The Curse is Broken (again)

Photos courtesy of Boston.com
After 86 years of suffering (25 endured first-hand by yours truly) and 3 years of tepid arrogance and band-wagon, cross-country worship during which we've irreversibly waived our proud underdog heritage, Red Sox fans have another reason to march drunk and rowdy through Kenmore Square, raging against the unspecified protocol for celebratory behavior. The culmination of a season's worth of expectations met and goals reached is an unfamiliar circumstance indeed. (I do realize I'm not actually ON the team but for the purposes of this post, let's assume fans actually do have something to do with the victory.) I have to say I'm impressed with this team. Having so much talent in one dugout can actually be tough to manage. But the combination of youthful enthusiasm, veteran leadership, and pure silliness is the perfect recipe. Then there's the on-field arsenal of well-rounded hitting, solid defense aided by speed and consistency, and top-notch pitching: LETHAL. This team had everything going for it this year and come post-season was firing on all cylinders. You can thank management and coaching for recognizing where guys needed rest and when they needed to be pushed. Fox Sports asked fans last night which team was better: 2007 or 2004. The answer is without a doubt this 2007 team. 2004 was entirely different but utterly spectacular. We were still the underdogs. We weren't supposed to win. And in the words of Mr.s Cowboy-Up Kevin Millar, "We shocked the world." But despite the lack of any bloody socks in 2007, I do think that the stories from this year will live in Red Sox lore for generations to come.

There's no denying that we witnessed the birth of a hall-of-fame career in Josh Beckett this year. He was already considered one of the best young talents in baseball, having the one ring to his credit in Florida. But despite his dominance in 2003, it almost doesn't count until you prove it. Last year, was a good year for Beckett but it was obvious he was still getting adjusted to life in Boston. But as the only 20-game winner this year and being absolutely lights (4-0) out in the post-season this year, and being the ace on the best pitching staff in baseball Beckett has come into his own as the premiere starter in the game. What's more is the Zen approach to pitching he's developed. His android face and casual confidence has to be maddening in the other dugout.

The bullpen was on drugs this year. You gotta love Okajima being picked up from Japan while shopping for Dice-K like an impulse buy that was near the register. This scrawny man made fools of the AL all year long. Timlin, is a horse. Coming in late in game 4 with not a fear in this world, my favorite red-neck shut it down hard. West Roxbury native, Manny Delcarmen was impressive all year long. Not over-powering but he did his job well. I also like the look of Kyle Snyder and occasionally Javier Lopez. The one low-light of the season was the unnecessary trade of the promising young pitcher Kason Gabbord (and more) to Texas for the Canadian waste of space Eric Gagne, who immediately proceeded to blow almost EVERY lead with which he was entrusted and almost single-handedly cost the Red Sox their season several times. I don't want to dwell on this topic, other than to say that Harpo Marx looking goober is the worst thing to come out of Canada since Celine Dion and I've often said he should be set adrift in the Atlantic on raft made of sugar cubes, eh?

We also witnessed the continued domination by one of the most entertaining Red Sox pitchers in a while, Jonathan Papelbon. His mound presence is unbelievable. That stare to the plate (as my friend Keith putt's it) is that of a high-school kid who just got pushed into one too many lockers and is ready to start fighting back. But we also saw the other side of Papelbon. A side we all really got to like. No one can walk around all the time with the intense bravado that Papelbon carries on the mound. As it turns out, he's quite the party animal. And what's more amazing is that he's that way all the time, except from about the 7th inning, to the last pitch. This kind of colorful dichotomy is one of the quickest ways into a Boston sports fan's heart.

And what about the other career years that were had? Kevin Youkilis? Or as the rest of the league was calling him before this year, Kevin Whokilis. The guy had an absolutely monster first half. He cooled off a tad in the second half, but was absolutely murderous in the post season. He has willed his way into household name status with his consistent hitting and fielding. Setting a major league record for error-free games at first base (*a record that is still on-going in the regular season) and just killing the ball to all fields while wearing down pitchers by making the 10-pitch at-bat an art form, this guy's the most beautifully disgusting dipping mass of sweat I've ever seen.

And how'bout that Mikey Lowell? Theo Epstein took a chance on the aging third-baseman, figuring he'd bring some veteran leadership, post-season experience, maturity and class to the organization. Tough shoes to fill at the hot corner too, after the departure of Billy Mueller. But boy did that work out. Not only did Lowell set an all-time Red Sox season record for RBI by a third-baseman, but he was money in the bank in the post season. With a solid 21 regular season homers to his credit, he also provided some protection in the lineup for Manny Ramirez. With his much-deserved World Series MVP in hand, his free-agent leverage is securely in hand. I just hope the Sox can resist the urge to entertain the idea of allowing him to slip away while wooing the ever-nauseating and morale-killing A-Rod. It would be damn near impossible to ever cheer for that cry-baby pretty-boy. And I'll go on record that A-Rod does NOT deserve to wear a Red Sox uniform.

