Earth Matters: Road trip

Imagine you are the Secret Service. You’re all tricked out in your conservative suit, button-down collar and school tie. Your tasseled loafers are shined to a mirror finish and your earpiece communicator is synchronized to a fare-thee-well. You’ve traded in your Crown Victoria for a giant Cadillac Escalade because…you are taking George W. Bush on a Road Trip.

Imagine all you want, but this part, at least, is true. Bush and his entourage visited Crested Butte last week as guests at a wedding celebrated by another Texas oil family. I think the wedding was at a ranch in Gunnison, but Bush’s Crawford contingent chose to stay in Mt. Crested Butte. I guess Gunnison’s Holiday Inn Express just wasn’t…uh, secure enough. Instead, Bush drove a big ‘ole SUV and lassoed the entire sixth floor at Mountaineer Square.

I first heard of the former politician’s visit to our fair valley as a request—not assignment—from my boss. Given all the homework I’d done on the previous administration, my editor figured I’d be the one to perhaps conduct an interview with Mr. Bush and pose a few poignant questions.

At first I refused to believe George W. Bush had abandoned his two long-horned steers back at the ranch. It was difficult to understand why he would venture into the liberal enclave that is the upper East River Valley. While I realize there are significant holdouts who still believe Bush is the coolest thing since thumbscrews, most of us hold the realistic opinion that Bush was the worst president since Attila the Hun. I did my best to popularize that opinion, which is undoubtedly why my boss suggested I conduct an interview.

I declined my boss’ suggestion on the grounds that I might not be able to craft my queries with the proper deference. I’d likely end up in Gitmo, and I’d just as soon spend the rest of my life in Crested Butte. I don’t do well in hot climates, and even New Max down in Florence might be a little warm for me.

Alerted to the presence of the Beast, I watched the drama unfold over the weekend. One tenacious observer commented on Facebook: “So a couple of days ago I’m driving down the mountain, and I see this dude driving a big SUV that looks just like George W. Bush…turns out it was George Freakin’ W. Bush…He kind of had this look on his face like; ‘damn, I git to drive agin’!”

Another Facebookie wrote that he observed a large black bear crossing the road in Mt. Crested Butte and wondered if the bear was there to perhaps “visit (or maybe eat) W!” A response to his comment: “Poor bear would get very sick from tainted meat!” And remember, bears can eat almost anything.

I took my research to a bench on Elk Avenue. While Facebook is fun and I can peruse it without leaving the house, the bench has the advantage of face-to-face. Body language and scenery are articulate.

“If you could ask George W. Bush two questions,” asked a friend, “what would they be?”

“Only two questions?” I protested. “I want three.”

“Okay three,” she acceded. “What would they be?”

My first question would be, “Why did you invade Iraq…really?” After all, it was something of a stretch to believe the old weapons of mass destruction drivel. Saddam Hussein was too busy gassing Kurds with imported American nerve gas and blowing up fish with hand grenades to be serious about weapons of mass destruction.

My second question would be, “How can you sleep at night?” Having perpetrated so much nasty stuff during his term in office, and with the blood of so many American soldiers on his hands, I don’t know what sleeping pills Bush uses, but I want some.

My third question would be, “How come you didn’t reply to any of my letters?” Even Bill Clinton—between dalliances—had the common courtesy to send me form letters. Courtesy was not Bush’s strong suit, and if it had been, I bet he couldn’t spell it. Maybe that’s why he didn’t write back: spelling impaired.

Finally, my research turned up an interesting tidbit of unconfirmed information. Imagine you are the Secret Service and your GPS unit tells you the best way to get to Crested Butte is to drive up over Schofield Pass. Then imagine you get your big ‘ole Cadillac Escalade hung up somewhere in the Punchbowls. Now imagine those tasseled loafers scrambling on the rock.

Earth Matters: Hat trick

“So you’re causing a ruckus again,” observed one reader. “You’re stirring the pot with all those ‘take life too seriously’ people.”

“Well, that’s kind of my job,” I answered. “I paid my dues.” I spent years as a humble reporter assembling objective reportage every week. “Now I get to go off once in a while.”

