my-colorado

Admiring the Breckenridge Snow Sculptures

Mon, 30 Jan 2012 07:05:25 +0100

I have lived in Colorado for nearly twelve years. But despite all of the time I've spent exploring my great state, I have barely had time to scratch the surface on all of the amazing things to see and do. I took care of knocking two items off my to-do list this weekend with my first-ever trip to Breckenridge to see the 22nd annual International Snow Sculpture Championships.

It was early, but traffic was already plugging up Interstate 70 into the mountains. Chugging along at 15 miles per hour was so frustrating that I almost turned around to look for another way to spend the day. I mentally made a deal with myself, though, and decided to give it a few more miles.

Thankfully that was enough for traffic to clear and free me to respectable speeds on into the mountains.

After more than three hours - twice the time it would take with the road clear - I pulled into Breckenridge. I was in town with a friend specifically to see the snow sculptures that international teams had spent all week working on. I had heard from friends and coworkers that it was a great must-see event for any Coloradoan in the winter.

We quickly arrived at the small event plaza after a free shuttle bus ride from the parking lot on the edge of town. It was a beautiful, albeit frigid, day and I was excited to see the sculptures. We were there on the first day after they were completed and on display; the sculptures will remain on display through Sunday, February 5th.

Fifteen teams from nine countries around the world - from Finland to China - converged on Breckenridge, Colorado. From a large 10 x 10 x 12 foot block of snow weighing more than twenty tons, they would create their massive sculptures in approximately 65 hours. As we strolled amongst the sculptures, it seemed as though some ran out of time when it came to completing their works.

Some snow sculptures were quite intricate while others were very basic and abstract. But it appeared as though some were missing quite a few details that were shown in their small models. Since we did not see any of the sculptors standing around their work, we assumed it was simply due to a time issue - these teams were obviously too skilled not to be able to carve in the small details which were missing.

My friend and I commented on each of the snow sculptures as we walked amongst them. We took two spins through the plaza and found that our tastes were generally the same - we both preferred those with better details over the abstract sculptures. All of the sculptures were quite impressive, but those that appeared to have taken so much more thought and effort won us over.

We also agreed on our favorite sculptures. In third place was The Deadliest Catch: Calamari's Revenge, the Kraken (Team USA / Alaska), left. Our second place winner was Great Expectations (Team Canada / Quebec), below. What was our choice for first place? That I'll save for my Picture of the Week selection this Friday.

A Holiday Tour of the Governor's Mansion

Mon, 12 Dec 2011 18:55:56 +0100

I love touring all of the historic buildings and sites of Colorado. But why, after living in Denver for over eleven years, I have not yet been to the Colorado Governor's Mansion, I cannot tell you. It has perpetually been on my list of places to visit, something else has just come up. Finally though, as I get into the holiday spirit, I made it over to take a tour of the historic home decked out for the season.

The Colorado Governor's Mansion, also known as the Cheesman-Evans-Boettcher Mansion for its previous owners, was built in 1908. It wasn't built, though, with the intent of it being used by the governor. Instead, it was built by the wealthy real estate family, the Cheesmans, and ultimately deeded to the state through the Boettchers in 1959. Since then, when Governor McNichols accepted the gift, it has been used as a home for all of the Colorado Governors with the exception of the present one - Governor John Hickenlooper.

I wish I knew why "Hick" doesn't stay there, because it is an absolutely impressive building. And it only gets better when going inside.

Crossing through the entryway, I was instantly transported back a century. While the furniture and decorations are largely modern - many historic items do still decorate the household - I immediatelly felt that time warp of being sent back to the old days when Denver and Colorado were still growing and gaining their feet, not yet 35 years into statehood.

The Colorado Governor's Mansion is open for tours on Tuesdays in the summer, but also for a special holiday period. I was fortunate enough to be able to get in on the first day, but it the opportunity is open for the rest of the week - through Friday, December 16th. And it is worth the time, seeing the historic building decorated in the holiday manner of several cultures important to the area is certainly a great free treat.

