Catching the Wave in Paria Canyon

May 9, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2001. ©

My friends call me Amber Murphy in honor of my adopted Uncle Murphy, whose law I have the misfortune of living. I have traveled thousands of miles for a wedding, only to miss it after getting into an accident. When I show a broken appliance to a repairman, it works perfectly. And I know that anytime I put an item in a “safe place,” I will never see it again.

So what are the odds that I was one of only four walk-ins permitted to enter a place in southern Utah so remote and hidden that it is not on any map? That I stumbled upon this congealed ocean in the desert where the colors of a rainbow have been carved layer upon layer by wind and later–where violet and gold and green and salmon and scowling red splay across this chasm that trades colors with sky and cloud. Its hardened currents are christened The Wave. And I have never witnessed anything like it.

Of course, my journey was not lacking in calamity. I made the mistake of gloating to my friend John that I had road tripping down to a science and was able to pack in less than 10 minutes. John knows me too well. He flung me a skeptical look and proceeded to go through our checklist. Sunscreen? Check. First aid kit? Check. Tent? Silence.

Could it be? Had I forgotten the item most integral to our nocturnal comforts? “No worries,” I countered. “Temperatures are supposed to be in the upper 90s and sunny all weekend. We’ll be fine.”

It rained most of the weekend. As my wise Aunt Sue Murphy always says: “Things are never 100%, Amber, never 100.”

Paria Canyon
“I haven’t seen it all. I wonder if anyone has… But I’ve seen a great deal of it, together with Buckskin Gulch, a major tributary [of Paria Canyon], and it is one of my favorite secret places in the canyon country.”

-Edward Abbey, Days and Nights in Old Pariah

Edward Abbey’s Paria Canyon was a land of cavernous gorges, a fake ghost town built by Hollywood for some mediocre movies, a cow stuck in quicksand, high sheer tapestried walls of golden sandstone, the often impassable mouth of Buckskin Gulch, freshwater seeps and springs, blazing meteors by night and a radiant sun by day. Routine stuff.

The Wave is only a small part of the Paria Canyon-Vermilion Cliffs Wilderness. Located deep in the clutches of Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument, the wild and twisted canyons of the Paria River and its tributaries offer one of the most spectacular canyon treks in the state for experienced hikers.

The main trail through Paria Canyon extends 38 miles down the 2,000-foot-gorge of the Paria River in southern Utah to Lees Ferry in Arizona, where the Paria River empties into the Colorado River. Hikers must register at White House, Buckskin, Wire Pass, or Lees Ferry trailheads when entering or exiting.

Plan A was to backpack the length of this canyon but we did not have the 4-6 days required. We instead opted to do an overnighter from the White House Trailhead (at the mouth of Paria Canyon) to the Confluence (7 miles) and then continue 16 arduous miles up Buckskin Gulch, a major tributary. Heralded as the ultimate slot canyon of the Colorado Plateau, Buckskin is one of the longest and most consistently narrow canyons in the world. We then planned to arrange a shuttle to haul us back to the White House Trailhead the next day.

At least that was Plan B. But Plan B required an overnight permit issued from the BLM and the permits [of course] had been accounted for in advance. So, we quickly recreated Plan C. We would day hike to the Confluence and continue another couple of miles up Buckskin Gulch until we reached the rock jam, a 30-foot drop in the slot canyon. We would then retrace our steps back to the White House trailhead. The next day, we planned to enter Buckskin Gulch via Wire Pass, another tributary.

Murphy in Old Paria
We followed in the footsteps of Ed Abbey and camped near what was left of old Paria (Pahreah as it was originally called) our first night. Before we hit the ghost town, we passed the Paria Movie Set where several western movies and TV shows were filmed from 1963-1991. The set survived the gunfights but not the ravages of nature and floods eventually destroyed it. In 1999, volunteers tore down the set and reconstructed two of the buildings—the Red Rock Saloon and the Lost Lady.

Most people mistake this for the original Paria, but Ed Abbey did not lead us astray. With Days and Nights in Old Pariah in hand, we followed the dirt road for another mile beyond the Hollywood set and past the Paria cemetery until we arrived at the silt and sand bottoms of the Paria River.

We parked the Jeep under a cottonwood tree and waded across the river. Originally settled in 1865 by Peter Shirts, Paria was vacated because of Indian raids and resettled again upstream in 1870. Repeated floods forced the settlers to leave.

John took the lead as I read Abbey’s instructions aloud. “ You wade across the river and climb the left, or eastern bank. Here, scattered over a mile of rocky benchland, some of it shaded by cottonwoods, are the ruins of the original town.”

It is probably not difficult for the average person to find the ruins, but as I’ve said before: anything is [im] possible with Amber and Co. John and I split up and scoured the sandy wash and benches but the only remains we found were petrified cow pies.

To our credit, Paria’s ruins were few even in Abbey’s day. But after a while, our fruitless search was forgotten. As we casually made our way back, the sun began to glow upon the surrounding mesas and buttes. The shadows lingered with rhythms of light and shade through tucks and swales and ridges, abruptly shifting as if haunted by the spirits of Paria.

We set up camp (which, thanks to my absentmindedness, consisted of our sleeping bags and pads) under the cottonwood along the banks of the Paria River. John, still in the spirit of the great Kerouac of the desert, consoled me, “Amber, don’t worry–Ed Abbey never used a tent!”

These words were recanted the next two nights when it rained. That John—such a fair-weather friend….

I have spent many nights in the outdoors cursing my stubborn insomnia. But on this night, sleep was a waste. I watched the falling sun set the bluffs ablaze, backlit by puffs of smoke-like cloud that shrouded the valley with a thick smell of history. And when the sky fell dim, I watched far-flung deities in the heavens.

The next morning, we stopped at the Paria Ranger Station on Highway 89 to check out conditions in Paria Canyon. A couple from Switzerland was in front of us talking to the ranger. As Eavesdropper Extraordinaire, I overheard them mention The Wave, and my interest was piqued. I had seen a National Geographic special on The Wave a few years ago and had been transfixed by this Kodachrome enclave.

But its environs were kept nebulous and for good reason. Fragile and cosseted, The Wave is not marked on most maps. It is located within Coyote Buttes, a protected area deep in Escalante. The BLM’s Web site issues only 10 permits per day, and these are usually booked six months out. The ranger station allows four walk-ins per day, and often has to turn to a lottery system because demand is high among the few people who know about it.

With these odds, the probability that a member of the Murphy clan would get a permit was pretty slim. But miraculously, there were two walk-in permits still available for the next day. I did a Murphy-Be-Damned jig and we eagerly listened as Ranger Dennis gave us detailed instructions to The Wave. We then set out for our day’s adventure to Paria Canyon.

Paria Canyon
We did not arrive at the White House trailhead until 10:30 a.m. and the pulsating sun was already inexorable. We registered and paid $5 each at the trailhead and then wound down Paria Canyon’s 2,000-foot gorge.

Promises of The Wave were soon forgotten as we lost ourselves in this multihued conduit that electrified 200 million years of geologic history. The riverbed that sweeps through Paria Canyon is navigable if you don’t mind getting your feet wet in multiple river crossings. In early spring, expect to hike in ankle to knee deep water.

During summer, the Paria River can be dry for the first seven miles, with the remainder below the Buckskin Gulch confluence flowing year round. Few obstructions block the path except for the large boulders that clog the river at mile 28.

