Haha, I’m kind of like those hoarder people on TV … haha … er … hrm.
Am I a hoarder?
I think I might be a hoarder. At least, a budding hoarder. (Budding horror? Oh my.) I buy lots of stuff, and I have trouble getting rid of it. There’s the stuff that has sentimental value, the stuff that could theoretically be useful at some point, and then the stuff that I don’t want anymore, but could theoretically be useful to someone, somewhere. I don’t want to get rid of it until I find someone who would have a use for it.
Actually, I know I’m not a full-blown hoarder because I do get rid of stuff. I throw trash away, I recycle anything that’s readily recyclable, and I give away or sell some items that I don’t need. I’m pretty sure real hoarders don’t do any of those things. But I have real trouble throwing stuff away. I keep little piles of scrap metal that I could in theory recycle. Electronics I need to take to Best Buy or something to dispose of them properly. Jars and cans and plastic containers that “could” be used to store something some day. Stickers that I picked up for free at an event and now I’d feel guilty if I tossed them. But I assume that real hoarders have different motivations. I assume they …
Well, dammit.
So here are the symptoms:
Hoarding symptoms (Mayo Clinic)
And here are some explanations:
Why does someone hoard
I thought maybe my motivation for keeping stuff was somehow different from what people call “hoarding” - but it looks like I’m pretty much textbook. At least, I’m exactly like that person from the second link. (Tripod? Seriously? I didn’t know that still *existed*!)
I don’t have a fire hazard of a house with piles of crap threatening to crash on people and moldering pizza remnants wedged within the piles. But I do have a house that is unpleasantly cluttered, and coming home to the house stress me out. I do have difficulty throwing things away if they were not explicitly designed to be trash. (I throw wrappers away without trouble. I have trouble throwing away cardboard drink coasters that came in the gift bag for a BlizzCon I attended several years ago.)
I feel *guilty*, okay? I feel really guilty and awful whenever I throw anything away. And I worry I might want it eventually, and it won’t be there. And I worry that I might be throwing something away when someone, somewhere in the world could use it. And throwing something away, in many cases, means admitting that I really didn’t need it in the first place, but I bought it anyway.
And I hold onto things well past when I know I won’t be using them anymore, to the point where I can’t make money off of them and finally can’t even give them away effectively. I just gave away my old ski boots that I replaced in 2010, when I knew within an hour of wearing the new ones that I’d never go back. But I wasn’t able to give away the really old pair, probably 14 years old. I finally did throw them in the trash, but my GOD was it hard to do. I feel shitty about it. I tried to freecycle them, but they were too big for the one person who contacted me. I thought maybe there would be a sense of relief or something when I finally tossed them, but no. I just feel guilty that I waited so long to get rid of them that they were too old for anybody to want to use. And I’m sure if I just tried hard enough, someone out there would be really happy to get those boots. If I had infinite time, I would find a home for every little thing in my house that I don’t need.
Well. So this is interesting. I learned something new about myself today. Now, what do I do about it? They always say that acknowledging something is the first step, right? So this, this is pretty good, I think. *deep breath* Maybe realizing my problem will help me prevent it in the first place. Maybe I will choose to acquire fewer useless trinkets if I recognize how hard it will be for me to get rid of them.
Sorry; this isn’t really pithy or entertaining or a post about all the awesome stuff I go out and do because I’m so awesome. This isn’t a post that presents the carefully constructed image of myself that I prefer to display, and that I prefer infinitely to my real, flawed self who sometimes escapes her cage. This is just … me. And I think I’m starting to realize that I’m not quite as together as I always thought I was. I guess that’s progress.
Can I be a writer if I never actually write anything?
A few months ago, when things were looking pretty rough, I asked Eric if I could quit my job so that I could write full-time. We were sitting in the Charlotte, NC airport, having a quick meal of crappy barbecue on our way home from celebrating my mom’s birthday. This was just a few weeks after I’d finally realized what was up and gone to my doctor to seek help. From various perspectives, it could be called depression, anxiety, sleeplessness, overtraining, or simply unrealistically high expectations - and I suspect that those are all inter-related. Anyway, I wasn’t feeling too awesome at the time, and staying home to (pet the dogs and) write sounded pretty great.
To Eric’s great credit, he didn’t laugh at me, and he didn’t say anything rude. He simply suggested, in an understated and kind manner, that while he would support me no matter what, he would find this idea a little less frightening if I’d actually written anything in the last year or two. Like, even a blog post.
The fact that he was willing to say “yes” to me, support me emotionally and in every other way, when my idea was obviously so half-cocked and, well, lacking in any foundation of reality whatsoever - wow. I have to tell you, my husband is awesome.