Actually, this summer I’ve tried to be informative and entertaining, but ultimately I’ve been marking time until I could write my truth from my heart. That’s what it’s about for me. Luckily, not everyone agrees with my truth; think how boring that would be.

Any writer is lucky to work in interesting times, or conversely, perhaps good writers help make their times interesting. If someone wasn’t out there stirring the pot, even making some people angry, interesting would be a relative thing. Edward Abbey stressed the importance of stirring the pot: “…if you don’t keep it stirred up you get a lot of scum on top.”

I’ve always considered Abbey a good writer, and no question: he made a lot a people mad. He definitely informed and educated a generation of Americans, and he didn’t give a hoot in hell whether people liked him for his radical rants or not. I once asked Abbey how he could be such a misanthrope and hope to do good in the world. He answered that people who thought he was a misanthrope didn’t know him.

Abbey also held that people who lived in desert places were more to his liking than those who lived among mountains. He considered us xenophobes and socially inbred. I say to hell with Abbey, and I think he would have approved that attitude. He is correct in one respect, though; our relative isolation confines us in a stew pot that has nowhere to vent except back upon itself. So be it; there are compensations.

One of those compensations in our small mountain town is our newspaper. The newspaper gives us a voice, a place to put out there what is on our mind. Yes, I enjoy a bully pulpit because I earned it from years of being a reporter. But anyone who signs their name can write a letter and see it published in the newspaper. Never take this public voice for granted; not every newspaper in every town provides it.

So it bothers me only a little when folks disagree with what I write and respond with a major case of ire. It affirms me and lets my boss know I’m doing my job. One colleague always complains I’m a higher-paid pundit than he is. Perhaps we should institute a sliding pay scale where the writer with the most hate mail gets a raise.

I would be a wealthy writer—if there is such a thing—this week, because my email inbox is full of critical missives, my boss had to increase the page count to print outraged readers, and the tyranny of my cell phone is having its way with my ear. The only person I haven’t heard from is George W. Bush himself, which isn’t surprising since he never responded to previous letters I wrote. I even signed them.

If response mail is any indication, in the last couple of weeks I achieved a hat-trick. I angered what the left wing would call the right wing because I pummeled George W. Bush after his visit to our fair valley. I didn’t think I was being that harsh; we can never forgive and we must never forget. “Bush doesn’t matter,” opined one critic. “He’s a war criminal.” Whoa: I didn’t say that.

The second element of my hat-trick: I angered what the right wing would call the left wing. I trespassed on ground over which I seldom venture, and offended those who seek a different path for development of the ski area and proposed ski area expansion.

Having been so soundly thrashed by both sides of that particular debate, I hope here to very carefully watch what I say so as not to prolong or exacerbate the discussion. Writers must carefully measure their words, although sometimes such care gets in the way of truth and generates its own consequences. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t: such are the rewards of the bully pulpit.

Finally, I offended the fringy middle with my assertion that we must somehow achieve health care reform. Few issues in our national debate stir so many opinions and feelings. Yet I believe if something isn’t broke, leave it alone. But if it’s broke, and I believe health care is indeed broken, then fix it.

Okay, now about that raise…or not.

Earth Matters: Retro fit

I must have been about ten years old, staggering up Mount Antero, spewing breakfast across its face with altitude sickness. It was a day I can never forget for its challenge and for the opportunity to experience mountains as formidable chunks of rock. I learned it is best to treat them with due respect…and perhaps not eat a big, heavy breakfast.

I also learned that as much as I wanted to enjoy mountains, I would always find walking uphill at increasing altitudes a difficult undertaking. I would always sweat and swear, stagger and plod up the hill. No Reinhold Messner here.

My childhood presentiment manifested in adulthood and persists today. Bottom line: for someone who loves hiking in the mountains, I am one lazy slacker. So be it; at least I do it. Generally, though, I only commit exercise with the luxury of a purpose in mind.

Inevitably the question arises: why bother hiking up the damn hill anyway? Mallory’s answer—because it’s there—serves in simplicity but ignores nuances like the view, or the view and the flowers, or the snow and sliding down it, or whatever. Farther down the list is hiking for the sake of exercise. I can’t imagine Mallory on Everest simply for the exercise, and I bet he wasn’t into it so much for the view either.

