Rest In Peace, Gary Fisher…

Once upon a time there lived a immoderate Crevice Dwelling Geezer who derived great joy from summit hikes and peddling his hard tail mountain bike up roads and trails with ridiculous inclines. It was a solitary ritual for the most part. After all, what fully witted person willingly chooses gruel and suffering? But physical trials release such a rush of endorphins, a whitewash of mind, body, and soul, that they soon became his drug of choice.

We Partied Like It Was 1999, Cause It Was…

"I saw that my life was a vast glowing empty page and I could do anything I wanted." Kerouac 

Food/Beverage Hangover

Lovely Ouray provides a tranquil backdrop to son Caleb and his equally Lovely "Sig. O." Kelli, in today's Lead Photo slot. Big smiles :).

Fruit Cocktail Anyone?

Fire Danger Today = 0.  Greetings from the cool, moist, and wet-pine scented version of Lovely Ouray, a little Swiss hamlet in southwest Colorado cupped in a snowcapped mountain crevice. National Forest, fresh air, hot springs, and lots and lots of fresh water await your presence.

A Preseason Assault on Twin Peaks

In spite of rain, snow, sleet, hail… darkness of day… and unseasonable cool cold temps, I've been keeping active biking on the old Schwinn nearly every day—in shorts and t-shirt, no less. Pretty tough guy, eh? I wish. The Schwinn is an Exercise Bike, now a permanent fixture in our living room and parked squarely in front of an Imax Window. It's one thing to occasionally resort to indoor "Cardio" in January—to peer from our glass-walled perch at blowing snow and flashing lights of CDOT plows groaning up 550's switchbacks to fight a losing battle with Old Man Winter and Red Mountain. But another thing entirely to be trapped for weeks on end by Seattle-like gloom—low sodden clouds and the insipid "Groundhog Day" routine of mythological weather gods taking turns at using my mood for a punching bag. I'm growing gills here.

Barometric Pressure

"Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy." William Butler Yeats

Enjoy The Journey

In the words of the esteemed, oft loquacious Mark Twain, "Rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated." Ok, I'm walking a delicate tightrope here, fully realizing that this post will likely throw my RV pal, Wandrin Lloyd, into super-grump mode.  Fortunately, I'm safely out of reach. Unfortunately, it concerns a matter of Life and Death. I will try to dance around the "elephant in the room" and dwell on the former, knowing that, not just for Lloyd but for all of us, the latter always has the last word.

Mom

The lead photo represents some of the fondest memories I have of childhood. Mom and Dad led a wandering life not unlike Moses and the Israelites, always searching for "the promised land," a higher purpose and God's will. 

Saving The Best For Last: To The Past, Upon Which The Present Is Built

Time exists to reminds us of our impermanence,

Space, to reminds us of our insignificance,   

Nature, to remind us of un-betrayed love,

And love to remind us of what really matters and what doesn't.

Spitting Into The Wind (revised)

We passed three runners while hiking Bear Creek Trail the other day. Two were hard bodied gals in training for the Hardrock 100, a grueling 100 mile foot race that weaves over 13,000 foot passes and through rugged mountains around Silverton, Ouray, and Telluride. The Hardrock goes all day, all night, and through all kinds of weather—a cumulative 34,000 feet of ups and downs at an average elevation of over 11,000 feet.