Then I did some research and (re-)discovered that writing is hard work. And getting published is even harder. And then making actual money by publishing is damn near mythical. So in a day or two, I got over that idea. I realized that what was attractive about “writing” was actually the idea of escaping all my responsibilities and basically just playing “mom” to our dogs (yes, this is the second time I’ve referenced more than one dog; I’ll get to that in a bit). I also realized that while that might sound attractive at the moment, I could probably only do it for a month or two before I started climbing the walls. And not in a fun rock gym kind of way.
I actually love my job, and now that I’ve gotten my schedule under control, can sleep at night, am talking to a professional, and oh yes, taking a little something to balance what had become extremely unbalanced, well, I am so glad that I didn’t follow my momentary impulse. Because I do love my job, and I enjoy being an employee - by which I mean, I enjoy having an employer who handles business realities and financial decisions and client relationships and all that stuff so that I can focus on what I do best.
So anyway. Dogs. Right. The last time I blogged here, I had a dog named Cooper and a cat named Oscar. Cooper is three years old; Oscar was 11 years old and had been in remission from small cell lymphoma for several years. Then Eric and I flew out to Las Vegas for a long weekend with friends, and when we came back, we found a note that Oscar hadn’t eaten anything the whole time we were gone. And so we brought her to our vet on Monday, and she put her under anesthesia and took a whole bunch of x-rays, and the upshot was that Oscar was very, very sick and that the kindest thing we could do was to never let her wake up. And so I called Eric and he came and we cried and we watched our vet, who is a very kind woman, inject Oscar with some innocuous-looking substance, and very soon after that, as I spoke to her and petted her and told her it would all be okay, my little girl stopped breathing.
And I went home and hugged my dog Cooper, and was so happy I had another furry family member so that the loss wasn’t quite as terrible as it could have been if I’d had to come home to an empty house.
And thinking about that led, more or less directly, to acquiring our puppy, Loki, the following weekend. I was looking for an adult dog, really, or one at least a year old, but that’s not how it worked out. It worked out that we got Loki, who was 4-5 months of pure trouble, aptly named. (The shelter called him Lightning. Whatever. It didn’t take me long to realize his true name was Loki.)
So now we have two dogs, and Loki has doubled - almost exactly - in weight since we got him. And he drives Cooper nuts, and he drives us nuts, but we love him to bits and I can’t imagine life without him anymore. Although I can imagine life without his habit of tearing dog beds into tiny shreds of fabric, and that would be pretty fantastic.
Trip Report: Winter Park Dirt Series
Last weekend’s Trek Dirt Series at Winter Park was so awesome, even lift-halting afternoon thunderstorms couldn’t ruin it. And that’s saying quite a bit.
The general format of the Dirt Series is this : there are two days of instruction. You practice basic skills the first half of each day; you ride with a coach the second half. Pretty simple, right? Except that the organizers have to group all of the students by both skill level and interest, based on a self evaluation we turned in before the camp. It’s a daunting task, but they did a great job. Throughout the weekend, I kept realizing how much work went into this event behind the scenes so that we students didn’t have to do anything but show up, learn, and eat.
I learned a lot, and not all of it was part of a formal lesson. And that’s, I think, what most surprised me about the event - the unplanned stuff. The event provides an opportunity for you to meet other female riders - some novice, some pro, and plenty in between. You also get to meet mechanics, check out bikes and gear, and maybe hear some off the cuff remark that changes everything.
My very favorite experience was riding a teeter-totter. I’d never done that before. Jess Stone, a pro downhill racer, demonstrated it first. She also showed us what happens when you go too fast - it never tips, so you end up catching air off a moving plank. No thank you (yet)! But riding it at just the right speed was a treat. There’s this deliciously terrifying moment in the middle where you think you haven’t done it right, and the board isn’t going to tip. Then you push your bike forward, and it starts to tip. At first, it’s going so slowly you don’t think it’s going to land in time, but it accelerates downward, and suddenly you find yourself riding down a descent of your own creation, and then you’re on the ground, safe and sound, and you want to do it again right away.
My other big success was with drops. On the trails, I have always rolled drops - meaning that my wheels don’t leave the ground. This is fine for short drops, but it’s dangerous (or even impossible) for longer drops. So I was extremely happy to be in one of the groups working on drops the first day, learning how to ride them so that both wheels are in the air at the same time. At first, I misunderstood some of the advice and couldn’t seem to get it right. But when I finally got it, the entire group cheered for me, and it felt soooo good!
