Humor | Life Elevated Mom

Jackson Hole and Beyond: Exploring the Road Less Attempted

May 9, 2009 by Amber

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2002. © Photo: JT Palmer

I have a very doting and fun-loving family. Except for when it comes to any man I bring home. Suddenly our cozy episode of The Waltons becomes a painful outtake of Meet the Parents.

The only man they have ever liked is Jason, a cross between exalted Greek God and homegrown Idaho boy. And, of course, a man I have never actually dated.

When I received the assignment to cover Jackson, Wyoming, I knew Jason was my playmate de choix. I met him my freshman year during a two-month course, The Natural Science Field Expedition. With packs on our backs and notebooks in hand, we trekked all over the western United States while studying geology, field and environmental biology and campus wildlife (in reference to the great outdoors, of course).

Jackson Hole has been our backyard playground over the years. We have summitted the South Teton via Hurricane Pass and Alaska Basin. We have boated Jenny’s Lake in Grand Teton National Park and hiked into Cascade Canyon. In the Gros Ventre Geological Slide Area, we have scavenged for gastroliths (or “gizzard stones”) from a dinosaur’s belly. We have tamed rapids on the Snake River, snowshoed the Big Hole Mountains and conquered snow-capped Mount Glory atop Teton Pass on my 27th birthday in February.

The scope of activities is endless around Jackson Hole. Roughly 80 miles long and seven miles wide, the valley is bound by Hoback Canyon to the south, Yellowstone National Park to the north, Togwotee Pass to the northeast, the Gros Ventre Range to the east, Teton Pass and the Snake River Range to the southwest, and not to be forgotten is the Teton Range to the west. The Grand Teton towers above it all at 13,776 feet. Two wilderness areas–the Gros Ventre and the Teton–punctuate the Teton National Forest’s beauty.

I yearned to try something new this time around and my trip did not disappoint. I learned taxidermy in Victor, Idaho, and stayed in a cabin behind the shop. I boated with a rake, robbed the cradle at Granite Hot Springs, hiked an obvious peak and missed it, bulleted through the mountains on the fastest motorcycle in the world, went fishing with the goal of not hooking a fish, and camped outside a power plant. Wow. This was Idaho and Wyoming at its best.

Peaking in Jackson
I started my adventure by hiking Jackson Peak a couple of days prior to meeting Jason. A local favorite, this trek is just a few miles from town past the National Elk Refuge, a range that hosts approximately 7,000 elk in the winter. The sweeping view from atop the 10,741-foot peak peers down upon Jackson Hole to the west and the Gros Ventre Range to the northeast.

I camped past the refuge in Curtis Canyon on a secluded bluff overlooking the Tetons. I was on the trail by 7 a.m. Now, most people do this hike in 9 miles (roundtrip). I did it in 12 miles—a rare talent. The trail has a 2,380-foot elevation gain and the landscape revealed itself teasingly as I ascended through an open meadow studded with towering Douglas fir. The lush valley below glowed with green; the far-flung Tetons sparkled like jewels.

At 2.8 miles, I crossed a murmuring creek and arrived at cymbal-shaped Goodwin Lake 0.2 mile later. Beyond the lake, my guidebook stated that Jackson Peak’s east ridge becomes obvious to the right and involves a steep scramble to the crest of the rocky summit. Generally one to miss the obvious, I did.

A few miles further, I reached an intersection. Granite Creek veered to the left and Cache Creek to the right. Jackson Peak was nowhere to be found. I explored both trails for more than an hour before scrambling up a peak that I thought looked like a Jackson Peak.

My logic was that it was a peak and it overlooked Jackson. Close enough.

Granite Recreation Area
I spent the rest of the day at the southern edge of the Gros Ventre Wilderness in the Granite Recreation Area. Located off U.S Hwy 189 about 25 miles from Jackson, I followed Granite Creek Road past Flying Buttress Mountain, creek-side campgrounds and open-air apartment buildings for rackety crowds of nesting birds.

