Bike, Hike or Bust As We Stroll Down My Memory Lane of Misadventures

One of my favorite parts of our daily routine is going for family bike rides. However as Hadley struggled up the hill to our house last week, I noticed her bike is so small that her knees were practically in her chest (no small feat for a girl who inherited her father’s lack of flexibility).

I resolved to get her a new bike but there was a problem: We didn’t have the money and so I started surveying our house to see what I could sell. We got rid of most of our baby items but for sentimental reasons I have been holding onto two of them: Our beloved REI Baby Carrier Backpack and our Double Chariot Jogger/Bike Trailer, the Rolls-Royce of strollers.

These two items were our vehicles for adventure during my kids’ formative years and I have been strolling down memory lane as I part with them. There were the hundreds of hikes I did with both kids in the backpack.

Our marathon ride to Breckenridge with the Chariot bike trailer that almost did us in.

My crazy idea to snow hike with the kids in the Chariot at Chautauqua.
My Dumb-and-dumber attempt to haul both kids all the way to Golden.

Or the near-nervous breakdown it caused in Canada.

I sold the Chariot for $300 and in addition to purchasing some household items, I was thrilled to buy Hadley a kick-butt Specialized mountain bike with shocks yesterday. I’d like to say she effortlessly adjusted to her new bike but remember It’s Like Learning How to Not Kill Your Child As She Learns to Ride a Bike that detailed the travails of teaching her?

This was that bad and worse as she freaked out about being unable to reach the ground.

In retrospect, we should have lowered the seat.

As she lamented about her tough life, we were privy to a rather disturbing glimpse at Jamie’s.

“You know what I rode for TWO YEARS AFTER MY BIKE WAS STOLEN? THE CACTUS FLOWER!” he bellowed. “Yes, that’s right. We were so poor I had to ride my sister’s yellow bike with a white basket and daisies emblazed across it as my buddies rode $500 Redlines.”

We all have our moments of childhood trauma and judging from this list of misadventures, my kiddos will have a good share of their own.

Fat Kitty’s Great Escape & Why He Ain’t no Huck Finn

Yesterday, I wrote about the skit Hadley performed for Destination ImagiNation “Big Bug’s Bad Day.”

Now, I’m here to tell you about Fat Kitty’s Bad Day.

Everyone worships that big, lovable, gentle slug. As much as the dude loves to cuddle, he adores being in the backyard even more. The house rules (that I instituted) are that someone needs to be back there monitoring him at all times.

Yesterday, I broke my own rule. He was meowing incessantly to go outside and Bode was doing the same for some lunch. I thought I solved both of the problems: I let Remy go outside with the mental note to keep an eye on him while I prepared Bode’s lunch.

And then I forgot.

A half-hour later, Bode just happened to be looking out the window and saw Fat Kitty (somehow) jump onto our generator and hop over to the other side of the fence. I raced out there like a banshee, screaming at him to come back. Frightened, he gazed up at me and tried to jump back up to our side but his claw-less paws slid down the fence.

Between our property and the hobby farm behind us is an easement that snakes through the area. It is overgrown with weeds and trees, rendering it nearly impossible to navigate. I recruited a couple of guys working at our neighbor’s to corral him but extremely stranger-shy, he took off. By the time Jamie was able to help, traumatized Remy high-tailed it through a hole in our neighbors Steve and Angella’s fence and he was M.I.A. the rest of the afternoon.

The neighborhood was canvased, tears were shed, prayers were uttered and there was a pending doom about breaking the news to Hadley. An overreaction? Not really. With a coyote den in the nearby Open Space and a Rottweiler for a neighbor, outdoor cats don’t survive in our neighborhood. A fat, claw-less cat would make for a tasty meal.

OK, meals.

Then came the golden phone call from Steve: He had spotted Fat Kitty trying to hop his fence. When Steve tried to approach him, he ducked under the deck into an inaccessible cement hideout.

That is when the circus began. Haddie, Bode, his buddy Noah, Jamie and I tore down the street to confront our now-terrified cat cowered down in the hole. For a half-hour, we begged, bribed him with treats and tried to poke him with a long stick. Nothing worked. I attempted to offer Steve’s 1-year-old Dylan up as sacrifice to go in after him. Though Dylan was willing, mom Angella wasn’t.

Gotta love overprotective parents.

But in the end, it was Angella who came through when she had the idea to spray him out with water (which he absolutely abhors). We positioned ourselves strategically around the porch as five preschoolers blocked the brunt of the yard (a strategic move on my part because if there’s anything Remy hates worse than water, it’s mauling toddlers.)

Steve set up the hose….

…and Jamie started spraying. I’m told that Remy’s initial reaction was shock but then he gave Haddie and Jamie the look: “Has it really come to this?”