The only real bummer about the series was totally outside of anyone’s control. Both days, afternoon storms kept the lifts from running much. That really sucked; I learned a ton on the rides, and I would have loved to have more. But on the other hand - thanks to the storms, we used the time in other ways. On Saturday, Tracy Moseley (!!!) taught me how to adjust everything on my downhill bike’s handlebars so that I could finally, for the first time in my life, brake with only my index fingers. And because she involved me in the process, I gained the confidence to do the same to my XC bike when I got home. On Sunday, after it started raining, one of the students asked our coach, Angela, to teach us some stuff. So, in the pouring rain, Angela taught us to do a front wheel lift using pedal power. I even managed it a few times on my downhill bike, each time scaring / surprising myself so much that I screamed! (What a girl …) Tracy also demo’d a wheelie on her downhill bike (all the time claiming it was very difficult), and she lifted each of our bikes up into wheelie position with us on them, so that we could feel the correct position. (As near as I can tell, the correct position is when you’re sure you’re going to fall right off the back.)
I’d like to write more, but it’s late, and I’m leaving for Winter Park early tomorrow morning. I just want to say thank you to all the people who put together and support the Dirt Series - the riders, the mechanics, the sponsors, and all my fellow students. It was a blast.
Busy day! We got so much done …
My parents visited over Memorial weekend. When I spend time with my parents, I realize how much “grown up” stuff I don’t do - I tend to spend all of my time either working or playing. Eric does more home maintenance than I do, but neither of us work up the energy to do anything extra very often. When I see our house and our yard through my parents’ eyes, I see so much that could be done to make it more comfortable, more beautiful - more relaxing. More homey.
So anyway, when my parents visited, they pointed out that the guest room was not exactly ideally furnished. And by that, I mean that one night stand was about twice as tall as it should be, and the other was an upside down laundry hamper. Forget about anywhere to set a suitcase or put away clothes. So I asked them if they’d be willing to go furniture shopping with me. With Eric’s blessing, off we went. We found a pair of night stands and a chest of drawers that look nice and make the room much more comfortable for guests. A chair in the showroom caught mom’s eye; it’s ultra-comfortable, and it looks great in our living room. And we finally replaced the broken plastic “furniture” on our deck with a glass-topped table, nice chairs, and a wooden love seat that is just indescribably cute and comfortable. Oh, I also got suckered into buying a bench that was too cheap to believe - and sure enough, it was too cheap, and I shouldn’t have believed it. The slats bend if anyone sits on it. It’s a piece of crap. I swear the floor model was in much better shape. So we’re trying to decide if it’s worth returning, or if we should just put it out in the yard as an accent piece (I think I mentioned it was really cheap, so it hardly seems worth the time and fuel to return it).
But that was all last week. Fast forward to today, and I’m still buoyed by the boost I got from my parents. Eric and I both did an awful lot today. We went to the paint store and chose a few colors we might use for the house - we’ve narrowed our choices down to three possibilities out of hundreds of HOA-approved combinations. We bought succulents for the front flower bed (finally! Only 8 years of leaving it empty of anything but weeds and, in the spring, the tulips that the previous owners planted …); I cleared out the bed and planted them. Eric worked on the interior window sills, which need to be sanded and refinished. I drove back to the nursery and bought a bunch of tomato and other plants, pots, etc and potted our first ever vegetable and herb plants in the back yard.
I can’t wait to see how it all turns out!
My letter to Boulder City Council on the West TSA plan
This is what I wrote to the City Council.
Subject: I support dog access and mountain bike access in the West TSA
Hello,
Thank you for your time. I appreciate that you have a difficult task on your hands, and I appreciate that you cannot please everyone who will be impacted by your decisions. I waited to write this letter until I could attend the March 15 meeting and hear the different points of view myself.
I support
* preserving dog access to the West TSA
* including dog access, both leashed and V&S, as part of any new trails being built
* providing mountain bike access via a N/S connector and the proposed Anemone Hill loop
I voted in favor of the last open space initiative. My hope is that, over time, these areas will be opened up to trails with dog and bike access.
Allow me to say a few words on user conflict, on dog access, on bike access, and on a suggestion to accommodate all trail users.
User Conflict and Conservation
There are examples of misbehavior among all types of trail users. There are hikers who go off-trail, make their own trails (so-called “social trails”), pick flowers and other flora, leave trash, take home “souvenirs,” and widen the trail. There are dog owners who fail to control their dogs, clean up waste, or recognize when their dogs might make others uncomfortable. There are cyclists who prioritize their enjoyment over others’ comfort. Some members of all groups use the trails when it’s simply too muddy, as evidenced by the footprints, bike tracks, and hoof prints I’ve seen on the trails. And horses routinely leave waste on the trails.