But hell, Mallory is dead and times have changed. Now mountain exercise, at least in our user-friendly mountains, rewards hard-body, lean-and-mean athletes…and those who have learned to eat lighter breakfasts and walk slower.

It is difficult to ignore a certain physical vitality that derives from living at high altitude and (gulp) even exercising in that environment. Walking to the Post Office counts, but lying on the couch with the remote control doesn’t. Endurance runners blast past me at 12,000 ft., having started running a couple of mountain ranges over and planning to be home maybe for a little tennis before dinner. Too much!

Living smack in the middle of what has been called the “recreation archipelago,” most everyone is physically fit. It makes sense that mostly fit people would favor a demanding environment, one where if you want to leave town, in every direction but one you have to walk uphill. Damn right; that’s why they call it the head of the draw.

In our youth- and fitness-rich place it is difficult to imagine places where men my age still smoke a pack a day, knock back a sixer before sitting down to a heart-attack-on-a-plate, followed by the average five hours a night of television. While I myself have struggled with couch potato issues and consequent table muscle, I now recognize virtues of staying fit and mostly trim. I am retro fit.

I am not alone. A report by Trust for America’s Health (TFAH) and Robert Wood Johnson Foundation shows Colorado as the only state in the Union with an obesity rate lower than 20%. Colorado’s rate is 18.9% compared to the heaviest state, Mississippi weighing in at 32.5% obesity in the adult population. Explaining the obvious, experts suggest Colorado is more active, Mississippi more sedentary. I’m sure it has something to do with the heat…and maybe the fritters.

I remember a trip to Wisconsin some years ago where beer, fried fish—fried everything—and bratwurst contributed to ten pounds of excess…uh, material around my middle. I didn’t climb many mountains that summer, and my exercise consisted mostly of 12 oz. lifts. Had I not got out of Wisconsin, I would soon have gained the more portly demeanor of my hosts.

The TFAH obesity report, “F as in Fat: How Obesity Policies are Failing in America 2009,” suggests the current economic crisis could exacerbate the obesity epidemic. Furthermore, the study found Baby Boomers have a higher obesity rate than previous generations. As Baby Boomers age, related costs will sizzle federal health care programs as the fat hits the fire. Well…the report didn’t put it exactly like that.

For my part, in my born-again retro-fitness program, I will continue burning fat in high, thin and usually cold air. I am firmly convinced that merely being outside during winter burns calories just to keep warm. I will also watch what I eat—if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it—and make every attempt when I’m not exercising, to keep my table muscle trim.

Or maybe this is all just some kind of lame excuse. Just maybe.

Earth Matters: In rockets' red glare

Fireworks lit the sky. A gibbous moon sheltered shyly behind scudding clouds, and the silhouette of Crested Butte Mountain shone darkly against the sky. Another report flashed, and then exploded into cascading red stars. People oh-ed and ah-ed.

“Where are you from?” I asked the man next to me. He was a little older, and I couldn’t tell if I’d met him before or not.

“Pueblo,” he answered. “We just came to Crested Butte for the Fourth of July.”

“Welcome,” I said. “How do you like it so far?”

“It’s great,” he said. “A lot of small towns celebrate Fourth of July with parades, but Crested Butte knows how to do it up right.” Another firework report punctuated his compliment.

“Pretty patriotic stuff, that,” I observed, indicating the fireworks.

“Enjoy it while you can,” he responded. “We won’t be able to after a couple more years under Obama.”

I looked at him blankly, warily, knowing we were probably broaching dangerous ground. Talking politics is always sketchy even with someone whose opinions I know are relatively consonant with mine. Talking politics with someone I don’t know and from a completely different political and social environment is looking for trouble.

“How’s that?” I asked, living dangerously.

“Obama is ruining this country,” he asserted. “You know all those nice, big houses back over there on the hill?” He indicated homes above ski jump hill. “Obama would do away with all that.”

“You think so?” I encouraged. Now that we were out there on thin ice, I figured in for a penny, in for a pound. I wanted to hear a point of view other than the sometimes insular perspective we develop and accept as dogma up here at the head of the draw.

