The (not so) humble town park

I used to be a hardcore everything: solo mountain bike rides into the desert or along some ridgeline with paper maps that got soggy from a leaky Camelbak hardcore. But age, wisdom, aging, and ER visits have a way of helping you tone it down. Since moving to Laramie, Wyoming not too long ago, I’ve rediscovered the joy of the town park, of which Laramie has well over a dozen. Paris has some great city parks, and some of my fondest memories are from reading St. Exupery or Gertrude Stein in some pocket park in Le Marais.

Actual reading spot of St. Exupery’s *Wind, Sand, and Stars*

Or entering in to a contemplative biathlon after a physical one of biking and swimming on the west coast of Block Island, Rhode Island. Driftwood for the win.

Notice the highlighter/pen/sticky note combo for the ultimate engaged reading experience

Or strolling along and happening upon…

Mon Dieu! Splash of flower power in Montmartre

Most delightful park moments of mine are unplanned. I load up for the day with coffee, sunscreen, water (and a sometimes book) and head out.

After spending the day for work in Denver on the tail end of last week, I knew I wanted to hit the hot springs and do some leaf peeping in the mountains. Going out of the way usually means a more enjoyable experience, so I beelined for Hot Sulphur Springs (the town and the resort) for a restful weekend.

I brought paper maps and gazetteers with me for wayfinding help. Phones don’t always work in them thar hills.

A sliver of green called Pioneer Park intrigued me Saturday morning, pre dog walk. So I prepped the husky and me for a stroll to some town park. We found the first town park, with a baseball field and some gopher holes, and it looked like the Colorado River would need to be crossed to get to Pioneer Park. I let my feet do the talking, and after a few minutes found the sign for the green sliver.

Pioneer Park is no ordinary town park (few are, I’m finding out). It has acres of towering trees, the rush of the Colorado River, a disc golf course, camping, picnicking, and trails.

Innocuous bridge with coffee-sitting spots!

The autumn colors were a bonus.

The stroll turned into a meander, I began experiencing one of those moments where you realize you’re doing something unexpected and special, made even cooler by the lack of expectations. The town park in Hot Sulphur Springs was an autumn palette of river, golden aspen, crisp air, and the slow buzz of a disc golf tournament being prepared for.

Ivory got in on the contemplative non-action

The light was bouncing off the water…

Popping through the leaves

And highlighting a canopy

The Crayola box would be called Rocky Mountain Autumn

The reflections off the river on the green sliver

And if I’d brought a book I would have sat here. Except it was frosty.

Exploring a new home: laradise

The first couple of months in a new place becomes a practice in information sorting. Where to buy certain groceries, when to ride your bike where, best coffee shop, and now, as a furmom, where to take your dog. There’s a prairie dog colony near my house, and many daily walks center occur near there. Sometimes the light and brown palette are sublime.

Ivory soaking in some early autumn light

One of my favorite new web platforms is Sniffspot, a rent-by-the-hour doggy park AirBnB. For $9 an hour, Ivory can enjoy an acre to herself to run, fetch, dig, and (often) bark at passing herds of antelope. What’s nice about this particular acre south of Laramie is the 360-degree views, so if I time it right, I can bring a book and watch the sun go down over the Snowy Range in the Medicine Bow Mountains. It’s a nice way to end a day: reading, sunsetting, and tiring the husky out.

Like most habits, dogwalking can turn rutty, revisiting the same old haunts because they’re familiar or convenient or the information sorting machine can’t handle any more tasks. For me it’s been the two dog parks in town, the prairie dog village, neighborhood walks, and forays into the outskirts of campus.

Schoolyard Trails were an early favorite

And then, a suggestion from weeks or months ago reappears, and the rut gets disrupted.

What I’m learning about Wyoming is that there isn’t an app for that. I’ve got high speed internet and my colleagues and I learn new technology almost every week, but from what I’ve seen Wyomingites don’t post their secret spots online. I’ve been to a few rural towns, and although the apps don’t tell me there’s a dog park in town, the people will tell me it’s down yonder by the Safeway. And they don’t use online platforms like Sniffspot. In the Laramie area, there’s exactly one private dog park available to rent out by the hour. And there’s plenty of open space. I don’t see as many side hustles here as I did in Colorado. Population density perhaps? Or approach to life?