Jason Varitek. That's a complete sentence where I come from. The strategic, emotional, spiritual leader. He had a very Tek-like year. Solid enough at the plate, godly behind it. When Dice-K was brought over last spring, Josh Beckett's only advice for him was "Trust Varitek". And he's right. The guy is the most prepared, diligent and focused professional athlete you'll ever see. He's passionate, but classy. He gets beat up night after night but never complains. He has the respect of the entire league. And he handles pitchers better than anyone I've ever seen. But seriously, you CAN'T get enough of this picture. My favorite part about this scuffle from '04 was the jab Varitek muttered to instigate the incident. To refresh your memory, the Sox and Yankees were involved in an intense mid-season series. It was A-Rod's first season in New York and (surprise) he wasn't living up to expectations. A-Rod took exception to being hit by a pitch. Varitek, escorting him toward first base tells him "Relax, we don't throw at .260 hitters." CLASSIC!! Game on.

Then there's the rookies. Dustin Pedroia should be the rookie of the year. Period. 5'9"/180 hitting .317 with a strut to boot? Perfect. Jacoby Ellsbury came up for a taste mid-season and he brought some life. But coming back in the late season to give guys like Manny and Coco a break was awe-inspiring. The confidence of those two guys could spark any lineup. And with less than 100 at-bats in '07 Jacoby's still technically a rookie next year! Are you KIDDING ME?! Clay Bucholz came up like a restless child coming downstairs to crash a grown-up party. He turned heads in his first start, but dropped jaws with an unbelievable no-hitter in his second start. The Red Sox smartly protected his young arm after that by giving him limited work the rest of the season.

Then there's Jon Lester. The young left-handed World-Series clincher with big league stuff has an even bigger sense of confidence and perspective. So much is made of his battle with Lymphoma and it seems at times that discussing it with media was even tougher. But his maturity and poise in both cases is amazing. What struck me most, and what Fox failed to pick up on is the heart-wrenching passion of his parents in the stands. In June, he made his first start this year after a remarkably quick recovery from chemotherapy treatments. He proceeded to dominate the game, but a camera was fixed on his parents sitting on the first base line. His father welled up with quiet pride and admiration. His mother, paralyzed with fierce desire, clenched her fists in a kind of joyous anguish. With every pitch her tears seemed to project power into the ball. At one point, Jon struck out the side, and his parents leaped to their feet as if the power of the crowed lifted them out of their seats, out of their own bodies. I'm emotional just writing about it as they seemed so much like my own parents, rooting for each of us. Never with pressure, just furious love.

There's also these other guys, Manny, Papi, Dice-K, Shilling. Yeah they're ok too. It was a great season. I've thanked Sarah repeatedly for buying me the Extra Innings Package so I could see all the games. I'll miss watching the games, but I'm glad I can stop hearing Tim McCarver for a while. Looking forward to spring training, but it's time now to focus on Skiing. Check in soon for powder shots!

Introducing: FetchDog.com

FetchDog is a high-end dog catalog and online community for dog enthusiasts.
link: FetchDog.com

We're live! Sorta. Well we're in our "soft launch" phase for now. We're live but we're not screaming about it just yet. There's still a ton of work to do. The development agency, eOne has been doing a great job but at the break-neck pace we've required, there are still lots of clean-up items on our list.

But there are a lot of things that are 'right' about it too. The store works beautifully with very few flaws. There are blogs, articles, breed centers, resource libraries, and even a breed selection tool to match you up with the right kind of dog. There's even a social networking area where you can create a profile for you and your dogs, upload pictures, add friends and contribute all over the site. Not bad. There's also more to come, like video, forums, ask the experts and more.

So feel free to check us out at FetchDog.com.

Inches in the Driveway - Feet in the Mountains

It started snowing around dinner time last night. It wasn't very cold out so it was a nice surprise. I was surprised to see it accumulate. When we woke up this morning there were actually a couple inches outside. The thing about Heber is that our elevation (about 6,000 feet) puts us below the snow-line for most storms. So when we get any kind of accumulation here, you know it's probably pounding at 9-11,000 feet in the mountains a few miles away. Needless to say, we're excited about ski season.

For a map of the Heber Valley, click here.

Craig Sager - WHO Dresses this guy?!

Just got done watching the last inning of the Yankees' 2007 season. Truthfully, I wanted to see the Yankees win this one so the Indians could win it in Cleveland after an exhausting 5-game series. But I'll take it. The Sox are right on schedule and ready to steamroll into the World Series. The ALDS between Cleveland and NY was great. There were a number of show-stopping moments: the bizarre 30-minute gnat swarming forcing Joba Chamberlain to throw an ill-timed wild pitch; the lackluster performance by the delicate league-MVP, A-Rod; the week starting pitching (especially by Clemens); and the class-less crucifixion of Joe Torre, one of the greatest managers of all time by his team owner, George "The Boss" Steinbrenner.

