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.

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: 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.

Global Pandemic Pages: Indigo Backdrop

No one told the sky to shelter-in-place. Early spring temperatures in Southern Colorado for our medical errand to town (not COVID related). The sky was a clear blue one.

The sandstone courthouse wasn’t exactly open for business, but still stately.

The wheels of the economy turn via construction projects.

A cartoon character dreams of strikes

A closed ski area has patchy, crusty snow

Rooms for rent

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!