Reading: Feenie Ziner, Within This Wilderness, and Margaret George, Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

Moving: Saturday: 8904' vertical feet of skiing (which means a lot more than that of horizontal traversing). Otherwise nothing.

Viewing: The usual Sunday stuff

Learning: what real powder is like, what the land west of Kremmling looks like, that I like Steamboat Springs, and how much Margaret George's Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles jibes and contradicts Antonia Fraser's Mary Queen of Scots (lots).

11-14 February 2000: Steamboat Springs

We need to move to Steamboat Springs. Aspen's a great town, but we couldn't've afforded to spend so much time there if we hadn't been crashing at CLH's. Breckenridge seems like a great town as well. The difference between these two and Steamboat is snow, snow, and more snow. I have never seen so much snow. It's a Good Thing.

I left work at noon on Friday, calling it sick time. And I was sick, which is unusual for me, and sick on the eve of a vacation, too. We packed the car with snowshoes, a sleeping bag (in case of stranding), and Blake. No, we had not found a place where we could have Blake. The vet would be our first stop.

Everyone at the vet remembered Blake and he jumped on anyone's shoulder he could, just to stay out of his cage. This was the first time he's boarded since their new facility was finished and it's very big and light and airy but I don't think Blake cared about any of that. The technician set his cage opposite a Quaker, we kissed him goodbye and left, and he screamed twice before we got out of earshot.

Three more stops and we were on our way: REI for freshly tuned skis, Conoco for gas, Alfalfa's for groceries. We got interesting raviolis, a salad dressing with sesame and seaweed, an oil infused with garlic, oranges, our favorite Italian bread from Breadworks, shrimp, and no dessert at all. Hitting I-70 well before most people skipped out of work, we made excellent time on the interstate, didn't see any elk or big-horn sheep, crossed the divide at Berthoud Pass without incident, and picked up Route 40 through Winter Park and Fraser. West of Kremmling on Route 40 was new territory for me (RDC has been somewhat west of there fishing but he doesn't remember where).

New territory and new snow. We passed ranches whose fences were snowed almost under. The tops of fenceposts on southern slopes or facing predominant winds were visible; also some borders were marked with tracks of some sort. RDC suggested snowmobiles as the most likely, but the tracks left sculpted wakes in the snow two and three feet high. I think the ranchers probably drag something or other to make these peaks and troughs, in order to supplement the fences. Cattle can walk over a snowed-over fence, but maybe they don't like forcing themselves over snowdunes.

Only occasionally through clouds and snow could we see the peaks of the Rabbit Ears range. Muddy and Rabbit Ear passes promised to be fun. We climbed, and crossed the divide again at Muddy Pass, kind of: basically you straddle the divide for the several miles between the two. Again on the Pacific side after Rabbit Ears Pass, we began to descend into Steamboat Springs. At first I saw only a few lights in a great flat expanse of white and thought this really was the small western town it's hailed as. As we descended I realized the expanse was a frozen lake (probably a reservoir) and the lights were snowmobiles, bunches of people playing bumpercars at night. So I admit it: I thought something about snowmobiles was pretty, before I knew what they were.

Around more curves and on the final descent, the real town of Steamboat came into view. Lots of sodium lights, just like a regular town. Clouds masked the peaks and would continue to for the whole long weekend, so I'm still not sure of the basic geography but if Steamboat's not surrounded by mountains it's certainly hemmed in on three sides pretty tightly.

We found our condo, Sunterra, and registered. In the lobby I looked through the binder of sales brochures looking for hot springs not requiring bathing suits and in a quick perusal found none. I resolved to look closely later, and we went out to drive to our building. There was a noise overhead, and we looked up. A large, tawny owl swooped to land on the peak of the office. Mesmerized, we watched until it flew away, a few minutes later and behind the building (so we didn't get another look at it).

Leaving the snowshoes and sleeping bag in the car in the garage, we hauled our stuff upstairs. Home sweet home: the door opened to an entry with the kitchen on the right, dining table ahead, and a hallway to the left. The hallway, with a ski closet on the left, led ahead to a huge bathroom and to the bedroom on the right. The bedroom had a window seat under its big window and the living room sliding glass doors to a deck. Those were the only windows, and those were enough.

When I emerged into the living room, the fireplace was lit. "That was fast," I said to RDC, not too quick on the uptake.
"Didn't you hear me crumpling newspaper?" he said with the grin that always gives him away.
"It's a gas fireplace," I realized.

