How To Get Hitched In The Mountains

The truth? The truth is that we're all inextricable romantics given the right moment/situation. Even the cynics. Even the hard of heart. Given the right moment/situation, there we'll all be at some point with hands gripped over hearts, big tears being blinked away, et cetera.

Oddly enough, a wedding isn't always that moment/situation. But! The wedding I went to this weekend was.

I watched Tricia and Cairo get married in the old fashioned way—outside in the fresh air in front of all of their people under the high-country sun that cast long shadows in the late afternoon.

First, we all sat in wooden chairs and talked and laughed. Then, a quiet fell on the crowd. A wind whispering of fall set the aspen leaves clicking. Finally, out came Trish to the tune of a string band, looking, in her pale dress and veil, almost exactly like a flower. Right there in the meadow, both her and Cairo read some lines they’d written about each other—about magical first acquaintances and perfect matches, about holding each other up (most especially in tough times), about what exactly it feels like to be in love.

The rest of the night was a blur of Pimms and caramel cupcakes. And other things that cause dizziness the following morning but which are, at the time, consumed with the utmost noble intent of celebration.

Hooray for love!

Pretty Trish.

Griz, getting a snapshot of that rock!

This pic may not communicate it, but the dance floor = bumping, all night long.

Mid-Winter Mini Escape

When I was just a little bear cub in the mountains of Colorado, I had no idea that I'd someday grow up to live in one of the year-round-awesomest and yet life-givingly-dismal-and-mold-farming-during-the-winter cities in the country. But here I am—Portland. And around about February, escape becomes advisable—nay, ESSENTIAL, to mental survival.

So ... after gambling all my remaining frequent flyer miles, I was in Aspen at the home of one T. Byrnes putting on my snowboard boots after almost way too long. We rode Ajax through cold and ice, and then aprés-ed at Little Nell. Too much fun to elaborate.

Gondy laps with Trish—they're good for one's spirit.

Ricky's room. You know yr ballin when you have your own cider-making station.

For those who don't know, the term "aprés" is a French euphemism for "drinking after riding." It's a nice way to end up in your snowboard clothes past dark.

This ain't vintage—the spirit of the poma lift is alive and well at Snowmass.

A 22-foot vert ramp made out of snow. Scccarrry.

One of those moons that makes you shoot a blurry pic with your cell phone while driving 80 on the freeway.

Grand Canyon Passage

Every so often, Tricia and I get it in our minds to go somewhere. It's nothing too thought out or planned out. I have a list of things I gotta do, not on paper, more like in my head, but these trips are usually a way to cross items off of this.

Anyway, last time it was Hawaii. The big island—jungle hikes down to secret snorkel spots and roasting on the beach. This time, the Grand Canyon. You go there like going on a pilgrimage, looking down into the pit and contemplating it solitarily—kinda like staring into a pile of burning embers. But the thing is, seeing it from the rim is a whole lot like just looking at the photo. There's a haze in the distance between you and it, and you are very, very far away.

So, we climbed down to the bottom, stuck our feet in the cold-ass Colorado River (just like John Wesley Powell did, I'm sure). Then we hoofed it back up. Even a mile down the trail, we both agreed that this was the only way see the canyon. You get a sense of perspective, inspecting layers of rock first-hand as you stumble past them and feeling like an insignificant spec as you sneak by looming cliffs wearing the stains of the ages.

It was an amazing trip, kinda cosmic. In fact, the Grand Canyon is a cosmic place—where us non-"devout" folks go to appreciate the mysteries of the universe.

Sure, I'ma nerd. But I'm about to hike 4,500 feet down and back up again in two days. I could barely walk for days. So sore.

Yeah, take the burrows, you pussies. We're gonna walk.

A new set of thunderheads rolled through every hour ... we could see 'em coming.

Down, down, down, keep going down.

At last, the Colorado River, and a quiet beach to rest our weary selves.

But what't this? A thunder-hail extravaganza on the way back up? A good excuse to sit the fuck down.

We camped out half way up the canyon. The next morning, after torrential rains in the night, the chasm was shrouded in cloud.

And it was time to climb out. Yeah, all the way to the tippy top of that cliff up there.

Sedona sunset later that evening, dog tired and readier for a cocktail than I've ever been in my life.

Dirty, tired, sore—but we made it. Yep.