Denver houses with faces II

"I find verandahs tickly."

Denver houses with faces I

"Porridge for breakfast"

News from the past

While the non-existent readership may feel that the Denver Century is an event long behind them and therefore no longer worthy of mention, I logged onto the official photo site a wee two months hence, to find that they had finally uploaded some shots of the ride. Several items are of note:Firstly, we have concrete evidence that the Denver "B-share" bike sharing program has infiltrated the ranks of the citizen ride. I hope the gentleman pictured pedalled fast, as the 30 minute free period won't get you far. Nonetheless, lovely to see the practicality of an irremovable bike seat and foreign nuts combined with the simple utilitarian function of a basket.

Two: Although I am not "drafting" in this picture, it can be said that I look as though I am, and I will at the very least concede that I look like a wannabe member of the gentleman's team directly ahead of my stocky pink frame. Also, I look monstrous in every single photo I have entered of the set - this is the most flattering, which says a lot. Is there something I should know about bike camera angles? I find it amazing that there could be room for fat concern in the middle of a seven-hour bike ride.

Lastly, and most importantly, you will of course remember from the original post that I identified a runaway hipster, making sweet ganja progress past the struggling Livestrongs and myself. I have located his valette from the online album, and I think we can all agree that my original characterization was quite spot on.

Saturday morning stretch o' the legs II

It is manifestly Denver to arise terribly early on a Saturday morning, bound for the nearest car-accessible "fourteener." The typical "flatlander" attempting to "bag" a fourteener puts them self at the mercy of several malignant forces: cardiac failure at high altitude, lightning, blisters (ouch!), whinging children, granola bar shortages, sunburn, extreme slowness leading to a "night out on Bald Mountain," and attack by goats. The threats range from mild to fatal and are many, but deter very few urbanites from ambulating their fourteener fanny-pack up a steep hill which vegetation has all but scorned, in the company of split boulders, shale, erosion and fellow candy-bar-eating tourists.
So said, this Saturday we decided that the most car-riddled fourteener within arms reach of I-70 had our bag-napping name on it - Grays Peak. What's more, Gray's Peak is typically hiked in conjunction with Torrey's Peak, via a short jot down the saddle, making it a two-fer for the lazy hiker, and even more popular. We left Georgetown at perhaps 6:20 a.m.; later than we hoped, but still early. After exiting I-70 six miles up at Bakerville, we encountered what looked like a Suburu/Ford car sales yard, with the three-mile road in already parked up with a good 50 cars. Much like an oversold yoga class, we were going to have to do our best to ignore the wafts and whispers of the nearby other 500 hikers that day as we lurched forward in search of serenity. Above, Kelso Mountain is in background, with Stephen's Gulch at right denoting the route in as clearly as the ramp to the Cherry Creek mall theatre complex. To far left, the beginning of Kelso Ridge can be seen buckling up in preparation of class 4 climbing conditions. Kelso Ridge is the "other" way to get up Torreys; also known as a lot bumfuck harder than the stroll that is the main trail.
But there is something to be said for not looking like you are queuing up at the DMV as you summit a mountain. Staying out of the armpits and undershorts of those ahead of you is difficult on the Gray's Peak trail, and sometimes requires an awkward half-jog during an overtake, offset with a breathful "morning!" to demonstrate your virility. Otherwise, friendly mountainside greetings do not appear to be the norm on this trail, where you are passing a person every 10 seconds or so.
Here, Josh demonstrates peak-bagger etiquette, using his iPhone to capture "the moment" while obscuring the other 50 people sharing the summit at this moment. In the background, low lying cloud peacefully blankets lower ground, looking foamy and ocean-like, as we clutter the "Bondi Beach" of this metaphor. Summiting is cause for celebration, and, for many, cause to assume that many more calories have been burned than is actually the case, solely on account of the rockiness of the walk. We walked car to summit in 1:50, earning us barely an extra bite of muesli bar.
From the summit of Gray's Peak, the saddle to Torreys is a quick stroll, though the climb to the top is far more arduous than is Gray's. Seeing it in its full glory, we honestly couldn't be bothered to spend the extra hour cementing our superiority in the Hall of Baggers, and instead hoofed it toward the car, so to be back in Denver before noon.