This last point suggests to me that user conflict is more a matter of perception than of statistics. If one hiker is belligerent to me, suddenly every encounter with a hiker is a negative experience. The same goes for all user groups. One negative experience is hard to erase, even with tens or hundreds of positive experiences.
I am not an expert on conservation, but as I understand it and as the second speaker on March 15 indicated in detail, several recent studies indicate that hiking and biking have about the same impact to flora and fauna.
As for the environmental impact of dogs on wildlife - I believe that if we keep our dogs on the trail, prevent them from chasing wildlife, and clean up after their waste, their impact is likely less than that of a human. Dogs don’t lose their balance and put hands on trees and lichen-covered boulders to support themselves, and because they are generally lighter than humans and distribute their weight across four paws, they have less impact to the trail. To my knowledge, a dog has never left a wrapper or cigarette butt on or off the trail, and a dog has never started a wildfire.
So, all things considered, I believe that well-behaved cyclists and well-behaved/controlled dogs have no more wildlife impact than do well-behaved hikers. This leads me to believe that when we have already decided that trails are acceptable, and we are now discussing who should have access to trails, the issue is primarily one of user conflict and perception.
In support of dogs, I’ve read of several cases where women were attacked by human predators on Boulder trails. I’ve never heard of a human with a dog, leashed or unleashed, being attacked. I also believe that bikes impart a certain safety from attack; it’s hard to attack someone on wheels.
Dog Access
I admit to my bias - I love dogs, and I love seeing well-behaved dogs enjoying themselves on hikes. I waited to get my dog, Cooper, until I felt I could provide a good quality of life for him. Part of his good quality of life is access to hiking trails; another part is his ability to sometimes hike with me, but not attached to me. Off-leash opportunities allow me to reinforce his training, which strengthens our bond and allows us to enjoy our hikes even more.
Dogs can also act as an opportunity to interact positively with other trail users. When my dog hikes with me wearing his bright blue pack, he inevitably gets plenty of cheerful comments. I gather from the many grins he elicits that he is a welcome addition to many people’s hikes.
Several sections within the Plan provide “Driving Factor/Benefits” bullet points for each recommendation. None of the dog-related sections provide these points, so I cannot evaluate the grounds for these suggestions. I don’t hike without my dog, so I will never see any trail that prohibits dogs. I urge you to include dog access as part of any new trails being developed, and to reconsider dog restrictions currently included in the plan. The fewer opportunities there are to hike with dogs, the more dog hikers will be constricted into a handful of trails that will inevitably see more trail impact and user conflict due to the increased traffic.
Bike Access
When I saw the Anemone Hill mountain bike proposal, with a bike ascent on one side and a bike-only descent on the other, I gasped audibly. What a beautiful idea, and what a wonderful way to signal that Boulder recognizes mountain biking as a valid form of outdoor recreation. Please consider restoring the Anemone Hill bike loop to the plan.
The North/South connector is another great idea - a way to reduce trailhead parking congestion and to allow those riding mountain bikes to ride instead of driving. As several speakers noted at the March 15 meeting, riding along the side of a road is risky.
More mountain bike trails will reduce congestion, and thereby reduce trail impact and user conflict, on existing trails. Fewer than 10 miles of trail, half of which is a connector, will not turn Boulder into a mountain biking destination. It will simply provide options in a region with more avid mountain bikers than bike-friendly trails. I’d also like to point out that while the bicycle options in town are fantastic, they do not provide mountain biking opportunities, any more than the Pearl Street pedestrian mall provides hiking opportunities.
The IMBA has developed solid expertise in building sustainable multi-use trails. The BMA has put thousands of hours into local trail rehabilitation and rerouting. Both the IMBA and the BMA actively educate their members about responsible trail usage and stewardship. Please recognize our efforts at building bridges - literal and metaphorical - and allow more biking access, which can only serve to relieve the pressure and reduce trail conflict.
Accommodating Multiple Types of Trail Use
Hiking without dogs is one type of trail use, but it is not the only way to appreciate the outdoors. If the only way we as user groups can share the trail is by banning one another from it, I believe we might as well just close the land to all human use, because we’ve proven that we don’t deserve access. But we ban all humans at our peril, because people who have never immersed themselves in nature also won’t miss it when it’s gone. Some people, like me, only hike with our dogs. Some people, like me, also enjoy riding our bikes on trails, both for the physical challenge and for the exposure to nature and wildlife.