We had salad and bread with brie for supper, unpacked slightly, and retired early for an early morning start, but not before a calamity. "Fuck," I muttered, realizing. I recently bought a new sort of toothbrush that's longer than my toothbrush case, so instead of in my knapsack, my traveling toothbrush now lives in the questionable protection of my desk drawer at work. I had no toothbrush. The front desk told me there was a vending machine in the lobby, and I tried that. It excelled at changing my dollar bills into quarters but at dispensing the little toothbrush and wee tube of Colgate from slot E8 it failed miserably. So I ventured out to City Market and then brushed my teeth and went to bed. The "early morning start" didn't happen: we didn't board the gondola until 10:30. But we hadn't had to drive beforehand, which was something.

Freshly sharpened edges, freshly waxed bottoms, and freshly fallen powder. Not just freshly fallen but freshly falling powder. It was warm, considering that it was snowing hard enough that visibility stretched maybe a quarter of a mile most of the day, but wet. And oh, it was great stuff. The best snow I've ever skied. The best skiing I've ever done, the steepest. RDC was really proud of me. The snow hadn't settled into packed moguls, so in my determined traverses I cut through them instead of having to ski up and down them, but still it was an achievement for me. My boots didn't hurt and I was skiing, somewhat parallel on smoother blues and upright, at least, on the rough ones.

Unfortunately I was sick, and after every few traverses I would rest, panting and coughing and hacking, at the edge of a slope. There were slopes I know I could have tackled if I had been fresh and healthy, but I wasn't. I called it a day before 3:00, and RDC came with me.

Our own condo had jacuzzis and a steamroom, and thither we hied ourselves. At first I tried the indoor jacuzzi, but through the steamy window I saw an outdoor one and sprinted for it. It had more people, but it was outside and snow fell thickly all around. My misanthropic streak waxed very dark and heavy here. None of the five moved to make room for me when I arrived, but I got in anyway. Some wore glasses, despite the fact that steam rendered these apparatuses useless. (Mine sensibly lay folded in their case in my locker. Anyone blinder than I could have kept them near the jacuzzi and not four corners away in a locker, but wearing them made no sense.) All drank beer, despite the signs saying "no alcoholic beverages"--perhaps because their steamed-over glasses made it impossible to read?--and what's more did so out of cans marked "Michelob Light." They all seemed to know each other, a group of friends on vacation together, and all seemed to be from out of state, considering how they ranked on day-trippers from Denver. One preferred Steamboat to Aspen, he said, because it doesn't have a Gay Ski Week.

RDC had had to scamper back to the room because he'd forgotten his swimsuit, so when he arrived I was happy to have an ally. Except before he arrived, another two members of the group had showed up--for whom the others did squish together--so by this time there really wasn't room. He headed instead for the steam room and I returned to the less populous indoor jacuzzi. RDC had said the steam room would be good for my lungs, so I tried that just as RDC had reached his own limit. It was about 120 degrees of pure chlorinated humidity, and I lasted less than two minutes--RDC had stuck it out for ten.

At some point I am going to find a natural outdoor hot spring in which I can relax au naturel with that sort of person. Between bathing suits, bad beer, and bitchery, the condo's own offerings had left me cold.

So we warmed ourselves up first in the shower and then by the fireplace. I finished Within This Wilderness and returned to Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles. After supper, we split the treat I'd bought at City Market: Godiva Chocolate and Raspberry Mousse Truffle Ice Cream (or something like that). I'd bought my first container in Old Lyme in June but CLH and I hadn't eaten it and I'd been meaning to try it for the past eight months. So we did. I recommend it highly.

Skiing almost always wipes me out, and being ill more than made up for the lower-than-usual altitude (Steamboat's peaks are about level with Summit County's bases, I think). Sunday morning I sent RDC off on his own. I spent the day in the armchair, feet on the ottoman, under a thick velvety blanket, with the gas fire, in front of the slider with its limited but very snowy view, and with book, tissues, water, and television remote to hand. Except for hacking up globs of phlegm, and not being able to nap any more than I had been able to sleep in the predawn hours after my Nyquil wore off, and chastising myself for wanting internet access, and not being able to read in any focused manner, it was pretty sweet. Well. The first, second, and fourth problems wouldn't've happened if I hadn't been sick, but if I hadn't been sick I would have been skiing instead.

window seat and mirrorThe condo had a window seat in the bedroom and a huge mirrored closet.

Neither of us wanted to seek out proper hot springs that night, or even improper ones. So we didn't. Instead we spent that Sunday night on vacation exactly as we do at home: 60 Minutes, Simpsons, Malcolm in the Middle, and X-Files.