But one train-wreck stands out above the rest. TBS put together what I thought was a great late-season ramp-up campaign to October, featuring the highly animated comedian and Arlington, MA native, Dane Cook. Then, in their first year (to my knowledge) of post-season exclusivity, TBS paraded a full line-up of weak-witted announcers (except for Boston's own Don Orsillo doing the NL games) and unpolished ex-players in front of the cameras on national TV. Among the worst, that I saw was a floppy toupée-wearing scrub of a sideline commentator named Craig Sager. A quick google search revealed that this clown usually holds a microphone over his head while sweaty basketballers humor him and politely rib on his tacky salvation army wardrobe. But after just a few games of his periodic drop-ins I question how conscious his clothing choices actually are. Does a guy like this get up the morning and say "Hmmm...how many dark patterned layers can I jam into the same outfit?....Or should I go with the classic powder blue sportcoat, a tired cream short-sleeve and an orange tie?" I guess you can't blame a guy for having no taste. But who IS to blame? Should we be embarassed for his wife who lets him leave the house like this? Is it TBS's fault for letting him on the air? Is it the camera man's fault for not framing him above the neck? I can't say. All I know is that everyone between his house and the ballpark — passing motorists included — should feel shame for allowing this guy to persist.


Apparently, it's not just me who's bothered by the TBS MLB Mockery.

But, who cares? It actually gets worse. As they signed off, the TBS announcers revealed that Fox's Joe Buck and the inimitably innane Tim McCarver (for whom I've mentioned my disdain in the past) will be calling the ALCS between the Sox and Indians. Tremendous. I'll encourage my friends in Boston to set their tuners to AM radio and mute the TV.

Winter's Back

After scraping the windshield my drive in to work this morning was a little brighter with some snow on the tops of the resort peaks ahead. We've had a few dustings so far, but it's nice to have a reminder like this in front of you. This photo, taken from westbound route 248 into park city shows some of the frontside peaks of Park City Mountain Resort.

Bonds' 756 ball to be Branded With Asterisk, THEN donated to Hall of Fame

Holy Crap, they were serious about this?!

So I took this online poll the other day. Maybe it was on Espn.com or something. It asked what should be done with Barry Bonds' all-time record 756th home run ball. I found the question amusing in a hypothetically absurd way, expecially given that the options were:
A: "Bestow it intact to Cooperstown" (34 %)
B: "Permanently brand the ball with an asterisk before sending it to Cooperstown" (47%)
C: "Launch it into space forever" (19%)

—I voted for "C".

Ha ha, right? well apparently if I was more current, I would have known this was not joke. Hip hop fashion designer, Marc Echo purchased the ball at auction for a cool $752,467 and announced on live TV that he planned on soliciting a national opinion on what to do with it. The choices, although ludicrous, speak to the "passion" of baseball fans everywhere. Over 10 million people voted to have the ball branded with an asterisk to signify the suspected steroid use surrounding Bonds and his controversial record. And whether or not you think Bonds is a juicer, a cheater, or just an arrogant jerk, everyone seems to care about this record. WOW.

read more on MLB.com »

Sam Fuld on SportsCenter

Came home the other night and turned on SportsCenter. I heard the familiar name, Sam Fuld in connection with a nasty, game-saving outfield assist. My ears perked up. This kid was on my senior Baseball team at Berwick Academy. He was in EIGHTH (frickin') grade back then. Coach Libby had to make a special exception for this kid but he was worth it. He was probably the only one on the team to hit a legitimate homer that year. Granted there were very few fenced in outfields and he was a lefty and our field was about 300 to right. But we knew we were watching something special. He wasn't too tall, but he was solid and disciplined. He never took a bad swing. And he had patience and Varitek-like mental toughness. The following year, he moved on to Phillips Exeter, where he got much more exposure and his stats really started to take off. He then went on to Stanford and set the all-time College World Series Record for hits. There's definitely no coincidence there because it requires consistency over 4 years of nationally ranked performance. He also became Stanford's all-time leader in runs scored. But the point is, expect good things from this kid in the bigs. The Cubs are lucky to have him and I'm hoping the Sox trade J.D. Drew for him.

Wiki the kid »
View on The Cubs' Site »

We've gone "2.0"

You may have noticed, we've changed the blog around a bit. Until now we had been building our blog "by hand" meaning we wrote all the code ourselves. It's more work but we got more control out of it. We've recently streamlined the process by using Blogger. We've imported all our old posts to this system and we'll keep working to get it the way we like, but there's a lot of extra functionality now. You can write comments on any one of our postings, search the blog, and find stuff quickly using our archive or by the use of "tags" or content labels. You could even "subscribe" to our blog if you really want. But best of all it's easier for us to post stuff...from anywhere. We can post photos with other computers or even our camera phones through our flickr account. Or we can post on the road using various wireless connections, etc. So HOPEFULLY, we'll be writing more often. We hope you'll do the same.

Thanks, as always for checking in.
Joe & Sarah

Jerry Remy Eats "Tuner Fish"

So I'm watching the Red Sox game and laughing about the latest Remy-isms. In this case, Don's feeding Jerry some seemingly benign questions about his lego-person hair-style. Jerry in turn becomes facetiously defensive. He embraces the situation and takes the opportunity to tell Red Sox Nation exactly what hair dye he uses. His diatribe was complete with telestrated analysis. You have to love this guy. Even if you're not a Sox fan, his absurd approach to broadcasting is honest and refreshingly blue-collar, like a favorite uncle.

