Mountains

My Favorite Thing

~ TheGentlemanAtLarge ~ 1 Comment

I like the way puddles freeze at night. Ice grows on the surface and the water leaks out through the ground and an opaque shell stays behind that breaks when I step on it. I like to be awake early in the morning and to have that time alone. I like snow. I like when it’s cold outside and coming into a warm house. I like that my glasses fog when I walk through the door. I like woodsmoke.

I like going to the mountains alone and not saying a word for days. I like the way a pistol jumps in my hand when I pull the trigger and the way a motorcycle pulls away between my legs when I roll on the throttle. I like the way ski boots feel when I put them on in the morning, and the way they feel when I slide them off in the evening.

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I like to cook slowly. I like to lie in bed next to a sleeping girl and a sleeping dog, and to just stare at the ceiling and think about whatever comes to mind. I like the first cup of coffee in the morning to be black.

I like the way water runs through a drain after it’s been cleaned. The way marrow melts in a stockpot over low flame. I like to watch TV on the internet. I like to leave home, and I like to come back.

I like seeing my breath fog in cold air. I like the first half hour in a pool, the first five minutes in a hot tub, and the first thirty seconds in a sauna. I like a fried egg that flips with only the flick of a wrist and when a snowball makes a perfect sphere. I like dogs.

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I like leaving work to read a new book. I like the whiny zipping sound that climbing skins make as they slide across the snow. I like to look at maps of places I haven’t been, but even more I like to look at maps of places I know. Familiarity with a place brings the contours to life. I like that the lights turn on when I flip the switch, although I don’t think about it as often as I should. I like the sound a rock makes when I throw it in a lake.

I like the way a skintrack takes a new shape each time it snows.

I like when grouse erupt from the snow by my feet and we exchange some kind of primal fear, although I don’t like it until much later. I like the quiet that settles in again after the bird has flown away and the only sound I hear is my heart beating in my chest. I like that the longer nights get, the brighter the stars shine.

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I like how wildflowers chase the snowline into the alpine in spring. I like summer rainstorms that are better explained by gods than science. I like when the larch turn golden and line the trails with pillowsoft needles, but my favorite thing is winter.

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Never Pay Retail

~ TheGentlemanAtLarge ~ 4 Comments

So I went to patronize one of my fine local sporting goods shops this week to buy a menial thing. I won’t say which store because this is going to be very embarrassing for them. I found the thing I was looking for on a shelf, and then brought it to the checkout lectern.

Behind the lectern stood a pimplefaced kid of about 22. He wore a flatbrim hat and a chain wallet. I tossed the thing onto the counter. He looked at it, scanned it, and then (and this is where it gets really embarrassing) he charged me retail. Full retail! For a thing at a store!

Here’s a picture of some things that I bought. Not at retail, of course. That’s for other people.

I was mortified. “Do you even know who I am, bro?” I was forced to ask. He stammered for a moment before answering that he did not. That left the messy business of explaining to him how rad I am, and that paying retail is for people who vacation in Aspen (and who use ‘vacation’ as a verb).

Didn’t he know that I always get deals on gear there? That I once didn’t get lapped in a competitive local cyclocross race? That I sometimes go skiing on weekends? That I maintain this very blog which has as many as dozens of occasional readers?

Now, I understand that these local businesses are, like, businesses. But I bring real value to their brand. When I ride my mountain bike at inappropriate speeds on walking trails and blow through red lights, I do it with their jersey on my back. When people ask me where I got my sweet new merino underthings, I tell them. I’m a brand ambassador. An advertising contractor.

I’ve got their sticker on my Rocket Box, for chrissake, and people around town see it.

Well, so I’ll tell you I let that pimplefaced kid have it. “I paid for a shirt with this store’s logo in it,” I told him, “and occasionally I wear it!” He was unmoved.

“Sometimes,” I went on, “when I need my bike tuned for Saturday, I have the courtesy to even bring it in Friday afternoon! I don’t even wait until Saturday morning to drop it off!” He remained unmoved.

It wasn’t until I was really huffing and puffing and a line started to form behind me that the young man behind the lectern applied my God given 10% discount and I was able to leave with my menial thing. All was right with the world again.

And so the moral of the story is here is not, of course, that you should ever pay retail at a local business (obviously). Especially not one who supports the local communities you value with partnerships and sponsorship. That would be insane! You just need to be more clear about how rad you are. Because if they’ve never heard of me, they’ve almost certainly never heard of you.