I understand that allowing “dog-free opportunities” is part of the guidance underlying this plan, but I do not understand why this has been translated into banning dogs from certain trails entirely. Similarly, I don’t understand why bike access must be all or nothing. Betasso is quite successful as a trail where bikes are disallowed two days a week. Could we follow a similar pattern with dog access in the West TSA? Instead of banning dogs entirely from some trails, can we disallowed them on alternating weekends, or on one weekday and one weekend day? In this way, hikers without dogs would get their dog-free opportunities; hikers with dogs would still be able to experience all the majesty of the West TSA.
Again, thank you for your time.
Followup to Ownership post
I added the following when I posted the link to the Ownership post to Facebook … it seems useful enough that I’ll add it here, as well.
After years of not understanding why I wasn’t getting the recognition I thought I deserved, I realized that I wasn’t actually doing the kind of work that gets recognition. I was doing some great technical work, sure, but I wasn’t making project management’s life any easier or helping them build their clients’ confidence in our (awesome) work. News flash: my company pays me to impress the client, not to design beautiful systems that are aesthetically pleasing, but don’t help the client or can’t be finished in time. Since then, I’ve changed my approach, and I’ve actually seen almost immediate changes in how management and even executives interact with me. It’s fun being a pure technical person, but I was shortchanging myself by ignoring that in addition to my considerable technical acumen, I am also good at a lot of “soft skills” that other technical people don’t necessarily do well - and by exercising those skills, I provide a lot more value to the company. Let’s face it - unless you’re that 1/10 of 1%, your technical skills will only get you so far in a company that includes non-technical people. The hard part was convincing myself that I am not a “lesser” geek for doing this.
(And by aesthetically pleasing systems, I mean back-end code and interfaces that no one but other technical people will ever see)
Ownership
I’ve been thinking a lot about ownership and my role at my company, and what I can do to be more successful and to be seen as a “player.” The following is a product of that thought process, and lots of conversations with my team lead, who has been trying to lead this stubborn horse to the water. I hope it’s helpful to you, too.
—
What does it mean to own a ticket, a project, or an application?
It means that I am responsible for making sure that the situation is addressed and that clients are satisfied.
It means that I proactively communicate with the project manager to make sure that they are aware of any risks to timelines or functionality.
It means that I am aware of how my changes – or my system – impact other systems, and especially how they impact clients.
It may mean that I am the person who does the technical work – but then again, it may not. It may mean that I’m the person who organizes other technical people; who makes sure the project manager is asking the right questions; who makes sure a client request doesn’t get dropped on the floor.
For years, I have heard that my company is a meritocracy, but I don’t think I really understood what that means. My company is not a technical meritocracy – it’s a “keep the projects running smoothly” meritocracy.
It’s nice if you are a wiz-bang technical genius who comes up with an amazing and elegant interface for your new functionality … but that won’t necessarily impress the clients, and it won’t necessarily impress my company. My job is to manage the technical work. My job is to communicate proactively to the project managers. Above all, my job is to be good enough at managing my own work that the project manager doesn’t have to worry about my piece of the project – the project manager can trust me to do my job, and instead can focus on their job, which is managing the client relationship.
When I look around at the people who have been most successful at my company, they are the people who inspire trust. The people who say “I’ll take care of this,” and you know it will be done. Sure, they’re great at the technical aspects of their job. But most importantly, they get things done in such a way that project management and their managers don’t have to babysit them. The people who are successful at my company are those who inspire confidence; they allow project management to focus on the client, not the technical solution.
I don’t get paid to design architecture so beautiful that it would make da Vinci cry. Let’s be honest - if I didn’t have a job, I’d probably be doing something like that anyway, for fun, in my free time. My job is to make the clients happy, and my job is to make sure that project management, my team lead, and the executives see me as someone who gets things done, rather than as someone they have to fight to get things done.
Skiing over Christmas weekend
In lieu of an original work, here is a copy/paste of an email I sent to my family about skiing on December 24, 25, and 26.
The snow has been exceptionally mediocre since we got here. We missed out on the several-foot snow dumps the weekend before Christmas, but since then, temps have been unseasonably high, so the snow softens during the afternoon and turns into ice sculptures for the morning. Our lesson passes are blocked for the entirety of our stay, so we have to stand in lift lines like commoners =P Still, we have persevered and done our best to adventure, rather than trying to rack up the vertical feet.
