Heebie Jeebies

Nervousness is squirming through me. I just drove back from Livingston, where it was -2 degrees. It’s like 35 here in Bozeman, a half hour away. I’m supposed to drive to Salt Lake for the Outdoor Retailer trade show early tomorrow morning. It snowed a foot in Yellowstone today, and when these two systems collide, we may get a ton of snow.

511 reports the roads are dry all the way to Salt Lake. It feels like a behemoth is coming.

Two or three years ago, the last time I tried to go to OR, it was freezing rain and I made it three hours to Island Park. I turned around, bought myself a pair of Kinko work gloves ($9.99) in West Yellowstone and went home. Wrote it off as a shopping spree.

I can’t get the heebie jeebies outta me. Is it going to dump?! Hopefully I’m not jinxing us.

In the meantime, I wanted to share this interview I did with the quirky, wild and perhaps brilliant Indie ski filmmaker, Greg Stump, for Mountain Outlaw magazine:

http://www.explorebigsky.com/newspost/legend-of-aahhh%E2%80%99s

I didn’t get to meet him, but after 90 seconds on the phone he told me the most inappropriate story I’ve ever heard in an interview. Sweet little Maine boy. We’re trying to bring his new film, “Legend of Aahhh’s” to Big Sky this winter. Here’s a photo of the man himself:

Cooke City avalanche fatalities

Nick, Carly, Pat and I went to Cooke City over New Year’s on a mission to ski, celebrate and write a story. We were there during a pretty serious avalanche cycle, and the day we arrived, two people died in separate slides.

Here’s the first person account I wrote:

explorebigsky.com/newspost/tragic-consequences-in-cooke-city

And photos from the weekend:

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Winter solstice

It’s the longest night of the year.

Hard to believe. Maybe because the solstice is actually the 22nd this year. So, it’s just one of the longest nights.

Pat’s making jerky from one of the big hunks of frozen meat he didn’t want to deal with earlier this fall. And dancing in the kitchen. Sort of.

Recipe: venison, soy sauce, Stubbs barbeque sauce, Tabasco, Jim Beam, maple syrup, Beaver sweet-hot mustard, garlic, Louisiana Cajun seasoning, seasoned salt, Kosher salt and pepper.

“Beer would probably be good in there, too,” he says.

Nick’s in his office, scheming for his super-awesome-business-to-be, flying remote control helicopters and shooting photos and video. We’re crossing our fingers he scores his website name on the auction. The owner is messing with him, and took the name down at noon today when bidding was supposed to end.

Cotton disappeared after walking in and out of the house about a million times while talking on the phone. Enough times that Nick asked, “Is Cotton moving out?”

I’m drinking red wine. And doing research on knee replacements, cartilage repair, clinical trials and foreign stem-cell surgeries (NFL player Terrell Owens flew to South Korea last year to have one of these procedures done, and Payton Manning had his neck done in Europe). It’s kind of half-assed, because I don’t actually want any of these procedures. The other option is to move to Arizona and pick up golf. But I’m not that coordinated.

It snowed over a foot at Big Sky today while I was in the office. Somehow, it didn’t bother me at all. I do sort of really want to ski tomorrow but am not sure if it’ll happen.

We toured up in Hyalite last Sunday with Mike and Steph. I didn’t bring a camera. A clandestine day where we hiked 3,000 vert through thick forest over thin snow to ski 800 wind-affected but smooth and soul-wrenching feet in an alpine bowl.

I thought I was going to collapse halfway up in a nice subalpine meadow. My desk-contoured hips are not strong, and I had the mild-funk that’s been going around town and makes it harder to breathe. Five miles felt like 15. When I finally dragged my slow ass to a ridge top I’d never been to but always coveted, I felt at home. The December light glowed soft and alive. We futzed with gear and where to ski. Then left.

Shortest days of the year.

Island dreams

My parents and I are in Dallas, visiting my grandmother and uncle. It’s raining, and water is pouring from my uncle’s gutters onto the cement outside.

Today, my brother–who’s in Vermont studying his ass off in engineering school–sent a picture of us together in Maine. His girlfriend Caroline took it this summer when the three of us climbed a tree atop Mount Champlain, the highest point on Isle au Haut.

