than me. We eventually met up at Vail Village and ordered pizza and beer to celebrate a successful powder day. I personally celebrated my first experience creating the first tracks on a patch of snow.

Around 3:30pm, Tom pulls out of Vail in the Subaru with Dave sitting shotgun and me in the back seat. Vail pass is crowded with other cars and snow packed, but Tom's car seems to have good traction, so we make it down the pass fairly smoothly. The next stretch of highway, the hill to Eisenhower Tunnel, is a much different story.

After the exit to Silverthorne, the hill to Eisenhower Tunnel begins. 10 to 12 miles of steep, windy, three-lane highway with the tunnel at the top. The snow is falling hard and there are thousands of cars trying to make their way to the top. Idiots that we are, we timed our drive home at the worst time of day for traffic. All the lifts stop running at 4pm, and all of the Denver-ites get on the road right around then to head back home, and so did we.

It takes us a full hour to travel the 10 miles to the tunnel. Two-wheel drive cars and trucks spin out and get stuck all around us. Hazard lights are everywhere. Big eighteen-wheelers with chains on their tires are even spinning out in places. We watch people get out of their cars and push them out of bad spots. There are people standing on the side of the road, next to their car, with their thumbs in the air, begging for a ride. We even see a guy sitting on the bed of a back-wheel drive pickup for extra weight. Tom and the Subaru Outback Sport have very little trouble maneuvering through the snow and the automobile carnage. Although, every couple of minutes he has to reach his hand out of the window and grab his windshield wiper, pull it off the windshield and let is smack back down to shake off the ice that has accumulated on the blade. Tom called it, "the grab and smack" method. Patent is pending.

When we weren't totally stopped behind a wall of stuck vehicles, we weaved through the open lanes, sometimes driving within a foot of a two-wheel drive car that was spinning towards us and away from us quite violently. A full hour of maneuvering up the hill and around the carnage of stuck vehicles. For the first time ever, I was sincerely surprised that we made it up that hill. That road should have been closed. And we were lucky that we made it through without an accident or getting stuck. My hat goes off to Tom Lekan and his Subaru Outback Sport Edition.

After the tunnel, the roads are little better and the traffic is a little lighter. We crawl home at a steady 20 miles an hour. Four hours after we left Vail, we arrive at my apartment in Denver. I am totally exhausted. I am so tired and agitated that I make a pact with myself that I will never get on I-70 again on a weekend.

It was a great day of snowboarding and a terrible day of driving. It was my first real powder day, and maybe my last. I move to Florida next week and I might not ever ski in Colorado ever again. And I might not feel too bad about that.

Walnut Valley Festivals

A couple weeks ago I ventured back to my homeland for the 36th Annual Walnut Valley Bluegrass Festival in Winfield, Kansas. I call Winfield my homeland because I was born in a hospital about 90 miles away in Newton, Kansas. My first home was 20 miles away from Winfield in another little Kansas town by the name of Wellington. Nowadays my mother resides in Winfield and my sister happens to reside in Wellington. My brother and my father live a couple hours' drive away in Northeastern Kansas, and most of my massive extended family (26 first cousins) live within a half day's drive. With my entire family living so nearby, and the fact that I was also born nearby, it is seems right to consider Winfield my homeland; even though I've never actually set foot in the town.

So I've never been to the Walnut Valley Festival, but it was inevitable that someday I journey back to my homeland for the town's biggest event of the year. Quite a few of my family members are regular attendees of the festival, including my own brother who happens to be in a bluegrass band that performs every year on a couple of the side stages.

There is good reason that I have never been to the festival. Its not that I don't like bluegrass music, its just that I don't like MOST bluegrass music. And its not that I don't like visiting my homeland, its just that I don't like visiting my homeland during certain times of the year; like, say...June through April. (May is quite nice.) But aside from my taste, and distaste, for bluegrass, and my desire to stay out of my homeland for 11 months out of the year, there is one thing that always brings me back; and that is the prospect of boozing with the family. And the prospect of boozing with my family at a music festival is an extremely intriguing idea.

So in September of 2007, I sucked it up and bought a ticket for the show. And what a show it was!

I arrived on a Friday afternoon to find a sea of cars parked on several peripheral baseball fields. There was a sprawling campground with hundreds of tents and RVs scattered throughout a meandering grove of beautiful old trees, known to locals as the Pecan Grove. The main stage was situated on a portion of the central structure of the fairgrounds (racetrack) so as to utilize the metal bleachers, and there were 3 side stages with ample lawn space for chairs and blankets. Finally, a quaint open-air food court where chicken tenders, bbq brisket, turkey legs, burgers, pork tenderloin, and Indian Tacos were being served out of little trailers.

All of this was nice, but nothing spectacular when compared to any other summertime music festival. What made the scene so exciting was the fact that there were actually two distinct festivals occurring simultaneously, completing intertwined and woven together, but at the same time, completely segregated and disfunctional.

There was a main gate that separated the two festivals. Inside the gate was the music festival with the main stage, the 3 side stages, the food court, and not a single drop of booze. Outside the gate was the boozing festival with the tents, the RVs, the Pecan Grove, two makeshift side stages with no electricity...and booze. Booze as far as the eye can see. Amber waves of booze. Pilsner rain drops in a summer booze storm. Booze in each hand. Booze in a can. Booze in a cooler. Booze in a keg. Booze in the morning. Booze in the afternoon. Booze in the night!