For the uninitiated, Jerry Remy is a Boston institution. Along with fellow Northeastern University alumnus Don Orsillo, Jerry is a former Red Sox second baseman and color-commentator for the New England Sports Network. He is casual and sardonic. His commentary is actually quite astute but his easy-going delivery often underwhelms his insight. New Englanders have grown so fond of his schtick in recent years, they've formed a cult following, complete with an organized fan-club called Rem-Dawg Nation. But his immediate trademark, especially outside of the New England area is his THICK Boston accent.

I was eating a tuna fish sandwich the other day and watching a game. For some reason I found myself wondering how Jerry might order a tuna Fish sandwich. Would he call it "tuner". I started looking around the kitchen and pointing to things and saying their names like Jerry Remy might: "tuner"; "bananers"; "cawfee"; "papah towels"; "dishwashah"; "windas"; "pitchas on da wall"; "can openah" and on and on and on... It's fun. I suggest you try it.

Anyway it's that kind of small detail that makes me feel really close to home.

New Jobbie Job

My time is up at American Skiing Company and I've accepted a Senior Interactive Position with FetchDog.com in Portland, ME. FetchDog is a high-end dog catalog with a HUGE site on the way. There's not much there yet, but soon you'll be able to browse hundreds of products, find helpful information on dogs, read blogs, forums, and articles about dogs, and even participate in an online community where you can create a profile for you and your dogs.

I'm working from home in Utah. Today's the first day. So far so good. I have a nice work station set up in our guest room. My new commute consists of a walk across the hall. Right now the dogs are sleeping at my feet and occasionally jump up to knock my hand off the mouse for attention. I'm listening to internet radio and I hear the sounds of the neighborhood out my window. But I can really concentrate on what I'm doing. No distractions. That being said, i'll miss the people from ASC, and all the laughing and joking. But I can still see folks whenever.

Roxie’s Swim for Life

The other day, I took the dogs for a run on my bike down the dirt roads out back. They went swimming in one of the stream crossings but the current was a little stronger than usual. All of a sudden I couldn't see Roxie. I dove down onto the pipe/tube that funnels the water under the road. Roxie had gotten sucked in backwards and was swimming against the current. I dropped my bike and ran to the other side of the road to try to coax her to let it shoot her out, but she wasn't having it. She was about 8 feet from where she entered, fighting for her life and trying to keep her head above the water, in the 6 inches of air at the top of the pipe. So I jumped in and started pulling her out. But I had flipflops on and they were starting to float away on me while I lost traction.

I worked my way back up the pipe, dragging her by the collar and grabbing for the end of the pipe. in the commotion if forgot to take my sunglasses off my forehead so they started slipping off. Not a huge concern at this moment, but they were $100 pair of Oakleys. I was about to re-secure them when I looked up and saw Blü, never one to be left out, floating backwards by me. I imagine she got curious and wanted to help, like when we go to dig her toys out from under the couch and she burrows under, trying to help. so I grabbed her and watched the sunglasses plunk in the water.

Now i'm pulling both idiots up the tube, trying to keep my flipflops on my feet and not lose my footing. I was able to shove Blü out of the pipe by pushing her upstream ahead of me and placing enough english on her little bum to scoot her out into an eddy on the side. Roxie in the mean time, probably spent a few brief stints behind me getting dunked by my other hand still clutching her collar and no doubt flailing in the struggle.

I was able reach the end of the pipe now and pull my way out. With the added leverage, I dragged her to shore in a final thrust. I laid there in the water a minute to catch my breath. Roxie of course, climbed to dry land above me and on queue, shook off in my face. I climbed out, and started collecting myself, lamenting the solid run I had had with those Oakleys. As I straddled my bike to head home, soaked to the bone, they both jumped back in the water like it never happened.

Introducing: BuyMaxABeer.com

Every once in a while you come across a great idea. The idea can be entrepreneurial, philanthropic, eerily genious, dumbfoundingly obvious, etc. But sometimes they're all that and more. The other day, Max (aka: the guy who sits next to me...aka:my "work-wife") had one such revelation. Max, who by nature is a man of simple pleasures (drinking, rock-climbing, skiing, baking cookies...) decided to try to forgoe his amateur status and take up professional drinking. You've heard of recovering alcoholics being "sponsored" upon joining AA. But have you ever heard of an active alcoholic being sponsored?

I GIVE YOU: www.BuyMaxABeer.com

The concept is mind-numbingly simple. Click on the link above and read Max's mission statement. There's no profit assumed, no alterior motives, no carbon offsets to buy. Just click the button to buy Max a beer with your credit card. The money is transferred to Max's "Slosh Fund" which he will use ONLY to buy beer. No drugs. No sportscars. No hookers. You can even buy Max's friends beer (eh-hem) if you want. That's where the philanthropy comes in.

So check it out. You'll be glad you did. Even if you don't decide to buy one, leave a comment so we know you stopped by. ANd be on the lookout for my friend Ross's spin-off site : www.wrenchforbeer.com where you can solicit his bike mechanic skills and pay him in beer.

