"Skiing" in Loveland, Colorado

Thumper said it: “If you French-fry when you should pizza, you’re gonna have a bad time.” The result of disobeying? See above.

I was optimistic about skiing. I’ve always wanted to find some physical activity that I take to like a natural, so whenever I try something new, I hope that I may finally find my niche. Unfortunately, I did not take to the slopes like a snowbunny; in fact, I had only just strapped on the boots and clomped awkwardly across the parking lot dragging my rented equipment when my enthusiasm began to fade. (Seriously, how come I can run in four-inch heels but I can’t even walk in a ski-boot???) And once I clipped my feet onto the skies and began a futile though undoubtedly hilarious effort to “walk,” it faded a little more. And then as I was carried up the mountain in the lift watching skiers whooshing stylishly below me, I began to contemplate my own mortality. I am convinced that I will die in a car accident because of a haunting dream I once had, but I began to challenge even that conviction as Glenn pointed out in a misguided effort to excite me the runs we’d be skiing down; they looked awfully steep, and even if I were to die in a car accident someday, there was nothing that said I couldn’t be horribly maimed in a skiing accident in the meantime.

I hated getting off the lift - I really enjoyed the lift - and upon alighting, I promptly fell over, more on purpose than on accident. I had hoped that the steepness of the slopes was the result of a visual illusion caused by the sun glinting off the snow or something stupid like that, but it wasn’t. I managed to get down the mountain by skiing back and forth in a zigzagging course that ran practically parallel to the slope. Whenever I gained too much speed, I would hurl myself to the ground by way of stopping. Glenn commented on my mad “getting up” skills. That’s right. The part of skiing I took naturally to was getting up after I’d fallen - sounds about right.

Three times I did the same run, before they shut the place down. By the third run, I was going a lot quicker - Glenn said I was doing well for my first time - and I could connect my slow zig-zags pretty readily without having to stop and adjust my direction.

North Table Mountain & Castlewood Canyon, Colorado

Another multi-trip weekend. Glenn and I hiked to the summit of North Table Mountain on Sunday; we watched the rock climbers on the way up, which made Glenn sad and me itchy to try it myself. I’m really not a very good climber, but on the ground, I’m an expert. On top of the plateau, we cut through a field to reach the moderately large pile of rocks that is the summit (highest point in this picture).

I scared a bunch of deer as I leapt up the summit/rockpile; you can see one by my left ear.

On Monday we hiked Castlewood Canyon, a virtual playground of large rocks to jump on top of, which I could and did spend hours doing.

After we’d passed the cliffs, we both made a huge route-finding oversight and failed to see the footbridge where the path turned, so we walked along the river for a while longer. No matter - honestly, I don’t even consider it hiking anymore unless I get lost and waste a lot of time trying to relocate the trail. The day ended in another night-hike, as we had to do the final couple of miles with our headlamps on.

I finally got to try “stemming.” Glenn taught me this word for what I’d previously referred to as “spider-climbing,” after the Ninja Warrior obstacle, for when you climb up a crevice by pushing your legs out against both sides for leverage. I definitely want to go back and spend some more time climbing around, but I felt bad for Glenn having to wait around while I goofed off.

Since most of my hiking experience has occurred above treeline, coming down to 5000-7000 miles above sea level is like being a Kryptonian on Earth. I can run around for hours without breaking a sweat, I can walk for miles without getting winded, I get x-ray vision, etc. It’s awesome!!