“Hell, yes,” he expostulated. He was getting exercised without even knowing he was talking to a raving and unreconstructed liberal. Like him, I deplore the economic toilet in which we are swirling, but I see a different hand on the flusher. Undoubtedly, I also postulate different ways of fixing the mess.

“I think it is too early to judge,” I responded as gently as I could.

I did not, for example, explain how I thought our economic malaise began back in the day when we came to believe air bucks were salvation and plastic was the key to heaven. You can’t get through the Pearly Gates without a credit rating, and the only way you can get a credit rating is to be in debt. Free lunch? You betcha.

“I don’t think it’s too early to judge,” the man sputtered. “Obama wants to redistribute the wealth. He wants to take money away from rich people and give it to people too lazy to work for it.”

“He has only been in office six months,” I said, trying to calm troubled waters. Instead of telling the guy he was spouting hogwash, I figured the more tactful position would be to wait and see. “I still think it’s too early to judge.”

“I don’t,” he insisted. “Obama is going to turn this country socialist and turn us all into communists.”

Holy cats, I thought. What the hell had I go myself into? This was one of those guys who wants Obama to fail, even if he resurrects the economy, fixes health care, reinvigorates social security and other entitlement programs, restores our standing with respect throughout the world, achieves Middle East peace, conquers the Taliban, executes Osama bin Laden and puts an end to war in our time. None of that would matter; we’d all be pinko, socialist commies.

Several things occurred to me. I could get into a pissing contest with this guy, engage him and argue with him, and probably ruin an otherwise beautiful evening for both of us. Furthermore, no way could I win him over; I could tell he was as set in his ways as I am in mine. What was the point in that? You know you’ve crossed some kind of threshold when tact and discretion prevail.

“Well, one thing is for sure,” I told him. “It’s the Fourth of July, that’s a beautiful fireworks display, and we can all celebrate that.”

And that’s what we did.

Earth Matters: Patriotic plunge

Patriotism usually isn’t my strong suit. A child of the 1960s, and having cut my political teeth on Vietnam War protests, I am too critical and cynical to be out there waving flags. I flat didn’t understand slogans like: My country, right or wrong. “America, love it or leave it,” almost sent me to the ticket counter. Back in my hippie days, though, I didn’t have the coin. I still don’t.

Youth was my time for rebellion, and there was plenty to rebel against. The 1960s social revolution was a perfect storm that distilled and galvanized my attitude toward politics and the powers that governed our nation. It wasn’t that I didn’t like the United States; it was only that the old, white men who ran the place were killing American soldiers in a cause I didn’t understand and couldn’t believe in.

Nor would the bastards let us vote. I found it unconscionable that young men could get drafted and sent to deadly foreign jungles. Yet we couldn’t vote those who sent us there out of office. We had no say in any of it.

I avoided that war by hook and crook. Although I wonder how my life would be different had I gone to Vietnam and survived, I’m not ashamed to admit that I was a draft dodger. Those who have never lived under threat of conscription perhaps cannot understand.

In 1975, the Vietnam War ended. I hadn’t been drafted, killed, maimed or psychologically trashed with post-traumatic stress. I hadn’t been thrown in jail for resisting, and hadn’t surrendered my citizenship and moved to Canada. I still lived in the heart of the mountains I’d chosen as home. I was still young, and I anticipated a good life skiing, hiking and doing the things I had determined would define my life.

My first experience of real patriotic feelings came in 1976 when we celebrated what I remember as a “tri-Centennial.” July 4, 1976 commemorated two hundred years of United States sovereignty, one hundred years of Colorado statehood, and almost one hundred years of Crested Butte existence. Maybe we were pushing the latter by a couple of years, but what the hell. We were high on ending the Vietnam War, and oh, did we party down.

I remember sitting around a big fire in the side lot of the Grubstake—now the renowned Brick Oven—drinking beer and shots, and (gulp) singing patriotic songs. We enjoyed all the patriotic classics, but I remember our rendition of America the Beautiful caused tears to run down my cheeks. That is my first recollection of patriotic zeal that flowed from my heart. Friends and camaraderie on free American soil in Crested Butte…I will never forget.

Flash forward.