On Christmas Eve, we skied our home mountain, Breckenridge. Breck is relatively high, so as long as you choose your runs well, melt/refreeze patterns don’t cause too much trouble. We mostly skied our usual spots, but there was one event of note - I accomplished one of my goals for the season - skiing the Lake Chutes. To get to the Lake Chutes, you take the Imperial Lift to the highest lift-serviced spot on Peak 8, then remove your skis and hike another ten minutes or so up a steep slope to the very tippy-top of Peak 8. We skied the easiest, “Easy Street”, which is “only” about 35 degrees in pitch. Maybe it’s not technically part of the Lake Chutes. It’s definitely no harder than Whale’s Tail, which we ski pretty often. We skied down the steepest part of our run, then watched our buddies ski down an unmarked run - 55 degrees, with huge rock bands. Definite “no fall zone.” Quite impressive to watch.
Picture of us at the top of Peak 8:
On Christmas Day, we skied Vail - kind of a Christmas tradition when we’re in Colorado. The last two years we did this, we had epic powder. This year, not so much. Honestly, a lot of the ungroomed runs were fairly unpleasant - at one point, I said, “I can ski this - I just don’t enjoy it.” There were a few bright spots, though. We explored some widely-spaced, large trees to the right of one of our usual runs and found “Sierra cement” - heavy, thick snow, not exactly powder, but infinitely preferable to the hard outcroppings to be found on the rest of the mountain. We also noticed a bootpacked trail going up the slope just after we dismounted the Poma. The trail was fairly well-packed, but very few tracks came down the *powder* in front of the trail. It turns out that extreme skiers use this path to get to the East Vail Chutes off the back of the peak. So there was all this untracked powder - the only powder we’d seen all day - and pretty easy to get to, with just a bit of hiking on a mellow slope. So we did it. It turns out that my backpack has straps to secure skis to the back, and they work *very* well. So much better hiking up with poles in both hands, rather than two poles in one hand and a pair of skis in the other (which is what Eric had to do, lacking a pack). We hiked up about ten minutes. I tested the snow with my pole, and it felt nice and soft - the real deal. The slope down to the designated trail was pretty mellow - maybe an easy blue. Eric gave me the honor of “first tracks,” and he didn’t have to ask me twice! The snow was so. dang. good. Maybe 8 turns, maybe 12, but it was shin-deep silky-smooth powder. The highlight of the day, for sure. If we’d gone up there sooner, that’s all we would have skied all day. As it was, we had to let it be.
The day after Christmas, we skied Beaver Creek with our Breck roommates. K is an excellent skier. C is just learning to snowboard, so we had to stay on lifts that had blue (intermediate) options. With no fresh snow on the designated trails, and limited by a newbie boarder, we decided it would be a leisurely day of exploration. We did see what looked like awesome untracked powder through the aspen, but we couldn’t really drag C down an unmarked tree run - especially without knowing where the run would end. So, being the *excellent* friends that we are, we kept searching, rather than abandoning C or getting him in over his head. (Not without a pang of wistful remorse.)
We were rewarded by finding a nice blue groomer with aspen and other trees along the edges. Pretty good powder in the trees. C stuck to the groomer while the rest of us whooped in the snow. It was lots of fun, although a bit exciting when I had to pull in my arms to ski between two aspen just barely wider than my shoulders.
Then we “chose poorly,” taking a blue groomer rather than the green everyone else was taking. The blue groomer quickly turned into a steep sheet of ice punctuated with rock-like blobs of ice. No fun at all. The side of the run had what looked like delicious powder, but it was a lie - the “powder” was cement-hard. Gross. We cautiously made our way to the base, then rode up the world’s slowest and emptiest lift. We did entertain ourselves (roomies in the chair ahead; Eric and me just behind) by commenting on the massive houses passing underneath us.
After that, we decided to head to the Rose Bowl, an area of Beaver Creek that’s always treated us well. Unfortunately for C, there’s only one blue run, and the rest are steep black diamond mogul fields. But he was game. For the first time ever, I skied Cataract, an impressive-looking trail entirely covered in mid-sized bumps. K skied with me while Eric, ever the gentleman, accompanied C down the blue run to make sure he was comfortable.
Then came the highlight of the day. While C headed back to the blue, K, Eric, and I skied toward another mogul run … and came across the lower entrance to the Stone Creek Chutes. Expert-only terrain; they had it marked with everything but a skull and crossbones. K was definitely going to ski it; Eric and I quickly decided that we would, too. We traversed to a bit of an opening in the trees and skied down … K took a fairly tight line. Eric and I skied past to a slightly wider area - 12-15 feet at the narrowest. The snow was heavy but nice - knee deep in places. The deep, heavy snow slowed our skis down and made the run feel less steep, but I still chose to “falling leaf” (drift forward, then back) rather than turn down the hill at one of the tight spots. Eric has a nice video of me making some pretty turns, then falling over at the bottom of the chute where the pitch flattened out (sigh).