BMX Bargaining

So I sold my little BMX bike last night. I had bought it for $200 in 1997 for a commuter bike in Boston. I rode it solid for a year or two and almost not once since then. So it had to go. And although $50 seemed like a generous price to me, others contended it was probably worth less.

Anyway, the buyer drove 45 minutes up from Provo at 8:30 at night to buy the bike. He new it was $50 and he still found it necessary to haggle it down. He's a little Japanese guy so he was talking in broken english:

Him:"You take a discount?"
Me: "No, it's fifty bucks. I've got another guy looking at it tomorrow if you don't want it."
Him: "Oh....you take a 45?"
Me: [it's raining and 45°] "If it gets you out of my driveway, sure. It's raining dude. whatever."
Him: [fishing through his wallet] "You have change? I only have a fifty."
Me: "Are you serious? NO! And honestly dude, that's insulting."
Him: "Oh. Sorry. Well I have a four. [along with his 2 twenties and a ten]. You take a fourty-four?"
Me: "Fine. [snatch] Enjoy the bike."

I took the money, turned around and walked in the house while he spent 5 minutes putting the wet bike in the back seat of his car. I didn't even offer to help.

Our Yard-Sale

As part of a spring-cleaning effort, Sarah and I decided to have a yard-sale. We discussed it with our friendly neighbors, Nicole and Petie, and Mary and Neil. We planned for weeks and in preparation we placed ads on websites and in newspapers as well as placing signage around the neighborhood. When the big day arrived, we even announced it on the local Saturday morning classifieds radio show in Park City.

The morning started out well. We had a few quick sales, but we were hoping to sell some big ticket items like bikes and skis. Nicole proved to be the day’s most motivated seller, pricing items at pennies on the dollar. As the day wore on, we found ourselves enjoying the laziness of the event, sitting on the front lawn on Mary’s matching lawn furniture set, a steal at $100. We broke into a solid round (or two) of margaritas and watched the world ogle and evaluate our unwanted items. Some classic conversations went something like this:
“How much is this?”
“Ten cents.”
“Oh…Nevermind.”

Good times were had by all. And at the end of the day, we tallied and divvied and compared. Nicole and Petie came out on top with $120 sold. Neil and Mary were right behind them with $100. We on the other hand sold $30 worth of unwanted crap. However, factoring in that we also bought $10 worth of Nicole’s stuff, and spent $10 on the newspaper ad, and $10 on signage we actually broke even. And to add insult to injury, we’re expecting the Big Brothers-Big Sisters organization to pick the remaining items up for a charitable donation. Their first available time-slot for pickup was 2 weeks after the yard sale, so our garage is now packed, wall-to-wall with THREE family’s stuff. Ah well.

The “Rem Dog” comes to Utah!

One tough thing about moving away from home is missing all the Red Sox games. Sure they're a big market team and they command a majority of national broadcasts. The ESPN games are OK, but if it's on Fox, FORGET IT. That's when you have to listen the insufferable Tim McCarver. Back east, when the Sox were on Fox, we'd turn the sound off and listen to the game on the radio. You can also keep up on-line or by watching SportsCenter etc. but it's not the same as coming home on a Tuesday night and camping out with your local commentators for a few hours. So for my birthday this year, my beautiful wife bought me the DirecTV MLB Extra Innings Package. Now I get all the games for every team. Do I care about all the teams? NO! But you can't just buy one team so oh well. Now it's like coming home to hang out with my old friends, Don Orsillo and Jerry Remy (the RemDog) on NESN.

Sometimes when the Sox are on the road, you'll get the local broadcast from that city, which can be interesting. Last night, they were in Baltimore and I got the MASN (Mid Atlantic Sports Network) broadcast. They feature capable play-by-play man Gary Thorne alongside Color Analyst and hall-of-fame pitcher Jim Palmer. I was excited at first, until I realized what a know-it-all Palmer is. I can take the constant stat spewing or the second-guessing, but then he started ripping on Manny. I almost lost my mind. But hey, even when it's not NESN, it's better than nothing. Unless it's on Fox.

It's Spring again...

We've had a few tastes of warm weather and we're done with snow for now. I got 42 days of skiing in this year and a few of them were epic. I may have had more if the season were a better one. But I'm still not complaining. My brother, Jay visited for a few days in early March and had some fantastic snow. A few weeks later, Sarah's college roommate Meredith visited with her husband Brian and they seemed to enjoy themselves. We recently took a trip to Melbourne, Florida for Mike Spalluto's and Lucy Boyd's wedding. That was a beautiful affair. We had gorgeous weather and a great hotel on the beach. You can see pictures of all this stuff in our latest gallery.

This past weekend, we visited Moab for the second time this spring. I headed down early with our neighbor Nicole, who used to work with me at ASC, along with her two-year-old daughter, Zoe. On Friday, Nicole dropped me off at the trailhead of the world-famous Slickrock Trail. Many trails in Moab consist of this unique beige sandstone surface nicknamed "Slickrock", but this trail made Moab famous in the Mountain Biking community. I truly remember reading about Moab, and Slickrock in Mountain Bike Magazine when I was in middle school in Maine. Since then, I've dreamed of riding it, but feared what it might do to my marriage if I should drag my wife on it. The Sandflats state park (home of the slickrock trail) offers a 2-mile practice loop that is designed to give you a taste of the full 11-mile trail. It certainly offers a significant sample, but it can't prepare you for the grind of the full-trail. I'll admit, it kicked my ass, but it was well worth it.