It was the same look my mother gave me the entire duration of my teen-age years.

Fat Kitty was covered in dirt and the water formed a mucky coat. He streaked outta there and tried to hop the fence before I mud wrestled him to the ground. His paw was bloody and he voiced the Meow of Death, which was duplicated when I unceremoniously bathed him.

After recovering from the trauma of a *real* bath (he spent about three hours licking himself), he camped out by the back door. In a decidedly Huckleberry Finn move, he longingly gazed outside, no doubt reminiscing about his big escape to the Last Frontier where, if only for a short time, he was free from civilization’s traps.

Too bad he didn’t get farther than three houses away.

Why I Am ABC Network’s “Angel of Death”

I get attached to a few primetime television shows, particularly during the dark winter months. I was in mourning when LOST ended its epic run and I have berated the networks for cutting shows mid-season without any regard (or explanation) for their devoted audience.

I get that it’s all about ratings and money. For this reason when a new show debuts, I’m a careful devotee so as to protect my heart from cancellation. Some shows I am currently invested in are The Good Wife, Parenthood, Modern Family and Brothers and Sisters.

So I was a little bit more than displeased to read this article detailing ABC’s early renewals for next year. Castle and Cougar Town were the two shows that lead the pack while my beloved Brothers and Sisters is potentially on the chopping block.

I don’t know if you watch Cougar Town–or would admit to doing so–but it is the least funny comedy on television (which, if you’re supposed to be making people laugh, is a bit of a problem). Without giving it much thought, I turned to Twitter to voice my frustration:

Scratching my head how ABC would renew a crap show like #CougarTown yet Brothers & Sisters is on the chopping block?

I’m not proud of using a word like “crap” in a public forum but in my defense, my tweet was limited to 140 characters and I could not fit in “obnoxious” or “laborious.”

A few minutes later, I received a reply from a man named Kevin Biegel:

you are the devil who haunts my dreams

Now, normally I discount anyone who does not use proper capitalization or punctuation and receiving a rebuttal like this would offend some people. But I got a kick out of it and felt intrigued. Could it be? Someone finally gets me?

I Googled Kevin and (brace yourselves for this): He is the producer of Cougar Town. And he found it in his heart to call me–’lil ol’ me–a She-Devil.

Any normal person would have let it drop but I could not pass up a captive Twitter audience with Hollywood elite. Who knows–he might even cast me in his next sub-par comedy about an Arvada mom who vents her network frustrations to thousands of faceless people on Twitter.

My response to Kevin?

I’ve heard the show’s producer is very talented. P.S. I prefer to be called “Angel of Death.” :)

I expect ABC to come knocking on my door any minute now.

ORIGINALLY POSTED AT MILEHIGHMAMAS.COM

An Attitude of Gratitude

On Monday, I had one of those days. All of life’s stresses caught up with me and I was just plain tired. Tired of always getting volunteered and no one else stepping up. Frustrated at being forced to say “no” just to keep my head above water. Exhausted at feeling like I’m juggling so many things that I cannot possibly give them my all. Tired of my knee that has grown progressively worse and is on the cusp of rendering me incapable of doing the activities I love. Tired of Jamie’s 15-hour work days, of clients who don’t pay on time and feeling financially strapped again and again. For feeling like we are constantly working and yet never getting ahead.

It was the culmination of several months of spinning so furiously on an axis you could almost feel the whirl of the universe. And I just wanted it to stop.

I purposefully have nothing on my calendar this week. I went to lunch in Golden with some of my besties: Lisa, Eva and Jennefer. We grabbed sandwiches and sat overlooking Clear Creek. We talked about nothing and yet it meant everything. We strolled the path watching the remnants of summer slip into autumn’s free-spirited, golden-tinged magnificence.

That afternoon, I played with Bode–Candy Land, then Sorry. I marveled at his generosity to offer me his turn when I was losing, to always bolster me up when I was down. When Hadley came home from school she selflessly divulged all the details of her day. We read her new library books and for the first time, she did not resist doing her homework. We grilled burgers and ate outside. During dinner, I announced we were going to talk about gratitude for Family Home Evening.

Last weekend was our church’s semi-annual General Conference where our leaders gather to impart wisdom and inspiration to people all over the world. President Thomas S. Monson’s talk about gratitude struck a chord with me.

We can lift ourselves, and others as well, when we refuse to remain in the realm of negative thought and cultivate within our hearts an attitude of gratitude…If ingratitude is be numbered among the serious sins, then gratitude takes its place among the noblest of virtues. Someone has said that gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all others.

I asked everyone to go around the table and say two things for which they are grateful. In a sweet, fleeting moment (and without prompting), we all separately expressed our gratitude for our family, health and God’s beautiful creations–a reminder of what truly matters.

