Nutrition Tips for the Dirtbag Athlete

Many of you have made your way to this site out of a shared passion for being outside. We share a zeal for crisp October mornings, in light snow and in coffee before dawn. In starry desert nights, in finally sending your project, and in cold beers with good friends after a long day on the trail.

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Fuel for the trail ahead.

But getting to the end of a long day in the mountains means, well, that you need to make it to the end of the day. You can have all the right gear and great fitness, but to survive a 10,000 foot day of ski touring, you need to eat right.

And in the spirit of the other week’s primer on setting skintracks, I’d like to offer a few nutrition tips on how best to keep your energy up for the long day ahead:

  • Finish your buddy’s breakfast – Nothing says “I’m really looking forward to having my life entirely in your hands this afternoon” like asking, “are you going to finish that?” while you’re topping off the tank before the trailhead. This is most effective after not ordering breakfast yourself, and mentioning that you ate at home. In the awkward time between the last refill of coffee and paying the check, start picking at stray hashbrowns on your partner’s plate and go from there.
  • Bacon by the pound – There’s a strong correlation between towns with good skiing and towns with hipster grocery stores. There’s also a strong correlation between hipster grocery stores and food buffets that charge by the pound. When confronted with a by-weight eatery, the intrepid dirtbag knows better than to waste precious grams on things like potatoes, condiments, and vegetables.
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    Pepperjack cheese is often overlooked as a staple.

    In Missoula, at the Good Food Store, the hot bar price is $7.50 per pound, regardless of what’s on your plate. Well, my friends, that hot bar has bacon on it, and bacon is hard to come by raw for much less than $7.50/lb. Load up on cooked bacon at a discount, and if you can’t finish it with breakfast, be sure to lay in stores of pocket-bacon for a pre-lunch snack.

  • Hostess – The great staple of poor athletes: Hostess. The first time I rode my bike more than 100 miles, it was actually 135 miles. I was about 19, inexperienced, and riding with much stronger companions. The only way I survived to collapse into my tent was with the gratuitous ingestion of Hostess Fruit Pies and gas station burritos. In 2012 Hostess Brands faced bankruptcy and liquidated warehouses of product. Those savvy consumers in the audience stocked up when the market was hot.
  • Gels – Gels go by many names: gel, gu, etc. They are generally vile, but do offer a couple of real benefits. They’re an excellent proxy for how tired you are; if the gel tasted good, and maybe you’d like another, then you are very, very tired. The marketing departments will tell you that their proprietary blend of simple carbohydrates and electrolytes is easy your stomach and will keep you energized to perform your best; the scientists will tell you that that’s what PopTarts are for. Never pay for gels. They can be found slowly coagulating in the bottom of of every 10k race packet on earth, next to the car wash coupons and safety pins.
  • PB&J – Gels can snatch you from the depths of hypoglycemic despair, but there’s a limit to what the soul can endure. Better men that me have been fundamentally broken by diets too rich in “sports product.” The bread and butter of the dedicated dirtbag athlete is, literally, bread and butter. Peanut butter, that is, with a little jelly and, (if you’re feeling fancy) some banana. The peanut butter and jelly sandwich is as simple and reliable as it is time tested. More first ascents have been powered by PB&Js than by any other food source[citation needed], so throw a couple in your pocket and hit the trail.
  • Michelada – The dreamers among us know that no today can beat the promise of tomorrow, and it’s important to be well rested and ready for the next big thing. For proper recovery, I recommend a specifically tuned blend of electrolytes, carbohydrates, and the anti inflammatory properties of alcohol: The Bud Light Michelada. It’s spicy, it’s refreshing, it’s technically got vegetables. You earned it, so crack one on the drive home.

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I Love Craigslist

Several months ago I was indulging in one of my favorite morning rituals. I had a piping hot cup of coffee, and before the rigors of the work day took hold I spent a few minutes nipping at the crema on top of my americano while I scrolled through Craigslist.

I love Craigslist.

I wasn’t looking for anything in particular; I almost never am. It’s very rare that I buy something on there. But there’s something exciting about wading through tomes of other peoples’ refuse on the off chance that a gem pops up. It’s the same impulse that drove thousands of young men to California and Alaska in search of gold. It’s the same impulse that drove many of you to buy a Powerball ticket in the face of impossible odds. It was the impulse that brought me to The Patriot.

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Just another reason I love Craigslist.

There’s a lot of crap on Craigslist. A quick search turns up old stereo systems and gaming consoles, parts of aluminum ladders, and a finger skateboard (remember Tech Decks?). There’s certainly no shortage of old, rusted, unreliable vehicles that eager sellers are waiting to pawn off onto the next unsuspecting sap. By all rights, a rust bucket of a ’97 F-250 and a much older camper fit that description.