Most hikers leave the canyon floor and follow a route on the south side of the stream. Flash flood danger is high July through September so precaution should be exercised. The Paria River’s white tongue trickled out when we reached some power lines, the unofficial 2-mile mark. Four miles in, the wide but dry riverbed slimmed into the Narrows, and these sinuous confines led us 3 miles to the Confluence. The shade of the canyon walls lengthened and often only a sliver of the sky was visible from between the 500-foot ramparts.

When we reached the Confluence, we paused before entering Buckskin Gulch, Edward Abbey’s secret hideaway. Innumerable little worlds, surprising worlds, and hundreds of hidden paradises existed within those crimson walls. Photographs fail to capture more than a micro-slice of its magnetism.

There are three routes into the Buckskin: Paria Canyon, Buckskin Trailhead, and Wire Pass, a shortcut into the gulch. This slick-rock slot canyon is like a canyoneer’s funhouse. Rock- and log-jams require innovative bouldering techniques. And large, deep stagnant pools of water may require swimming through stretches of the gulch where the walls are an arm’s length apart.

John and I continued only two miles up the Gulch until we reached a 30-foot boulder jam that requires the use of ropes to ensure a safe ascent (located 14.5 miles from the Buckskin trailhead). Reluctantly, we turned around.

Usually the return trip is anti-climatic for me but the bulging sidewalls of Paria Canyon provided a memorable playground. We skirted around the quicksand and tempted its clutches with taps of our feet. We chased the shade of shadows to escape the white sun. When the blue sliver of sky turned murky and gray, we marveled at distant glittering shafts of rain.

After slipping, slogging and hiking through the final stretch of the canyon, we were grateful to finish the hike before the torrents of rain really started. The result, I imagined, would be similar to flushing a toilet down this flash-flood prone canyon. For once, perhaps Murphy proved to be in our favor by denying us an overnight permit.

Our attempts to find sanctuary from the rain that night were disheartening. What we wanted to find: a cool grotto or casing of rock. What we found: shelter under a picnic table in a campground. I fruitlessly tried to console the chagrined John–“At least the small pavilion that encamps the picnic table is kinda cool. ”

Ed Jr. was not persuaded.

Doing the Wave
Shortly after 6 a.m. the next day, we were on our way to The Wave. We had camped only a few miles from the trailhead so it wasn’t difficult to get an early start. A sleepless night under a picnic table didn’t hurt either.

As we started hiking to this land of swirling sandstone atop the Paria Plateau, I felt a part of a clandestine conspiracy. The ranger did not reveal The Wave’s location until after we had our coveted permit in hand. There is not a developed trail and we had to follow the landmarks the ranger had shown us via his photographs. We were then sworn to secrecy about revealing its whereabouts.

We followed a Jeep road before the trail vanished and we were left to forge across a scrub-brush hill. This eventually gave way to swirling sandstone, a hint of what was to come. Three miles later, we crawled up the final cornice.

When we landed atop the plateau, I felt like I had crawled onto a Monet canvas and was unleashed to glide across this palette of mad, extravagant colors. The Wave’s concave walls looked like a kaleidoscope of frozen ocean waves.

In this hanging canyon, my senses failed me. My notes later seemed as limp and banal as a televangelist’s sermon. I was annoyed by my lack of eloquence, but also consoled by the realization that to describe a place that defies description by not saying anything is the best description of all.

After exploring every nook and swirl, I perched atop the apex of The Wave. For a moment, the heroic sun emerged and clanged across this stone rainbow like a cymbal. The clouds then antagonistically crept in, and the enclave was filled with an enormous hush as the sharp colors melted away in the fainting light.

Our explorations were not limited to The Wave. We climbed to a lone arch perched above us and later discovered a slot canyon that sent us gushing down Coyote Butte’s sandstone whirls and eddies. When we finally hiked out of the canyon, I was taken aback by the day’s perfection. Sometimes things have a way of going just right, even when the start seemed to go wrong.

Even for a Murphy.

-Amber Borowski Johnson

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: hiking, Humor, outdoors, travel Tagged With:

Jackson Hole and Beyond: Exploring the Road Less Attempted

May 9, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2002. © Photo: JT Palmer

I have a very doting and fun-loving family. Except for when it comes to any man I bring home. Suddenly our cozy episode of The Waltons becomes a painful outtake of Meet the Parents.

The only man they have ever liked is Jason, a cross between exalted Greek God and homegrown Idaho boy. And, of course, a man I have never actually dated.

When I received the assignment to cover Jackson, Wyoming, I knew Jason was my playmate de choix. I met him my freshman year during a two-month course, The Natural Science Field Expedition. With packs on our backs and notebooks in hand, we trekked all over the western United States while studying geology, field and environmental biology and campus wildlife (in reference to the great outdoors, of course).

Jackson Hole has been our backyard playground over the years. We have summitted the South Teton via Hurricane Pass and Alaska Basin. We have boated Jenny’s Lake in Grand Teton National Park and hiked into Cascade Canyon. In the Gros Ventre Geological Slide Area, we have scavenged for gastroliths (or “gizzard stones”) from a dinosaur’s belly. We have tamed rapids on the Snake River, snowshoed the Big Hole Mountains and conquered snow-capped Mount Glory atop Teton Pass on my 27th birthday in February.

The scope of activities is endless around Jackson Hole. Roughly 80 miles long and seven miles wide, the valley is bound by Hoback Canyon to the south, Yellowstone National Park to the north, Togwotee Pass to the northeast, the Gros Ventre Range to the east, Teton Pass and the Snake River Range to the southwest, and not to be forgotten is the Teton Range to the west. The Grand Teton towers above it all at 13,776 feet. Two wilderness areas–the Gros Ventre and the Teton–punctuate the Teton National Forest’s beauty.

I yearned to try something new this time around and my trip did not disappoint. I learned taxidermy in Victor, Idaho, and stayed in a cabin behind the shop. I boated with a rake, robbed the cradle at Granite Hot Springs, hiked an obvious peak and missed it, bulleted through the mountains on the fastest motorcycle in the world, went fishing with the goal of not hooking a fish, and camped outside a power plant. Wow. This was Idaho and Wyoming at its best.

Peaking in Jackson
I started my adventure by hiking Jackson Peak a couple of days prior to meeting Jason. A local favorite, this trek is just a few miles from town past the National Elk Refuge, a range that hosts approximately 7,000 elk in the winter. The sweeping view from atop the 10,741-foot peak peers down upon Jackson Hole to the west and the Gros Ventre Range to the northeast.

I camped past the refuge in Curtis Canyon on a secluded bluff overlooking the Tetons. I was on the trail by 7 a.m. Now, most people do this hike in 9 miles (roundtrip). I did it in 12 miles—a rare talent. The trail has a 2,380-foot elevation gain and the landscape revealed itself teasingly as I ascended through an open meadow studded with towering Douglas fir. The lush valley below glowed with green; the far-flung Tetons sparkled like jewels.

At 2.8 miles, I crossed a murmuring creek and arrived at cymbal-shaped Goodwin Lake 0.2 mile later. Beyond the lake, my guidebook stated that Jackson Peak’s east ridge becomes obvious to the right and involves a steep scramble to the crest of the rocky summit. Generally one to miss the obvious, I did.

A few miles further, I reached an intersection. Granite Creek veered to the left and Cache Creek to the right. Jackson Peak was nowhere to be found. I explored both trails for more than an hour before scrambling up a peak that I thought looked like a Jackson Peak.

My logic was that it was a peak and it overlooked Jackson. Close enough.