I had received an insider’s tip about a trail that delves into the Gros Ventre Wilderness. The 22-mile roundtrip trek to Turquoise Lake boasts views of sharply glaciated, snow-capped mountains that descend upon a deep blue-green body of water cradled at the base of 11,190-foot Gros Ventre Peak. Hikers can either return the same way or walk 2.2 miles to the top of Cache Creek Pass and descend via Cache Creek Trail, completing an 18.5-mile hike. Granite Hot Springs awaits weary hikers at the trailhead.

I stopped at Granite Creek Falls. Swooning, multi-tiered cascades left clouds of spray hanging perpetually in air. I attempted to capture the tumbling rainbow-ridden falls on film but trees and rocks obstructed a clear shot. I debated fording the gushing waters but decided against it.

Then I noticed a middle-aged man traversing—a gawky man who was as balanced as a pregnant woman on a tightrope. I wrote him off as nuts until I noticed the rest of his family huddled in a rock cluster on the other side. A young boy waved at me.

I could no longer turn my back on this river crossing. Was I not an adventure travel writer? With the resolve of one determined to one-up a 7-year-old, I delved into the river’s thrilling frigidity. Soon the water was thigh-deep, the swift current tugging at my feet. With arms flailing for balance like an ostrich attempting flight, I crossed the torrent and snapped my blasted picture.

I then continued to Granite Hot Springs and the trailhead for Turquoise Lake. I hiked a portion of the trail, resolved to return to hike its entirety when I had more time and descended to the hot springs.

A cute guy in his early 20s eagerly gave me a thorough rundown. While the hot springs have attracted visitors for thousands of years, it wasn’t until the mid-1930s that the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) captured the thermal-heated water in a small cement pool. With the temperature varying from 92 degrees in the summer to 112 degrees in the winter, the pool is a year-round attraction.

Granite Hot Springs is a favorite among weary hikers who conquer the Gros Ventre Wilderness’ network of seldom-used trails. Winter guide services often include Granite Hot Springs as a destination for their dog sled and snowmobile adventures.

The young lad was exceedingly helpful and peppered me with questions of my travels. When I finally turned to leave, he coyly reeled me back in. “You know, the best time to go for a dip is actually after we close.” I stopped. Was Junior flirting with me? It was less than an hour until closing and the prospect of taking a dip after hours by moonlight was tempting…all in the name of journalism, of course.

And then I heard it– a baby crying. The lamentation must have come from the pool but I took it as a very translucent Cradle Robbing Sign. I let the subject drop. I was disconcerted to later ascertain that he was closer to my age than I thought—27. And so I traded a dip under the stars for camping in my Jeep outside of the Bonneville Teton Substation.

Who was the one whining that night?

Teton Valley
I arose early the next morning to hike the 4-mile Pass Ridge Trail from atop Teton Pass prior to meeting Jason in Victor. I proceeded south along the ridge, which gleamed with pink, orange, blue and purple wildflowers.

I paused when I encountered a moose and her calf foraging in a meadow. For half an hour, I watched them chew, stroll, scrutinize me and chew some more. I made myself appear more moose-like (at least to a shortsighted ruminant) and slowly moved forward to capture the treasured moment on film. I then drove from Teton Pass into a valley known as Teton Valley or Pierre’s Hole, Idaho.

The gentle course of the Teton River (a fisherman’s oasis for cutthroat, rainbow and brook trout) is nestled between the jagged Teton Range to the east and the rolling Big Hole Mountains to the west.

Great western towns Driggs and Victor have become popular settlements for those escaping Jackson’s tourist megalopolis and high taxes. It is a closely guarded secret that mountain biking is better on this side of the pass, with Pole Canyon, Mahogany Trail, the Big Hole Challenge and the Aspen Trail among the favorites.

In Victor, I traded my Jeep for the backseat of Jason’s new motorcycle—a Kawasaki Ninja ZX-12R. The model meant nothing to me. Jason was determined to make it meaningful. ”This is the most powerful motorcycle in the world,” he huffed. Seeing that my response towards this apparatus was directly tied to his ego, I raved on cue.