I paused briefly to admire the various displays from Mexico, Eastern Europe, parts of Asia, as well as many others. It was fantastic, thinking of all of the various groups and cultures who make up not just Denver and Colorado, but also the United States as a whole. It certainly caused me to pause a moment and take it all in, witnessing it in an incredibly small microcosm at the Colorado Governor's Mansion.

After thoroughly exploring the accessible areas of the first floor - the upstairs was closed to visitors - I head out on the mansion grounds and to the old carriage house. Now it is a small museum and reception room. The room is currently being used for exhibitions during the holiday tour season. I was fortunate enough to be able to spend time watching a Native American song and dance celebration.

I left the Colorado Governor's Mansion pleased that I had finally visited a building which has long been on my list. Now that it is crossed off, I look forward to learning more about the governors of Colorado. I have read several books about the history of Colorado, but after walking through the home I can tell that it is nearly not enough - people who I have never heard of are honored in its halls. And quite simply, I think it's important that I rectify my error and take the time to learn more about the history of the fabulous state in which I live.

Touring Denver's Newest Art Museum

Mon, 21 Nov 2011 18:05:10 +0100

I wasn't sure of what to expect, as I walked through the doors of the Clyfford Still Museum. After much fanfare, news coverage, and general hoopla, I was about to walk through the doors of Denver's newest museum on its opening weekend. I had been planning this visit for nearly a year - ever since I heard about the opening date - and was now concerned I might be let down after so much buildup. I worried I'd experience that all-too-familiar feeling of being let down after so much talk - rather like seeing a movie after it has been out for a couple of weeks and all of my friends talk about how amazing it is; the idea seemed silly, though, so I tried to remain positive.

The thought of the Clyfford Still Museum was conceived long before I even knew anything about the artist, even his name. Still passed away at the age of 75 in 1980 when I was only four. The extent of my interest in art at that point in my life was largely focused on finger-painting. The occasional stick figure would dance into the picture, but rarely. My interest in art would grow, though, as I did, and I would take a few sketching classes in high school and later gain a better appreciateion for museums. I had yet to hear of Clyfford Still, though.

Not too long ago, I was exploring the new addition to the Denver Art Museum - the Hamilton Building - and stumbled upon a giant Clyfford Still painting on display. Well, at least as much as one can stumble upon such a massive painting hanging on a wall in an art museum. Nonetheless, it intrigued me and I was curious to learn more about Clyfford Still; it was then that I learned of a new museum being built in the shadows of the Denver Art Museum.

Clyfford Still had a dream to have all of his work collected in one institution. He left it in his will to his second wife, Patricia, to see his desire fulfilled. In 1999, Patricia wrote her nephew living in Denver and asked what he thought of having the museum in the Mile High City. It obviously went over well, since twelve years later the much-anticipated Clyfford Still Museum was finally opening the doors. And I could not have been more thrilled - despite a shadow of concern in the back of my mind - to be one of the first people to walk through the doors.

It may seem cliche, but I was instantly surprised by what I found in the museum. I had expected the Clyfford Still Museum to simply be a collection of his art. Instead, the first floor was dedicated to who Clyfford Still was and what was happening in the world that would have influenced his creations; there are also offices, a few works on display in storage centers, and a conservation studio for Still's art.

It was fantastic and I appreciated the perspective I was given on the first floor. But I already knew a little about Clyfford Still and the world events that would have influenced him. What I was there to see was more of what I had first seen at the Denver Art Museum.

Clyfford Still: "My work in its entirety is like a symphony in which each painting has its part."

The symphony begins in the mid-1920s, when Still's art was influenced by his life on the high prairies of North Dakota, where he was born, eastern Washington State, and Alberta, Canada. He spent the first 35 years of his life in the area on family farms. It was obvious that his surroundings strongly influenced his art. What was also immediately evident as an influence was the Great Depression. I looked at the displayed works and it quickly made me think of author John Steinbeck's own masterpiece, The Grapes of Wrath, on canvas.