Like an underpaid mascot, the resident mountain goats reluctantly prowled toward the crowd, half-heartedly suggesting that they may eat up our sandwiches, as per their contractual obligations with Arapaho Forest Service. No sandwiches or pants were eaten, however, and the abnormally hairy trapezius of a semi-naked hiker attracted far more covert attention. For a good route description, go here; for a frivolous route description, go here.

Saturday morning stretch o' the legs

The seemingly unimpressive Mount Evans is at rear of this rolling iPhone shot. I attest that it was far more imposing and grand in person, especially after the toboggan ride that is the descent of Witter Gulch on two wheels. For the most part of the pedal, it was only I and the odd passing cyclist shared the view; the F-150s that flew by towing boats didn't seem to be taking it in.

The Upper Bear Creek drainage is a pastoral paradise for grazing McMansions and novelty ranches. Although nary a Black Angus was to be seen, ranchers in the highlands today are raising sediment from the pores of the rich at several day spas, and keeping the tradition of living off the land alive.

This bucolic landscape is undoctored - the meadow daisies are real; the barn is legitimate. It adds, as Darryl Kerrigan would say, "charm" to the scene.

Further downstream, I came across this goldmine of real estate. Visible through the gated driveway, an English telephone box stands aside the century-old structure, presumably because cell phone service is so poor along the road.


Although the medieval fencing discourages photographers from having a good gander at the property, several features are identifiable from the boundary: a wooden bear clinging to the fence, an olde time clock which lends the place a Diagon Alley feel, and extensive stone masonry. Odds are good that the previous owners held a generous share in the rustic cabin aspen log furniture industry.

What impressed me far more than the house, however, was the real estate agent. Seen from a distance, I can only perhaps mock the gold rush font used in the title.

But on closer examination, Jim Smith can be seen sharing his valette with some sort of parrot; proof that only absurdly rich eccentrics need apply. Colorado!

Happy Cliff day - no jokes

Much like the Vonn Trapps after the Salzburg Music Festival, my supply of Vegemite has run out.
All doubt has been removed. It is a jar of Vegewon't; the savory lick of a yeast extract product will be spuriously absent from the next hangover toast operation.

"They're gone!"

Meanwhile, I have designated today unofficial "Cliff Richard Day." As my 'case of the Wednesdays' show hats are still under construction, there seems to be no other way to keep the office afloat amidst the flooding of the bilge that is the five-day workweek than via a sampling of "(It's so funny) We don't talk anymore."

Although Cliff's rainbow neckline and grape stomping dance style are "funny," it is otherwise hard to see where the humor is in the breakup - why Cliff, is it "funny" that you and the lady aren't talking? Could it be that he is using an early form of modern sarcasm? E.g. "It's so funny (not) that we don't talk anymore." How can we be sure? Thankfully, the geniuses at Cornell have developed a sarcasm algorithm that can detect insincerity in online postings, so as to eliminate "confusing" or unhelpful user reviews. Apparently the two most sarcastically reviewed Amazon items are noise canceling earphones and Dan Brown's "The Da Vinci Code." I looked for a sarcastic customer review of the $200+ Bose QuietComfort® 15 Acoustic Noise Cancelling® Headphones, but could only find slack praise:

Says DatDude: "Wet! After I finally listened to them, they blew away my expectations. From the moment you turn the headphones on everything in the world just stops. These are a great buy and deserve some serious credit, mad props to Bose. These headphones are a little loud do to their speaker configuration which means other people around you can hear what you are listening to but honestly, who cares? At high volumes the bass does get a little distorted and sounds a bit 'bright.' "

I'm mildly amused that the greatest noise canceling earphones ever invented just happen to be a walking boom box - can't hear a thing outside, eh? As for the Da Vinci Code, I couldn't find any overly sarcastic reviews on Amazon either, just this: "This is an astonishingly stupid, stupid, stupid book."

And this, by Raven Reda "Lothario" - "Gloriously enchanting read - I MUST say that I COULD NOT put Dan Brown's Da Vinci Code, as well as MANY of his other books, down....sometimes, not even for a moment. It is a TRUE achievement. Not only was it obvious to me that Dan Brown TIRELESSLY researched many many topics in order to compilate his prose sufficiently, he is also, bar none, one of the most detailed & intricate writers of our time. Bravo to Dan Brown."

