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.

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.

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.

Trailhead to a thirteener atop West Spanish Peak

Global Pandemic Pages: Happy Hour Hiking and the Bridge to Nowhere Trail

Stormy late April happy hour hike on the Bridge to Nowhere

Those who enjoy the outdoors as a stable form of recreation will recognize the term “go-to trail.” It’s the nearby trail, somewhere between easy and moderate, that you return to when time is tight, you need something familiar, or you are not in an adventuring mood. The go-to trail is as reliable as hometown friends, non-craft beer, and the restaurant down the street. You know what to expect, and it’s comforting.

On the Bridge to Nowhere Trail, one passes three chairlifts, and skirts along the base of the ski area, moving in a southwesterly direction. The initial climb up what was formerly a green “Walk It Out” is short and steep. We have renamed in “Walk Up It.” Walk it Out is flanked by aspen groves on either side, providing colorful surroundings regardless of the season.

Predictability is key to a go-to trail, and after a few dozen times you learn elevation gain is just under 500 ft. over two miles, out-and-back. You pass the lift house of Chair 5 where the trail narrows and slowly climbs to the edge of the ski area, appropriately signed to get you back to Chair 5.

Signs abound along this abandoned ski area. Some recognizable, some washed away by time and the elements.

Then, there are nature’s signs.

Sometimes even your go-to trail holds surprises. Luckily, we ran into no one or no animal.

One delight of the Bridge to Nowhere trail is the super secret juniper garden. The homemade gin was delicious, thanks for asking.

Global Pandemic Pages: Magical Rock Garden

When living in the midst of the mountains and a pandemic, weekends become explore days. After six weeks of connecting to the world almost entirely by internet, my partner in crime and I have settled into a routine that appears to be working: Happy Hour Hiking after Zooming through work. We head out after 5PM not only so we can keep our day jobs, but also to avoid the unrelenting UV rays that burn and sap at 9,000 feet. Departures after 5PM still mean three hours of daylight–plenty of time for high altitude fun and necessary movement.

View of the mountains from across the valley

Weekends equal adventure time; we are weekend warriors incarnate. Most weekdays we venture out for two and a half to five miles and gain 500 feet in elevation. For this Saturday’s jaunt, which doubled as a celebration of finishing my first semester of library science school, we decided to go big: 7 miles and over 1500ft of climbing. This is an out-and-back trail a handful of miles from home. We were not going to go against Governor Polis’s safer-at-home policy. Alas, the Texas and New Mexico plates at the north trailhead meant not everyone was adhering to state policies. We had our bandanas with us, so we headed out at 2PM.

Conifers and grass tufts on the upper part of the trail. Hiking partner in blue.

The first couple of miles the trail is flanked by scrub oak with no canopy. The climb felt straight uphill. We have been averaging 22-32 minutes a hiking mile, and somehow today was no different even though it seemed steeper, relentless. After the first two miles, the flora changed to aspen and conifer and huge boulders that remind me of the glacier detritus of my New England childhood.

Just as the trail seemed to flatten out, a side trail riddled with rocks appeared. My friend invited, “This looks pretty cool, Trace, and is probably worth checking out.” After navigating 50 steep feet of loose rock, we encountered a magical rock playground.

Boulders this way and that, striated, moss-strewn, lichen-covered. It was like a McDonald’s playground for adults with natural elements. We immediately began with what we had come for: senior photos.

We snacked, marveled, frolicked, rested, breathed. The pandemic has really taught me to take one day at a time and be fully present. The magical mystery rock garden provided the perfect setting for that.

Perfect overlook into the neighboring county

We explored the outcropping and cave nearby, as pictured in the first photo of this post.

There’s something deliciously juvenile about being away all day, exploring, not watching the time, not glued to a screen, letting curiosity be our wayfinder. Destination: novelty and adventure.

Global Pandemic Pages: Happy Hour Hiking

Day 10 of mountain hide-awaying, and we’ve taken to light scheduled walks after the workday. The sun at 9,000 – 10,000 feet can be relentless, and we’re of Northern European stock. I love me some vitamin D, but I dislike harmful UV rays.

Off we sauntered in and around our favorite empty ski hill and federal lands. Nearest town: population couple hundred. Social distancing no problemo.

March and April are mercurial months, weather-wise. Our snowiest months can also be our meltiest months.

We’re learning, living at 9,000 ft., that less is more. Ski runs, even green ones, are not gently sloped. We’re also learning how to read melting snow, crusting snow, and crested snow and where one sinks to their knees unexpectedly. Hard to believe three days ago I snowboarded down an adjacent run.

Light, happy hour flakes

The bluebird sky gave way to light snow gave way to golden hour.

The colors of late in the day, late March

We walked in and out of snowpack, wind, weather, and flurries on our way to Chair 4 and other ski runs. Hoping to explore more, we were stopped by deep snow.

Hiking an empty snow-patched mountain is one of the best ways I know to compartmentalize and forget, for a needed 90 minutes, that we are living against a backdrop of a global pandemic. The likes of which very few living humans have experienced before. Spanish Flu survivors being the exception.

Every day the mountains remind us how lucky and privileged we are to be hunkering down in a beautiful place. It’s a tricky balance between cabin fever, high altitude, creaky floors, low oxygen levels, stunning landscapes and no chance ever of pizza delivery. Still we smile.

Until next time…

Global Pandemic Pages: Snowboarding an Empty Mountain in Southern Colorado

It’s been just over a week since a friend of mine and I headed to the hills to hunker down right before the global pandemic was about to change our daily lives. For(alongtime)ever. After a couple days of high winds, teener temps, and cabin fever, I struck out to snowshoe up and snowboard down the abandoned ski area next to my place.

After last weekend’s debacle of Denver Front Range skiers crowding into SUVs then crowding closed ski areas or nearby mountain passes (with no avalanche mitigation), I was glad to be alone. Mine is a wee little hill, but it provides the necessary social distancing I have preferred most of my adult life.

It snowed a few inches the night before. Conditions were variable.

This was not the maiden voyage of snowshoe up, snowboard down. I’d done it once before. All I needed were good fitting snowboard boots and a backpack with sunscreen, water, helmet and goggles, and bungee cords for the transition from country to western. Shoutout to High Society in Aspen. After two decades of snowboarding, this one is my favorite.

A winter’s worth of snow crunched beneath my snowshoes, but two to three inches of freshies had fallen the night before.

By early afternoon it had warmed up to the high ’20s. I traded in my hat hair for a helmet.

My goal was the top of Chair 4, but a dry log beckoned me and a patch of dry grass persuaded me. Triathletes call this transition; I call it a rest stop.

Soaking in the surroundings

Alone on an easy blue run, still wearing a helmet. Call me paranoid. Or cautious. Late season obstacles existed, and I didn’t know where or what they were. Too many head injuries to risk. I hear ERs might be crowded right now.

Good to go

After adjusting some bungee cords and catching my breath, I enjoyed my 74 seconds of freedom on the run formerly known as Francisco’s Revenge. Then a quick hike home and back to the casa.

Total jaunt time: 75 minutes. Total downhill time: 74 seconds. Total bliss. I’ll take it.

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