We cruised all over the western flank of the Tetons. The terrain had a polychromatic, if often raw, diversity of hues: green farmlands, milky-blue ponds, golden expanses of wheat, and the tawny browns and rust reds of the Big Hole Mountains’ rhyolite hills that spilled into Swan Valley. We zoomed along precarious turns and stopped to explore lofty summits.

Taxidermy, a Rake and a Fish
Our final stop was the pinnacle experience of the trip. Jason’s boss has a friend who owns a taxidermy shop four miles west of Victor. This friend also rents out a cabin behind the shop. I was extended an open invitation. Now, I did not want to be rude but I was a bit wary of the whole thing. Stay at a taxidermist’s cabin? I envisioned dirty animal trophies cramming the walls and hunting rifles as centerpieces.

I was mistaken on all accounts. Keith and Claudia Davis run Fin and Feather Taxidermy out of their spacious log home. Claudia gave us a tour of the tasteful gallery that features mostly fish and birds. Most of their taxidermy customers are local hunters but people come from all over the world to purchase their wares.

Her husband Keith decided 20 years ago that she would skin the animals (grisly) and he would stuff (more pleasant). I deemed this an advantageous assignment to get him out of the dirty work. He deviously agreed.

Jason, a hunting fanatic, was in his element. He did not hesitate to respond affirmatively when Claudia asked if we wanted to see the taxidermy process. Before I had a chance to object, we were being led into the shop. I exhaled and decided to suck it up. Witnessing road kill reduces me to tears. How much worse would a taxidermist’s chopping board be?

Fortunately, we did not see the actual procedure and Claudia merely explained the equipment and materials she uses. At the end of the tour, she hopped on her ATV and we followed her down to the cabin.

I was more than pleasantly surprised–I was mesmerized. Fin Springs Cottage is a charming log cabin snuggled at the base of a riotously green valley. A natural spring trickles through the yard, feeding into two ponds that are stocked with rainbow trout for catch-and-release fishing. A gas grill, fire pit, teepee, horseshoe pit, picnic area and swing dot the secluded grounds.

Keith entertained us with stories of Victor’s environs as he gave us a tour. When he left, Jason gave me a fly-fishing lesson. Not even 10 seconds after he dropped the line in the pond, he caught a fish. He offhandedly flattered me: “Gee, Amber, I think even you can handle this.”

He was wrong.

Later that night, I eased the steely rowing boat onto the pond with rod in hand. As I started to board the craft, I noticed I was bereft of something kinda critical—oars. After combing the area, I noticed a rake on the grass. Improvisation was in order. I pushed out with new “oar” in hand, raking the water of the small pond. Streams of fish gawked at the curious claw that avariciously grasped for them.

I set the rake as anchor, grabbed my rod and viewed my prey. I wasn’t out for the kill or even the catch, just a few nibbles. Capture would involve touching the fish to release the hook. And after an afternoon of Taxidermy 101, I was not quite prepared to do that.

A nibble here. A bite here. A rake there. I had a grand time–until I caught one. The fish flipped, flopped and writhed. I did the same. When it became evident this guy wasn’t going anywhere, more ingenuity was in order. I won’t get into the sordid details but let’s just say I released him without touching one slimy scale.

I spent the rest of the evening on the grounds, watching the spring abruptly belly into the crystalline pool as fish glided back and forth like World War II torpedoes. Fin Springs’ charms were a diversion from the missed opportunities on Jackson Peak, at the hot springs and on the pond. And I could definitely forget about any professional aspirations as a taxidermist.

But my only consolation was benign: who needed all that when I had discovered my own private Idaho.

-Amber Borowski Johnson

Note: I am remiss to say that a few years after my visit, Keith and Claudia Davis of Fin Springs were killed in a car accident.