We played soccer with the kids as we watched the coral sun slip behind the cerulean mountains. The children grew stronger with each kick, their enthusiasm and laughter echoing into the night air. Soon, all that was above us was the deepness and vastness of an ebony sky.

That night as we snuggled in bed, we read about Mrs. Frizzle’s whimsical adventures in the Magic School Bus and Lehi’s dream about sharing the fruit from the Tree of Life with his family. Bode and Hadley marveled at every word. I felt charmed and blessed. President Monson:

My brothers and sisters, to express gratitude is gracious and honorable; to enact gratitude is generous and noble; but to live with gratitude ever in our hearts is to touch heaven.

That night, I finally felt it: the still in the spinning.

And heaven seemed just a little bit closer.

Crabbing by night and my family’s forray into darkness

I have an ultra-competitive family. This is amazing to me for the sole reason that my parents are not overly competitive. Sure, they encouraged us to do our best and exposed us to many different activities. But there is an internal killer drive that I share with my brothers Pat and Jade.

In our schooling years, the result was excelling in pretty much every sport we played. In our over-the-hill years, the scenario is completely different:

When we vacationed at Tie Lake, B.C., we dressed in camouflage as we waged war on capturing the most turtles.

In croquet, our mallets become our weapons in the game we renamed, “Blood Sport.”

Whilst in the Outer Banks, our competition de choix was crab hunting.

When I was younger, my family enjoyed vacationing on Vancouver Island and crab fishing off the docks of Sydney. Back in The Day, we had all the fixins that included traps and bait.

In the Outer Banks, we had three things: Buckets, flashlights and our freakishly superhuman speed.

Work with me, here.

My mom also bought the men crab-hunting uniforms.

Jamie, Pat, Jade and Dad

Those decapod crustaceans didn’t stand a chance against us.

After dark when the waves would roll in, crabs would wash up onto the shore. They’d scurry around at warp speed before plunging back into the ocean.

Enter: The Crazy Canuck Clan.

We had two divisions of crabbers: the spotters and the catchers. The spotters were in charge of the flashlights and following the crabs’ every moves. The catchers were responsible for running around screaming like the Tasmanian Devil whilst trying to scoop the crabs up into their buckets.

I obviously excelled at the latter.

Bode was superior at the former.


When he remembered to actually point his flashlight at the crabs, that is.

The final standings of our crabbing competition?

The winner:

My niece Ashton. This mother-of-two was a force to be reckoned with. So superior were her skills that on our final night, she even caught one backhanded.

If this mothering thing doesn’t work out, she has crabbing to fall back on.

The Loser:

The Lord of the Gourds. On the first night, a crab raced over Jamie’s foot and he squealed like a girl. My beloved honey tried to redeem himself by capturing eight crabs the following night but the damage was done. So disturbing was his initial display that for the remainder of our crab hunting days, my family warned “Not to pull a Jamie.”

I always knew he should be a verb.

Most improved:

Hadley. For our first several nights, Hadley raced around like the rest of us but was a bit too squeamish to delve in for the kill (or rather, catch. And then release). But on our final night, she proclaimed she was ready and my family banded to together in the assist.

At the end of the evening, she jubilantly caught five crabs.

And she then threw a colossal fit as we left the beach because “I WANNA STAY AND CATCH SIX CRABS!”

She was officially inducted into the Crazy Canuck Competitive Hall of Fame.

The Best of Denver (and the worst of it, too)

I was recently contacted by a reporter for the Westword, a weekly magazine in Denver. Once upon a time, they were great supporters in helping me solicit votes during the Pandering for Vancouver days (otherwise known as the Office Winter Games Contest). I’m sure their interview is what clinched me the win.

That, and the countless wonderful people in my life who voted for me.

Last month, they contacted me again and asked to interview me for their popular “Best of Denver” edition. Note: I am not the “Best of Denver.” I only know about places that are.

I never actually saw the magazine because we were on Spring Break in Park City but found the article online when I was doing a search for another project I had worked on.

Ahhh, gimme a break. Like you never Google your name.

I was excited to be interviewed with some notable Denver characters (the online version is here).

 

Amber JohnsonAmber Johnson is a professional mama, so professional that she makes her living doing it. The 38-year-old Johnson not only founded the Mile High Mamas blog, which she now operates for the Denver Post, but she also runs a home-based social media marketing company that does work for ski areas and promotions for big brands like Nintendo and Frigidaire. And earlier this year, she was picked — and then hired — by Microsoft to blog about the Olympics from Vancouver. Her site, www.crazybloggincannuck.com, is still active, and will be throughout the year while she helps Microsoft promote Office 2010.

Not a bad gig for a Canadian native who loves the outdoor life so much that Denver’s REI flagship store is her favorite place in town.