Which would be a marvelous achievement for sarcastic writing if that were the intent, but I suspect our "Lothario" is sincere. Can the sarcasm algorithm detect honest stupidity?

So, too, Cliff Richard appears to be singing here earnestly to his mirror selves, completely lacking in irony.

Lightning rod for athleticism

We took occasion this weekend to journey out central Colorado-side for a spot of camping, hiking, and a bevvy of "energy foods." Arising early on Saturday, we found early obstacles to our progress up Mt. Elbert novel and exciting. Seen here, Carina fords a small watercourse competently and with pep. In a short span of time, we will be anxiously slapping mosquitoes from our arms and legs, our excitement for pesky phenomena like humidity and blood-sucking insects already waning.
Breaking through the treeline at 12,000 feet, you emerge to find yourself practically headbutting clouds. At the same time, each increase in altitude takes a slightly bigger toll on your muscles. Climbing above 13,000 feet is like hiking with ankle weights on. In my case, it's like having a corset of ankle weights strapped to your hulking thighs. Of course, halfway up a mountain is a little late to lose weight from the "trouble spots."

Excess weight and lack of fitness deters very few tourists from hiking 14ers in Colorado, with many a Texan house guest out and up a summit before you can say heart attack. Moreover, as with the high passes of Colorado state roads, which swarm with bulbous campers, boats and ATVs in summer, Coloradans are content to drag just about anything up a mountain, including fatigued spouses, pomeranians and a 9-iron. Not pictured, the Tommy Hilfinger lookalike we spotted on our descent was taking his glamorous facial tan up into the 13,000 foot realm even as a lightning storm raged on the summit. Metal golf club in hand, he assured us that he was most looking forward to "teeing off" from the apex of Mt. Elbert.
On the top, you will find any number of surprising things, including Waldo, recovered at last by the trig point, looking mildly put out by the experience of hiking 4000+ feet before lunch at age 8. We dutifully left our mark in the log, tallying yet another sky-high canine. Shortly after we started the hike down, we were peppered with sego snow; the mountain proving to us its superiority for its own amusement.
Having finished his traditional summit beer, Conklin descended the mountain jauntily, the dizzying height of 14,443 feet and alcohol having had no combined impact on his Aspen constitution
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Back in camp, the festivities began, and nouveau-French pop-jam-reggae band "Black bears don't drink champagne" was born. Concept album out this fall.