Granite Recreation Area
I spent the rest of the day at the southern edge of the Gros Ventre Wilderness in the Granite Recreation Area. Located off U.S Hwy 189 about 25 miles from Jackson, I followed Granite Creek Road past Flying Buttress Mountain, creek-side campgrounds and open-air apartment buildings for rackety crowds of nesting birds.

I had received an insider’s tip about a trail that delves into the Gros Ventre Wilderness. The 22-mile roundtrip trek to Turquoise Lake boasts views of sharply glaciated, snow-capped mountains that descend upon a deep blue-green body of water cradled at the base of 11,190-foot Gros Ventre Peak. Hikers can either return the same way or walk 2.2 miles to the top of Cache Creek Pass and descend via Cache Creek Trail, completing an 18.5-mile hike. Granite Hot Springs awaits weary hikers at the trailhead.

I stopped at Granite Creek Falls. Swooning, multi-tiered cascades left clouds of spray hanging perpetually in air. I attempted to capture the tumbling rainbow-ridden falls on film but trees and rocks obstructed a clear shot. I debated fording the gushing waters but decided against it.

Then I noticed a middle-aged man traversing—a gawky man who was as balanced as a pregnant woman on a tightrope. I wrote him off as nuts until I noticed the rest of his family huddled in a rock cluster on the other side. A young boy waved at me.

I could no longer turn my back on this river crossing. Was I not an adventure travel writer? With the resolve of one determined to one-up a 7-year-old, I delved into the river’s thrilling frigidity. Soon the water was thigh-deep, the swift current tugging at my feet. With arms flailing for balance like an ostrich attempting flight, I crossed the torrent and snapped my blasted picture.

I then continued to Granite Hot Springs and the trailhead for Turquoise Lake. I hiked a portion of the trail, resolved to return to hike its entirety when I had more time and descended to the hot springs.

A cute guy in his early 20s eagerly gave me a thorough rundown. While the hot springs have attracted visitors for thousands of years, it wasn’t until the mid-1930s that the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) captured the thermal-heated water in a small cement pool. With the temperature varying from 92 degrees in the summer to 112 degrees in the winter, the pool is a year-round attraction.

Granite Hot Springs is a favorite among weary hikers who conquer the Gros Ventre Wilderness’ network of seldom-used trails. Winter guide services often include Granite Hot Springs as a destination for their dog sled and snowmobile adventures.

The young lad was exceedingly helpful and peppered me with questions of my travels. When I finally turned to leave, he coyly reeled me back in. “You know, the best time to go for a dip is actually after we close.” I stopped. Was Junior flirting with me? It was less than an hour until closing and the prospect of taking a dip after hours by moonlight was tempting…all in the name of journalism, of course.

And then I heard it– a baby crying. The lamentation must have come from the pool but I took it as a very translucent Cradle Robbing Sign. I let the subject drop. I was disconcerted to later ascertain that he was closer to my age than I thought—27. And so I traded a dip under the stars for camping in my Jeep outside of the Bonneville Teton Substation.

Who was the one whining that night?

Teton Valley
I arose early the next morning to hike the 4-mile Pass Ridge Trail from atop Teton Pass prior to meeting Jason in Victor. I proceeded south along the ridge, which gleamed with pink, orange, blue and purple wildflowers.

I paused when I encountered a moose and her calf foraging in a meadow. For half an hour, I watched them chew, stroll, scrutinize me and chew some more. I made myself appear more moose-like (at least to a shortsighted ruminant) and slowly moved forward to capture the treasured moment on film. I then drove from Teton Pass into a valley known as Teton Valley or Pierre’s Hole, Idaho.

The gentle course of the Teton River (a fisherman’s oasis for cutthroat, rainbow and brook trout) is nestled between the jagged Teton Range to the east and the rolling Big Hole Mountains to the west.

Great western towns Driggs and Victor have become popular settlements for those escaping Jackson’s tourist megalopolis and high taxes. It is a closely guarded secret that mountain biking is better on this side of the pass, with Pole Canyon, Mahogany Trail, the Big Hole Challenge and the Aspen Trail among the favorites.

In Victor, I traded my Jeep for the backseat of Jason’s new motorcycle—a Kawasaki Ninja ZX-12R. The model meant nothing to me. Jason was determined to make it meaningful. ”This is the most powerful motorcycle in the world,” he huffed. Seeing that my response towards this apparatus was directly tied to his ego, I raved on cue.

We cruised all over the western flank of the Tetons. The terrain had a polychromatic, if often raw, diversity of hues: green farmlands, milky-blue ponds, golden expanses of wheat, and the tawny browns and rust reds of the Big Hole Mountains’ rhyolite hills that spilled into Swan Valley. We zoomed along precarious turns and stopped to explore lofty summits.

Taxidermy, a Rake and a Fish
Our final stop was the pinnacle experience of the trip. Jason’s boss has a friend who owns a taxidermy shop four miles west of Victor. This friend also rents out a cabin behind the shop. I was extended an open invitation. Now, I did not want to be rude but I was a bit wary of the whole thing. Stay at a taxidermist’s cabin? I envisioned dirty animal trophies cramming the walls and hunting rifles as centerpieces.

I was mistaken on all accounts. Keith and Claudia Davis run Fin and Feather Taxidermy out of their spacious log home. Claudia gave us a tour of the tasteful gallery that features mostly fish and birds. Most of their taxidermy customers are local hunters but people come from all over the world to purchase their wares.

Her husband Keith decided 20 years ago that she would skin the animals (grisly) and he would stuff (more pleasant). I deemed this an advantageous assignment to get him out of the dirty work. He deviously agreed.

Jason, a hunting fanatic, was in his element. He did not hesitate to respond affirmatively when Claudia asked if we wanted to see the taxidermy process. Before I had a chance to object, we were being led into the shop. I exhaled and decided to suck it up. Witnessing road kill reduces me to tears. How much worse would a taxidermist’s chopping board be?

Fortunately, we did not see the actual procedure and Claudia merely explained the equipment and materials she uses. At the end of the tour, she hopped on her ATV and we followed her down to the cabin.

I was more than pleasantly surprised–I was mesmerized. Fin Springs Cottage is a charming log cabin snuggled at the base of a riotously green valley. A natural spring trickles through the yard, feeding into two ponds that are stocked with rainbow trout for catch-and-release fishing. A gas grill, fire pit, teepee, horseshoe pit, picnic area and swing dot the secluded grounds.

Keith entertained us with stories of Victor’s environs as he gave us a tour. When he left, Jason gave me a fly-fishing lesson. Not even 10 seconds after he dropped the line in the pond, he caught a fish. He offhandedly flattered me: “Gee, Amber, I think even you can handle this.”

He was wrong.

Later that night, I eased the steely rowing boat onto the pond with rod in hand. As I started to board the craft, I noticed I was bereft of something kinda critical—oars. After combing the area, I noticed a rake on the grass. Improvisation was in order. I pushed out with new “oar” in hand, raking the water of the small pond. Streams of fish gawked at the curious claw that avariciously grasped for them.

I set the rake as anchor, grabbed my rod and viewed my prey. I wasn’t out for the kill or even the catch, just a few nibbles. Capture would involve touching the fish to release the hook. And after an afternoon of Taxidermy 101, I was not quite prepared to do that.

A nibble here. A bite here. A rake there. I had a grand time–until I caught one. The fish flipped, flopped and writhed. I did the same. When it became evident this guy wasn’t going anywhere, more ingenuity was in order. I won’t get into the sordid details but let’s just say I released him without touching one slimy scale.