Sarah arrived on Friday night with along with our friends Kristin and Cory from Park City. Saturday included a trip to Karen's K9 Campground for the dogs while Sarah, Nicole and I biked a beautiful trail called "Baby Steps" which is adjacent to the Klondike Bluffs Trail, leading into Arches National Park. The trail was a tight and winding singletrack, and you could tell that it had not yet been ridden much. Saturday night was interesting to say the least. We had a few margaritas around the camp fire and Sarah made some of her killer tacos with our camp stove. So we went to bed happy and full in our luxurious 4-person tent. Of course we have smaller tents, but when camping with the dogs, we enjoy the extra width and height. Then the wind came. As the breeze kicked up, Sarah removed the rain fly from our tent to reduce the noise. Almost on queue, it started pouring rain. So we hopped out of the tent in our underwear to put the fly back on, which was difficult since the wind was howling. When we finally secured the outer layer, it got caught in the wind and started acting as a sail. Before we could hop back in the tent, it started flying away from us. In fact the only thing weighing it down at this point was Blü. Roxie had long since abandoned ship. So Blü took a little ride in the tent eastward, toward Kansas. But we made a lunging effort to grab the tent AND the dog, and dove back inside. But it was too late. The tent's structural integrity had been compromised, the contents soaked, and we were afraid it might only get worse. Our large tent was destined for destruction, while the other smaller tents in our camp site which laid lower to the ground were mostly undistrubed. So we decided to head for the security of the car. We broke down the tent in the pouring rain and howling wind (still in our underwear mind you) and stuffed it under the car. The dogs agreeably hopped in the back and we arranged ourselves in our soaking layers into the front of the car in our now soaked sleeping bags. As we wrestled into any kind of position resembling comfort, the rain and wind eased almost magically. Birds begain to chirp and the sun began to rise. Through the steam on our windows, we watched our campsite neighbors emerge from their tents, rested and serene. They stretched and yawned as they greeted the day, almost completely unaware of the carnage that occured in their calm slumber. Their tents were somewhat damp, but had been mostly blown dry. Ours was crumpled in a puddle of mud and irony under the car. We laid, sweaty, frustrated and unrested in our trusty Subaru.

Following the incident, as we all awoke, we realized our misfortune was mostly self-induced. And we began to laugh about it as we did our best to collect and shake-dry our belongings. It was, after all Easter morning. Nicole and her husband Petie had prepared an Easter egg hunt for their daughter Zoe, which is certainly a cheerful diversion in the wet desert sand. We followed that up with a big breakfast of eggs, sausage and bagels, then casual 3-4 mile hike from the campsite to a large set of sandstone buttes named Monitor and Merimack after civil war ships. The hike was enough to put it all in perspective. Overall, just another day in the desert.

General Update

OK, so it's been a while. You probably thought we forgot about you. Not true. Actually we have been very busy and the winter is always tough with the short days, and busy work schedules. But notice I just put up some new photos for you to look at. That should give you an idea what we've been doing the last couple months.

Things are good. Our house is working out well. The neighborhood is great and the dogs are having a wonderful time there. We go on long walks down a dirt road where they can make eyes at the cows from across a fence and jump in the snow. They also have the downstairs to themselves as a heated den during the day. They have a couch and a doggie door. And there's nothing but dog toys to destroy since all our non-perishables and other items are stored down there in Rubbermaid bins or on high shelves. That doesn't mean they don't get into trouble, but it has certainly reduced our vet bills.

Work is good. We're actually both in the middle of some transitions we'll tell you about soon enough. But everything is good there.

The only thing that's been a little frustrating is that it's been a "relatively" dry year. This time last year, we had twice as much snow. So we may only end up with, say 40 ski days. But I also realize there's worse problems to have in life. Hopefully February and March will bring some extra snow in time for our highly anticipated visits from Patty Caret from Maine, Jay Myers from NH, and Meredith and Brian from New York.

Anyway, I gotta run. Hope to hear from you all soon.
Live well.
Joe

First Ascent

Well, ski season is here again. Of course, we've been anxiously awaiting the snowfall while trying not to take for granted the charm of autumn. Early snowfalls have draped a decorative blanket on Park City's ridgeline that pacifies us each morning through our commute. Annual rituals mark the locals' shared sense of anticipation: the Warren Miller film, Off The Grid, played to a sold out crowd at Park City High School's Eccles Center; The Park City Ski Swap took over the High School as well drawing huge numbers in support of their ski team; friends have been buying gear, collecting ski passes, and comparing notes on which area might have the most rewarding hike-to terrain until the resorts open fully.