From there, a narrow (just barely as wide as a pair of skis or a snowboard) track led us back toward Rose Bowl lift. It was a fun track - you had to keep your speed because there were dips, whoop de doos, and uphill sections all along. Kept me on my toes. The track widened into a section with a few huge powder moguls, then narrowed back down. Eventually we got back to the lift and met up with C, who had probably been stuck waiting for us quite a while. After that, we had lunch and came home.
What I’ve learned on this trip:
Climbing the First Flatiron
I wake up at five on a Saturday morning and arrive at the Chautauqua parking lot shortly before 7am; Chris arrives moments later. We sort through our gear briefly before starting the approach. During the hike, I realize that I’ve forgotten to apply my sunscreen, and Chris assures me there’ll be plenty of time at the base of the climb. But at the base of the climb, I’m so busy asking questions and making sure I understand the answers that I forget all about the sunscreen. I’m wearing a tank top, just as I would in the gym, for maximum freedom of arm movement.
Chris, my guide and the leader for this climb, has the ropes and all the protection, while I have far less to carry - basically just my water and my shoes. The Flatirons are known for easy climbs coupled with long runouts - there simply aren’t that many spots to place protection. Chris climbs for quite a while before stopping to try some pieces on a crack in the rock. This is my first time watching a trad lead climber, and I’m learning a lot. I hadn’t realized that protection could be a matter of trying several different pieces before settling on one, or indeed that you could try several times and then come to the conclusion that nothing (or at least, nothing you have with you) is going to work.
I’d only lead belayed a handful of times in the gym, and I’d never been the sole belayer. Either the climber had been on auto belay as well, or there had been a second belayer holding the rope as backup. Lead belaying in the gym is a touchy matter of give and take, feeding out rope as fast as possible, taking up as much slack as you can, and then slowly paying it out until the leader reaches another anchor spot and you have to feed like crazy again. My experience of lead belaying Chris on the First Flatiron is quite different. In the gym, my biggest concern was not exhausting the climber by paying out the rope too slowly, and otherwise to keep the rope fairly tight to minimize fall distance. On real rock, where I can only see the leader some of the time, I am far more concerned with keeping the rope loose than with minimizing fall distance. While I obviously need to be sure that Chris can’t fall too far, most of my rope management addresses the risk of pulling him off-balance by being too aggressive about taking in the slack. In any case, indoor sport climbing of any sort moves pretty quickly, while outdoor trad has a different pace. I’m finding it much more intuitive, and less stressful, than I’d expected.
Eventually, Chris climbs to the top of the first pitch, gets his belay station set up, and we switch roles. Now it’s my turn to climb. Our route is neither the easiest nor the hardest on this Flatiron, but as with pretty much all the classic Flatiron climbs, it is sandstone slab - friction climbing. The gym has obvious holds screwed onto obvious walls, and the legal holds are helpfully marked with tape. The First Flatiron is nothing like gym climbing. You kind of make like Spiderman and go straight up a not-quite-vertical surface using invisible, sometimes intangible, finger- and toe-holds. In the gym, you might call something a pocket if you can get your whole finger into it. On this rock, you’re happy to find a “pocket” on which only the very edge of your fingertip rests. But unlike the gym, there’s quite a bit of slope to the rock, and there’s an unbelievable amount of grip to the sandstone - hence the term “friction climbing.” Chris also advised me to keep an eye out for “conglomerate” rock - pebbles and stones seemingly embedded in the sandstone surface. A pebble the size of a gumball, or even a jelly bean, is a big help on this type of surface.
All of which is to say, it’s a different type of climbing than what you typically encounter in the gym. Last year, it might have given me a lot more trouble, but I’ve been developing my skill quite a bit this year, and I’m becoming pretty good at what they term “balance-y” climbs; climbs that are all about brains and fluidity rather than brawn. So I slither up the first pitch without too much trouble; perhaps even with a bit of grace.
I make it up the first pitch, and I realize that I’m feeling pretty good about this whole thing. I’m not nervous. I’m not anxious. It doesn’t feel like an extreme sport. I’m just celebrating a beautiful summer day by being out in nature.
I do remember and regret the (lack of) sunscreen, but I don’t want to get my hands greasy, so I resign myself to burning. I also think it’s going to be maybe 3-4 hours till we’re back at the car, tops. In this, I am mistaken.