Fist sized holes have rusted through the wheel wells and there are cigarette burns on the upholstery. The stereo doesn’t work and the brakes rub. The camper used to leak, and I suspect that it still kind of does. It smells like a $40 motel room. The headlights allow for a safe nighttime velocity of about 45 mph. But the tires are still good and the engine purrs, and for $1,500 it was too good a deal to say no. I scrambled out the door like the prospectors of ’49 and by lunchtime held the keys to my brand new home away from home.

This is not a blog post about the untold possibilities of life on the road or a buyer beware horror story of inherited automotive woes. There’s time for all that. This is the story of the more than 100 MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) that were stuffed into every cabinet of the camper.

The MREs were mentioned briefly in the ad, but the extent of their volume didn’t sink in until after I got home. Almost every cubic inch of storage space in the camper was filled with plastic packets of beef stroganoff and vegetarian omelettes, and in order to store anything at all I would have to get rid of the meals. After brief consideration it was clear that I had no choice but to list them to the Craigslist barter section.

I could have listed them for cash, or laid them in with the barrels of water and cases of ammunition that I keep in the basement for when Ben Carson is elected President and the Canadians take the opportunity invade. But that didn’t seem in the spirit of what I thought was a bonus to the camper purchase. And really, Craigslist is like a throwback to the markets of Constantinople with the database indexing capabilities of today. It’s the greatest social experiment of our time, if we only choose to make it so.

So here’s how the ad read:

100+ MREs for trade – all offers welcome (missoula)

I recently acquired more than 100 government issue MREs (by honest means, I swear!). At first I was just going to sell them, but then thought the barter section is a better bet.

Here’s your chance to stock the bug out bag, sponsor a boy scout camp out, or host the gnarliest eating contest the 3am paid programming slots has ever seen. you can even mail them to those knuckleheads in Oregon if you want.

Assorted entrees, all offers considered.

I think the typos really sold it.

It may be my prejudices showing through, but I thought that the kind of people who make a habit of perusing the Craigslist barter section and are piqued by more than 100 MREs would have something interesting to say. It turns out that prejudices are hard won. Here is an incomplete list of things that I have been offered in the last few days:

  • An antique Sears Roebuck chainsaw
  • Aluminum ramps for loading an ATV into a truck
  • A 50cc Suzuki motorcycle (ran when it was parked!)
  • Other antique chainsaws
  • Granite counter tops for my kitchen and/or bathroom
  • A large variety of firearms
  • A larger quantity of ammunition
  • Advice that my perceived value of the MREs is greatly inflated (with citations)
  • A 1991 Pontiac Firebird (engine and transmission are included, but not installed)
  • A mounted ram’s head

I’m very much looking forward to seeing how the rest of this plays out. And if you know anyone looking to trade in preparation for the apocalypse, be sure to send ’em my way, I’m still taking offers!

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Skintrack Etiquette: a primer for the uninitiated

New snow means new beginnings. The tracks of last weekend are not so different from workplace angst; we leave them behind for a few days once a week to recharge and recuperate. A fresh blanket of snow is the incarnation of opportunity. You, the backcountry skier, are unbound by roads and trails, and have absolute power over where you go.

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The freedom can be intoxicating, but I’m here to remind you that with great power comes great responsibility. And so I would like to cover a few guidelines for skintrack etiquette.

  • The Skintrack* is an Extension of your Manhood – If you only learn one thing from this guide, learn this: The skintrack is an extension of your manhood. Not comfortable hucking a 30 foot cliff into breakable crust? That’s ok. Don’t quite feel like pulling 5 Gs as you carve out of that steep couloir? Don’t sweat it. As backcountry skiers we spend 90% of our time walking uphill, and so that’s clearly the best time to demonstrate our innate superiority over our partners.
  • Set a Steep Skintrack – You should always set a skintrack along the steepest grade possible. This is generally directly up the fall line, but occasionally requires short, squiggly switchbacks. Be sure to utilize every heel riser available and disregard the people behind you slipping backwards on the now icy track. Remember, setting a steep skintrack is a sign of unbridled masculinity, and it’s well documented that the steeper your uptrack, the more women will want to mate with you.
  • Never Share the Work – Breaking trail is significantly more difficult than hiking along an established skintrack. In some cultures it is considered acceptable to share this work, and take turns on the front. Well, my friend, some cultures approve of sister-dating and cannibalism, too. You should never relinquish the front of the line, as doing so is an act of weakness. If you bonk at noon and force the group to turn back early, that’s merely a show of your enthusiasm for the dawn. Good form.
  • Make Your Own – If you make the all too common faux pas of skiing with someone less manly than you, you may find that they set a skintrack differently that you might have. Best practices suggest that you should diverge from their path and set your own. This is the best way to identify yourself as an ideal mate to members of the opposite sex if you don’t happen to be currently breaking trail.