So, my new boss mentioned Monolith in what I call information overload June, my first month on the new job. Learning a new university that operates like a corporation (I’d forgotten) while learning a new job is kind of a lot. Although not a dog owner, she’d told me about this monolith place southwest of town where people take their dogs. After an unsuccessful Saturday outing (because I relied on Google Maps instead of common sense), I returned after work a few days later for a nice stroll along the ranches and the Laramie River. You won’t find Monolith on Trip Advisor and it’s got barely a mention on Google Reviews, but if you recall that Wyoming has mucho public land and know the names of the some of the agencies, you can dig and find more information on it.

The browns and greens of Laramie in September

Monolith Ranch is owned by the City of Laramie and leased out in some kind of water rights thing I haven’t wrapped my head around yet. Fishing and strolling are the main activities here, so we took it for a spin. There was only one person fishing, and we barely acknowledged one another. Better to leave well enough alone.

The open skies in Wyoming are unknown and underappreciated

Ivory and I enjoyed our collective almost solitude, breathing in the slow-moving river and the end of day.

Happy dog (owner not pictured) at golden hour

New Year, New Post, No Resolutions

First Day Hikes have become a recent tradition at our nation’s state parks. It has blossomed under the culture of #optoutside, #findyourpark, and other healthful, nature-driven hashtags. I support this philosophy, and I’ve written before about the gem of a state park, Lathrop, a short 40 minutes from my front door.

Lift 3 at the former Cuchara Mountain Resort

But sometimes the pressures of the New Year impair motivation. I spent more than a few minutes signing up for a trial of Noom today, and I’m on board with self-efficacy (love you, Bandura) and food diaries. What I can’t get behind is Noom telling me my target weight, based on my height, should be between 121-141 lbs. That’s some BMI (body mass index) bullshit. I haven’t weighed in the 140s since my 20s and I was in arguably the best shape of my life in my 30s, where I was securely stationed at 155.

That, and they’ve insisted I get a scale. I don’t own a scale. Haven’t since my 30s. My last (and only) trainer Angela told me weight loss takes weeks to notice, and it will start in the upper body and work its way down. Hips are last, and depending on my half-glass orientation on any particular day, are either my pain point or what makes me special. Angela (rightfully) told me to stay away from the scale. And after serious health issues, major surgery, and a year and a half of recovery, I was ready to get my health back, which included losing weight. But I knew the latter would occur through the weight training I was doing with Angela, 2-3x a week. And it did. Within months I had to gone from 11-12 to a 10. I’ve been a 10 since my 30s, and have mostly stayed there. I will never be an 8 what with the Kardashian booty and Lindsey Vonn thighs.

The Baker Trail behind me place flattens out after a short, steep climb

Signing up for Noom felt like a dating profile experience. Lots of questions, some writing. It didn’t ask me about menopause, or if it did, I missed it. It didn’t ask me about insomnia or crushing fatigue or gout or crabbiness (hard to tell the provenance of this sometimes) or any of the other wonders of hormonal change. Nope. Noom, it seems, is about the tyranny of the mean: 141 my ass.

So instead of opting outside or finding my park or first day hiking it, I walked the dog in my neighborhood, which I do 2x a day. I’ve learned via the One Minute Workout book I’m reading that low intensity (like walking the dog) is not going to help me reach my health goals unless I’m doing it for hours. And I have neither the time nor energy for that. Some days I’m sleeping 15 hours. Did I mention I got COVID this summer? Still recovering from that too.

It’s finally starting to snow here, and I’m looking forward to some high intensity exercise like snowshoeing and cross-country skiing, which I can do out my door. I’m also on the yoga kick of 2-3x a week with the amazing Adriene. She has 11 million followers for a reason. I never don’t feel peaced after 25 minutes with her.

I’m outside 2x a day, every day at 9500ft

So, the plan, which includes a bunch of things I already enjoy: eating enough carbs to exercise and think; yoga with Adriene; water, water everywhere; more intense snowsport workouts; and recommended reading: The Healing Gout Cookbook, the Menopause Manifesto, the One Minute Workout. Feel free to recommend others in the comments. Knowledge is power, and I’m not getting it from an app this time. Sorry Noom, you’re off the team.