Filed Under: biking, hiking, Humor, outdoors, travel Tagged With: Wyoming

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

May 6, 2009 by Amber

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 ©

Filed Under: biking, Colorado, Favorite Posts, hiking, Humor, outdoors, travel Tagged With: 14er, biking, hiking, San Juan

May Days (not to be confused with MAYDAY)

May 5, 2009 by Amber

I think Spring fever had hit many of us, judging from the lower number of visitors I’ve had and that many of you are updating your own blogs more infrequently. I have a very full plate this next month and here are a few things keeping me hoppin’:

My Bladder

It still gets me up at least twice a night.

Mile High Mamas Redesign

With the demise of our competitor The Rocky Mountain News, The Denver Post is soaring high. We are currently undergoing a redesign for Mile High Mamas that we hope will be relaunched by the end of the month. The Denver Newspaper Agency (which is responsible for the newspaper’s ads) is FINALLY getting on-board and is developing a marketing plan along with sponsorships and partners. I’m so thrilled everything is finally taking off and I’m been busy with fundraisers, meetings, events and even got asked to lead a round-table discussion for the Boulder Chamber of Commerce later in the month.

Yeah. I’m still laughing about that, too.

Haddie’s Birthday on May 25th

The kid is obsessed with The Incredibles so that will be our theme. She informed me last week my hair bears an alarming resemblance to Syndrome’s. Forget boring ol’ Elastagirl. I’ll be traumatizing all the kiddos with Syndrome’s villainous laugh. And killer hair.

Pixo Inc.

A few months ago, Jamie launched his own web development business, Pixo Web Design and Strategy. Things are going great and he has made some intelligent business partnerships that bring in even more work. Let me know if you can think of anyone who needs a needs a Web site; I’m always happy to pimp him out. I love having him work from home and don’t miss his big paycheck at all.

At least for now. 🙂

Staycations

Between the Swine Flu and the economy, a lot of people will be staying closer to home this summer. We’re no exception so I decided to make myself a professional “staycationer” and we are going to do a whirlwind tour of Colorado. Some trips I have in the works: The Broadmoor, The Crested Butte Musical Festival, Steamboat Springs, YMCA of the Rockies and Chatataqua in Boulder.

As always, I will be documenting our many mishaps along the way. Because let’s face it: when have any of my vacations ever gone smoothly?

The Truth Revealed

Bad luck runs in the family. That is the only possible way to explain it. A few examples:

The Infection
My brother Pat and his wife Jane have spent the last couple of months getting SCUBA-certified so they could go on a diving trip to Honduras for their 20-year anniversary. This is the first time they’ve traveled abroad. Ever. They have been living and breathing this trip for ages. Then Pat got an ear infection so was unable to dive. You know: the entire reason they went to Honduras in the first place.

The Illness
We have been encouraging my parents to travel while they still can so they booked a trip to Mexico a couple of weeks ago. The week prior to departure, my mom took a turn for the worst and only my dad was able to go while my sister-in-laws and nieces stayed behind with my poor mom.

The Swine
The only place Jamie’s parents ever travel is Utah. His grandpa recently surprised all his children and spouses with a Mexican cruise. This is the first time Jamie’s folks have ever left the country and have been busily shopping for their beach vacation and getting passports. Enter: swine flu. Their Mexican cruise was canceled and they will instead be going to Seattle.

Nothing against Seattle but it’s not exactly [virgin] pina coladas on the beach.

OK, maybe “mayday” may be in order after all….

Filed Under: Colorado, Family travel, Humor, Jamie

Wasatch Adventure Race 2002 Masochists on the Mountain

May 3, 2009 by Amber

Originally published in Sports Guide magazine, 2002.

I fancy myself adventurous. I jump off the 2-foot diving board at the swimming pool. I can ride my bike sans hands for 10 seconds. And I have been known to stroll across a busy intersection without the permission of a walk signal.

So my interest was piqued when I heard about the 2002 Wasatch Adventure Race (WAR). As the name suggests, the Wasatch Mountains are the place and adventurous is the race. Participants navigate nearly 80 miles in less than 36 hours while running, biking, hiking, climbing, rappelling and paddling, with the odd mystery event thrown in for kicks and giggles.