Last weekend I was baptized into the world of backcountry touring. Sarah's father, Gary had been making an almost daily trek up Alta's in-bound territory to get in shape for the upcoming season. Last Sunday looked to be an epic affair as the base was just starting to build up enough to ski comfortably and the forecast called for a few fresh inches on top. Gary invited me to join him and I couldn't refuse. Gary let me borrow a set of skins and a pair of Alpine Trekkers to create a makeshift randonee setup. Skins are directional felt straps that fasten to the base of the skis with a layer of adhesive allowing the skier enough friction to walk uphill. Alpine Trekkers are a binding insert that temporarily frees the skier's heel to walk uphill at a more natural angle, effectively converting an alpine binding to a telemark binding.

I hopped in the car at 5am to make it to Gary's house in Sandy. Despite some remaining weather and wind-blown snow on the roads, plus a stop at McDonalds for breakfast, I arrived by 6:30 or so. By 7, we hit the Alta parking lot. There were as many as 6 other cars already there. We hopped out next to Gary's new friend, Dan, a younger hippie kid with dreadlocks and a cheerful disposition, apparently unaffected by the still-rising sun. We fiddled with equipment for a while and headed up from Alta's Goldminer's Daughter Lodge, under the Collins Lift and up the main thoroughfare. Under the hissing snow-guns ice built up a crust on our outer layers, justifying any price paid for waterproof gear. About halfway up, the remaining cast of heavy cloud cover dispersed and the overwhelming but familiar sheen of the surrounding bowl was illuminated under a rich, atmospheric blue. The terrain I knew so well last year was different because I was looking uphill without definition of groomed trails. As far as we could see in all directions was untracked powder, aching to be churned by the most willing participants.

At the top, we encountered a handful of giddy co-conspirators, each praising himself for not sleeping in. This group included Dan, who we hadn't seen since the parking lot, but who was now on his second run. We exchanged friendly banter while adjusting gear and clothing to prepare for the descent. Gary and I munched on celebratory cookies Sarah had baked and packed for us and drank the last of our water. We had taken a less worn route to the top, through a grouping of trees between the top of Collins Lift and the powder field, Ballroom. There we saw such deep socked-in snow and fresh lines that we decided to keep it quiet.

We bid adieu to the other skiers and snuck back into those trees. I let Gary take the first turns and watched him float effortlessly down between the trees and stumps. With deep breath and an even deeper "WHOOHOO", I dropped in, hoping I still remembered how to turn. The plunge could not have been more worth it as I made a few quick moves and gained enough speed in the fall line to start splashing that light, Utah snow all about. We made our way down alongside of some new buddies we met at the top from one favorite stash to the next, each pitch as satisfying as the last.

At the bottom, it became apparent that we had definitely made the right decision to come up early, as there was a swarm of would be adventurers climbing up from the now full parking lot. Gary and I exchanged a high-five and headed down-canyon, still aglow from our victory. Now the resorts are opening and it's time to actually participate in a normal ski day, with lifts and multiple runs, hot chocolate and chili; all in search of that weightless euphoria. But, as with any drug addiction, the first and ultimately best highs are free.

Home Improvement Update: The Deck

3 months into our tenure as bumbling rookie homeowners, we’re starting to settle into our space. Knick-knacks (BTW: we just spent a good 4 minutes debating the spelling of “knick-knacks” and the philosophy behind it. Hopefully we got it right) are finding their places on shelves, shelves and pictures are finding themselves on walls, and walls are happily adjusting to their new colors. We still have some touchups and final coats left to do on the walls. But thanks in no small part to help from Patty and Gary, we can soon put our paint supplies into long-term storage, deep in the abyss of our cluttered garage. The garage and its organizational well-being are also on our “List”. Recently, we’ve been chipping away at “The List” with other learn-as-we-go conquests like adding pergo flooring, new trim and crown moulding, and hanging track-lighting, and rigging a lighting kit for Patty’s hand-made tiffany chandelier in the kitchen. We also had the bedrooms re-carpeted, and hung new blinds on the southwest facing windows of the house. Even smaller victories are cause for celebration these days. For instance: we finally cropped and framed the tripdic panorama of Gooch’s Beach we shot 2 or 3 years ago. Reversing the swing of the refrigerator door was another life-altering experience for us. But it also granted the fridge itself a stay of execution as it’s asinine orientation had us temporarily baffled as to how and why (a professional handyman) the previous owner had lived with it so long. Another ongoing more ambitious task – one we delay by lying in bed this Saturday morning with the dogs in our new sleigh bed, 40-or-so inches above the ground on our new discounted pillow-top mattress – is the development of our backyard garden landscape. The addition of a raised “lazy” flowerbed along the back fence with a stone retaining wall as well as some trees for ambiance should compliment the mother of all home improvements: THE DECK.

Down the back of each row of townhomes in our neighborhood one sees the small complementary perches attached to the second-floor kitchens and third-floor master suites. Just large enough for a small grill or a single chair (but not both) these crows-nests are often replaced by a more substantial, family-sized deck. That was our goal when we enlisted our resident wood-master, Gary. He studied other decks in the neighborhood and drew up plans to suit our needs. Our ultimate design was to be a 14x14-foot space off the second floor kitchen, with stairs down to the yard and a balustered railing with gaps underneath for convenient snow removal. Future considerations may include the integration of stairs from the bedroom perch as well. Our additional concept of a 3-story fire-pole may be met with some opposition from the town office. So we’ll have to wait on that.

