courage?

I’m in the middle of To Kill a Mockingbird right now (the book, not the movie. Okay, you parsing $%#$##@&, it’s the CD of the book, and I’m listening to it—happy?)

Anyway.

I’m in the middle of it. I just passed the part where Mrs. Dubose has died, and Atticus is telling Jem about courage.

“Courage is knowing you’re licked before you start, and starting anyway.”

I’m pretty sure that’s what he said.

So this morning, I got up at 5am to go ski the foot of new snow we got last night. Because to not do it is a sin. To kill a mockingbird is also a sin. See how it’s all coming together?

I got up, got my gear together, opened the garage door, and took a huge gust of wind to the face and stumbled out into a 3 foot snowdrift across my driveway, up against the garage door. I had no time for that. People don’t wait for stragglers when you’re on DAWN PATROL (WOLVERINES!)^TM.

In short, I was licked. But, like Mrs. Dubose, I screwed up my courage, pulled out the snowblower, and slew the whales strewn across my driveway. And then I drove right past the Holiday Chevron to make up time. No coke and fritter for you!

I met up with Jamie, Mike, and Nate, we parked illegally (by an hour and a half) across from Albion at Alta, and headed straight up to the ridge, to see what Silver Fork had in store for us.

Okay, I just can’t help this. Whoa whoa whoa, Jamie’s climbing:

I have no tune for Nate and Mike. But this is how we do it in the Wasatch. No meandering low angle skin tracks for he-men like us:

Jamie’s first to the top:

Jamie the unicorn (he’s so FLUFFY!):

Mike, chasing his sluff:

Nate, from a distance (hey, that’s a tune, right?):

More Nate.

All because I’m reading/listening to To Kill a Mockingbird. Kids, stay in school!

i do like snow

Remember a few weeks ago, how paltry the snowpack was up in the Silver Fork  Meadow Chutes?

Yeah, those days are gone.

There’s something about 2700 feet of vert, 12 inches of fresh (although, a fresh little zipper crust on it too), and still getting in to work by 9:30.

Okay, that last part I’m not so crazy about. But the rest I’m very in to.

something is better than nothing

Something is better than nothing. That’s what Elliot Smith sang, and I didn’t really get it or agree with it when I first heard the song.

But now I get it. Now that the snow is finally falling here in the Wasatch, now that the snow finally reaches to the road, now I get it. Because even though we’re getting pounded, in the conundrum that is avalanche science, getting pounded, then going a month NOT getting pounded, then getting pounded again is a bad thing.

Clear? See, the problem is, that snow we got a month ago sat uncovered and rotted, so when lots and lots of new snow finally falls on it, the new snow, well, it slides right off. But not by itself, it waits for you (or me) to step on it first.

But I’ve got cabin fever, and brand spankin new skis that I love, so I can’t wait. There’s always someplace to go, and something is better than nothing.

Me n Mark n Tyler headed up Big Cottonwood canyon early this morning, just hoping to get a workout in, and maybe a few bonus turns in good snow. We hiked up Silver Fork, to the north knob of the Meadow Chutes, staying low angle (below 35 degrees) and low elevation (below about 9,500 feet), and in the trees.

Up high (but not too high) we actually found really good snow and had a good run. We would have lapped it, but Tyler is VERY IMPORTANT and had to get to the office.

This is what Silver Fork looks like when the snow is stable and deep:

or this:

Not today. Today was about getting out, hiking, getting the heart rate up a bit, practicing our bushwhacking.

Down low we learned how to ski very light so as not to disturb the gophers in their holes.

But I think we woke a few up.

But you know, something is better than nothing, right?

beanies

I am a beanie lover. Not a beanie BABY lover (not that I hate beanie babies, but I certainly don’t love beanie babies, but who could HATE beanie babies?), but rather a BEANIE lover. Some call them “touoques.” Some call them, well, hats. I call them beanies.

I kind of collect them. When I go somewhere cool, I don’t want the t-shirt, I want the beanie. When I do an event, I don’t want their stupid, unwearable t-shirt, I want the BEANIE!

This post is a little self indulgent. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. I mean, this whole BLOG is self indulgent, right? Navel gazing at its finest. Welcome to my navel.

The following is a trip through my beanie collection. It’s a little long. I will understand if you need  an intermission.

This might be the first beanie of my adult life. I have no pics of it in the wild, so here it is, you know, in my kitchen (and, by the way, Kim HATES this beanie, and wonders why I still have it–the answer? You don’t throw beanies away! Whatever):

This is a Hurley beanie Kim bought for me like a decade ago. It was, and remains, my favorite beanie of all time. It sat low over the ears, didn’t come to a point at the top (death for a beanie), and also sat loose, so no headache or excess sweat. This is me in the Hurley beanie on the Superior ridge, Little Cottonwood Canyon:

Kim even liked the Hurley beanie, and wore it when she could:

I am sad to report, the Hurley beanie is lost. Loooossssst!

I picked up this Poison Spider bike shop beanie in Moab. It used to have a tassle hanging off the top, but Holden wouldn’t wear it with the tassle, so we cut it off. Notice that we’re a beanie family:

 

Now, this next one isn’t strictly a beanie, you know, Per Se (ahh, he’s started speaking Latin! Ahhhh!). It’s called a Buff, and might be the most versatile piece of headgear in the entire head gear arsenal, and I use it a lot, and it’s made the cover of many a magazine. Okay, no magazines, but I’ve got some cools shots of the Buff in action (sorry if I just caused Net Nanny to block you).