I have enjoyed the advantages of that free American soil into my adult years. Although I might be hard-pressed to call it outright patriotism, I am grateful for my freedoms, and with notable exceptions, I am proud to be an American.

Notable exceptions, however, can be a patriotic buzz-kill. For example, I sat to write this Fourth of July missive during each of the last eight years, and I found it difficult. While the attacks of 9-11 stirred my American blood, our government’s thoughtless and illegal incursion into Iraq shamed me. The rest of the world vilified and disrespected us. Worse, had we not been perceived as thoughtless and dangerous by the world community, we appeared a swaggering laughingstock.

It was difficult for me to sit down at the keyboard and write about how great a nation we enjoyed. The words choked in my throat; keystrokes wouldn’t come. Since I had nothing good and patriotic to say on the Fourth of July, I figured I ought to shut the hell up. I tried my best, though, to put lipstick on the pig. Damn, it was an ugly pig!

While the pig has become more comely, there are still American soldiers in harm’s way in Iraq and Afghanistan. To these men and women I extend words and feelings of gratitude and respect. Although these folks weren’t conscripted into service, when they volunteered they probably had no idea about Islamic fascists, car bombs, suicide bombers, improvised explosive devices and the rest. Now they do.

My patriotic heart goes out to families who must welcome back to American soil only a flag-covered box. I respect the men and women whose lives have been forever altered by disfigurement and amputation. These are our friends and neighbors, Americans like us who paid a terrible price at our nation’s bidding.

To these folks, I can only say thank you for your service. To them, and to the rest of us, I wish a heartfelt and patriotic Happy Birthday America.

Earth Matters: Well outside the draw

Crested Butte is a place where we leave our doors unlocked but lock our dumpsters. I believe this custom first developed because we all trusted each other not to steal. Furthermore, few of us had much of value to steal, but the trash company charged money to haul away refuse. It was an economic consideration.

That’s the way it used to be, at least, and if it isn’t like that now, the spirit of such trust and freedom is still alive in our attitude. If and when that confidence and expectation disappear, we will have lost an irreplaceable quality of life.

Community at the head of the draw provides benefits that compensate for isolation that at times seems stifling. Think cabin fever and social inbreeding. Think escape. Think remove from the mainstream; everything else is downstream.

That remove is an affordance of place locals enjoy and visitors envy. Still, being so distant from ordinary life in the fast lane requires adjustments. It doesn’t suit everyone. For example, I grew up in Colorado Springs about five miles from ground zero if the Soviets had nuked NORAD. Vaporization would have been instantaneous. Here in Crested Butte, it would take a while for nuclear winter to freeze me out.

That particularly nasty scenario came to mind as news of North Korea’s nuclear escalation trickled into our headwaters. Back in the day, that news would only very slowly have made its way from mainstream to upstream. North Korea might have developed and deployed its weaponry before we in Crested Butte ever even knew they had nukes. But now we know.

Kim Jung Il’s expressed intention of lobbing nukes at South Korea, Japan, Alaska and wherever else, demonstrates The Dear Leader’s inability to be a world citizen at any level. North Korea is isolated not by geography like Crested Butte, but by ideology and intention. The country’s aggressive and belligerent posture sets it apart from the rest of the world; no one really wants nuclear confrontation.

While I seriously doubt foreign policy wonks will be soliciting my opinion, I think the United States should stay well out of North Korea’s nuclear face. After all, during 1950-53 we adventured on the Korean Peninsula and it didn’t go especially well for us. The Chinese People’s Volunteer Army overwhelmed U.S. forces causing the longest American military retreat in history. North Korea withdrew from the 1953 armistice May 27, 2009.

Intent on payback this time with nukes, Korea’s bellicose intentions would only flare with United States intervention. Instead, with its newly earned world stature as Olympic host and banker to the United States of America, the People’s Republic of China should throw some of its weight at The Dear Leader. Nuclear threat or not, it is doubtful Kim Jung Il or his illustrious successor will dare the Chinese tiger. And the United States should let them do it, you know, just to the 38th Parallel.

With North Korea off the foreign policy plate, the United States could then concentrate on another distant proto-nuclear threat. Iran is neither as crazy nor as isolated as North Korea, although with Ahmadinejad calling the shots, crazy doesn’t seem too farfetched.