After receiving our permit from the town, and approval from our Home Owners Association, we set Gary into motion. His time is now being divided between the deck, his own home-improvement efforts at their new house in Sandy, Utah, and his new job in the tool and hardware department at Home Depot. Since acclimating to his new house he has been making regular trips up to Heber to complete his mission. His progress is starting to add up. Having removed the old deck he laid out and planned the footprints, dug holes and poured cement for the footings, installed the support cleat and he was ready for the large, pressure-treated posts. Joe helped him steady those beasts as the angles all fell into place as planned. The long boards that Gary had pre-cut and stained went up next completing the first and most important structural asset, the post and lintel (thanks Art History 101). A day later, like a man possessed, Gary had finished installing the entire framework with all the beams set up in their parallel glory, outlining the actual shape of the deck. As the deck starts to come together we are excited to pick out deck furniture and have people over. What’s more is that we can see the culmination of efforts as this house becomes a home. Our home. And we have to thank Gary (and Patty cheering him on from Maine) for all his hard work and patience, helping us along the way.

Things I’ve Learned: I Mow Therefore I Am

Having recently become a homeowner, it has become abundantly clear to me that mowing the lawn is a man’s last true refuge. More seasoned homeowners may prefer chopping wood or pounding nails. But I believe mowing to be the purest masculine pursuit. For starters, mowing involves the obvious: a motor. The gnarly roar is a powerful draw from the time we first toddle upon fresh cut grass. The allure is engrained in our fabric like the color red in our first double-stitched Woolrich shirt. I contend that even the most basic mower engine stirs a mysterious sense of pride in any man who ever primed an engine; who ever yanked a start cord; who ever so much as scooped a clump of grass from a clogged side shoot with his bare hands.

Easily overlooked however, is the very premise of cutting grass. There is something perfectly primal about beheading billions of insolent blades of grass per second. It's an underrated rush. We defend our castle. The idea that we as men are sworn to uphold our perimeter at all costs is an honor. We represent the delicate balance between the overtaking of weeds and a smooth, clean carpet. Perhaps it is our love of field sports that inspires our compulsion to create the perfect yard, the idea that an epic athletic battle could break out at any moment. Or perhaps more simply the aspiration of perfection, to whatever extent we may require it.

From the time a boy is first exposed to the art of lawn maintenance, his father passes on a legacy. Dad’s not looking for cheap day labor, but rather sharing in the one true experience that makes and bonds men: the satisfaction of a smooth clean lawn. Having mowed since I could walk, I never recognized that satisfaction until I recently acquired a patch of my own. The pleasure I derive from simply cutting the grass is a weekly highlight, as is the pride I enjoy upon copletion. It’s my rite, my escape, my destiny. When we mow, we mow to our own satisfaction. We have routines, techniques even. We mow the right way, however that may be for us: in grids; in patterns; quickly; deliberately. We pick up poop. We trim. Sometimes we make two passes. We prep the grass. We water it before bed. We fertilize. We thatch. We move furniture around to even out the light exposure. We obsess over details not because of how it looks, but because we don’t know any better.

I remark in partial jest that the lawn may be the only component over which a man exercises true control. It can be the only time he is right. Certainly there are variables over which he has little or no control, but a man who mows is never wrong in the eyes of the lawn. He is not second-guessed and he need make no apologies for his actions. No one would dare take the mower out of his hands for every house has only one true lord of the lawn.

A man who mows is accomplished. The lawn is either done or it’s not. A man can grill but is constantly catering to his family's tastes. A man can set up the electronics, but only with the majority approval of all parties. A man can change a fuel belt but there’s only one right way. A man who mows however, needs only simple words to completely recognize for his usefulness: words like “Lawn looks great, Hon.” Or “Nice job on the grass, Dad.” No more, no less. When we mow, a sunburn becomes a badge of honor. Pink shoulders and backs despite the sting are actually a comfort at night.

Mowing prowess is admittedly self-explanatory. There are some tricks to the trade, but basically any idiot can do it. It speaks to the hunter-gatherer in us. We need these simple tasks to keep our strength in the absence of hunting and/or gathering. (Please note that I make no nostalgic comparisons to quick trips to the grocery store or the conspicuous, hand-written notes I require to complete my gathering mission.) Ah but mowing. Mowing is a refuge for the every man. Even guys like me who thought it would be nice to buy an electric mower because it might save the earth. Although I assure you I feel less like Bono and more like Curly Howard tripping over that cord, even THAT mower delivers the clean precision a guy needs.

I say next time you’re feeling docile, or contemplating if you’ve been having too much red meat, go out and mow something. You’ll need your own patch of grass. You can borrow a mower to start, but eventually you will need your own. A push mower, a riding mower, electric start or straight manual—doesn’t matter. Just mow the shit out of it. I promise you’ll go to bed satisfied knowing that the grass is clean, the weeds are at bay and your old sneakers, beautifully stained with chlorophyll, are grinning in the closet.