I spent the rest of the evening on the grounds, watching the spring abruptly belly into the crystalline pool as fish glided back and forth like World War II torpedoes. Fin Springs’ charms were a diversion from the missed opportunities on Jackson Peak, at the hot springs and on the pond. And I could definitely forget about any professional aspirations as a taxidermist.

But my only consolation was benign: who needed all that when I had discovered my own private Idaho.

-Amber Borowski Johnson

Note: I am remiss to say that a few years after my visit, Keith and Claudia Davis of Fin Springs were killed in a car accident.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: biking, hiking, Humor, outdoors, travel Tagged With:

Solo in the San Juans: Exploring Colorado’s Highway to Heaven

May 6, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2002. © Photo: Away.com.

Good travel companions are difficult to come by. I should know—I’ve had my share. Since “roughing it” means downgrading from the Hilton to a Motel 6 for the majority of my female friends, I generally travel with men. I have learned to accept their flaws (i.e. messiness and smell), and they have learned to accept mine (i.e. my loving written exploits of their failings.)

Much to my dismay, I found myself bereft of companionship during a recent mid-week trip to the San Juan Mountains in southwestern Colorado. I assured myself it was because of demanding work schedules and not as payback for my exposés. I mean, who could resist a land of craggy contrasts and stiletto cliffs–with me?

I have longed to return to the San Juan Mountains since skiing Durango Mountain Resort a couple of years ago. The range’s 12,000-square miles compose the highest area of elevation in the lower 48. With harsh, challenging, and rugged peaks, the backcountry adventures translate into some of the most dangerous and wildly irregular in the world.

Many male friends questioned the wisdom of my solo trip, which inspired me to action. I mountain biked a portion of the famous Colorado Trail, bagged two 14ers (14,000-foot peaks) in one day, subjected my Jeep to a suicidal 4X4 road, summoned spirits by camping in a ghost town, and hiked some of Colorado’s most alluring summits. As reward for my backcountry exploits, I pampered myself to a night at the Wyman Hotel and Inn in a quaint mining town—a bliss that most men just wouldn’t appreciate.

Doing Durango
The solo trip began a bit surly. Upon arriving in Durango, I spent the morning at a garage repairing my blown-out tire that had self-destructed in the boonies. That was after I had backtracked 65 miles when I realized I had forgotten my wallet at a restaurant. Oh, and then my Jeep’s tape deck broke. Good thing I brought numerous books-on-tape for my lonely drive.

I remained undaunted. My plan was to start in Durango and follow the majority of the San Juan Skyway, a 236-mile scenic byway acclaimed as one of the most beautiful drives in the United States. It crosses 5 million acres of San Juan and Uncompahgre National Forests, passing through Victorian mining towns and historic ranching communities.

Nestled in the Animas River Valley in the afternoon shadows of the San Juan Mountains, Durango is renowned for its mountain biking. A variety of great rides only a short distance from town provide easy access to the backcountry.

After reviewing my options, I took a bite out of the 480-mile Colorado Trail. OK, more like a tiny morsel. The Dry Fork Loop has several options, one of which is an 18-mile loop that begins in town on U.S. 550 and turns onto Junction Creek Road, the westernmost trailhead of the Colorado Trail. The other is a 9-mile loop that begins up LightnerCreek Road.

Since I had wasted most of my day at the garage, I opted for the shorter loop. I followed the singletrack clockwise about 3 miles up a moderate slope through pine and aspen groves until I met the Colorado Trail. I turned right (left leads to Kennebec Pass, another option) and climbed a short section before riding downhill for 3 miles.

I watched for my turnoff at Hoffheins Connection and upon reaching it, kept right on going. No, I did not miss it (which is usually the case) but I instead checked out the great views at Gudy’s Rest, a few hundred yards down the Colorado Trail. I explored the trail for a while before climbing back up and descending Hoffheins Connection until I met the Dry Fork trailhead.

The Heber Creeper This Ain’t
There is a movie star in Durango—the Durango and Silverton Narrow Gauge Train. This hot not-so-little chugger has appeared in more than 24 movies that include Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and How the West Was Won. During the summer months, the train makes the journey to Silverton and winds through beautiful aspen forests, climbs narrow canyons, and hugs granite cliffs that stand sentry over the glistening waters of the Animas River.

I had a great experience on the train during my last trip. But a repeat performance as a sardine-packed tourist did not tempt. The only exception would have been for the train’s unique backcountry experience: superb hiking and backpacking routes off the Needleton and Elk Park stop-offs. Needleton’s Chicago Basin is a hotspot that serves as a base camp for scaling a network of summits, including three 14ers: Sunlight, Mount Eolus and Winom Peaks.

The Alpine Loop–Colorado Style
I instead delved deeper into the backcountry on my own fuel. I planned to follow the San Juan Skyway 49 miles to Silverton and then take the 65-mile Alpine Loop Backcountry Byway to the Silver Creek Trailhead. I would then conquer 14,034-foot Redcloud and 14,001-foot Sunshine Peaks the next day. This 11.7-mile hike has a grisly 4,634-feet elevation gain and is rated difficult due to the distance and total elevation gain.

Unlike most paved scenic byways, backcountry byways focus on out-of-the-way-roads that are typically gravel or dirt. Nearly two-thirds of the Alpine Loop is dirt roads, suitable for two-wheel drive vehicles. I, of course, chose the one-third that was not. My guidebook ubiquitously said, “high-clearance, four-wheel-drive vehicles are recommended.”

I came to realize that when traversing over 12,620-foot Cinnamon Pass, one of the highest in the San Juans, there should be a more definitive distinction between “recommended” and “required.”

Mine sites and ghost towns dot the loop that winds between Lake City, Silverton and Ouray. I had an apparition of my own after I passed by ghost town Animas Forks when I noticed something hovering in mid-air; something that resembled the bar end on my bike. I was disconcerted to discover my bike clinging on for dear life.

I encountered the only car I would see that evening, and the man came to my rescue (I’m sure the fact I was blocking the road had no bearing upon his service). We determined it would be best to throw my bike in back. As I prepared to leave, he looked at me doubtfully. “You’re going up there all by yourself, Hon?” I nodded. “Well, watch out” he chimed before heading back to town.

Now, well wishes generally vary but they are usually along the lines of “Good luck” or even “Be careful.” His warning threw me for a loop…until I reached the turnoff for Cinnamon Pass. A precipitous and technical cluster of rocks had “bottoming out” written all over it. A very steep slope that shot straight up to the sky followed.

My Jeep has low clearance due to the running boards that serve as stepstool for mounting my bike. This has led my friend John to derisively nickname it “Girlie Jeep” (the man has no respect for short people.) As I pondered this, along with Mr. Watch Out’s warning, my fire was fueled and I shifted gears into 4-Low.

As I crawled over the next several miles, I saw my life flash before my eyes in crimson flickers, which I later attributed to my red Jeep jolting with each wallop. When I reached Cinnamon Pass, poor Girlie Jeep had become a woman.

The view was worth every painful scrape. I had witnessed the transformation from a tree-covered valley to alpine tundra, found only in the Arctic and in isolated areas in high mountain ranges. Mottled grasses and flowers struggled for survival in the very short growing season. Gazing east of the valley, I could see Handies, Redcloud and Sunshine Peaks, three of the “fourteeners” in the Alpine Triangle.

After some nasty switchbacks, I reached American Basin at the bottom of the valley. The Silver Creek trailhead was another 4 miles. I camped at the trailhead across from Burrows Park where only two structures remained in this ghost town.