“It’s my happy place, no lie,” says Johnson, who lives in Arvada with her husband and two toddlers, Hadley and Bode. “They have a play area on the top floor which is near the clearance areas, so the kids will play while I shop.” Afterward, Johnson likes to take the family for walks through Confluence Park, to watch the kayakers, and up the Platte, either via trolley or on foot, to the Denver Children’s Museum.”

Her other favorite walking tour begins at Little Man Ice Cream, continues through the playground across the street, and then goes across the 16th Street Pedestrian Bridge to see Denver’s infamous “National Velvet” sculpture. “There are so many cool walking areas in Denver that we do that as often as we can,” she says.

 

They were overly complimentary and I feel honored to be included. However, there were three blaring missteps that need to be addressed:

1) Calling me a “professional mom.”

2) Refusing to lie about my age like I recommended.

3) Misspelling my blog name. Last I checked, “canuck” only had one “n.”

Just another reason why Canadians are treated like second-class citizens in this country.

Note #2: Ignore the fact that we’re not actually citizens.

Defying the G-force on the Bobsled’s Position of Death

I’ve done some crazy things in my life.

I won’t expound upon them because my mother sometimes reads my blog.

Riding in the 4-man bobsled at Utah Olympic Park was the craziest thing I have ever done.

We all know bobsledders go fast—upwards of 90 mph. I was equipped to deal with speed. What I was not prepared for were the excruciating 5 Gs of force weighing down upon me.

To put this into perspective: astronauts only feel 3 Gs during maximum launch and reentry in the Space Shuttle.

It was the first time even my Afro could not defy the forces of gravity.

Some background: I was in Park City last weekend. I have been a part of Park City Mountain Resort’s cutting-edge social media site Snowmamas and my fellow Snowmamas and I congregated for a glorious weekend of skiing, tubing, eating and brainstorming (details in my next post).

Fellow family travel writers The Vacation Gals (Kara, Jennifer and Beth) were also in town. On Saturday afternoon, we toured Utah Olympic Park, which consists of the interactive Alf Engen Ski Museum, the inspiring 2002 Eccles Olympic Winter Games Museum, and a fascinating bus tour of the aerials, ski jump and the combined track venues.

I have done all this before. What motivated me to act as a fourth-wheel was the opportunity to do the bobsled at no charge (a $200 cost).

I figured it would be a roller-coaster on steroids. I did not anticipate it would be like gold medalist Steve Holcomb described as a “minute-long car accident” on one of the fastest tracks in the world.

Jen, Kara and I were assigned to Sled No. 9 and underwent a 30-minute orientation. The room was predominantly filled with chest-thumping, testosterone-oozing men.

And then there was us. But how serendipitous was it that my helmet and sled totally matched my outfit?


In a 4-man bobsled, there is a pilot (driver), positions 2 and 3, and the brakeman in the back. Our instructor Jon described that fourth position as the most aggressive and the one that bears the brunt of the force. For the public ride, the pilot would serve as both driver and brakeman.

You know. Because the person in Position 4 is consumed with a minor thing like not dying.

And who would be insane enough to volunteer for said Position of Death (POD)? Me, of course. Kara and Jennifer gushed gratitude and vowed they would owe me for life. After what I endured on the Comet bobsled, a proper display of indebtedness would be naming their next child after me.

Or, in the very least, their favorite goldfish.

The sled follows 15 curves at speeds only 10 seconds less than the professionals. We were the final competitors. In the public rides, no one does a running start so Jen leisurely entered through the back of the sled, followed by Kara and then me in the POD.

After straddling the person in front of you, the strategy is to shrug your shoulders the entire ride to prevent your head from bobbling around. We used the handles to hold ourselves upright and hang on for dear life.

We were gently pushed off the starting line and that was the final placid moment of our ride. I’m still at a loss for how to describe the sensation of having 5 Gs of force crushing down upon you. It was painful. It was fascinating. It was thrilling. But mostly it was just excruciating.

When I watched bobsledders on TV, I always assumed their head bobbing was due to the velocity but it is more attributed to defying the forces exerted by gravity.

This video is a primer for our ride:

Please excuse the last few seconds of the video that were filmed sideways. In our defense, that was our angle as we barreled down the track.

Upon finally coming to a stop, my first thought was, “That was the most unbelievable experience of my life,” which was followed by “WHY THE CRAP DO BOBSLEDDERS SUBMIT THEMSELVES TO THAT INSANITY DAY IN AND DAY OUT?”

And then all thoughts were overcome by severe throbbing. Dazed, we posed with our cutie pie pilot Jake.

See my smile? I did not mean it.