"My paintings have the rising forms of the vertical necessity of life dominating the horizon. For in such a land a man must stand upright, if he would live. And so born and became intrinsic this elemental characteristic of my life and work."

I moved on to the next hall with my friend. What she and I saw seemed in no way connected to what was in the previous hall. Actually, though, this is more the Clyfford Still I initially knew and had discovered at the Denver Art Museum; the Depression-era art of "arms bloodied to the elbows from shucking wheat" and "men and machines ripping a meager living from the thin top soil," was a drastically new experience. It was something I had not expected. But what I was now looking at was what I had initially hoped to see.

Clyfford Still had moved to the San Francisco Bay area from the North American high plains. It seemed as though here, in California, he was influenced by a life similar to that of Jack Kerouac. And it showed in his work. But, despite what I consider to be subtle changes in the use of the empty space on his canvas - although others will most certainly argue that the effects are dramatic - I did not notice a drastic change in his art as he moved back and forth from the west and the east coasts. To me, up through Still's time in rural Maryland, where he lived and worked in seclusion through the 1960s and '70s, I did not notice any gross change in his work. It all remained incredibly abstract; only the use of the blank areas on the canvas and different colors seemed evident to my untrained eyes.

I have no doubt that an art historian, or someone of some other professional connection to the art community, would scold me for my limited observations and knowledge. But, simply, the change in Clyfford Still's art from his time in San Francisco on was nowhere near as dramatic as it was from when he moved out of the prairies and to the cities. Then the change was dramatic and evident, as though a totally new artist emerged. The following decades of his life showed me only subtle changes, albeit beautiful and distinct, in Still's art.

The crowds were not overwhelming for the museum's opening weekend. Part of me was disappointed by this, but I also appreciated the occasional opportunity to take a moment, sit on a bench, and admire Clyfford Still's life through art. In the final gallery - the Jana and Fred Bartlit Gallery - I hunched down and tried to decide which of the two works I was looking at was my favorite. They both had a lot of energy, violence even, and that attracted me. I liked most of Still's other works, even the largely monochromatic pieces in other parts of the museum, but these two were drawing my eyes more than any other piece I had yet seen.

And then, as I got up and took one last close look at the two works before leaving, I noticed a date. Clyffford Still finished and signed one of them four days after I was born. That had to mean he was hard at work on it in his Maryland studio when I first came screaming into this world. With that in mind, and the image of a screaming yellow demon on the left side of the painting in sight, I settled on it as my favorite. I left the Clyfford Still Museum happy and content, all anticipatory concerns now evaporated, with what I had seen and experienced.

An Halloween Ghost Hunt at the Museum of Colorado Prisons

Mon, 31 Oct 2011 06:29:53 +0100

"When things aren't happening, it really makes you appreciate that much more the times when something does occur," I stated to our six-person group. And then, as if on cue, a motion sensor-activated light popped to life. We were sprawled on the floor in a hallway lined with cells on the upper floor of the Museum of Colorado Prisons, almost ready to call it quits for the night, when our attention was directed to the other end of the hall. Someone else who we could not see entered the dimly-lit hallway.

Built in 1935, the former women's prison building in Canon City, Colorado is now home to the Museum of Colorado Prisons; an impressive collection of artifacts and exhibits explaining the history surrounding prisons in, obviously enough, Colorado. Visible through a few open cell windows to the west, the Colorado Territorial Correctional Facility - open since 1871 - currently houses nearly one thousand male inmates. This was the setting for a ghost hunt lead by Mountain Peak Paranormal Investigations in which I was one of apprximately fifteen participants accompanying the investigating team.

We split into smaller groups, ours starting the evening with a walk around the building's exterior and through a small outbuilding housing an old gas chamber. There was too much noise contamination - cars driving past and dogs barking - to legitimately accept any possible audio evidence. I became impatient because of this; I didn't want to force an experience, but I also did not want to be in a situation where soemthing wasn't possible.