Another difference between the gym and the great outdoors: belaying from a perch some distance above the ground, tied to a tree and anchored to the rock, as well. You can’t see the climber, and the most comfortable position might be facing out from your station, looking down at the climb you’ve already completed, the trail you took for the approach, the Chautauqua parking lot, Boulder - the whole landscape. Birds are flying lazily below you. There is a stillness and a peacefulness and plenty of opportunity to take in the view. Unlike hiking or mountain biking, climbing affords moments where the only thing you can or should be doing is to be completely still, receptive to the world around you. To be a belayer is to be responsive, not proactive. Your job in its entirety is to respond to the rope, respond to the climber, respond to what you sense around you. It’s almost meditative.
At the top of four pitches - perhaps it might have been three full-length pitches and two shorter ones - we reach a moment of decision. We can scramble off the back of the Flatiron here and hike down, or we can do the “ridge walk” to the rappel spot at the top. I’m almost out of water, but it seems a waste to come all this way and not finish - and in any case, it looks like the ridge can’t possibly go very far. I text my husband, telling him that we’re almost done.
That evening, my husband tells me he received my text and then went online to read a little about this climb. Apparently it’s infamous for its deceptive ridges; each one looks like it will be the last, but as you get to it you find there’s another one beyond.
So anyway, we switch to a shorter, lighter rope, and we do the ridge walk, which is more accurately described as short sections of alternately climbing, downclimbing, and walking across easy paths with impossibly steep and long drops on either side. Falling without a rope is not an option. Chris, who has soloed this climb many times before, goes without rope protection as often as not, but he is always careful to ensure that I am either protected by rope or sitting comfortably and safely.
There is only one spot, the “crux” move of this climb, where I have trouble. You have to get up over a ledge with precious little in the way of hand holds - and the drop behind is entirely unforgiving. Chris makes it up without protection, although he later mentions that he had a moment of concern because of the unfamiliar weight of the pack on his back. I am secured by rope, belayed from above, and it’s a good thing. I spend long minutes feeling the section out, attempting to grip it this way and that, placing my foot here and there, exploring every possibility. Chris has pointed out some key spots before he goes up, but I don’t remember them exactly, and in any case every body (literally) is different. I slip the first time, and the rope stretches quite a bit, as it should, before it holds. After some more deliberation, I finally gut it out and get up over the ledge, breathing a little more heavily than can be completely explained by exertion.
As we walk/climb the ridge, we encounter more and more fellow climbers. Any illusion of solitude is broken as I find myself asking permission to duck under another group’s rope. Still, while it’s more busy than I’d prefer, it’s nicely social, and if something were to go wrong, we’d have help right away.
And as we walk/climb the ridge, the afternoon storm makes itself known with quiet grumbles and grey clouds approaching. The route Chris chooses avoids the obvious rappel spot at the very top of the Flatiron. Instead, we downclimb to a second bolt, seemingly less frequented. Again, I’m roped for the downclimb, while Chris solos. As he sets up the rappel, the rain finally starts. I’ve been studiously avoiding thinking about the rappel, because it scares me, so it’s only natural that the rain would start as I prepare for my descent. Chris will be belaying me during the rappel, so I don’t get the benefit of seeing him go first, but I do get to see him solo climb down about 15 feet of the wall we’re about to rappel, just to make sure the rope isn’t caught anywhere. Seeing him merrily navigate the rain-slicked rock without any protection at all makes me feel that I ought to be able to handle an assisted rappel down the same surface. (This is actually irrational - he’s a far better climber than me, and he has far more experience on this route - but it gets me moving, so it all works out.) I rappel down without trouble. He rappels down without trouble. We gather up the ropes and hike down to the base of Chautauqua. I, who hate Gatorade, see the vending machine and discover a desperate desire for both hydration and electrolytes. I chug the bottle, and it is wonderful.
Chris and I say our goodbyes, head to our cars, and take off, ten hours after we’d started. On the drive home, I realize how tired I am. In the house, I collapse to the floor. My husband points out the nasty sunburn on my shoulders, but I won’t start feeling it until I go to bed that night. The glowing feeling of accomplishment outlasts the burn.
All the best intentions
I have been so busy doing fabulously awesome stuff that I haven’t gotten around to writing about any of it. It’s a damn shame, and I really do want to get some of it down before my memory has been dulled too much.
Right now I’m in Cape Cod, beaching it up with DH’s family. I thought I might have time to catch up on all my blogging while I’m here. I was wrong.
… I really do need to write about all the fun stuff I’ve been doing this summer, though, including:
It’s been a good summer for me! I hope yours has been good, too.