When I woke up the next morning, I had a severe case of whiplash and could not move my neck and shoulders. The blood vessel in my right eye had burst and I looked like I got my butt kicked by the neighborhood bully.

Which, in reality, I kind of did.

His name is Bob.

Hit the Road, Jack


“Not all those who wander are lost.”

Over the past 10 years, I have written for innumerable travel publications and blogs. Several of my articles are filed under Family Travel and Travel, both of which are constantly updated. For your convenience, I have listed some of my favorites below.

===============

Tour de Colorado
(as published at The Denver Post’s Mile High Mamas)

*Overview

*Best-kept Secret for Families: Chautauqua

*Ultimate Splurge for Families: The Broadmoor (Colorado Springs)

*Best Mountain Community for Families: Steamboat Springs

*Best Mountain Festivals for Families: Crested Butte

*Best Dude Ranch: Devil’s Thumb Ranch

*Best Front-range Destination for Families: Beaver Creek

Covering the 2010 Vancouver Olympic Games for Microsoft Office

*Amazing News–Help Me Win My Own Olympic Bid!

*A Glimpse at the American Bobsled and Skeleton Federation

*Olympic Updates, Day 1

*The Torch, the Traveling Penguin and the Olympic Superstore

*A Glimpse Behind the Opening Ceremony Curtain

*Hangin’ With Olympic Legend Bonnie Blair at the USA House

*Getting Beaver (Tail) in Whistler

*The Olympics: In Pictures

*Why My Experience with Bode Miller Was Not Bodilicious

*Social Media at the Games

*How Matt Lauer Ruined My Moment in the Spotlight

*Tutorial on What Not to Say When Meeting Wayne Gretzky

*The Main Press Centre and My Birthday Celebration

*The 2010 Olympic Zipline: A Lesson in Patience and Insanity

*My Response to Canada’s Crushing Loss to the U.S. in Hockey

*Tweeting Short Track, Apolo Ohno and More

*The Colbert Report, Whistler’s USA House, and a Gold-Medal-Winning Mom

*Woman on Vancouver’s Streets (with video)

*The Official Olympic Entourage

*2010 Vancouver Olympic Games: I Had the Time of My Life

Other Family Travel

*Glenwood Springs’ Adventure Park On Top of a Mountain (new)

*Golden, CO: The Ultimate Family Staycation Right in Your Backyard (new)

*Park City Mountain Resort: A Cut of the Good Life for Families

*Beyond Twilight: The Olympic Peninsula for Families

*Loveland Ski Area for Families

*How Skiing Purgatory is More Heaven Than Hell

*Snowmass: Inspiring Olympic Aspirations in Families

*Learning to “Ski Like a Girl” at Keystone Resort

*The 11th Commandment: Thou Shalt Not Skinny Dip at Park City

Adventure Travel

*Solo in the San Juans: Exploring Colorado’s Highway to Heaven

*Testing the Limits With the Archery Biathlon in Bryce Canyon National Park

*Dominican Republic: Taking the Merengue to Extreme Heights

*The Flakes of Zion National Park’s West Rim Trail

*Havasupai, Arizona: A Garden of Eden in the Desert

*Catching the Wave in Paria Canyon, Utah

*Good Karma: Yurting in Sun Valley, Idaho

*Jackson Hole and Beyond: Exploring the Road Less Traveled

*Oregon’s Eagle Cap Wilderness: Characterizing Heaven and Hell

*Four Corners Region: Trailing the Ancients

*Wasatch Adventure Race: Masochists on the Mountain

Have a great destination you think we should check out? Be sure to send me your recommendations.

Solo in the San Juans: Exploring Colorado’s Highway to Heaven

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2002. © Photo: Away.com.

Good travel companions are difficult to come by. I should know—I’ve had my share. Since “roughing it” means downgrading from the Hilton to a Motel 6 for the majority of my female friends, I generally travel with men. I have learned to accept their flaws (i.e. messiness and smell), and they have learned to accept mine (i.e. my loving written exploits of their failings.)

Much to my dismay, I found myself bereft of companionship during a recent mid-week trip to the San Juan Mountains in southwestern Colorado. I assured myself it was because of demanding work schedules and not as payback for my exposés. I mean, who could resist a land of craggy contrasts and stiletto cliffs–with me?

I have longed to return to the San Juan Mountains since skiing Durango Mountain Resort a couple of years ago. The range’s 12,000-square miles compose the highest area of elevation in the lower 48. With harsh, challenging, and rugged peaks, the backcountry adventures translate into some of the most dangerous and wildly irregular in the world.

Many male friends questioned the wisdom of my solo trip, which inspired me to action. I mountain biked a portion of the famous Colorado Trail, bagged two 14ers (14,000-foot peaks) in one day, subjected my Jeep to a suicidal 4X4 road, summoned spirits by camping in a ghost town, and hiked some of Colorado’s most alluring summits. As reward for my backcountry exploits, I pampered myself to a night at the Wyman Hotel and Inn in a quaint mining town—a bliss that most men just wouldn’t appreciate.