Two different locations inside the building also revealed nothing. During a break in the investigation, I gave pause and wondered if the old building actually experienced any paranormal activity. But, that was simply due to my own impatience for an experience.

After the break, our group moved to the upstairs portion of the museum with the jail cells. As I walked through the corridor earlier in the evening, before the lights had been turned out, I paused near a mannequin dressed in an old black and white-striped prison uniform. I had gone through the hallway once before and experienced an uneasy feeling, but this time I stopped because I felt something pressing against my sternum.

Nothing was there, though. I was just imagining it. It was barely sunset. Nothing could possibly be lurking in the building at this point. Or so I thought.

Sitting on the floor and in a couple of chairs lining the walls, our group leaders set out a pair of colored flashlights and employed two paranormal investigative devices: a KII meter and an EVP recorder.

"Anthony? Are you here, Anthony?" asked Adrian, one of the two group leaders.

She requested who she named Anthony to play with the flashlights in front of her, turning on one color for yes and the other for no. But it seemed as though Anthony - who was actually Colorado's infamous boy-murderer Anton Woode - had other things in mind. He preferred the lights of the KII meter and the simple level of interaction it provided.

"Were you put here when you were elven, Anthony?"

The KII meter flickered all the way to the highest level, two red lights.

"Was it because you killed your neighbor?"

It maxed out to red, once again.

"Did you like his gold watch? Was that why you did it?"

It popped to red again.

There were some contradictory answers, though, and it was unclear if Anton Woode actually killed his neighbor. But it was impossible to deny, based on the questions and answers, that someone familiar with the details of Woode's exploits, maybe even the boy himself, was in the room with us lighting up the KII meter and turning on the flashlights.

"Anthony," I asked, "is it OK if I take your picture? I'd really like to be able to take your picture."

The blue flashlight, which we explained to the entity meant yes while the red one meant no, lit up. I quickly snapped a couple of photos and was surprised with the results:

Photographed orbs can easily be discounted as dust or reflections, but, as one of the group leaders pointed out, if it was dust, the large orb in the middle of the photo would move - as did the smaller three in the background of the first picture I took. It instead stayed there in subsequent photographs; I took a few more throughout our brief time in the hall with the same results:

Looking into the old cells as we left - explaining to Anthony that we would be back before the night was over - there was not a significant enough amount of light penetrating through any of the covered windows to cause such images to reflect and manifest in photographs. And if there was, then it would have done the same on a later photo in the same location. But, it didn't:

Excited over our encounter with Anton, our group retired to the prison's kitchen. We had no significant experience when we were first in the room, as was the case for us with the other rooms in the basement, but this time it was drastically different. When the building was used as a prison it housed female inmates and the kitchen was the location of a stabbing, we were told; one inmate stabbed another, who ultimately died, although not in the kitchen, of her wounds.

I didn't know this until later.

"Did you just push me?" I demanded to no one. "Did you just jab me in the back with something?"

I felt a slight push followed by a concentrated pain in my back to the left of my right armpit. It was as though something just jabbed me. I became angry and started to incite whatever was responsible. As I did so, the KII meter in my hand immediately sprang to life.

"I don't feel so good," said Jason, the other group leader. "I feel really lightheaded, like I'm going to faint. I have to get out of here for a second."

The KII meter in my hand was pointed at Jason when it lit up. Is it possible a spirit was there, maybe even the one who jabbed me in the back, using his energy to manifest? Certainly. Is it possible it was something else, maybe even just a thought in his head, causing him to feel lightheaded and weak? It is just as possible. But, I found it difficult to imagine it was untrue when, shortly after Jason returned to the room, Adrian would have issues that would also cause her to leave.

I moved to where she stood when she left and continued to incite whatever may be in the room.

"Do you want to do something to me? Then do it! Use my energy and do it, you coward - stabbing me in the back. I think you're scared and won't do it. If you're so strong, use my energy and turn on the lights on this device in my hand or in the pantry to my left. Do it!"