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I tried to conjure up the smells from being there—the century-old wood on the stairs in our house; the dusty sweetness of picking huckleberries; and of course salt, seaweed and rocky beaches.

It didn’t work, so I checked the weather on the island: clear and 34 degrees. The moon is waxing gibbous, which means it rose high in the east at sunset, and is more than half-lit, but not full.

The latest I ever stayed on the island was November 2, at which point I hightailed back to Vermont to vote in the 2004 presidential election. I wouldn’t mind seeing a moonrise over the ocean from that tree atop Mount Champlain on a clear late fall night some day.

Genesis II reenactment (video)

A few weeks ago, Pat did a reenactment of the first ice climb in Hyalite, Genesis II. He used all same the vintage gear and clothing that Pat Callis did in 1971, including the wool turtleneck knit by Callis’s mother-in-law, the wool knickers and the red wool socks. The coolest part was, Callis, and another of his contemporaries, Chad Chadwick, came along and belayed and climbed.

The whole thing was Jojo’s idea, and was done for a film to be premiered at the Bozeman Ice Fest in December. I came along to watch and rig and shoot b-roll, and ended up making this trailer:

Being around Callis and Chadwick was a highlight for both Pat and me. They still climb really well, and hanging out with them reminded me of why I like climbers so much. They’re both smart, kind, quirky and patient. Although we had an entourage around the re-enactment team, it was still obvious that for all three of them, climbing was about being with friends, being in the mountains, and the pleasure and challenge of moving in steep terrain.

A tow truck and a trash bag

A week ago it was too hot. Last night it snowed. Must be fall.

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Two of these photos deserve explanation.

The Batmobile getting towed. When Carly and I went climbing a few weeks ago, my truck started making this high pitched blubbery noise on the way out of town. It got worse, so we turned around. I stalled out at Huffine and 23rd, and my battery died. So, I got a $75 tow to Fosters, and Carly, Boots and I walked to get Carly’s little blue car. Backpacking thought our own town, time slowed down … for a minute.

Then I forked over $125 for a new serpentine belt tensioner, and we took Carly’s rig to Gallatin Canyon and climbed Flotsam and Jetsam, an ass-kicking route that may be the Canyon’s best 5.10.

And the trash bag. When my mother thinks someone is really attractive, she says, “So-and-so would look good in a trash bag.” Well, Rose made that bag look really good.

We went to the Clarky last weekend for Dirt Fest 2011 part II, and spent two days rappelling fixed ropes, hacking at the moss, lichen and briars, and trundling giant boulders into the river. Rose forgot her rainjacket, so fitted herself with this useless but cute number to ward off the storm that never came. I think our route is going to be good. And clean. And a little scary. I haven’t led the first pitch yet.

I’m 31. Who cares what anybody thinks.

I’m not sure this is appropriate.

I’ve been working on a story about the new eminent domain law in Montana for the past three weeks. It involved interviewing politicians, powerful businessmen, a rancher, lobbyists, lawyers and a government official. Here’s a link to the final version: explorebigsky.com/newspost/turf-war.

I was worried if I posted that video of me double-fisting next to the edge of a cliff I’d risk my legitimacy — that someone I interviewed for a future story could find this.

Then I stayed up late last night reading my friend Megan’s blog, Minor Catastrophes. Her writing there is honest, hilarious, poignant and completely over the top. As managing editor at a set of print publications in Bozeman, she’s professional and kind, and produces a magazine that is thoughtful and intellectual, yet accessible to everyone. She’s also a badass mom and an accomplished endurance athlete.

So, hell. I’m 31. That’s three awesome and lucky decades. I can be professional and still stand as close to the edge as I want. Besides, when I talked to my mother about it, she said, “that’s OK, honey. I know you weren’t drunk.” Thanks, Mom. I love you.

I’d planned on having my 31st birthday party atop Gallatin Tower for six months. I’m so thankful to the awesome posse that rallied to celebrate the end of summer up there, grilling brats and zucchini, looking down at the headlights on Highway 191.