Two 14ers in the Bag
My guidebook recommended an early start because afternoon storms are common at 14,000 feet. I arose to a clear sky at 5 a.m. Everything proceeded pretty smoothly. Sure, my pita bread lunch was fungus-infested and I had to turn back a few minutes into the hike to retrieve my trekking poles. But these were all minor in the Amber Scale of Catastrophes.

I followed the west side of the Silver Creek drainage for 3 miles to the head of the basin. From there the trail grew steeper through a broad tundra valley on its way to a saddle northeast of Redcloud Peak. The sun had made its appearance but the valley was still cloaked in shadows when I reached the saddle.

The hike earns its difficult ranking at this point and climbs steeply up a scree ridge to Redcloud. Mountain goats or maniacs had formed a trail that shot straight up. I chose switchbacks. Or at least that was my intent. I somehow found myself slip-sliding up the treacherously straight path at one point, cursing my deviation.

Redcloud’s summit was in view. Of course, it turned out to be a false summit, with the real Redcloud taunting me in the distance. I determinedly gulped the thin air and made a conquering yelp once at the summit. I paused only momentarily as I eyed Sunshine 1.5 miles away. Bagging two 14ers was palpable and I continued on without even so much as a swig of water.

I dropped back down to 13,480 feet, a nice reprieve. Regaining more than 500 feet in a steep haul up Sunshine was not. My final minutes were agonizing but I dedicated my climb to Girlie Jeep owners and to every woman whose backcountry prowess has ever been berated by skeptical men.

Sunshine Peak was an island in a sea of mountains. Flush with triumph, I nestled in a makeshift rock shelter to eat my fungal pita. I gazed down the long spine of the San Juans, my body marinated in sweat. The wind caused my unruly hair to do a fine impression of a Joshua tree. I stayed for an hour, drinking in the mountain air that conspired with light. Distant horizons were magnified and 14,000-foot peaks a hundred miles away appeared near at hand.

I vowed I would rather slog through swamps and tar pits than climb up Redcloud again. I discovered an apparent “descent” into the South Fork drainage in the saddle between the two mountains. The prospect of saving two miles and skipping out on climbing back up Redcloud was inviting. But the steep, dangerous talus tucked between two rocky ramparts was not. I resigned myself to the tar pit and retraced my steps, trying to comfort myself this was equal to bagging three 14ers. Err…right?

Silverton’s Heaven on Earth
I spent the night in paradise. Of course, anything that had a shower and bed qualified as paradisiacal glory at that point. But I had christened Silverton heaven on earth during my first trip a couple of years ago. Nestled at 9,318 feet in the heart of the San Juan
Mountains, this quaint mining town is a gem ringed by mountain splendor.

If you stay anywhere in Silverton, it should be at the town’s premier B&B: the Wyman Hotel and Inn. Built in 1902, this red-sandstone building has period antiques, arched
windows, high ceilings, theme rooms, gourmet breakfast and a perfect blend of nostalgic and contemporary facilities. Owners Lorraine and Tom lavished me with attention and gave me a tour of the 19 rooms and honeymoon suite—a restored caboose in the courtyard.

I then enjoyed a Tuesday night on the town. I wandered the colorful boardwalks past
Victorian buildings, restaurants and saloons that displayed reminders of the early boom times. I ate heartily at the Trail House, Silverton’s newest restaurant, and became privy to all the town gossip. I then spent a quiet evening in my Jacuzzi tub watching a movie.

Oh, and gazing out my window at summits I did not have to conquer. This had to be heaven.

The Skyway’s Homestretch
Over the next few days, I traced the San Juan Skyway to Ouray and Telluride, with a detour to Ophir Pass.

I was enchanted with Ouray’s verdant 14,000-foot peaks in this ”Switzerland of America.” Ouray opened the world’s first park devoted exclusively to ice climbing in 1995, and thousands of climbers have descended upon the hamlet ever since. Great hiking is in abundance, with rock climbing and a kayak park in the developmental stages.

In the mountains cocooning Ouray, water proves that gravity works. Natural hot springs flow into pools at the base of towering peaks, vapor caves lead into the earth and iridescent waterfalls line the walls.

I went on two short hikes: to Cascade and Box Canyon Falls. Feeling ambitious, I even climbed a whopping 0.25-mile to an overlook above Box Canyon. This inspired me to think expansive, effusive thoughts, including the wisdom of building a bridge directly over the falls so as to completely obstruct the view.

I then hiked 6 miles along the Bear Creek National Scenic Trail, drove to Telluride and hiked 4 miles to Bear Creek Falls the next day. But it was during a detour to Ophir, a small mining town 8 miles from Telluride, that my loop of the skyway came full circle.

I had taken the turnoff for no other reason than the great views that beckoned. I was
pleased to discover some of the best-kept backcountry secrets in the area, along with the town of Ophir. Damaged by avalanches in the early 1900s, I was told Ophir is currently experiencing a revival (if you consider population: 70 a revival.) Hardcore mountaineers live here including many of Telluride’s mountain guides and ski patrol.

It was atop Ophir Pass (where four-wheel drive is recommended but NOT required), that I encountered Him: Mr. Watch Out. He was pulled to the side so I could pass on the narrow road.

“You made it out,” he commented. I boasted about bagging the 14ers.

He went in for the kill: “So, where’s the bike?”

I flippantly replied it must have fallen off somewhere along the Alpine Loop.

This did not seem to shock him, confirming his opinion of me.

Then he surprised me, “I’ve gotta tell you, Blondie. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

He and everyone else, and admittedly neither did I. But I learned on that trip to Colorado’s rooftop that it is not so much about bagging summits as it is about surmounting personal ones.

-Amber Borowski Johnson ©

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: biking, Colorado, Favorite Posts, hiking, Humor, outdoors, travel Tagged With: , , ,

Wasatch Adventure Race 2002 Masochists on the Mountain

May 3, 2009 By

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2002.

I fancy myself adventurous. I jump off the 2-foot diving board at the swimming pool. I can ride my bike sans hands for 10 seconds. And I have been known to stroll across a busy intersection without the permission of a walk signal.

So my interest was piqued when I heard about the 2002 Wasatch Adventure Race (WAR). As the name suggests, the Wasatch Mountains are the place and adventurous is the race. Participants navigate nearly 80 miles in less than 36 hours while running, biking, hiking, climbing, rappelling and paddling, with the odd mystery event thrown in for kicks and giggles.

Sound like fun? Twenty-eight teams from all over the United States thought so. Their idea of fun, however, was to submit themselves to masochistic measures on the mountain, such as trudging sleepless all day and night in the middle of nowhere with only a soggy map as guide. There was mud and snow, freezing temperatures, and then frozen mud.

Fun, eh? WAR is hell, it has been said. Indeed.

Mr. Eco-Masochist
I wanted to ease into adventure racing before diving in full throttle, so I opted to volunteer this time around. That proved to be a wise decision. I soon learned to think twice before participating in a race designed and directed by a guy who worked for Eco-Challenge for three years.

I first met Todd Olsen at an R.E.I. adventure-racing clinic. He and his wife Holly run High Mountain Productions, a company that organizes outdoor races and clinics. May’s event was the second annual Wasatch Adventure Race.

The first annual race in March of 2001 had a few hiccups. When I pressed Todd for details, he had a pained expression, similar to Mom’s when she talks about enduring my early years. He told me they had to contend with a snowstorm, which caused perilous avalanche conditions. To ensure safety, he had to modify the route several times.