My short hair felt electric and goose bumps ran up and down my arms. The KII meter was going crazy. And then, as it dropped off, the motion sensor light flicked on in the adjacent small pantry room. The other group members stood quietly by, so I continued to talk and push my luck.

The pantry light turned off and popped right back on. Nothing was visible in the room, but something was causing it to turn on. And it wasn't one of us. The sensor was purposefully positioned facing into the pantry, away from us in the kitchen, so we wouldn't accidentally trigger it.

Disappointingly, another break was called for all of the groups shortly thereafter. I didn't want my time in the kitchen to end, though; it was evident that at least one spirit was there, likely two based on other interactions, and I wasn't finished with the experience. So, as we exited the room, I looked back over my shoulder and shouted, "You stabbed me! If you want some, come get some!"

It didn't. Whatever was in the kitchen, or that I was imagining was in the kitchen, stayed there and did not show itself again - not even when I returned moments later to take a few photographs of the room.

When the break was over, we stayed in the basement area. An archival room in the back of the basement, located underneath the jail cells above, was once a laundry room and a location for a larger cell - up to ten beds were once in the back room for trustee inmates who worked in the kitchen. I felt a bad energy in the room earlier in the evening, before our investigation started, but on our previous visit our time there had revealed nothing of interest, which is interesting in itself.

Another group leader told us a woman in his group felt something when standing by the washing machine. So, as if to bait something to happen, one of the women in our group stood in the same location. Nothing immediately occurred, but a motion light started to flicker on after we split into two smaller groups of three between the two rooms.

I walked back into the laundry room, interested in the possibility of another encounter. The KII meter in Adrian's hand was having several spikes and the motion light seemed to be going on, as if by command. Studying the situation, I wondered if Adrian was standing too close to the back of the light and causing it to trigger when she stretched out her arm for a KII reading. It was possible, however unlikely; something else may have been in the room with us. But, without any other strong evidence to support the thought, I discounted anything we experienced between the two basement rooms.

We rotated locations and were back upstairs amongst the jail cells. Anton, who appeared to have a crush on Adrian, was still there. He seemed excited to have her back in the room. But then a group member saw something at the end of the hall; "I think I just saw something, like a shadow, move down there."

The group picked up all of the equipment on the floor and moved twenty feet down the hall. Whatever she saw, though, seemed to have entirely disappeared. There was nothing there. And no was was playing with our flashlights, nothing was triggering the KII meter, and Adrian wasn't hearing anything through her headphones connected to the EVP recorder.

It made me appreciate those times when something did happen that much more, even if it meant I was being stabbed.

I was chilled from lying on the floor, so I got up and sat in an open chair. Recalling my phone's Ghost Radar application in the process, I pulled it back out of my pocket; I had tried using it earlier in the evening, but had no sensible results.

Carlos.

As soon as I turned it on the phone said, Carlos.

"Is that your name? Is your name Carlos?" I asked. "If so, please go over to those two green lights on the floor. If you do, it'll light up to red and let us know you mean yes."

Nothing happened to the KII meter.

"Does your name start with the letter C? Light it up if..."

It maxed out.

"So what's your name? Is it Carl? Or..."

"Is it Charles?" Adrian cut in.

The meter spiked again.

"Light it up again, please, if your name is Charles."

Another spike.

"How old are you, Charles? Light it up, please, if you're in your twenties."

A quick spike on the KII occurred.

"Were you in prison here, Charles?"

Yet another spike. Although it wasn't likely Charles, or Anton for that matter, was in prison here, since this was a women's facility. It is possible they both wandered over form the neighboring facility for men, though, which has a much longer history than the women's prison. It was no more than ten feet from the exterior wall to the museum.

"Why were you here, Charles?" I asked. "Did you kill someone?"

Again, the meter lit up.

"Did you do it to defend yourself?"

Another spike.

"Charles, are you telling us that you killed a person to defend yourself because he was going to kill you?"