N.B. The pix in this post are from my daily dog walks. I’m a winter girl.

White Thanksgiving

Morning flakes in the aspen grove

It’s going to be my 6th winter in the mountains of Southern Colorado. During the last 3 years I’ve been here full time and seen the fits and starts that is winter. Meaning winter doesn’t really start around here until December.

Except this year. We had a very dry fall, which is worrisome. And then we’ve had some significant white stuff in November.

Base of Cuchara Mountain Park, Thanksgiving Day 2022

And this Thanksgiving we had at least a foot of the white stuff. I didn’t have plans to go anywhere so me and the Ivory dog slept and ate rinse and repeat. We had to get out to brave the elements for our twice daily dog walk which in a foot of snow turns into a slog. A beautiful fun slog.

Bunny hop slog husky-style

Snowsnack Season

Here at 9500 feet we’ve had a few storms this fall producing measurable snowfall. Shoveling and snowsnacking are about to become routine. I wanted to share early views of winterlife from someone who lives it from November to April, full-on: wool, snow clumps, blustery wind, postcard moments, sketchy driving, and did I mention shoveling?

When I bought my (former) ski condo five years ago, many had questions:

Where’s that?

What’s there?

Why?

Other questions abounded on why I, an avid snowsports person, did not buy closer to a ski area, say like Summit County for instance. Even five years ago, the answer was “Who can afford Summit County?”

It was time to buy a place. Except for an aborted attempt to buy a condo in Denver almost 20 years ago, I have been a renter all my life. Teaching salaries and extravagant wanderlust do not translate into down payments. But five years ago I managed to find an affordable ski condo next to a closed ski area in Cuchara, Colorado. Perhaps you’ve seen the movie, Abandoned?

Winter in Cuchara comes early, stays around, and provides almost daily moments of awe.

I bought this place because I wanted the solitude, the lack of industry, the fewer people, the wildlife, the undiscoveredness. And when the pandemic first struck, I and a friend hightailed to here-nowhere. We subsisted on creativity (who didn’t), biweekly trips to WalMart, daily happy hour hikes, washing wool in the tub, three homecooked meals a day: full mountain living.

When I moved here full time 18 months later, dog in tow/friend not, many of those activities remain once the snow starts flying and the indigo sky appears the next day. Add in an energetic puppy, and voila! Instagram moments.

*Chair 4 in the foreground, West Spanish Peaks behind some leftover clouds*

Snowstorm-after mornings are a study in contrasts: beautiful/difficult, exhausted/energized, eager/dread, white/indigo, rebirth/ending, and hunkering/exploring. Cuchara is a summer destination with some diehard snowlovers who come to sled or skin up the empty ski hill when there are freshies or it’s a winter holiday. I have solitude to look forward to and loneliness to combat. I have postcard moments in the queue that make their appearance only after gearing up and shoveling. During weekday mornings, Ivory and I mostly have the place to ourselves.

Did I cross-country ski or snowshoe this morning? No. Not enough snow. And when you live half the year in snow, with snow, being surrounded by snow, a solid pair of boots, some gaiters, and wool everything is good enough for a morning’s walk and some snowsnacking.

Staycation: October Golden Hour

Living in the mountains at 9500′ means being struck, enveloped, and often overwhelmed by nature’s beauty. Because I face east, I often miss out on the alpenglow and peachy goodness that can accompany sunset in these here parts. Witness tonight’s sunset below as the shadows crept over West Spanish Peak in Southern Colorado. It’s pretty nice and it never gets old. Still, the brain craves novelty, I happened to be at Lathrop State Park the other day and was blown away by the vast landscape, still-fall colors, and snow-capped mountain range. So I grabbed a friend, and we went landscape and color hunting with our cameras. Ivory pranced along.

Lathrop State Park is just over half an hour’s drive, and it boasts two lakes, horse trails, an archery range, hiking trails, a golf course, and some of the best views anywhere. A winter storm would be moving in the next day, so we wanted to catch the last color of fall before the wind whooshed it away. We started at the south parking lot and walked clockwise around Martin Lake on the Cuerno Verde Trail for three miles.

The picnicking and boat ramp areas sent us on our way.

We spied geese and ducks having dinner and coming together, as waterfowl will, to form a raft.

