Colorado Weekender

We live in the jet age. I went from Oregon to Colorado and back last weekend and it was no big deal. Denver was covered in a thick blanket of snow when I arrived—in the evening, under the stars—and it felt moon-like in the city, all that white everywhere. I think we all now how much better pavement, cement and winter's dull gray trees look with a tidy snow dressing. I ate pizza at Lalas with my sister and her fam and slept deeply that night.

An early bus took me up into the mountains. I saw a fox scampering through a field on the way—sneaky and ghost like. Then I spent three days eating my mom's date and walnut bread, walking through the winter woods, and riding/eating/drinking/talking with old friends who were in town for the Burton U.S. Open. Restorative, you know?

My dad's onion sprouts. Reach for the sun!

And just like that, I was back in the Northwest—looking down on lush green valleys, wide rivers, and snow-capped volcanos off in the distance no matter which way you looked.

Whose Woods These Are

Oh hi. I'm here in Colorado. No time to elaborate. But I re-read the below poem after stopping by this quiet aspen grove yesterday. It's nice, the poem. Peaceful, you know? A little sad.

Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening

By Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound’s the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Alone In The Wilderness

"It is good to be solitary, for solitude is difficult; that something is difficult must be one more reason for us to do it."—Ranier Maria Rilke

Days off go by too quickly if you let them. Sleep in, fritter around in sweat-pants-ville, and by the time you're done walking the dog it's time for happy hour, now isn't it? But this week I didn't want to do that. I wanted to do something different.

I suspect that some of you who drive up to Mt. Hood frequently won't think it's any big deal, but for me, this trip was a mission. An hour and a half by car to the Trillium Lake Loop. A mission! Anyway, it's hard to know how long a "loop" is going to take—especially when everyone else you meet out there is cross-country skiing. No swishing regally through the forest for me, and no coasting all shaky-legged down the hills …  just a steady plodding through the snow on my two feet. It took a while—several hours. And it was very quiet, especially at the mid point where the trees cleared out and you could sit right there on the rim of the lake—just a big, frozen meadow, really—contemplating the mountain.

I brought a lunch of bread and cheese and crunched on it while Lefty did donuts of wild joy around me. He's an animal, after all—at his happiest in the wilderness with the feel of his paws ripping the snow. Indeed, he was so happy that he made me happy—and that, right there, is why you wanna have pets in your life.

Yule Time

Went back to my place of birth in Colorado for the holidays, and I needed it more than ever. To walk out on the bluff beside my parents house, sage brush dolloped with fresh snow everywhere and the peaks across the valley shrouded in white, disappearing and then reappearing, a sign of very cold air, and impending snow. To talk seriously with nephew Patrick about Gaboon Vipers and animals that start with the letter U. To curl up in my bed at the top of the house and lay there in the dark watching the moonlight on the snow and the tiny lights of faraway snowcats, 10 miles up the valley at the ski resort, going up and down restoring order to the slopes, until I fall asleep and then the dawn breaks all cold and blue.

"Christmas morning" started at 6:30 a.m.—as it often does with a kid in the house, but it wasn't terrible getting up in the dark to tear up colored paper over steaming coffee.

And for Christmas—powder. A powder day with my dad, actually. How many of these I've had in my life, I can't be sure, but they're very valuable. It really was a kinda magical morning, I won't lie—the light sparkling off every single thing, including ice crystals hovering in the air shining like diamonds in the shafts of sunlight.

I grew up driving in the snow ... but fuck THIS!

Woodsy

Two dogs, two people, two days in the Central Oregon forest. You live cleaner with a view like this out your window, you wanna wake up early just so you can walk in the woods and smell those morning smells—deep pine and dirt all sharpened by the cold air.

But the dogs, Lefty and his brother Duke (who we borrowed from his family for the trip), had the most fun. I like the way they rip it all fast for the sheer pleasure in running when they encounter a wide open space—bursting with joy and a kinda existential wild animal-ness. I watch that and it makes me feel good to be alive.

At night, this festive little bridge lit up the river in front of the cabin, and I couldn't help but feel like, with a thick blanket of snow, this might be the very bridge St. Nicholas himself would trudge across with a coal lantern and big burlap sack. You never know ...