Last year, for my 30th, I went climbing in the Clark’s Fork with nine dudes. Pat wasn’t there because it was opening weekend of bowhunting season (he killed an elk). We downed a jug of Carlo Rossi. I tried my darndest to keep up.  That was appropriate.

I also owe a thank you to Cotton, the steady-handed videographer who captured the moment atop Gallatin Tower. A 1328 Cherry Drive resident since June, he’s an ex-football player, an aspiring alpinist, and a southern boy of Iranian descent who has a deep appreciation for aged beef. (Sorry, Cotton.) Tonight, while discussing natural selection, he quoted Dr. Seuss:

“Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.”

Demo derby

At the end of my visit to Vermont in August, my family and I went to the Champlain Valley Fair in Essex Junction. We used to go every year when I was a kid, but I hadn’t been in probably 15 years.

One tent held exotic animals. There, we watched lemurs leap in circles which was sad and crazy. We also looked at a zebra, goats, a bunch of cows, and some sheep with huge balls.

The demolition derby was pretty entertaining, especially if you were really drunk, which we weren’t. Here’s a video clip:

Shadows

When I took this photo, I thought my shadow looked pretty tough. I had my whole writer’s kit: Osprey Jill pack, laptop, camera, recorder, notepad, Dansko clogs.

Looking back on it, I was actually just walking through the parking lot of Monforton School in Four Corners, having watched and attempted to photograph a middle school girls volleyball game for the upcoming paper.

Tough? Maybe not. Perhaps just enthralled with the natural light, after an hour under the florescent lights of the gymnasium and days on end in the office.

My friend Tyler and I spent an afternoon climbing at Practice Rock in Hyalite Canyon last week. I kept thinking ‘this is what’s right out the back door!’ The key is to shut off the computer and walk out the door.

Ty pointed out these pretty dogwoods:I’ve always liked shadows.

Last month I interviewed an artist who was into Jungian psychology and shadows. It makes sense, in a way: Shadows are reflections, but deeper and less defined. Mine in the parking lot held months of pent up work, stolen climbing and the long light of the changing season.

The Elephant’s Perch

I’m sitting on a ledge, 600 feet up the Elepant’s Perch, barefoot, thirsty and relaxed. It’s a hot July day on the 1000’ southwest facing wall, and it’s 5 p.m. I pull the rope through my belay device steadily as Chantel climbs up toward me. My stinky t-shirt is draped over my head, and the sun is hot on my forearms, the sunscreen I put on at 7 a.m. long gone.

Afternoon light softens the Sawtooth Mountains’ aptly named granite ridge lines and peaks. Patches and couloirs of snow remain on northerly aspects. When a big puffy cloud covers the sun, this is heaven.

We’re six pitches up the Direct Beckey, a striking and sustained 12-pitch 5.10+. I took a surprise whipper on the steep and clean second pitch, and opened a scab on my knee. Now long blood streaks are dried on my calf and caked on my cuticles and knuckles.

 

 

 

 

 

I haven’t been to the Perch in 10 years. The last time, Lisa, Chessie, Julia and I were 13 days into an 18 day backcountry climbing trip – my first. Lisa and I bailed off the classic moderate Mountaineers Route when I couldn’t pull the 5.8 mantle on the second pitch.

While my rock climbing has come a ways in the last decade (Chantel and I had a casual day on that same route yesterday), we’re clearly not going to make the boat back across Redfish Lake and it’s going to be a long night.

But I don’t care. The climbing is awesome, and it’s fun as hell hanging out with Chantel.

We top out at 8 p.m., melt snow in our mouths, high five, then scramble 20’ to the summit and hug. On the hike down, we drink from a delicious drip. When we reach our packs at dusk, mosquitoes swarm us.

We start down by the dim light of our headlamps, and wander up and down the wooded hillside trying to find the faint trail to the new river crossing.

Climbing over deadfall, I break a branch and stub my knee on a sharp stick. It stings like I kicked the coffee table, and when I lift my pants up hot blood is streaming down my leg. Chantel pulls out gauze and tape, and I cry, embarrassed, as we clean out the puncture.

Another 45 minutes of bushwhacking, and we’re at the river crossing. On the trail at 11:30, we have seven miles to go. By 2:50 we’re at the trucks, chowing food before bed.