Todd chose to hold the second annual race over sunny Memorial Day Weekend. He was meticulous, even neurotic, about plotting the course. He trekked, biked and rappelled it several times as the race date approached. Conditions were perfect and dry.

Until a freak snowstorm sacked the Wasatch Front mere days before the race.

Despite these conditions, Todd remained in great spirits, chiming this was, after all, an adventure race. This confirmed to me that we were at the mercy of a deranged Eco-Masochist.

Cheerleader of the Year
I met my fellow volunteers at 7 a.m. at the Provo Marriott. We spent much of the morning registering the athletes and performing mandatory team equipment checks, discipline assessments, communication safety and race briefings. I had been assigned to the difficult task of taking team photos and checking out toned legs. (OK, that last task was self-assigned–but nonetheless imperative.)

Most of the teams were from Colorado and Utah, with a smattering from Oregon, Idaho and California. Team Fugawi (as in “Where the…”) came all the way from Connecticut, and we also had two Kiwis and Aussies in the mix. There were three different divisions: 3 members mixed, 2 members open, and 1 member open. Most of the teams brought support crews who provided them with food and equipment at designated transition areas. For $50, High Mountain provided support for teams without a crew.

Before setting out to the starting point at Utah Lake, Todd gave the volunteers a thorough play-by-play of our responsibilities. Admittedly, my only volunteer race experience was at a triathlon in high school. I had been stationed in the boonies for the final leg of the race. It was a rare day in Calgary—temps soared in the 90s and the Arctic-lovin’ racers were sweltering. I enthusiastically cheered my Canucks and they were grateful for the encouragement.

I was just about to receive the accolade of Cheerleader of the Year until the organizers drove out to my station. I innocently informed them the last racer had passed me about 20 minutes ago.

And then I learned the terrible truth: I was supposed to be the designated
turnaround point.

In my defense, they had somehow forgotten to disclose this somewhat important information. I won’t divulge the nasty events that unfolded, but I learned that day that there really must be some truth to the connection between cheerleaders and airheads.

The Adventure Begins
WAR officially started at 3 p.m. Racers were filled with both alacrity and trepidation at the start line. The 28 teams were a range between seasoned veterans with Eco-Challenge experience and those with less-intense race résumés who only participated in outdoor activities recreationally.

Todd opened the race. The teams eagerly burst off the line, sprinted down to the beach, jumped in their canoes, and began the 6-mile paddle to Lindon Beach. Once there, they exchanged their canoes for in-line skates and bladed to checkpoint two at Battle Creek Park in Pleasant Grove.

A one-man show, Coloradoan Andrew Hamilton of Team Achilles, blew away the competition by arriving a couple of hours ahead of the estimated time of arrival. Another volunteer, Christie, and I recorded his time, signed his passport and sent him to retrieve his mountain bike from his support vehicle for the next leg up Battle Creek Canyon. His nearest competitors did not arrive until 5 p.m., half an hour after his departure.

The Race Dynamics
Mere hours after the start, race dynamics were glitching. There were crashes. There was malfunctioning equipment. There were arguments. And those were just with Salt Lake City-based Team Entropy’s support crew.

The racers were exhausted by the time they reached checkpoint four in American Fork Canyon. Their 16-mile war-torn ride up Battle Creek along the shoulder of Mount Timpanogas had been ravaged by snow, mud and cold as they navigated their way along a network of criss-crossing hiking trails, game trails, and old Jeep roads.

In Greek mythology, Achilles was the Trojan War’s greatest warrior. WAR’s lead combatant proved true to legend as he conquered Battle Creek with a huge lead on the others. Many teams did not arrive until after dark and were shivering after hiking their bikes through deep snow in frosty temperatures. Some did not turn up until the middle of the night and ATV crews combed the area to ensure their safety. A few teams had either dropped out or were either disqualified because they missed the time cutoff.

For those who remained, night’s embrace was more like a tight squeeze. They had only a waxing full moon and their headlamps to penetrate the darkness as they sloshed through the muck- and snow-heaped Mud Springs, Tibble Fork and Beaver Bog areas. Mr. Eco-Masochist had, of course, thrown some wrenches into the race to trip people up.

Those wrenches, however, were more like hammers that pounded the competitors. Todd had charted a tricky bushwhack for teams from checkpoint seven to eight. Unfortunately, several teams took the wrong turn and missed checkpoint seven at Beaver Bog. After scouring the area for hours, many opted to continue onto checkpoint eight. A few stayed behind until they found seven. Those who bypassed seven were given hefty time penalties.

The Home Stretch
While many of our fellow volunteers spent the night huddled at checkpoints in remote mountain locations, Christie and I were in the most far-flung of all: the Timpooneke Parking Lot. With an onslaught of holiday revelers, the race ambulance and medical personnel. And a diesel truck that choked us with fumes all night long. Nothing like getting back to nature.

Achilles knocked on my tent at 5 a.m. I’d like to say we were awake and awaiting his arrival, but truth is we were apathetic and asleep. The next competitors arrived several hours later, many fatigued and irascible after a cold and confusing night looking for checkpoint seven.

Their reward was what Achilles called “cruel and unusual punishment”: to retrace the recalcitrant route through Battle Creek. But their payoff was an exhilarating 275-foot rappel from atop Battle Creek Canyon, followed by mountain biking to their transition area at Dry Canyon. And then the homestretch: a trek up Little Baldy before dropping onto Glen Canyon Park in Provo Canyon. They then skated back to the lake and did a short paddle from Oxbow Park before finishing where they started.

Seventeen teams finished. Eleven teams dropped out. By the end, most hated Todd. Hated the course. Hated the conditions. But they call it adventure racing for a reason.

Most of those racers are masochists. Most are nuts. And most will be back for round three of the Wasatch Adventure Race in 2003. And I may just be masochistic enough to join them.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: Humor, outdoors, Utah

Spring Break–Denver, Colorado Style!

March 29, 2009 By

Colorado had a woosy winter. For evidence, all you need to do is look back through my archives and see the numerous hikes and outdoor adventures we have enjoyed during our balmy temperatures.

Mother Nature finally woke up on Thursday and delighted us with a blizzard and schools were closed for two days. On Day 1, we hunkered down and invited our neighbors over for a Snow Party.

Photo #1: Never-before-seen-picture of our unfinished soda fountain and bar. Why is it unfinished? Because Granite Kitchen Solutions/Jason’s Granite walked with our money before delivering. Small claims court may be in his future (anyone had any experience with this?) Regardless, here is a shot of our almost-finished bar, complete with very cool gooseneck spouts.


We broke in our retro popcorn popper Jamie’s family bought us for Christmas and tested out all of the Kernel Seasoning’s Popcorn Toppings I received a couple of months ago (yum!) As an FYI, Bode is not plugging his ears because of the popping but because of “Sissy’s” singing.


She gets it from me.

We invited our neighbors Meredith, Andy and Maddie over to watch Incredibles on our new 84-inch television, Jamie’s pride and joy. We were shocked/bewildered/disturbed when Andy brought over his Snugglie. I didn’t know if I should ridicule him or snuggle him.

I chose the former. (Sidenote: his dear wife Meredith is in the foreground, refusing to show her face with the Snuggie. Who can blame her? Hadley, on the other hand, cannot resist.)

On Day 2, we took to the great outdoors. My poor children. Little do they know that some kiddos spend their Spring Break like this:

But their Canadian mama makes them have vacations like this:


Sand castles, snow caves. It’s all relative.


The best news of all? We are now officially on Spring Break this week. Expect a whole lot of craziness from this Crazy Clan…..