As we kept walking the colors got brighter.

From the north end of the lake, the snow-capped East and West Spanish Peaks came into view. We shrieked with glee.

To the right of the two peaks is the Sangre de Cristo range on the trails of the (not currently operational) Cuchara Mountain Park ski trails.

It took away Ivory’s breath too.

The alpenglow from the rocks at the north end were fun to capture.

We dallied and began running out of daylight.

The night was a good reminder to slow down and savor, click some golden hour memories, stay close to home while going somewhere different, and gain a new perspective. And bring a friend and a dog.

Blizzard Curls

Blowy and powdery at the top of the Breezeway lift at Monarch

I got waxed up in the parking lot around 10AM.

“It’ll be easier to turn,” assured my fellow boarder as he spread wax on my snowboard.

“But you might fall getting off the lift,” he warned and laughed, then, “Meet you back here.”

It was a powder Thursday in February at Monarch Mountain, just west of Salida, Colorado. It was also deathly cold, with temps on the wrong side of the integer line. I was layered in wool, fleece, then my Helly Hansen coat. After one walk to the car, I knew I needed a longer, bulkier outer layer for these conditions. I stopped by Mt. Shavano Ski and Snowboard Shop on the way to the hill for a new snowboard coat. I walked away with a Boulder Gear Serena Jacket. The description on their website is spot on–I was looking for something warm but not bulky; stylish but not poser-y; internal storage for cards and key; and a hood for dastardly windy days. Like today.

I learned to board at Monarch in the late 90’s. I had lived in Tahoe a few years earlier and tried, repeatedly, to learn how to dowhill ski on straight skis. I was an avid cross-country skier and couldn’t wrap my head, hips, legs, or shoulders around the “pizza french-fry” technique.

So I turned to snowboarding, graduating all the way to double-blacks ten years ago. But there have been head injuries, car crashes, and even a head-on collision with a snowboarder a few years back. Now I like to warm up on the blues, hit a few blacks, then warm-down on the blues. I prioritize empty runs, and if I find an empty run with enough challenge, I’ll start lapping the mountain.

And that’s what I did for two windy, chilly powder days at the end of February. I started on the eastern Breezeway lift, noted the empty trails on the chair ride up, and as prophesized by my parking lot friend, fell getting off the steep lift ramp. I dusted myself off, going through my top-of-the-lift ritual of tightening the Boa system on my snowboard boots, one cinch at a time. He was right, I was turning more easily, but only when I could see the contours of the trail. Which wasn’t often.

Blowy snow and overcast skies meant seeing the run, finding a line before you got there, was out of the question. I headed toward the fluffy bumps on Upper Halls Alley and B’s Bash, both empty but hard to see. I was being bounced around by large moguls, willing myself to find curves to turn into and keeping my tail up so I wouldn’t fall. As the days progressed, I moved west across the mountain, dodging loose trees off the Panorama lift and finding fun blues and blacks to drop into off the Garfield lift.

The uncovered parts of my face started to burn

I was having fun but I was working for it–huffing my way through invisible turns, thumping off the top of moguls, leaning back to keep speed up on the flats. My hands, face, and toes were alternating to win Coldest Part of the Body. Between the altitude (summit elevation is almost 12,000 ft.), the bitter cold, the wind, the too-tight sports bra, and the powder challenges, I tapped out after a few hours.

I took my first snowboard lesson here at Monarch, and my Kiwi instructor, after watching me connect turns, noticed I was working too hard. “It’s the slackuh spawt, Tracey. You’re trying to hahd. Just point yaw shoulders and lean to turn.” Almost 25 years after that first day I was trying to point and lean, conserving energy for talking, slogging through the lift line, and driving back to Salida.

As I was trudging back to my car the second day, who should I run into? “Told you I’d meet you back here. How was your day?” We traded stories, preferred lifts and runs, and which parts of our bodies ached the most.

“It was hard to see.”

“Because of all that powder!”

True.

We dusted off our vehicles, blared the heat and music and changed into better footwear. I flipped down the visor to remove my contacts and noticed, just like after a day at the beach, that I had accumulated blizzard curls. I laughed at the hairy icicles. And my eyes had that faraway stare that comes with extreme physical exhaustion.