Sound like fun? Twenty-eight teams from all over the United States thought so. Their idea of fun, however, was to submit themselves to masochistic measures on the mountain, such as trudging sleepless all day and night in the middle of nowhere with only a soggy map as guide. There was mud and snow, freezing temperatures, and then frozen mud.

Fun, eh? WAR is hell, it has been said. Indeed.

Mr. Eco-Masochist
I wanted to ease into adventure racing before diving in full throttle, so I opted to volunteer this time around. That proved to be a wise decision. I soon learned to think twice before participating in a race designed and directed by a guy who worked for Eco-Challenge for three years.

I first met Todd Olsen at an R.E.I. adventure-racing clinic. He and his wife Holly run High Mountain Productions, a company that organizes outdoor races and clinics. May’s event was the second annual Wasatch Adventure Race.

The first annual race in March of 2001 had a few hiccups. When I pressed Todd for details, he had a pained expression, similar to Mom’s when she talks about enduring my early years. He told me they had to contend with a snowstorm, which caused perilous avalanche conditions. To ensure safety, he had to modify the route several times.

Todd chose to hold the second annual race over sunny Memorial Day Weekend. He was meticulous, even neurotic, about plotting the course. He trekked, biked and rappelled it several times as the race date approached. Conditions were perfect and dry.

Until a freak snowstorm sacked the Wasatch Front mere days before the race.

Despite these conditions, Todd remained in great spirits, chiming this was, after all, an adventure race. This confirmed to me that we were at the mercy of a deranged Eco-Masochist.

Cheerleader of the Year
I met my fellow volunteers at 7 a.m. at the Provo Marriott. We spent much of the morning registering the athletes and performing mandatory team equipment checks, discipline assessments, communication safety and race briefings. I had been assigned to the difficult task of taking team photos and checking out toned legs. (OK, that last task was self-assigned–but nonetheless imperative.)

Most of the teams were from Colorado and Utah, with a smattering from Oregon, Idaho and California. Team Fugawi (as in “Where the…”) came all the way from Connecticut, and we also had two Kiwis and Aussies in the mix. There were three different divisions: 3 members mixed, 2 members open, and 1 member open. Most of the teams brought support crews who provided them with food and equipment at designated transition areas. For $50, High Mountain provided support for teams without a crew.

Before setting out to the starting point at Utah Lake, Todd gave the volunteers a thorough play-by-play of our responsibilities. Admittedly, my only volunteer race experience was at a triathlon in high school. I had been stationed in the boonies for the final leg of the race. It was a rare day in Calgary—temps soared in the 90s and the Arctic-lovin’ racers were sweltering. I enthusiastically cheered my Canucks and they were grateful for the encouragement.

I was just about to receive the accolade of Cheerleader of the Year until the organizers drove out to my station. I innocently informed them the last racer had passed me about 20 minutes ago.

And then I learned the terrible truth: I was supposed to be the designated
turnaround point.

In my defense, they had somehow forgotten to disclose this somewhat important information. I won’t divulge the nasty events that unfolded, but I learned that day that there really must be some truth to the connection between cheerleaders and airheads.

The Adventure Begins
WAR officially started at 3 p.m. Racers were filled with both alacrity and trepidation at the start line. The 28 teams were a range between seasoned veterans with Eco-Challenge experience and those with less-intense race résumés who only participated in outdoor activities recreationally.

Todd opened the race. The teams eagerly burst off the line, sprinted down to the beach, jumped in their canoes, and began the 6-mile paddle to Lindon Beach. Once there, they exchanged their canoes for in-line skates and bladed to checkpoint two at Battle Creek Park in Pleasant Grove.

A one-man show, Coloradoan Andrew Hamilton of Team Achilles, blew away the competition by arriving a couple of hours ahead of the estimated time of arrival. Another volunteer, Christie, and I recorded his time, signed his passport and sent him to retrieve his mountain bike from his support vehicle for the next leg up Battle Creek Canyon. His nearest competitors did not arrive until 5 p.m., half an hour after his departure.

The Race Dynamics
Mere hours after the start, race dynamics were glitching. There were crashes. There was malfunctioning equipment. There were arguments. And those were just with Salt Lake City-based Team Entropy’s support crew.