While North Korea neither knows nor cares what the rest of the world thinks, Iran’s culture and education, political geography and oil reserves place it at the forefront of world attention. Iran and North Korea have only nuclear aspirations and antipathy for the United States in common, but that’s probably enough.

Different beast that it is, I used to brag Iran up. I defended the country’s democratic process; just because they elected someone we don’t like is no reason to, for example, pre-emptively invade the country. I believe the people of Iran are educated and sophisticated enough to exercise and enjoy democratic rights.

Ahmadinejad believes that also, which is why we may never know true results from Iran’s recent election. Defending allegations that the vote was rigged, President Ahmadinejad has shut down the internet, cell phone access—anything that might help opposition supporters organize revolt. Riot police and hard-line Ansar-e Hezbollah militiamen (so-called “ninjas”) are fighting riots in the streets.

That is something else North Korea and Iran apparently now have in common: government by brutal dictatorship. You can take that to the dumpster and lock ‘em in.

Gravity Works: Meaning

I am fairly sure what I’m doing is basically meaningless. At the end of the day, who really cares whether I ski every month for the rest of my life or never again. Will it help me get into heaven? If I don’t, will I end up in hell? The big gravity sucker in the sky probably isn’t even paying attention…meaningless.

So far I’ve only skied nineteen months, but when—not if—I ski during June I’ll have spent twenty months with my feet in ski boots for at least a few turns. Sound hot and sweaty? Oh, yeah. That’s what exercise is all about. Besides, all that alpine touring gear is expensive, and I want to get my money’s worth.

I’m sure that after skiing for twenty months I’ll be sorely tempted to rack up four more months, two years of consistent skiing. Then in November the ski area will open, and I’ll ski another six months…and so on and on until they burn me on a pyre of old skis and spread the ashes on the West Side. How meaningless is that?

Meaningless or not, it hasn’t always been easy. Finding snow and dredging up motivation was most difficult in August, September and October. Although I kept my gear packed and ready to walk out the door, skiing was a long way from the front of my mind when summer sun baked rocks and wildflowers pushed through alpine meadows. Skiing? How meaningful can that be?

Skiing during May isn’t as easy as you might think either. After putting the gear away in April, resurrecting it a month later requires devotion to gravity-driven experience. Motivation is easier to summon than later in summer, because all the moves are still there. Muscle memory still clamors and reflexes remain honed.

And usually there is still abundant snow in the high country. Last summer we could pick and choose; my favorite ski trip was on the back side of Ruby in July. This year, though, Utah red dust caused the snowpack to melt more quickly, and sometimes creates a saturated snowpack that is avalanche dangerous and posthole difficult to ascend.

Nor does Utah red make for particularly good skiing, because the stuff is slow and catchy. Purists don’t like to ski the red because they believe skiing should take place on a pristine white interface. No question: it’s like skiing mud, but other than its higher coefficient of friction, what the hell? It is snow and it is skiing…even if I did have to hike for it.

And naturally, I loved it. Our May ski trip was a return to Schuylkill, where many years ago I broke my fibula and had to ski 1,500 feet down on a broken ankle. I’ve gotten over it, though, since Schuylkill is close-in and after wading a swollen Slate River, reasonably easy to access.

Schuylkill’s northern exposure holds snow, important because I figure if I’m going to spend the energy hiking up, I damned well want to ski all the way to the bottom. I want to minimize postholing in debris covered drifts in the trees, and I don’t want to slog through mud and willows…too much.

Two days before May transited to June, I knew if I was to ski twenty months, I’d better get my ass in gear and get up the hill. True to form, my ski stuff was packed—a little dusty from disuse— and ready at the door. We felt no urgency; given the dust-covered snowpack and relatively cool temperatures we started late, took our time and the snow held our weight.

I discovered—no surprise—that hiking up hadn’t gotten any easier over the year. Still, my resolve was solid, knowing that my rewards would be great. Carrying skis and boots was a chore, but easily preferable to hiking up in ski boots. When finally we donned boots, skis and skins, it felt good to have the boards on my feet.

And they felt even better on the way down. And that has meaning.