Skins on Backwards

Cuchara Moutain Park after a a few new inches

I am a proud member of the Great Resignation. I was working mostly from home, in expensive Denver, and big cities are no fun during a pandemic. So I moved to the Sangre de Cristo mountains where I had bought a small condo a few years prior. The condo is next to an old ski area, Cuchara Mountain Resort. The lifts stopped running in 2000 due to mismanagement, a lack of snow, and whatever else. There have been some improvements and a concerted effort to repurpose the area and maybe even open Lift 4, pictured above.

View of winter from my west-facing balcony

I bought the condo not with faraway hopes of living next to a lift-served snowboarding. I bought it for the views, serenity, and throwback feel. Runs on the lower part of the mountain are blues and greens, so I had been hiking up and boarding down. A tiring system in fresh powder.

I was always running into someone skinning up after storms, and I thought it would be cool to explore more of the mountain with the right equipment. I met some splitboarding neighbors, so I invested in brand new Voile gear, the full Revelator setup. I figured I had at least the will power to start a new sport at 51.

Transition from climbing up to swooshing down

Backcountry snowboarding requires at least one costume change. From the car, the mohair skins adhere to the bottom, the boards split apart and change places, the bindings slide in and clamp down, and poles get extended. For the five times in my life I’ve been splitboarding, I’ve been wearing cross-country skiing gear and carrying a backpack filled with more snowboard-y mittens, helmet, and goggles. Once on top, I fold the skins, collapse the poles, and stuff all in the pack for the descent.

I try to get out on the splitboard in the morning after new snow, but on this Thursday it was going to have to be a happy hour skin up. I drive my car the quarter mile from my door to the ski area base of because I am not skinning up back to my front door. I’m just not.

The air was cold and windy, the light was flat and fading, and snow was getting tossed about on the lower mountain. It’s about 20 minutes to the top of Chair 4 and 90 seconds down. Gearing up and transitioning also takes about 20 minutes, so the ROI is kind of off. Today I’m focused on the single digit temps and my talkative lower back, and the complexity of my equipment outsmarted me. I put the skins on backwards and forgot to take the pole guards off. In fact, I think I’ve left the pole guards on almost every time I go out. And the clamped-down bindings looked wrong on my boots, arching over my boots instead of holding them in from the front. I was too cold to care. I trudged up.

The climb up was hard, but it’s always hard. The transition was messy, but what else is new? And the glide down was satisfying, awesome, and over too soon.

After the Storm

“I’m going snowsporting,” I told my friend as I headed out with the dog. A good 8-10 inches of the white stuff had fallen the night before, and I had six snowsports in my car, ready to swish or crunch: snowboard, splitboard, skate skis, classic cross-country skis, snowshoes, and snow cleats. Because our destination is a highly trafficked spot in the foothills of Denver, the snow cleats would be enough. In winter parlance, it was almost a bluebird day, sunny and blue skies with a few lingering clouds.

I assembled my adult winter garanimals: wool base layer, wool vest, snowboard socks, gaiters, duck boots from DSW, lined pants, scarf, crochet hat friendly to pony tails, $14.99 gas station sunglasses, and the ever-awesome suede yet waterproof, beaded, faux-fur-lined snowboard mittens. Instead of a fancy hydration system I had a simple water bottle holder that when unzipped, becomes a water bottle backpack. OK, maybe a little fancy. My days of GORE-TEX for neighborhood jaunts are over.

Top notch Christmas present from years ago

These mittens are old enough to have a Spongebob-themed birthday party. They’ve seen most of Colorado as well as the inside of a cedar chest while I was recovering for a few years. The thing about this particular trail in this particular bit of open space–it’s where I learned how to mountain bike. Mt. Falcon has a mix of intermediate and easy trails from the west parking lot, aka “from the top.” Once I mastered those trails, and even began lapping for the extra workout, I started riding the trails from the east parking lot, aka, “from the bottom.” From the bottom is hard-core: 2.5 miles and over 1,000 feet of climbing, some of it on loose rock. The first time I tried clipless pedals in the early aughts was “from the bottom,” and I fell going uphill just as the dropoff steepens. From the bottom rides were best done early in the morning on a weekday since the climb is completely exposed, and it gets jammed up on the weekend. At my hard-coriest, I would try to “clear” the climb (without stopping) to the top in under an hour. Always failed.