The racers were exhausted by the time they reached checkpoint four in American Fork Canyon. Their 16-mile war-torn ride up Battle Creek along the shoulder of Mount Timpanogas had been ravaged by snow, mud and cold as they navigated their way along a network of criss-crossing hiking trails, game trails, and old Jeep roads.

In Greek mythology, Achilles was the Trojan War’s greatest warrior. WAR’s lead combatant proved true to legend as he conquered Battle Creek with a huge lead on the others. Many teams did not arrive until after dark and were shivering after hiking their bikes through deep snow in frosty temperatures. Some did not turn up until the middle of the night and ATV crews combed the area to ensure their safety. A few teams had either dropped out or were either disqualified because they missed the time cutoff.

For those who remained, night’s embrace was more like a tight squeeze. They had only a waxing full moon and their headlamps to penetrate the darkness as they sloshed through the muck- and snow-heaped Mud Springs, Tibble Fork and Beaver Bog areas. Mr. Eco-Masochist had, of course, thrown some wrenches into the race to trip people up.

Those wrenches, however, were more like hammers that pounded the competitors. Todd had charted a tricky bushwhack for teams from checkpoint seven to eight. Unfortunately, several teams took the wrong turn and missed checkpoint seven at Beaver Bog. After scouring the area for hours, many opted to continue onto checkpoint eight. A few stayed behind until they found seven. Those who bypassed seven were given hefty time penalties.

The Home Stretch
While many of our fellow volunteers spent the night huddled at checkpoints in remote mountain locations, Christie and I were in the most far-flung of all: the Timpooneke Parking Lot. With an onslaught of holiday revelers, the race ambulance and medical personnel. And a diesel truck that choked us with fumes all night long. Nothing like getting back to nature.

Achilles knocked on my tent at 5 a.m. I’d like to say we were awake and awaiting his arrival, but truth is we were apathetic and asleep. The next competitors arrived several hours later, many fatigued and irascible after a cold and confusing night looking for checkpoint seven.

Their reward was what Achilles called “cruel and unusual punishment”: to retrace the recalcitrant route through Battle Creek. But their payoff was an exhilarating 275-foot rappel from atop Battle Creek Canyon, followed by mountain biking to their transition area at Dry Canyon. And then the homestretch: a trek up Little Baldy before dropping onto Glen Canyon Park in Provo Canyon. They then skated back to the lake and did a short paddle from Oxbow Park before finishing where they started.

Seventeen teams finished. Eleven teams dropped out. By the end, most hated Todd. Hated the course. Hated the conditions. But they call it adventure racing for a reason.

Most of those racers are masochists. Most are nuts. And most will be back for round three of the Wasatch Adventure Race in 2003. And I may just be masochistic enough to join them.

Filed Under: Humor, outdoors, Utah

How to Prevent “Puke” and “Play Date” from Ever Going Together

April 26, 2009 by Amber

I love play dates for my daughter. Not because I particularly enjoy entertaining another rugrat but because Haddie and her friends are finally at the age they can entertain themselves. And if they do interrupt me, I just announce, “Go play. Don’t bother me.”

OK maybe that is not exactly correct. Some days I say, “Don’t bother me. Go play.”

You know, just to mix things up.
I always take them to do something prior to setting them loose on their own. Some days we have a picnic in the park. Other times we go hiking. Last week, it was Central Park playground. If you’re a Denverite and have never been, repent now. This ultra-cool modern playground in Stapleton is a children’s Mecca and features all kinds of nifty rock-like climbing areas, swings, spray fountains, hills, playing fields and a padded ground cover.

The children’s favorite structures were the Dizzy Dummies (bonus points if you know to which show I am referring). They could not get enough of the big blue wheel that spun them around and around. It was a delightful day of spinning and dizziness.

Or so I thought until the drive home.

Hadley and Bode were chattering away while Hadley’s friend Alex remained uncharacteristically quiet. When we were about a mile from our house, she finally croaked, “WATER, I NEED WATER.”