The Months of the Year, Ranked

~ TheGentlemanAtLarge ~ 13 Comments

“I like seasons,” the cliche goes. “I wouldn’t want everything to be the same all the time. It’s why I don’t live in Miami.”

I guess I can agree with the sentiment, or at least understand it. But to say that all seasons are created equal is categorically untrue. In order to help with the confusion, I’ve ranked the months of the year from best to worst.

October – When we say that we love the changing of the seasons, we’re not talking about sixteen daily hours of darkness in the beginning of winter. We’re not talking about freezing rain and icy roads in the spring; and we’re definitely not talking about sweltering, smokey afternoons  in July. We’re talking about the first nips of freezing air, of warm days and cold nights. Of golden larch and and anxious energy that comes with headlines like this. We’re talking about October. So throw on a sweater, grab a pumpkin spice latte, and go ride your mountain bike for a while. This is the best damn time of the year.

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Good ‘ol October. There’s a tent in there somewhere.

March – March was a close #2. The days are long, the weather is pleasant, and the snow keeps piling up. Everyone who’s not paying attention is chomping at the bit to go ride bikes, and the backcountry seems emptier than it ought to for having the best skiing of the year.

February – February is when ski season turns on. And really, skiing is one of, like, three or four things in life that are actually worth doing. February gets a minor demerits for hosting the worst holiday, but it makes up for it with the three day ski extravaganza known as Presidents’ Day.

Sweet, sweet February.

November – In November the short days are still novel and the cold mornings are invigorating. Thanksgiving kicks off the winter holiday season, and if we’re honest, beats the hell out of Christmas (I can’t speak to Hanukkah). If you’re lucky you might get a day or two of skiing in, and if you’re not you can still usually ride bikes. If you’re burned out on being outside, that’s fine too; November is a great time for catching up on your reading, dialing in the SEO for your website, or just drinking alone in the dark.

May – Boom! It’s couloir season. The sun’s out again, you can kind of go for mountain bike rides, and the steep snow is staying put. Also it’s my birthday, so . . .

Buddy Steve and Buddy Pagel working out the enigma of May couloir season.

September – September has a lot going for it. Historically I bet it was right up there with October. But frankly, that ship has sailed. September’s spending more time looking like August, and, well, we’ll talk about August later. Climate change is ruining September, and we have no one to blame but ourselves. No one but ourselves and whoever keeps electing Lamar Smith.

June – As far as enduring warm weather goes, June makes it pretty pleasant. It’s not too hot yet and the whole “summer” thing still feels fresh. Have a cookout. Go for a walk. Crack a Bud Light Lime. Enjoy the fact that it’s still not August.

April – I’m not really sure why April is so far down on the list. It feels like it should be up higher. The skiing is still good, and the road riding is coming into form (if you’re into that kind of thing). Some of the lower trails are even open. Maybe April is better than this?

I guess April isn’t all bad.

December – December would be worse if it wasn’t so much fun. It’s dark. It’s mysterious. The skiing is usually lousy but staggering from sweater party to sweater party kind of makes it worth it. Best month? Not by a long shot. Even a pretty good month? Not really. But at least it’s not August.

January – Meh.

July – July hurts my feelings because it should be so good. I remember lovely warm July evenings, chasing lightning bugs and playing Ghost in the Graveyard with kids from the block. I have such warm nostalgia for the month. But it’s been burning us recently, and I take that personally. If you want to call Lamar Smith (see September) and tell him that he’s ruining your childhood, you can reach him at his direct line: (202) 225-4236.

August – Let’s be real: Fuck August. August is the worst month. It’s hot. It’s smokey. The trails are dusty. Everyone around you seems to think that just because it’s sunny out you should somehow be in a good mood or something. F that. I hope August chokes on a pretzel.

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Slowing Down after Going Slowly

~ TheGentlemanAtLarge ~ Leave a comment

When we got out of the car near the ponds it was still dark except for a faint grey that backlit the jagged black horizon of the Mission Mountains. Our breath clouded in front of our faces and our boots broke through the ice that formed overnight in the rutted road. It was almost ten years ago now that my friend Ben and I crunched through the ice and frozen grass with shotguns and a thermos of coffee and he took me out duck hunting for the first time.