Doing Durango
The solo trip began a bit surly. Upon arriving in Durango, I spent the morning at a garage repairing my blown-out tire that had self-destructed in the boonies. That was after I had backtracked 65 miles when I realized I had forgotten my wallet at a restaurant. Oh, and then my Jeep’s tape deck broke. Good thing I brought numerous books-on-tape for my lonely drive.

I remained undaunted. My plan was to start in Durango and follow the majority of the San Juan Skyway, a 236-mile scenic byway acclaimed as one of the most beautiful drives in the United States. It crosses 5 million acres of San Juan and Uncompahgre National Forests, passing through Victorian mining towns and historic ranching communities.

Nestled in the Animas River Valley in the afternoon shadows of the San Juan Mountains, Durango is renowned for its mountain biking. A variety of great rides only a short distance from town provide easy access to the backcountry.

After reviewing my options, I took a bite out of the 480-mile Colorado Trail. OK, more like a tiny morsel. The Dry Fork Loop has several options, one of which is an 18-mile loop that begins in town on U.S. 550 and turns onto Junction Creek Road, the westernmost trailhead of the Colorado Trail. The other is a 9-mile loop that begins up LightnerCreek Road.

Since I had wasted most of my day at the garage, I opted for the shorter loop. I followed the singletrack clockwise about 3 miles up a moderate slope through pine and aspen groves until I met the Colorado Trail. I turned right (left leads to Kennebec Pass, another option) and climbed a short section before riding downhill for 3 miles.

I watched for my turnoff at Hoffheins Connection and upon reaching it, kept right on going. No, I did not miss it (which is usually the case) but I instead checked out the great views at Gudy’s Rest, a few hundred yards down the Colorado Trail. I explored the trail for a while before climbing back up and descending Hoffheins Connection until I met the Dry Fork trailhead.

The Heber Creeper This Ain’t
There is a movie star in Durango—the Durango and Silverton Narrow Gauge Train. This hot not-so-little chugger has appeared in more than 24 movies that include Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and How the West Was Won. During the summer months, the train makes the journey to Silverton and winds through beautiful aspen forests, climbs narrow canyons, and hugs granite cliffs that stand sentry over the glistening waters of the Animas River.

I had a great experience on the train during my last trip. But a repeat performance as a sardine-packed tourist did not tempt. The only exception would have been for the train’s unique backcountry experience: superb hiking and backpacking routes off the Needleton and Elk Park stop-offs. Needleton’s Chicago Basin is a hotspot that serves as a base camp for scaling a network of summits, including three 14ers: Sunlight, Mount Eolus and Winom Peaks.

The Alpine Loop–Colorado Style
I instead delved deeper into the backcountry on my own fuel. I planned to follow the San Juan Skyway 49 miles to Silverton and then take the 65-mile Alpine Loop Backcountry Byway to the Silver Creek Trailhead. I would then conquer 14,034-foot Redcloud and 14,001-foot Sunshine Peaks the next day. This 11.7-mile hike has a grisly 4,634-feet elevation gain and is rated difficult due to the distance and total elevation gain.

Unlike most paved scenic byways, backcountry byways focus on out-of-the-way-roads that are typically gravel or dirt. Nearly two-thirds of the Alpine Loop is dirt roads, suitable for two-wheel drive vehicles. I, of course, chose the one-third that was not. My guidebook ubiquitously said, “high-clearance, four-wheel-drive vehicles are recommended.”

I came to realize that when traversing over 12,620-foot Cinnamon Pass, one of the highest in the San Juans, there should be a more definitive distinction between “recommended” and “required.”

Mine sites and ghost towns dot the loop that winds between Lake City, Silverton and Ouray. I had an apparition of my own after I passed by ghost town Animas Forks when I noticed something hovering in mid-air; something that resembled the bar end on my bike. I was disconcerted to discover my bike clinging on for dear life.

I encountered the only car I would see that evening, and the man came to my rescue (I’m sure the fact I was blocking the road had no bearing upon his service). We determined it would be best to throw my bike in back. As I prepared to leave, he looked at me doubtfully. “You’re going up there all by yourself, Hon?” I nodded. “Well, watch out” he chimed before heading back to town.

Now, well wishes generally vary but they are usually along the lines of “Good luck” or even “Be careful.” His warning threw me for a loop…until I reached the turnoff for Cinnamon Pass. A precipitous and technical cluster of rocks had “bottoming out” written all over it. A very steep slope that shot straight up to the sky followed.