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  • Step on the Tails – Another option for demonstrating your superiority is to walk on the tails of the person in the front. Disregard the fact that walking in the front is much harder. Actually . . . don’t disregard that. Use it to your advantage. Be sure to walk on the ski tails of whomever is breaking trail. This will disparage their fitness and discourage them. When they step to the side it will allow you to regain your rightful position in the front.
  • Show up Hungover – Occasionally, you will ski with someone who is in better shape than you. Under normal circumstances this would be a sleight to your social status, and the best way to head it off is to drink 15 beers the night before you meet up for a big day in the mountains. A hangover is the get out of jail free card for a lackluster performance on the skintrack. If you sufficiently poison yourself the night before a day of skiing, just making it to the trailhead amounts to a victory over your peers. Nevermind that you’re a liability in the backcountry, those haters can only aspire to the glory of your single handed 1:59am Fireball shot ski.
  • Pee in it – The last ditch effort toward inflicting yourself on the backcountry experience of your party: take a piss on the skintrack. Sure, you could have stepped to the side, or at least pointed out of the way, but that’s the kind of move that Jack McCall or Robert Ford would have pulled. Not you. You’re a real outlaw. Damn convention; damn the man. You pee on that skintrack and let the world know that you’re a force to be reckoned with. If you do it right, they’ll smell the Hamm’s on it a mile away.

*Skintrack (n) – The route and means by which a backcountry skier or snowboarder ascends a slope. It is done by affixing climbing skins (originally made of moose or elk skin, but now usually crafted from nylon) to the bottom of the ski to provide traction against the snow.

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At the Heart of Angst

“I think I’m ready to get a dog,” I told my mother. “And plant a garden. I think I’m ready for tomatoes.”

The time I spent in Latin America was formative in the way that only travelling alone can be. It was an opportunity to party with Belgians, sip mezcal with smugglers in a candlelit bar, and smoke Cuban cigars on the roof while volcanoes spewed lava under a full moon. I read Hemingway and Dosdoyevsky and watched pirated DVDs of shit TV when I was too sick to hold a book. It was a chance to be in a kind of social vacuum, away from friends and family, to look at what I like and who I want to be. After six months I found that I wanted to be at home.

When I got off a plane in Seattle, my hair was greasy and long. I had dirt underneath my fingernails, and what clothes I still had with me were stained or torn. I smelled very bad and had dozens of dollars to my name. Half a year as a trekking guide in Guatemala left me weary from the road and ready to put down roots.

For a while I was happy to build a life in a little mountain oasis with a dog and a row of tomatoes, but a few years later I quit a good job to drive to Mexico for a while. The garden had mostly failed, and the dog seemed happy to come along.

In the car I had good company and a folding chair and a long book, but the expectations of the trip were different from my time in Guatemala. I wasn’t so much looking for anything in particular so much as the experience of being on the road. Of moving every day and not thinking beyond what kind of ceviche we might have after a nap.

A nomadic inclination is natural, I think, for humans. Ten thousand years ago we wandered across the Bering Straight after game. Pre-Christian civilizations spanned Eurasia, Colonial Europeans mapped the globe, and two centuries ago new settlers trickled westward across a continent already claimed by a different sect of wanderers. Restlessness is as fundamental a part of the human experience as oral history and sharing fire.

But it’s not quite as simple as that, because we’re also driven to stay put and build. We discovered the wheel, and the written word flourished in the relative calm of agrarian society. Whether we’re piling sticks for a shelter or cultivating a field for grain or engineering a high rise apartment, what sets humankind apart is our industry and our drive to improve our place.

That disparity is at the heart of angst.

Not that long ago I drove through Idaho with the dog. The radio didn’t work and cell coverage was a distant memory. I was simply alone with a panting companion. At a gas station in Ketchum a man well into his 40s came to the passenger window, and the dog woke from a nap to greet him.

“Just you and your buddy, huh?” he asked. A Volkswagon van has a way of inviting conversation. The man drove a fifty thousand dollar Chevrolet, and in the back seat his young son was spreading chocolate ice cream across the upholstery. He looked through the van and saw the bits of camping gear spread out. He saw ski boots and a propane stove and a broken paperback, and his eyes glazed over with a kind of longing or instantaneous regret for every decision he’d made in his life. He wanted to talk about the van.

What he didn’t see was that I was sick. My eyes watered and my throat bled, and the van didn’t start when I turned the key. There was no bed in the back. I’d been sleeping alone in the desert, but never more than a few hours a night. There was sand in my toothbrush. I didn’t know if the engine was blown, or if the problem was electrical. If I needed a jump or a new battery or if the starter had finally gone. I did know that I didn’t have the money to fix it and that even under the best conditions the only place I wanted to be was still a day’s drive away. That I longed for a comfortable pickup truck with air conditioning and a good radio and that cruised at 80 miles an hour on the highway.