A few hours after we left the car the sun was up and we’d sweated through our warm clothes. We found ourselves cradling small porcelain cups of threadbare drip coffee in Connie’s Countryside Cafe, across the highway and down the road from where we hadn’t shot any ducks. “You gotta let ‘em get way closer,” Ben told me. “You can’t shoot a duck from 200 yards.”

I’m not a great hunter. I grew up in a place where the word “gun” invoked news clips of gang violence rather than crisp October dawns and the whine of an elk bugle. Meat came from the grocery store on a styrofoam tray. When I eventually bought a rifle my aunt asked my if I had turned into a Republican and she was serious.  

But in Montana I was drawn to it. I liked the ethic of healthy, sustainable harvest. Of being a part of the ecosystem, rather than just watching it on tv. I kept my college roommate, a lifetime hunter, awake for countless nights with questions about the difference between a mule deer and a whitetail, a license and a tag, and what kind of gun I should get to learn how to hunt. I found an affordable rifle, and later an affordable shotgun. I embraced the challenge with early mornings, long days, and no clue what I was doing.

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Here’s a picture of my dog who’s also not a great hunter but likes to try. We’re a good match.

 

It turns out hunting public land in Montana is pretty hard. In ten years I’ve shot two deer, three grouse, and really scared about a half-dozen ducks, but I know skilled hunters who have filled their freezers with more than that in a day. Eventually I stopped saying that I was going hunting, and started saying that I was going for a “rifle hike,” but the ceremony of it kept me coming back. It was an opportunity to get up early, and to see a part of the world I wouldn’t otherwise. To move deliberately and be alone for a while.

But like anything, passions evolve and interests change. My enthusiasm for the sport has ebbed and flowed over the years. After a few seasons I started racing. Racing bikes took the limelight from rock climbing in the summers, ice climbing in the winter, and chasing ungulates through a haze of confusion all fall.

With racing came training. Training is a word for when you take something fun, that you enjoy, and make it into something unfun, a chore that hangs over the evening somewhere between work and dinner, and has a way of occupying most of your life if you’re not careful.

A friend from out of town asked me, the local, for a place to go for a hike. He wanted to know where I go when I hike. It dawned on me then that I don’t hike. I go for trail runs. I ride my bike in the backcountry. If I do hike, it’s a kind of aerobic training experience where I still wear running shorts and don’t bring enough water and end up really tired.

I haven’t raced seriously in a couple of years now, but I’ve still let the idea of training govern how I spend my leisure. I still go for trail runs instead of hikes, and find myself riding my bike at lactic threshold for no good reason at all. I like the sensation of discomfort and training, but I also miss the calm of a more patient sport. I simply lack the willpower or the attention to slow down and breathe.

And I think that’s why I feel myself being drawn back to hunting. It forces you to slow down. When you’re a crappy hunter every day of hunting is really just a hike.

PLODding Along: Day 8

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PLOD Plot Here

steepsJunuary in western Montana is in full swing, bringing with it bike rides and trail runs in shorts. It’s also heaping wood on the ski stoke fire, all while killing the skiing.

These warm, sunny days remind me of one of the most magical times of year, when the days are long, the temps are warm, and the steep snow is stable. This time last year we had another bout of high pressure with warm daytime highs and clear, cold nights that settled down the snowpack and saw many ambitious, save-it-for-May type objectives be sent in January. These unseasonably pleasant spells help to scratch a couloir itch and regenerate excitement for the powder skiing and meadow hopping that has a knack for coming back in February and March.

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Warm temps and dry(ish) trails mid-winter.
Except right now it’s not. With nighttime lows throughout the region in the low 40s even above 7,000 feet, the freeze/thaw cycle that builds stability has been replaced with a thaw/thaw cycle that does not. Reports indicate that skiers all over the Bitterroot pulled the plug early last weekend, and that the Snowbowl bar sold many more pizzas and pitchers than one-day lift tickets.

But complaining about the weather never changed it, so I guess it’s time to dust off the road bike or something. I hear it’s cold in Cooke City.

Day 7:
2hr 17min – Trail run
46min – Town run (this was too much running)

Day 8:
1hr 10min – Momentum
52min – Run
54min – Hockey

The updated PLOD Plot is available at the top of the page. Eight days in and I’m getting very tired again. The legs are heavy but spirits are high, as long as I can sleep enough.