My Jeep has low clearance due to the running boards that serve as stepstool for mounting my bike. This has led my friend John to derisively nickname it “Girlie Jeep” (the man has no respect for short people.) As I pondered this, along with Mr. Watch Out’s warning, my fire was fueled and I shifted gears into 4-Low.

As I crawled over the next several miles, I saw my life flash before my eyes in crimson flickers, which I later attributed to my red Jeep jolting with each wallop. When I reached Cinnamon Pass, poor Girlie Jeep had become a woman.

The view was worth every painful scrape. I had witnessed the transformation from a tree-covered valley to alpine tundra, found only in the Arctic and in isolated areas in high mountain ranges. Mottled grasses and flowers struggled for survival in the very short growing season. Gazing east of the valley, I could see Handies, Redcloud and Sunshine Peaks, three of the “fourteeners” in the Alpine Triangle.

After some nasty switchbacks, I reached American Basin at the bottom of the valley. The Silver Creek trailhead was another 4 miles. I camped at the trailhead across from Burrows Park where only two structures remained in this ghost town.

Two 14ers in the Bag
My guidebook recommended an early start because afternoon storms are common at 14,000 feet. I arose to a clear sky at 5 a.m. Everything proceeded pretty smoothly. Sure, my pita bread lunch was fungus-infested and I had to turn back a few minutes into the hike to retrieve my trekking poles. But these were all minor in the Amber Scale of Catastrophes.

I followed the west side of the Silver Creek drainage for 3 miles to the head of the basin. From there the trail grew steeper through a broad tundra valley on its way to a saddle northeast of Redcloud Peak. The sun had made its appearance but the valley was still cloaked in shadows when I reached the saddle.

The hike earns its difficult ranking at this point and climbs steeply up a scree ridge to Redcloud. Mountain goats or maniacs had formed a trail that shot straight up. I chose switchbacks. Or at least that was my intent. I somehow found myself slip-sliding up the treacherously straight path at one point, cursing my deviation.

Redcloud’s summit was in view. Of course, it turned out to be a false summit, with the real Redcloud taunting me in the distance. I determinedly gulped the thin air and made a conquering yelp once at the summit. I paused only momentarily as I eyed Sunshine 1.5 miles away. Bagging two 14ers was palpable and I continued on without even so much as a swig of water.

I dropped back down to 13,480 feet, a nice reprieve. Regaining more than 500 feet in a steep haul up Sunshine was not. My final minutes were agonizing but I dedicated my climb to Girlie Jeep owners and to every woman whose backcountry prowess has ever been berated by skeptical men.

Sunshine Peak was an island in a sea of mountains. Flush with triumph, I nestled in a makeshift rock shelter to eat my fungal pita. I gazed down the long spine of the San Juans, my body marinated in sweat. The wind caused my unruly hair to do a fine impression of a Joshua tree. I stayed for an hour, drinking in the mountain air that conspired with light. Distant horizons were magnified and 14,000-foot peaks a hundred miles away appeared near at hand.

I vowed I would rather slog through swamps and tar pits than climb up Redcloud again. I discovered an apparent “descent” into the South Fork drainage in the saddle between the two mountains. The prospect of saving two miles and skipping out on climbing back up Redcloud was inviting. But the steep, dangerous talus tucked between two rocky ramparts was not. I resigned myself to the tar pit and retraced my steps, trying to comfort myself this was equal to bagging three 14ers. Err…right?

Silverton’s Heaven on Earth
I spent the night in paradise. Of course, anything that had a shower and bed qualified as paradisiacal glory at that point. But I had christened Silverton heaven on earth during my first trip a couple of years ago. Nestled at 9,318 feet in the heart of the San Juan
Mountains, this quaint mining town is a gem ringed by mountain splendor.

If you stay anywhere in Silverton, it should be at the town’s premier B&B: the Wyman Hotel and Inn. Built in 1902, this red-sandstone building has period antiques, arched
windows, high ceilings, theme rooms, gourmet breakfast and a perfect blend of nostalgic and contemporary facilities. Owners Lorraine and Tom lavished me with attention and gave me a tour of the 19 rooms and honeymoon suite—a restored caboose in the courtyard.

I then enjoyed a Tuesday night on the town. I wandered the colorful boardwalks past
Victorian buildings, restaurants and saloons that displayed reminders of the early boom times. I ate heartily at the Trail House, Silverton’s newest restaurant, and became privy to all the town gossip. I then spent a quiet evening in my Jacuzzi tub watching a movie.

Oh, and gazing out my window at summits I did not have to conquer. This had to be heaven.

The Skyway’s Homestretch
Over the next few days, I traced the San Juan Skyway to Ouray and Telluride, with a detour to Ophir Pass.