Charles Schulz is dead. The Peanuts are gone forever. Dana quoted Schulz saying "Happiness isn't very funny." This is true. Schulz gave me another mote of wisdom by which I prefer to live, however, which reads approximately, "It's my coloring book and I'll color the bunnies whatever way I want."

Monday we planned to explore the town before going home. I trudged behind RDC and between the huge snow drifts plowed between road and sidewalk. I didn't find myself a new ring but we found a wedding present for DMB and JJT. Sooby, now living in Albuquerque, gave us a similar thing for our wedding. A Navajo wedding vase has two spouts. The bride and groom drink from the two different spouts and then the vase is never used again. RDC thought of this in Santa Fe, while we were at the Museum of Indian Art, but we hadn't yet found a vase. We looked in the Museum's gift shop, but it sold only Fine Art stuff. Even the smallest of its vases were hundreds of dollars. We've looked in Denver but found nothing more meaningful than Kokopelli.

The store we found, right on Lincoln Avenue in the middle of the touristy strip of Steamboat Springs, proffered goods that probably weren't chock-full of tribal significance either. And that's a good thing; anything fraught with religious meaning shouldn't be bought or sold (or processed, thank you Lloyd Dobbler) like the merest trinket. The two spouts emerge from a pot-bellied bowl; the bowl was carved before firing. At the top is carved a mountain, signifying a house of good spirits, and circumnavigating the bowl are bands of symbols or icons or hieroglyphs: of wind, rain, eagles, herbs, and wind again.

We got one of a pinkish hue we thought DMB would like best. How Bahana of us to select something by color rather than craftsmanship. I said as much to RDC, and the salesman grinned. So it goes.

The only other thing I remember from town is the dogs. Outside another store we met Bodie, a golden retriever/malamute cross, and Marley, a Labrador/Australian shepherd cross. I've met a few of the latter cross but never one of former, and he was beautiful. And only four months old, the ideal age for a dog. So I fell in love. Not only did everyone stop to pet the dogs but some people even wanted photographs of them. The dogs' person decided she should charge for this. People'd pay, too. These were great dogs.

Also Steamboat reminded me of Aspen. Shocking.Steamboat or Aspen?

We saw a sign for a health food store up a side street and decided to get a quick bite before we left. On the way, we met a bear. Nearly. A Newfoundland, huge and furry and about the size of a black bear. All the dogs were wet with melting snow, but the Newfie, being a Newfie, smelled worse than the other two combined. It butted its head against my leg, not cold I'm sure but wanting to be pet, and I enthusiastically complied. I checked its tags for a name: Dakota.

Sigh.

The health food store reminded me of Still Life in Fremont cafˇ because of the amazing vegetable sandwich they put together for RDC. I had a smoothie, which is all I've wanted for the past three days. Vitamins and no chewing.

A woman at the next table and I simultaneously read Jerry Lewis's comments from Aspen in Steamboat Today and we clucked in hysterical dismay. Because, of course, that's all we are, she and I, baby-producing biddies who aren't funny. I wish Pamie'd gone to Aspen so she could've written up a first-hand perspective. First-hand, but not funny: a woman's lot.

Driving home was hairy. We saw elk in a field with horses (who didn't seem to mind) eating their grain, and, once down in the plains, a prairie hawk perched on a roadside electrical box, but in between, we saw snow and accidents. Ahead of us climbing Rabbit Ears Pass, a big SUV spun out and the 18-wheeler behind it barely could avoid it. The driver spared himself by steering into the roadside snowbank. Everyone crawled along the passes, leaving big gaps between the car ahead and behind, except anotehr SUV who needed to pass a semi hauling a dozen new cars, needed to pass it on an incline, needed to be in the opposing lane to pass, and was in our lane as we topped the hill and faced the idiot.

In Grand and Summit counties there was almost no snow except near the Eisenhower Tunnel. We decided to go home that way instead of Berthoud because Eisenhower is better maintained and is less often closed for avalanches. The road was clearer, but still slushy and still with falling snow, but because it's an interstate, people, especially those driving SUVs, think they don't have to slow down. Ascending and descending at the tunnel, we saw, no lie, five vehicles freshly planted in snowbanks. Four were SUVs and only one regular car. The nice thing about hitting snowbanks is that they're a lot more forgiving than trees or other vehicles.

I was going to write about this whole weekend in white font, so it wouldn't show against my white background, because that's how it was: snow from mid-afternoon Friday to mid-afternoon Monday, just the way winter ought to be.

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Last modified 15 February 2000

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