I turned around and I kid you not–the child was green.

“ARE YOU GOING TO THROW UP?”

“WATER,” she desperately convulsed.

I threw her my CamelBak and she drank like she had been wandering lost in the desert for weeks.

“Do you feel better?”

She still looked queasy but had downgraded from green to a light sage. But still, sage is technically green and I couldn’t get her out of the car fast enough. Vomit is bad enough when it is your own kid but it is utterly reprehensible when it is someone else’s.

We fortunately made it back to my house before she regurgitated her lunch on our front lawn.

It was then that I regretted ever giving her those Doritos.

This little experience has caused me to modify my play-date strategy. No more picnics. No trips to the park.

Better off just to ignore them from the get-go.

Filed Under: Hadley, Humor

Dream follow-up: what’re you dreaming about?

April 19, 2009 by Amber

One of the “worse” aspects of the “better or worse” marriage covenant for Jamie is having to hear about my dreams. Not the visions of someday living in a house with a white-picket fence but rather, the ones about how I dreamed I rode to a desert island in a shark’s mouth.

Those kind of dreams.

I have very vivid dreams every night. A few times they have translated into gripping nightmares or deeply spiritual experiences. Last year, I wrote how I dreamed about my friend’s ailing mother whom I had never met. The dream was so lucid that I woke up in the middle of the night to drop him an email, letting him know I was thinking about them. I found out the next morning his mom had passed away around the same time as my dream.

Before you think I am some kind of soothsayer, let me assure you that most of the time my dreams follow the same pattern: psychosis.

Case in point: I recently dreamed I was racing my leprechaun teammates from Lucky Charms and I was freaking out because I was the only Big Person.

Could happen.

Jamie has endured such absurdities many times before, only this time he chose to indulge me and came home with a box of this:

One morning I returned home from working out to find my daughter Hadley on the verge of tears.

“What’s wrong?”

“Daddy won’t give me apple juice for breakfast!”

“Jamie, why didn’t you give her apple juice for breakfast? You know it is the only time of day she is allowed to have it.”

“Amber, I know that. But I am sick of her only drinking her apple juice and never eating her cereal.”

I looked down at her bowl of the cereal he was trying to push to better her health.

“You gave her LUCKY CHARMS.”

“And she’d better eat every last bite.”

Filed Under: Humor, Jamie

The Genesis of Amber “Murphy”

April 15, 2009 by Amber

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.”

Filed Under: Favorite Posts, Humor, travel Tagged With: embarrassing

“P” is for Painful, Pumpkin and Patch

April 13, 2009 by Amber

It is officially pumpkin season.

Of course, “pumpkin season” is year-round when you are married to a man who is obsessed with growing The Great Pumpkin. From the moment Jamie cut his 755-pound pumpkin from the vine last year, his thoughts turned to his new patch. He stalked Craigslist and reacted faster than Pavlov’s dog whenever anyone offered free compost. He raised worms in our garage (after my adamant protest against our basement). He built a pumpkin genetics Web site and updated his pumpkin blog, took various soil tests, and swapped seeds with growers around the world.

Like I said: a year-round obsession.

As I already documented, I went into the children’s playroom in the basement a few weeks ago and noticed a strange glow coming from the closet. In a Poltergeist-esque manner, I threw open the door, only to discover a makeshift greenhouse he called “The Grow Room.”

Law enforcement officers: I can assure you that he is only growing test pumpkins.

At least that is his claim.

Our winter has not been without its share of drama such as when when he realized some compost he received had sodium levels high enough to render the patch toxic. Or when he lost our 2-year-old son at the pumpkin patch (or in his words: momentary misplaced.)

He is mere weeks away from planting his seeds. The culmination of all his efforts will be at the Rocky Mountain Giant Vegetable Growers weigh-off at the end of September where he hopes his pumpkin will tip the scale at over 1,000 pounds. The Colorado record is held by Wheat Ridge dentist Joe Sherber at 1,135 pounds.