Summit any which way

Seen here through the rain-splattered windscreen of a rare 2WD on US285, Colorado's own Coney Island alights like a beacon of promise that hot dogs and luridly colored condiments are not beyond the reach of the average commuter in the Rocky Mountains. The experience of a board walk is recreated at the giant hot dog-shaped kiosk (pictured), minus the population of vagrants and any other allusions to olde time charme such as rides, a beach, or attempts by locals to fleece you while inside the "fun house." On our way out of Denver last Friday, we were disappointed by the inability of the hot dog to service regular grade fuel - novel or no, we only stop at landmarks that simultaneously inspire and dredge the earth of waning fossil fuels.Anyhow, we weathered the tempest, arriving in Gunnison by 9 o'clock; just in time to nab a tent site and catch the campground hosts on their forth or fifth "sundowner" in deck chairs in the dark grounds of the "Tall Texan." Everyone in the campground appeared to know each other, moving in the same nomadic circle of that new class of American whose RV is so big, it now tows the SUV behind it. Regardless of class, we all united as one on the picnic tables for the $2.07 breakfast of "Mike's Muffins" and free coffee the following morning. Mike's Muffins turned out to be those low cholesterol English muffin substitutes jazzed up with modest, equally flat sausage patties, with slices of cantaloupe on the side - the undefeated champion of the weak-tasting fruit genre. The entire meal could have been mailed through the "13oz and under" USPS slot at my work building with no difficulties, but was no doubt a nod to healthy new frontiers for the aging keepers of campgrounds.Here is a self portrait by Josh of waking up in minimalist fashion. Beside us, throttling RVs cranked their generators and flushed their sewage at 6 in the morning, reminding us surreptitiously of the beauties of the simple life, and the nirvana to be found in traveling just your bare bones and a 10,000 pound rig; of the serenity in sitting gratis in a Wal*Mart carpark.
We were wilderness-bound by 10 a.m., marching up Mill Creek in the West Elk Wilderness optimistically, seven to eight miles of tramping ahead of us. Miles always sound so pleasant, being, as they are, a full-fat English muffin relic of the 19th century long ago left behind by most of the world. We tracked our progress on the map, reaching what I deemed to be some important-looking squiggles in the trail after an hour and a half. On walking an additional couple of miles, we then reached the actual squiggles designated by the map - far more overt switchbacks and pocketing of altitude - leaving us to wrestle with the disappointment of being far slower than you imagined, and the mile far longer than fathomed. It is true I have difficulty judging a mile, while I am quite reliable about logging kilometres as they pass. A mile is, like the tent poles of yore, too wieldy and long to well comprehend. It is always a bit further than you can imagine a trail stretching; too big a reach for your arms and legs straddled across an unassembled tent, and therily an inappropriate metric for walking.So it was that we impatiently pitched the tent a mile or so from Storm Pass, and hoofed it on ahead with greater speed, hoping to reach the blasted high point and then retire to eat curry cous cous and sachets of tuna. Pictured below, we have fought boggy run-off and a lack of topographic consistency to mount the wrong pass. Hiking south-west instead of north is indeed a feat of error for clear weather navigating, and required us to pass by the unambiguous cairns (above) oblivious to their silent cry for us to turn right. Having passed this crossroads, we were left with no option a further half-mile up the sodden valley but to summit the nearest thing with a goat track; in this case, North Baldy Mountain. Little-known North Baldy Mountain is less of an attraction than Storm Pass, as evidenced by its name-sharing with nearby Middle Baldy Mountain and South Baldy Mountain - together they form a ridgeline of middling impressiveness. I am quite sure that the "summit or no" mentality has steered many a mountaineer astray, and while I do not suggest that Hillary would ever have been idiotic enough to accidentally climb Everest's neighbor, I am sure there is a hiker every day bags a summit he didn't mean to in wilderness somewhere out of spite for steps gone wrong. Here we are atop "North Baldy Mountain," also known as the hill at the end of the valley. Pictured in the rear of the shot are the famed "Castles" we were aiming for, noticeable only as minute black spikes over the ridge. The pasting of flowers across this high alpine valley isn't apparent on film, and would normally be of little interest to the tired hiker who has summited the wrong mountain after 3000 feet of slog, but Josh nevertheless pocketed a thistle-ish red flower that caught his eye on the way down.Coogee adjusted to his wild surrounds the longer we hiked and camped in the wilderness, eventually liquifying into a mythological spirit of the high country.Upon returning from the hike the following day, we drove to Telluride, through land as impressive as I have seen in Colorado - Coney Island inclusive. Apparently the ingenious townsfolk of Telluride stipulated that for the resort to expand accommodations into a mountain village and provide gondola access, the gondola must operate year round, and be free to all. As a result, locals enjoy free downhill mountain biking all summer, and no one needs to drive the long way around to "Mountain Village" after a few too many brews in town. Also, the majority of douchy rich people who visit are cordoned off in the upper mountain hamlet - they get a view and pointy Intrawest-style accomodation, the locals get gingerbread houses and dreadlocks in old town on the floor of the valley. Further testament to the anti-development bent of the town is the occupation of large swathes of the valley floor by a prairie dog metropolis. Evidently townies would rather have Meerkat Manor squat on the land than risk overpopulation and more Tom Cruises. Town was pleasantly crunchy, and featured the pilot "free box" just off Main Street - a serving suggestion for Moses in a basket is indicated below.
Coogee proved himself conclusively illiquid on the three gondola rides it took to get to town from our campground on the far side of Mountain Village, cowering beneath the approaching cars, content to be made into a rug for a mountaintop chalet.We made it into town in time for the Fourth of July fireworks show. After waiting patiently in the drizzle for a couple of hours, God materialized to signal the curtain. Shortly afterward, several wheelbarrows worth of solid firework action was tipped upon the town - a fine show, in a fine town.