A man’s eyes turn desperate when he’s been on the road for too long, but if he sits still they soften and let the spark die out. I’m not exactly sure how we’re supposed to spend our time, but maybe that’s the point.

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Special Edition Fiction: Things Left Behind

The day the fire started it was one of those hot August afternoons where the creosote sweats black from the railroad timbers and the raptors that hunt along the fencelines don’t flap their wings but every once in a while. Up the road a pair of swaybacked drafthorses browsed over brittle grass and dodged the sun beneath the few alders that lined their fence. Get your things, she told the boy, and he went to his room to fill a bag with his folded clothes and dinosaur books and the rock he found in the river with the stripes of purple in it. Just one bag, they’ll be here soon and we’ll have to go.

Upstairs, the boy looked around the room. The errant things of boyhood were scattered around or pasted to the walls. Grass-stained blue jeans poked from under a hastily made bed. Faded posters of the World Series hung askew above piles of brokeback National Geographics. A mason jar sat on the dresser, half-filled with gifts of square shaped coins and a small elephant carved of ivory. A .30-30 shell all turquoise with corrosion and a bone-handled folding knife.

The boy reached into the jar and removed the heavy, pale-colored knife. He opened the two blades and pressed them, first one, then the other, against the meaty part of his palm. They had been honed to thin strips of rusted steel from two lifetimes of sharpening but were dull now and didn’t break the skin. He placed it next to the jar.

He walked down the stairs, setting his feet carefully on the edges of certain steps. He knew which ones squeaked in the middle and tried to move silently even though now the woman waited for him downstairs and he wasn’t sneaking anywhere. The last three steps creaked no matter where the boy stepped on them so he leapt, with one hand on the wall and the other on the banister, and set himself softly on the floor. Be careful, she said, and hurry.

She took a thick, worn book from the shelf and held the soft leather backing between her hands. The family album, she heard her mother’s voice, is the only thing you go into a burning house for. Between its covers were old photos of grandparents she didn’t know and sunburned summers at the lake. Birth certificates and death certificates and a wedding photo of her parents that was mostly all yellow now. She didn’t open the book but tucked it under her arm and with her other hand held the boy’s. He looked like he would cry. He didn’t and when she squeezed his hand he squeezed back. Don’t cry, Momma, he said.

That morning before the fire started and they had to leave it had been cool and dew beaded on the yellow grass behind their timber house. She made pancakes for the boy because it was a Saturday and the school bus wouldn’t come to the end of the gravel driveway and open the door and take him away. The huckleberries were gone but she had a bag of them in the freezer and she put them in his pancakes the way he liked.

She had gone outside and wetted the garden with a hose so that the sun would not scorch the palegreen leaves of the butter lettuce heads. The boy had ridden his bicycle up and down the gravel road and fed carrots and potatoes to the horses that lived near them. He liked to feed them vegetables from the garden and she scolded him but not so harshly that he didn’t still sometimes sneak through the gate and pull up a turnip or a carrot. They were chestnut colored with tufts of blond around their feet and very tall, but they seemed to like the boy and were gentle when he fed them.

When the sky turned dark it was still warm but the wind was blowing and the boy went home and left his bike in the yard. She scolded him about leaving his bike out in the rain and he said, I’m sorry Momma and moved it to the shed where it would stay dry and not rust later. She said it’s ok but when lightning struck from the storm and the wisps of smoke crept down the valley and in through the kitchen window she said they would leave the bike in the shed and hope it didn’t burn. She turned the sprinkler from the garden to the roof of the house and the smoke from the fire came more thickly and it tickled the boy’s throat.

After the smoke wafted down the valley and through the open window she answered a knocking on the door and it was another boy who looked not a lot older than her own. He wore heavy leather boots, green trousers, and a dirty yellow shirt. He told her that they would have to leave their home and that he would do his best to help. It was her mother’s home she said and now it’s just a house. The boy in the yellow shirt said yes ma’am and tried very hard to look solemn but couldn’t help the way the corners of his mouth curled like in a smile. She wasn’t even sure she saw a smile as much as sensed that it was there, the movement of his lips was so small. It was the kind of smirk that young men get when there’s a story to survive. They know it comes with heartbreak but sorrow in the telling will make them more a man, they think. She couldn’t hate him for hoping for disaster and thanked him and he left.

Get your things, she told the boy. Just one bag, they’ll be here soon and we’ll have to go.

Things Left Behind originally ran in Camas Magazine. You can find the rest of the story in the Winter 2015 edition.

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