So, let’s hear it from you! How did you/are you spending your Spring Break?

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: Colorado, Humor, outdoors

The 11th Commandment: Thou Shalt Not Skinny Dip at Park City Mountain Resort

February 16, 2009 By

Some people have a propensity for making a lot of money.

Others for being great with kids.

Mine is for repeatedly getting locked out in precarious situations.

With the kids. And without any money.

My family just returned from a ski trip to Park City Mountain Resort. I was on-assignment to do a write-up for Marketing Director Krista Parry’s new Web site, Snow Mamas. Hitting the slopes is a lifestyle that affords itself all kinds of pleasures and for us those included two days on the mountain, a daughter in ski school, a son in childcare, alpine-coastering and fine-dining at Zoom and Butcher’s Chophouse. (Read my official write-up here).

We stayed in a beautiful two-bedroom Town Lift Condominium. Our accommodations had all the luxuries of home with one huge bonus: a private hot tub on the deck. After hitting the slopes each evening, we would soak our bodies as we overlooked the pulse of Park City’s Historic District.

On one such night, we had been in the hot tub for about an hour when we decided to turn in for the night. My chivalrous husband Jamie hopped out of the tub to grab our towels inside. Or at least he tried–he turned the knob to the door and nothing happened. After a chilly 5-second investigation, he surmised that the door was unlocked but the handle was loose and practically falling off its hinges. He jumped back in the hot tub to warm up before repeating his attempt multiple times.

Nada.

So, there we were: roasting in the hot tub with two little kids and no apparent way to get back into our room. Realizing the situation could quickly turn dire, I called down to a pedestrian on Main Street. He obligingly went to the condo’s lobby and had a staff member come out to assist us.

Kind of.

The staffer told us he would grab the key to our condo and let us back in. And then we waited. And waited. And waited. After about 15 minutes, I knew something was very wrong.

This was confirmed when the staffer stuck his head out the window of the neighboring condo.

“The door is locked,” he yelled.

No duh. Isn’t that what the hotel’s master key is for?

“I’m not talking about the dead bolt,” he expounded. “Someone put the chain on the door so we have no way to get in.”

That “someone” was me. And my little attempt at safety had proved to be quite the opposite.

I envisioned the fire department racing to the scene and a crowd gathering around snapping pictures as we were rescued from our second-floor entrapment. Our exposé would be included in the local newspaper and I would be infamous…in my bathing suit.

Not exactly Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition worthy.

Just as I was starting to have a panic attack, my faithful 4-year-old daughter suggested she say a prayer. Shortly after she explained her mother’s incompetency to The Man Upstairs, the staffer was able to break into the condo.

Despite all the drama, it could have been worse. Later that night after the kids had gone to bed, Jamie and I were surreptitiously planning a little skinny dip of our own.

Talk about front-page exposés.

Originally published at Mile High Mamas on February 16, 2009.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: Family travel, outdoors, travel

Learning to “Ski Like a Girl” at Keystone Resort

February 1, 2009 By

I grew up with O.S.S. (Only-Sister Syndrome), which often became S.O.S. when participating in sports with my ultra-competitive brothers. The biggest slam to my ego was when they accused me of doing anything “like a girl.”

But here’s the deal: last week at Keystone Resort, I “skied like a girl” and loved every minute of it. While Jamie and Bode went sledding at the Nordic Center, Hadley and I got a sneak peak at Keystone’s infamous Betty Fest ski clinics, the ultimate in girl bonding. Their regular clinic includes two days of on-hill training for all levels, video analysis and women- specific discussions.

Our little Betty Fest consisted of amiable PSIA-certified women instructors and [perhaps most importantly] pink feather boas.

I have skied since I was a wee Canadian lassie and worked as a publicist in Utah’s ski industry. But here’s the deal: I haven’t improved in years. And so when my kick-butt instructor Cathy asked me what skills I wanted to work on, I told her I wanted to ski moguls like Wonder Woman, who incidentally, is one step above skiing like a girl.

Cathy’s first item of business: bringing me down to the depths of humility and correcting every single technique I had. And just when I felt I was starting to resemble a one-legged tree frog on skis, she built me back up so I was rocking those bumps…and not just rolling over them.

Though make no mistake: even during the rolling, the feather boa held up marvelously and I highly recommend Keystone’s next Betty Fest February 28 – March 1. I hope to be there, boa and all.

Keystone Lake: A Cut of Canada

Most families have some kind of initiation when someone marries into the clan. My American husband received a pair of hockey skates with the explicit instructions that any of our future half-breeds should be born on the blade.
IMG 1234
But here’s the the deal: a Canuck’s idea of skating is not circling around on some uninspired indoor rink with music blaring in the background. We like wide open spaces and skate for miles on rivers and lakes. Frozen nose hairs are an added bonus.

Keystone Lake is about as close to The Real Skating Deal as I have come since moving to the United States. They boast their five-acre lake is the largest Zamboni-maintained outdoor skating rink in North America. My little clan had the time of our lives cruising around, watching the pick-up hockey game and marveling at the mountain grandeur as flurries of ice particles glittered in the swirling air. It was the perfect cut of Canada.

Minus the frozen nose hairs.

When the Spa & Sleigh Rides Do Not Mix

While at the Keystone Lodge and Spa I received the Aboriginal Mala Mayi treatment. After a gentle full-body scrub, I was covered in silky warm Mapi Body Mud, received a Paudi scalp massage, followed by a full-body Marta Kodo massage. It was 100 minutes of sheer bliss, only to be interrupted by a mad dash to Keystone’s famous sleigh ride dinner with my family.
sleigh ride
It should have been the perfect evening in our horse-drawn sleigh. Snuggling up to my children as we soared across Soda Creek Valley’s snowy wonderland. Watching the snowflakes collect on their lashes as we gazed up at the explosion of stars. Hearing them giggle in delight as we arrived at the restored ranch homestead. Eating a delicious four-course steak dinner with all the fixins’. Laughing as we sang along to cowboy tunes all night.

But it wasn’t perfect. Not for me, anyway.

Remember that blissful massage I had a couple hours prior? There was some detoxification involved. The kind that involves flushing the bad toxins out of my body at a very rapid rate. I’ll stop there. Just know that I became very acquainted with the cowboy outhouse all evening long. I learned then what I should have known all along: cowboys and spas should never, ever mix.

Maybe I should just stick to sking like a girl.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: Colorado, Family travel, Hadley, Humor, outdoors, skiing Tagged With:

The day my daughter and I almost froze to death beside a hot tub

November 17, 2008 By

OK, so maybe that title is a wee bit of an exaggeration. More like the day Haddie and I almost lost a few fingers as my two-year-old son Bode watched us as he played chess. Didn’t know a toddler could pass a pawn? Me neither.

A little bit of background: my family recently went to Keystone, which is of the few major resorts in Colorado I had yet to visit since moving here six years ago. I fell in love with the area and am already planning a return trip in January to ski and skate on their huge lake, which boasts the largest Zamboni-maintained outdoor skating rink in North America. And for this Canuck who grew up skating on frozen lakes and rivers, this will surely provide warm memories of my frozen nose hairs.

It was opening weekend for the resort but instead of hitting the slopes, we played in the village and dined at The Bighorn Steakhouse overlooking the lake. The food was delicious, the ambiance refined yet family-friendly and my children miraculously ate every last bite of their dinner. As for me, I am still trying to work off the 5,000 calories I consumed from the huge dessert platter.