Last year, we also attended our local harvest festival. We did not enter because 1) have you ever tried to repeatedly move a 755-pound pumpkin? 2) His pumpkin outweighed the winner by 400 pounds and would have broken their small scale.

Minor details.

Jamie did, however, capitalize on the situation. I was amused to see him distributing his pumpkin business cards (because evidently every giant pumpkin grower should have them). I may have some made up for myself this season as well:

Amber Johnson
Pumpkin Widow

Because misery is looking for company.

Filed Under: Humor, Jamie, pumpkins

Spring Break–Denver, Colorado Style!

March 29, 2009 by Amber

Colorado had a woosy winter. For evidence, all you need to do is look back through my archives and see the numerous hikes and outdoor adventures we have enjoyed during our balmy temperatures.

Mother Nature finally woke up on Thursday and delighted us with a blizzard and schools were closed for two days. On Day 1, we hunkered down and invited our neighbors over for a Snow Party.

Photo #1: Never-before-seen-picture of our unfinished soda fountain and bar. Why is it unfinished? Because Granite Kitchen Solutions/Jason’s Granite walked with our money before delivering. Small claims court may be in his future (anyone had any experience with this?) Regardless, here is a shot of our almost-finished bar, complete with very cool gooseneck spouts.

We broke in our retro popcorn popper Jamie’s family bought us for Christmas and tested out all of the Kernel Seasoning’s Popcorn Toppings I received a couple of months ago (yum!) As an FYI, Bode is not plugging his ears because of the popping but because of “Sissy’s” singing.

She gets it from me.

We invited our neighbors Meredith, Andy and Maddie over to watch Incredibles on our new 84-inch television, Jamie’s pride and joy. We were shocked/bewildered/disturbed when Andy brought over his Snugglie. I didn’t know if I should ridicule him or snuggle him.

I chose the former. (Sidenote: his dear wife Meredith is in the foreground, refusing to show her face with the Snuggie. Who can blame her? Hadley, on the other hand, cannot resist.)

On Day 2, we took to the great outdoors. My poor children. Little do they know that some kiddos spend their Spring Break like this:

But their Canadian mama makes them have vacations like this:

Sand castles, snow caves. It’s all relative.

The best news of all? We are now officially on Spring Break this week. Expect a whole lot of craziness from this Crazy Clan…..

So, let’s hear it from you! How did you/are you spending your Spring Break?

Filed Under: Colorado, Humor, outdoors

Help on when to stop babying your baby

March 9, 2009 by Amber

Hadley is growing up.

This was not always a bad thing. She was not one of those snugly, lovey-dovey babies who oozed with affection and craved companionship.

That was her little brother.

Hadley was the child who put us in our place from day one. The Baby who cried so much the first night we brought her home from the hospital that she lost her voice. She was The Baby who had her pediatrician observe she must be extremely colicky because of her abs of steel from crying. The Baby who would only sleep in 30-minute increments the first six months of her life. The Baby who demanded we address her with respect by only using capital letters.

I was happy for her to cease and desist from being The Baby.

The toddler years were no walk in the park, nor was the two-year-long-nightmare-that-was-potty-training. I’m sure I will be institutionalized during her teen-age years.

But here’s the deal:she is 4 and I really, really like her. Not just the I-love-you-because-I-am-your-mother-and-have-to-love-you thing. But I really enjoy her. She is an independent spitfire who loves to socialize, laugh and play. She cooks, cleans, skis, skates and goes on long walks with me. She has become my little buddy.

I have to admit that sometimes during her infancy, I was counting down the minutes/hours/years until I would send her to kindergarten.

I finally registered a few weeks ago for fall semester.

And I blubbered like The Baby.

No one prepared me for this. How I would battle in those trenches for oh-so many years and suddenly when they start being delightful and you actually want them around, you ship them off to school.

This process is repeated during the teenage years: just as they start to become human again, off to college they go.

Of course, I could always join the contingency of hearty moms who sacrifice their time and talents to homeschool their children.

Kindergarten is suddenly sounding better and better.

Filed Under: Hadley, Humor