Throughout the weekend, we would all take part in both festivals, but never both at the same time. We could enter and exit through the main gate as often as we pleased. We could booze for an hour outside, then watch an hour of bluegrass inside, then go back outside and booze for another hour, then repeat. The musicians played on the main stages inside the gate, and they played on the makeshift stages outside the gate. Sometimes they just played bluegrass in the little dirt roads along their way to the stage. They played during the day and they played throughout the night. We boozed during the day and we boozed throughout the night. Some bands were great. Some bands were terrible. Some booze was cold and some booze was hot. We drank it all, and we listened to it all, and by the end of it all, it all tasted the same.

One evening I was boozing at my brother's campground with some people that I didn't know very well. One lady saw me pull a Pabst Blue Ribbon can out of a cooler and she stared at me in wonder for several seconds before blurting out, "I ain't never seen nobody drink pbr!". "Oh, yeah?", I say as I pour some frosty pbr down my gullet without so much as a cringe or a gag reflex. "Pretty good stuff", I conclude to the lady. And she looked at me with disgust and bewilderment, but also with respect and awe. Then she forgot all about me while she began a quest to locate a cigarette and a fresh bud light can.

I turned my attention back to my own quest. A smoldering camp fire just upwind from our campground had been smoldering in our direction for two straight days and I had grown tired of inhaling camp fire smoke with my booze. I tried to locate some water to dump on the camp fire, but the only liquid I could find was my dear booze. Undeterred, I poured my booze onto the smoldering fire until the smoke relinquished and all of my booze had been poured out. I took a long, deep breath of smokeless air, but it did not quench my thirst. I zipped up my jacket and stuffed two empty coozies into my pockets and trudged off into the darkness. I did not require any light to guide my way. I simply followed the sounds of fingerpicking and freshly cracked cans of booze drifting through the night.

Walking Home

Last night I met up with some classmates at Sancho's Broken Arrow on E. Colfax & Washington. The only bar in Denver with a jukebox full of Grateful Dead and Widespread bootleg CDs. The only bar in town with framed Phil & Friends concert posters on an entire wall from ceiling to floor. The only bar in town with bench cushions covered in plastic. weird.

When I arrived at Sancho's my classmates had already been there for quite some time and they were already a bit surly. 3 petite girls with a lot of energy, a lot of booze, a lack of inhibitions, and a lack of a defined sexual preference. Needless to say, these girls were quite enjoying themselves.

They had taken to dancing and wrestling on the plastic cushions. Why not? That is what the plastic is for, right?

Wrong.

Sancho's began to get crowded with neo-hippies, and the girls began to run out of room to dance and wrestle on the plastic. The neo-hippies didn't seem to mind the girls' behavior. After all, they were 3 petite girls grabbing and pulling and pressing on one another. Not a bad little show for the patrons. But neo-hippy management did not like these girls' behavior one bit. As soon as an opportunity presented itself, they gave us the boot.

One girl had laid down on the bench and closed her eyes for a few moments. The bouncer ran over and said the establishment can't allow people to pass out at the bar. (Hippy establishment is a not an oxymoron anymore.) She had to leave. She sat up and said she wasn't passed out. He didn't care. She tried to take a drink of her beverage and he took it out of her hands. He told her to leave again. We all said, "really?". He told her to leave again. And again, we said, "really?". He wouldn't budge. So we all left.

I'm not sure when hippies became so intolerant, but they are right up there now with fundamentalist christians and muslims. well, maybe not that openly intolerant. But they sure don't tolerate people dancing on their plastic-covered cushions.

We left the bar and the girls adjourned to their nearby apartment. I was not invited to partake in the after hours festivities.

I walked to my favorite night time bus stop. The 11th & Broadway stop that is directly across the street from Club Vinyl. Whenever I am in the vicinity and it is after midnight, I like to watch the clubbers filter in and out while I wait for my bus to pick me up. And Thursday nights do not disappoint. Fat girls leaving the club with skinny dudes, provocatively dressed girls running away from desperate guys, drunk guys stumbling into the street looking for a place to throw up, big security guards patting down dudes with big, baggy, saggy pants (when the security guard checks their pockets, they have to reach down to somewhere around their knees), and me trying to blend into the streetscape.

I watch the scene for about a half an hour, but it is late and I am tired. I decide I am close enough to just walk home (12 blocks). Not two minutes after I start walking, my bus flies passed me. that pisses me off. I decide to duck into the next bar for one last drink. I need to relieve my bladder anyhow.

I walk into the Moontime Bar & Grill (another neo-hippy bar). It is mostly empty except for a few people at the bar and a little hippy dude dj-ing with a laptop and speakers. No bartender. No waitresses. I walk straight to the toilet and relieve myself. I walk out just as the bartender and waitress are returning to the bar with dinner plates. The waitress sees me and looks terrified to see a strange man walk out of the toilet. I give her a wink and walk out the door.

I guess I thought it would be more entertaining to leave her wondering if I was some cat burglar that just purged the mens room of all the paper towels and toilet paper, rather than sitting down and ordering a beer and becoming just another bar patron.

I walked out onto Broadway, pulled out my headphones, set my ipod to shuffle mode, and stared up at the stars while I set out on the long, lonely, drunken walk home.