I was enchanted with Ouray’s verdant 14,000-foot peaks in this ”Switzerland of America.” Ouray opened the world’s first park devoted exclusively to ice climbing in 1995, and thousands of climbers have descended upon the hamlet ever since. Great hiking is in abundance, with rock climbing and a kayak park in the developmental stages.

In the mountains cocooning Ouray, water proves that gravity works. Natural hot springs flow into pools at the base of towering peaks, vapor caves lead into the earth and iridescent waterfalls line the walls.

I went on two short hikes: to Cascade and Box Canyon Falls. Feeling ambitious, I even climbed a whopping 0.25-mile to an overlook above Box Canyon. This inspired me to think expansive, effusive thoughts, including the wisdom of building a bridge directly over the falls so as to completely obstruct the view.

I then hiked 6 miles along the Bear Creek National Scenic Trail, drove to Telluride and hiked 4 miles to Bear Creek Falls the next day. But it was during a detour to Ophir, a small mining town 8 miles from Telluride, that my loop of the skyway came full circle.

I had taken the turnoff for no other reason than the great views that beckoned. I was
pleased to discover some of the best-kept backcountry secrets in the area, along with the town of Ophir. Damaged by avalanches in the early 1900s, I was told Ophir is currently experiencing a revival (if you consider population: 70 a revival.) Hardcore mountaineers live here including many of Telluride’s mountain guides and ski patrol.

It was atop Ophir Pass (where four-wheel drive is recommended but NOT required), that I encountered Him: Mr. Watch Out. He was pulled to the side so I could pass on the narrow road.

“You made it out,” he commented. I boasted about bagging the 14ers.

He went in for the kill: “So, where’s the bike?”

I flippantly replied it must have fallen off somewhere along the Alpine Loop.

This did not seem to shock him, confirming his opinion of me.

Then he surprised me, “I’ve gotta tell you, Blondie. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

He and everyone else, and admittedly neither did I. But I learned on that trip to Colorado’s rooftop that it is not so much about bagging summits as it is about surmounting personal ones.

-Amber Borowski Johnson ©

The Genesis of Amber “Murphy”

Last weekend, we had the pleasure of hosting one of my dearest friends from France. I taught her during my LDS mission and we formed a bond like I have never had before. She was 16 and I was 22. We have seen each other a few times since those memorable days in Europe but not as Married Women With Children.

The Canuck Clan fell in love with Isa and her sociable and charming husband, Christopher. At one point after church, he was gabbing away with his cute French accent to an adoring throng of people when Isabelle had an epiphany: “Oh my gosh, Amber. I MARRIED YOU.”

Except those people at church? They do not adore nor throng around me.

Isabelle brought us a year supply of European chocolate (because Mormons are all about having our year supply) and Christopher teased me incessantly about their wedding. Miss that one? Yeah. So did I.

It is The Ultimate in Amber Murphy Travel Screw-ups. I was single and working as a publicist in Salt Lake City when Isa announced she had met The One and they would be married in the Swiss Temple September of 1999. There was absolutely no question in my mind that I would attend and I planned to do a trip around Eastern Europe following the wedding. My family freaked out about my solo travel plans so my Aunt Sue volunteered to come with me. I love Aunt Sue but she is a lot like me and her life’s mantra is, “Things are never 100%, Amber. Never 100.”

And things were not 100.

In France, church ordinances are not recognized so all marriages are first performed civilly, followed by the church ceremony. Since they had to travel to Switzerland for the religious ceremony, Isabelle planned the civil ceremony and party the night before and they would leave for their honeymoon immediately after going to the Swiss temple the next day.

The French know how to do weddings. The party was a blast and the multiple-course meal and dancing lasted late into the night. I ate, danced and flirted with cute French men. One of these French men–Renaud–stayed at Isa’s house that night, which is coincidentally where we were as well.

Adoring and romantic Renaud would later parade me all over Paris like a French poodle and follow me back to the United States in a rather intense fling.

But that is a story for another day. And really, do I want my children to read all about it here?

All that needs to be said is I stayed up all night talking to Renaud. When the wedding party left that morning at 7 a.m., I waved them off, saying I would get just a wee bit of sleep and Sue and I would then just drive ourselves to the temple.

But here’s the deal: I didn’t know how to get there. Even with our directions, we got horribly lost. After blindly wandering around for hours, we were mere minutes away from the ceremony. I FREAKED OUT and rear-ended someone.

In the end, we never found the temple and missed the wedding. You know. The ENTIRE REASON I WENT TO EUROPE IN THE FIRST PLACE.

Christopher would later tell me that every man imagines the sweet nothings his fiancee would whisper into his ear mere moments before the wedding. Isa’s sweet nothings? “WHERE’S AMBER?”

Or maybe they were more like “Sweet Wailings.”