We stayed at The Timbers, one of SummitCove’s more luxurious properties. Forget the gourmet kitchen and slope-side views–what really made this condo a winner was their on-site pack-and-play, children’s utensils and dishes, and humidifiers. It was my home away from home.

Or so I wish.

But where was I? Oh yes, back to how we almost froze to death. Our [much nicer] home away from home also included an indoor/outdoor pool, a hot tub with a waterfall and a fire pit. Saturday morning, the kids and I were banging away on the lobby’s grand piano and playing with the chess pieces when I noticed the fire pit outside was lit. And then I got a brilliant idea.

Or so I thought.

The kids and I would dash out there, pose for a picture and rush back in before you could say H-Y-P-O-T-H-E-R-M-I-A. Bode begged off our plan, preferring to stay inside and explore the intricacies of chess. So it was just Haddie and me.

We dashed, we posed and we ran back…to a locked patio door. And imagine my delight to discover my room key did not work. I was in a T-shirt, Haddie was barefoot, it was cold, my husband was blissfully tucked away in our room, we were in an enclosed courtyard and the building was a ghost town.

BodechessThere was only Bode.

Have you ever tried to convince a 2-year-old to interrupt something he is engrossed in to help you? The strategy is completely different than with an older child. There is no threatening that you’ll take the car away. There are no bribes for new toys. There is just begging. And jumping jacks. And more begging.

And his reaction? He smiled. Even laughed. And then he turned back to his chess game.

This carried on for about 15 minutes. I was just about to hop into the hot tub to warm up when he finally grew tired of our cat-and-frozen-mouse game and waddled over to the door. He gave me one last devious smile and opened it.

I didn’t know whether to hug him or smack his insolent little bottom.

I went for the hug.

But have revoked all future driving privileges until he is 80.

(Originally published at Mile High Mamas).

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: Colorado, Family travel, Humor, outdoors, travel

The Great Adventure, Right in Your Backyard

November 3, 2008 By

This post was inspired by a curiosity about what you love about where you live. Where are your favorite haunts in your city or town? What do you have on your “to do” list that you have yet to explore? I want to hear about your great adventures, right in your backyard! Do you wish you had more?

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I spent my final semester of college on a study abroad in the Middle East. Our campus was on the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem and we traveled frequently around the region. We floated in the Dead Sea and slept in cabanas by the Sea of Galilee. We roamed through Petra’s ancient wonders in Jordan and we climbed Mount Sinai to witness the sunrise. We marveled at the Great Pyramids and sailed the Nile at sunset.

Upon the completion of my studies, I stopped over in Europe with a few of my friends. We backpacked five countries in two weeks and had the time of our lives. One of our final destinations was Switzerland. We stayed at a hostel inInterlaken, the country’s outdoor Mecca. After a day of rafting the mighty Lütschine, we talked late into the night with some fellow travelers.

One of them was named Ralph. He was charming, athletic and drop-dead gorgeous. He was a mail carrier from Australia who had saved up his money for a year-long adventure abroad. He was going home the next morning. Feeling remorseful about the end of my own travels, I asked him how he thought he would adjust back to his humdrum life after being given a glimpse of the world.

His answer still resonates today:

“Before this trip, I was always planning my next great adventure. It has taken this trip to help me realize there is so much close to home I have yet to experience. My next great adventures will be in my own backyard for many years to come.”

This has become my mantra in life. Sure, I still love to travel. I always will. But there is so much to explore here and now. And two weeks in a row, I have had The Perfect Day right here in Colorado.

creamery can copyA couple of weeks ago, my son Bode and I went to The Children’s Museum. After a morning at play, we went to buy our favorite cookie from their cafe, only to discover it has been discontinued. This sent us on a wild goose chase to discover the birthplace of The Great Cookie at Jay’s Patio Cafe, which is nestled in a funky shopping district in Highland. We spent the next couple of hours exploring this cool area–from Red Door Swingin’, my favorite new shop to visit with my girlfriends, to Little Man Ice Cream, the ultimate ice cream shop housed in a giant creamery can.

Who knew?

Last Thursday, Bode and I opted out of a hike we regularly do in Evergreen to simply walk around Evergreen Lake. I have skated it in the winter, driven past it to access the back country and yet have never walked around it. We strolled the dirt path, climbed the steps to a lookout over the dam, sauntered down Main Street, discovered the Pioneer Trail, threw rocks in the lake, marveled at a Caterpillar dredging sediment out of the river and then dined on the outdoor patio of the Aspen Grill overlooking it all.

The Perfect Day.

I am amazed what I find when I leave my daily routine. Whether I am searching for The Great Cookie or attempting to rediscover The Familiar, I feel fortunate to find it all here in my backyard.

And just as my Australian friend wisely proclaimed so many years ago: wherever you live is your Great Adventure.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: Colorado, Family travel, outdoors, travel

Mr. Lord of the Gourds Visits the Super Bowl of Pumpkin Weigh-offs

October 7, 2008 By

I love Boston.

If I could transport the Rocky Mountains to Massachusetts, I would move there tomorrow. Well, except that I cannot spell M-A-S-S-A-C-H-U- S-E-T-T-S without the help of spell-check.

Jamie and I just returned from Boston and everything about the area resonated with me: the ocean, the rocky crags, the explosion of trees, the locals who can’t say their Rs…all of it was so endearing and I wonder why it has taken me this long to visit.

My new obsession is vacationing on Martha’s Vineyard, Nantucket or Cape Code. If you have a vacation home on any of those islands, I will gladly take it off your hands for a week this summer.

Because I am generous like that.

For those just tuning in, I gave Jamie a trip to the Topsfield Fair for Father’s Day. This community outside of Boston hosts the oldest agricultural fair in the country (190 years old) and if you need a description, just think the Super Bowl.

But with really big, orange balls.


I could make fun of them all but do you know what? I got a kick out of the whole event. These people have giant pumpkin growing down to a science and watching Jamie meet his Pumpkin Idols was akin to watching Hadley score her first goal in soccer.

Should it ever happen.

When we first walked into the arena, the weigh-off was already underway. Jamie has been in correspondence with many of the growers on Bigpumpkins.com, a forum where guys talk about [what else?] pumpkins and the women who love them. Or hate them. It depends on the day.

Jamie was looking for one man in particular and walked up to a group to seek him out. One guy turned around and recognition struck Jamie like a smashing pumpkin: it was his idol Joe Justras who holds the world record for his 1,689-pound pumpkin. Loving wife that I am, I insisted they pose for a picture together.

Though it saddens me this will probably replace the family portrait in our living room.

Jamie spent the rest of the morning watching the weigh-off and meeting various pumpkin growers. They come from all walks of life: farmers, dentists, manufacturing engineers, mortgage brokers, and even the Mafia. Yes, you heard correctly. One man who is allegedly “cut from the same cloth as the Sopranos” showed up with his pumpkin a half hour after the entry deadline.

Funny how they still let him compete.

I thought I had seen everything until I stumbled upon this couple:


They seemed legit but I have learned the biggest con artists are those you least expect. And finding scalpers at a giant pumpkin weigh-off is certainly not expected.

The world record will likely be bested next weekend by Steve Connolly, whom we met at Topsfield. Even though Jamie and I were casual observers, we were still deemed noteworthy and were interviewed for the local newspaper.

I expect The New York Times to contact us any day for the follow-up.

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Tune in next time as we journey to Salem, the land of the witches, and find out how we relived one of When Harry Met Sally’s more memorable moments.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog
Filed Under: Humor, Jamie, outdoors, pumpkins, travel
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