Castle Trail: Easy on top, hard party from the bottom

But as long as one is mountain biking or snow-sporting or really just enjoying themselves, one is not failing. And today was an ice-cleat dog-walking day. It had been many years since I pedaled or hiked Mt. Falcon, but I do remember mountain biking during the winter there before fat bikes were a thing. Back in the aughts.

Ivory overlooks charred remains from a long-ago fire

Many were partaking in dog-walking Saturday. Dozens of really happy Coloradoans or visitors were out, in their winter garanimals, soaking in the blue and white serene scene, with easy exercise and quality canine time. Me included. I marveled at how the morning light was bouncing off east-facing pine needles and the snowy carpet. Mountain bike memories poured forth, collapsing into one another to form a Mt. Falcon montage. One memory sticks out.

Everyone who plays in the mountains knows summer afternoon thunderstorms occur. Everyone. So get yer playin’ done by 1PM at the latest, and descend. After a fairly successful grind up from the bottom (didn’t clear but only stopped once), I caught up on water, a Cliff Bar, and socializing under a shelter. The shelter serves as an intersection of the hard-cores and the casuals, and general agreement is that everyone is out having a good time, getting their heartrate up, and earning some bragging rights. But on this particular early afternoon the sky darkened and thunder started clapping. I quickly strapped the Camelback on, clipped in, and readied for my usual 20-minute (whee!) descent in an effort to beat the lightning. Success! As I reached the parking lot, unclipped, and started mounting the bike to the car, these two dudes passed me going up.

Walker home ruins at the end of the Castle Trail, from the top

Back in the aughts I would not have been to content to leisurely crunch through three miles of mostly flat terrain to visit a hundred year old building. In the aught years I even had a Ten Sports in Ten Days series. But that was injuries, surgeries, grad degrees, exes, jobs, and reflections ago. Gratitude is the current name of the game, where I’m truly happy just to get out, collect some vitamin D, exercise the Ivory girl, and talk with other furparents.

Global Pandemic Pages: Signs, Signs Everywhere There’s Signs

“(eff)ing up the scenery and breaking my mind”
Tesla, 1990

After eight surreal weeks living in the mountains of rural southern Colorado, it’s time to return to Denver. At least for a while. What’s been great: the fresh air, the limitless hiking opportunities, the simplicity of inconvenience, the mountain vistas, learning about wildlife, and cooking everything from scratch. What hasn’t been great: the small, cramped quarters of two people WFH, working from bed, doing laundry by hand, cold mountain mornings (and afternoons and evenings), and cooking everything from scratch.

Sturdy signage at the edge of the ski area

What I’ve noticed over the past two months is the amount of signage in national forest and wilderness areas. National Forest signage balances delicately between a sturdy and rural aesthetic. The signage at the abandoned ski area we’ve lived next to these recent weeks is less wayfinding, more boundary markers.

A ski area that has not experienced mechanized uploading in twenty years is bound to fall into disarray. Snowmaking equipment rusts into holes, fiberglass signs fade and degrade, chair lifts stand proudly still. As we zigzaggged our way up, across, and down ski trails, we spied signs of all kinds.

Seeing decayed, broken ski trail signs brings out a sadness I usually do not feel when frolicking about. After all, what’s a ski area but wilderness cut up? Ski trail signs remind me that this used to be a place where families and couples bonded as they rode up together and shushed down. Sometimes when we’re happy hour hiking we’ll duck into the trees under the lifts and I look down to spot the line I would have taken. It’s at those moments that I think about how the ski area was closed more than it was open in the past 40 years. I’m heartened by the progress of the “Up the Hill” Project to reopen the bottom 50 acres to lift-served skiing in what was formerly Cuchara Mountain Resort.

The cross-country ski trails have remained accessible to anyone with navigation skills

In the meantime, there area dozens of miles of trails in the area and earning turns. I’ll miss the signs of the San Isabel National Forest and the wilderness areas of West and East Spanish Peak.

Tell a friend!

Tell a friend!

Tell a friend!

Tell a friend!

Tell a friend!

Tell a friend!

Tell a friend!

Tell a friend!

Tell a friend!

Tell a friend!