This is hiking up main street in Alagna, Italy, Monte Rosa in the background:

The Buff in front of the Matterhorn (not in front of the matterhorn in the buff, that’s different):

The Buff in front of the Vignette Hut in Italy:

The Buff in front of Mont Blanc:

Oh, and I have a black Buff too (too many jokes, must try to focus!):

Okay, enough with the Buff. But you get my point. It’s been everywhere.

A co-worker woman whose office always smelled like very strong cheese because she kept very strong smelling cheese in her office knit this next beanie for me. I do not know why she did that–it’s a mystery. It’s wool and a bit scratchy, but a classic:

Yup, another kitchen shot.

In Algana, they actually have a centuries old beanie design indigenous to the area, knit by old women, also indigenous to the area. It’s a weird beanie with little practical value. But that didn’t keep me from trying to get value out of it. This is me trying to get value out of it at the top of the Primrose Cirque on Mt. Timpanogos.

The thing is, that’s not how the old men of Alagna wear that hat. This is how:

Yeah, this hat is a non-starter. Haven’t used it since that time on Timp. But like I said, you don’t throw beanies away, especially beanies knit by old women in Alagna. It’s bad luck. And just mean.

I got this next beanie for doing the Wasatch Powderkeg, a backcountry ski race from Alta to Brighton. I can’t find it, and I’m a little upset about that.

These next two aren’t really beanies, they’re hats, but I use them like beanies. Don’t you judge me.

My Spider hat at the Shonrien Hut in Italy:

And my Jamis Bikes hat in the Little Pine couloir in Little Cottonwood Canyon:

Okay, also not a beanie, but a cool fisherman hat (and I don’t fish) I got in Tahoe, and used like once, in Goblin Valley. I can use this picture because Holden IS showing some beanie love:

Another one that’s not strictly a beanie (okay, not LOOSLY a beanie either):

K, we’re almost done, just a few more to go. A couple of total stalwarts, the top of the heap in the current collection.

This Black Diamond beanie has been on many an adventure, and the funny thing is, it doesn’t fit the best, doesn’t really wear the best, but somehow it became beanie number one. And it’s reversible.

Silver Fork, Big Cottonwood Canyon:

The Dreilanderspitz, between Austria, Germany, and Switzerland:

Digging a snow test pit on the East side of Box Elder peak. We hiked for hours to get here, got a little sketched out, dug this pit, got even more sketched out, and went back the way we came.

And one more Black Diamond beanie shot, top of Lone Peak:

 

Of course, this is a cycling cap, but lately I’ve taken to wearing cycling caps:

Speaking of (or showing pictures of) Leadville, here’s the Leadville beanie, only recently bumped from the “most used” category:

And a knit beanie with a brim, with the Racer’s Cycle Service logo, a new addition:

And a very comfy Cloudveil hat that I always keep stuffed in the pack:

And finally, the Selkirk hat. I also keep this one in the pack for blustery descents in the backcountry, and take it with me for resort skiing, since you have to sit on a lift at the resort. Picked it up in Revelstoke, British Columbia.

Summit of south peak, Mt. Timpanogos:

And when the beanies matter most:

Okay, I’ll stop. I mean, I have more beanies, don’t think I don’t. Oh, I’ve got beanies.

Here’s the last one. I just got this one, and I wear it a lot. It’s top notch. I wore it to church the other day, and as we walked in the door, Kim said “um, you’re taking that off, right?”

I had to think about it.

torture is BACK on the table

You know how in some stories or movies there’s this moment toward the end where one character, who never really understood some other character, and hated them for something they did, or didn’t do, and he/she finally gets it, finally stands in their shoes for a second and something clicks, and suddenly the lightbulb goes on and they go “ohhhh, NOW I get it”?

Like in In Bruges, when Ralph Fiennes wants to kill Colin Farrell cuz Colin Farrell accidentally killed a little altar boy while he was killing the priest, and then in the last scene, suddenly Ralph Fiennes’ killer GETS it.

Or maybe, less graphically, your own kids finally teach YOU what your mom has been trying to say to you all these years–Being a parent is hard.

Well, I think now I understand Donald Rumsfeld.

Saturday, Kim and I took the motorcycles down from Suncrest and up Big Cottonwood Canyon to have a muffin at the Silver Fork Lodge. Kim was leading, and just as we’re midway through the S turns about halfway up the canyon, a mysterious force suddenly took a handful of lit matches and pressed them against my inner right thigh. Or, to look at it another way, the baby alien from Aliens apparently germinated in my THIGH instead of my chest, and chose the S turns of Big Cottonwood Canyon to emerge. Ouch.

OR. Or rather, a bee the size of my HEAD flew up my shorts and let loose the dogs of war. I’m telling you, I almost drove off the road and into the river.

I’m a grown man. I have, in fact, been stung before. But never by some kind of genetically enhanced battle hardened WAR bee. Oh my God! I smashed the sumbitch all over my leg, and, since I was driving a motorcycle, and nobody could hear me, screamed the rest of the way up the canyon.

I was SO ANGRY with that damned bee that I was actually sorry I had killed it. I wanted to bring it back to life, catch it, and kill it SLOWLY over a couple of days, first the right wing (ha), then the left, then the legs, you get the picture. I wanted to catch OTHER bees and kill them. When I got home, I went and bought Raid, and razed several innocent colonies on my roof.

It’s been two days, and my leg is actually swollen, sore, itchy, and feels like I got hit with a baseball bat.

Kim bought one of those bee traps, where the bees can get in, but they can’t get out. Ever.

That’s right, Bees! We’ve got our own little Guantanamo right here in the Anderson back yard. Bring it on. Tell your friends.

UPDATE: it’s been 4 days, and this is what it looks like (I’m telling you, this bee was MEAN):