The KII meter once again spiked at two red dots.

We paused, collectively holding our breath, and I wondered if we were truly in the presence of an intelligent spirit. As we sat there, back on the ground, the KII meter did nothing. It was back at its base level of two green dots.

There is an old mob story about buried treasure in the Canon City area. Adrian, interested in the idea, questioned Charles about the possibility of finding where it may be buried. She heard answers on the EVP recorder, but nothing that was conclusive; another group was walking up the stairs, talking loudly, and in turn contaminating any possible audio evidence.

I quickly shushed them and went back to questioning Charles; I didn't care about the treasure, I wanted to know more about him. But, I was so excited at the possibility of intelligent contact, that all questions escaped me. So, to demonstrate what was occurring to the other group members joining us, I reiterated our previous questions to Charles. The lights on the KII meter went on and off, just as they did during the previous line of questioning.

The third and final group joined us.

"Charles? Are you still here, Charles? If so, please light up the lights again to red."

The KII meter flickered a little, but did not spike.

"You can use our energy, Charles. Use our energy to light up the lights again and let us know you're here."

Nothing.

Either Charles was tired and unable to manifest further or the larger group scared him off. So it was now impossible, at least on this night, to learn anything more about him. There was no denying though, shortly before midnight on Halloween weekend, that there was something intelligent communicating with our small six-person group. And it wasn't picky, either, happy to communicate with anyone of us - unlike Anton, who obviously preferred communicating with Adrian.

Unsatisfied and wanting to know more still the next day, I did what any normal person does today: I googled Charles. The results were sparse and unconvincing, yet curious. The first result I found was for a C.E. Wagoner. That didn't seem likely, though. Wagoner, who was in his mid-thirties when he was convicted, was in on charges of burglary, larceny, and assault. Charles told us he was in his twenties when he was convicted of murder. And to add to it, I had no reason to believe the C in C.E. even stood for Charles.

Another search, phrased a little differently, came up with an article mentioning a Charles Bennett. He was convicted for murder in a Denver metro area county - Arapahoe County. But, the article wasn't thorough; it didn't list Bennett's age at the time of his incarceration during the early months of the prison's existence in 1871, just that he was there for murder and it was an ordeal transporting him and another inmate to the prison.

How could I be so stupid! I thought. How is it that I choked and didn't think to ask Charles about his last name?!?

With a last name, the mystery and intrigue surrounding Charles would be lost. It would be easy enough to ask him about it, too, and learn his true identity. And if he answered that his last name was Bennett, then there would be little doubt left to his crime.

And who was with us? Was there really anyone there? Did someone actually trip the motion sensor light, speak Carlos to us through my phone, and then have a conversation about their past with the help of the KII meter? It sounds highly unlikely, but is possible nonetheless. The skeptic in me wants to think otherwise, though. But it is difficult to discount the experience as something created in our minds.

The Museum of Colorado Prisons is, without a doubt, an interesting place with a fascinating history that may still be alive through the likes of a shy boy with a living crush in Anton Woode, an angry woman in the kitchen who still tries to stab visitors, and through the likes of a previously unknown reaching out for contact in Charles. It is possible, all the same, that it is nothing more than a little history mixed with imagination. Yet, when so much doesn't happen, the skeptical optimist in me thinks it is unlikely that the paranormal and reality aren't sometimes one in the same - at least on one night during a Halloween weekend.

A New Dinosaur National Monument Visitor Center

Thu, 22 Sep 2011 16:12:23 +0100

Stradling the border between Colorado and Utah, Dinosaur National Monument sits on the far western - or eastern, depending on your perspective - side of the state. It is for this reason that I had not traveled there - the drive from Denver was just too long. But this past week I finally made the park I coveted for so long, getting a behind-the-scenes tour of the new visitor center and museum before Secretary of the Interior Ken Salazar attends the grand opening on Tuesday, October 4th.

Like so many boys in their youth, I loved dinosaurs. That infatuation ultimately gave way to the likes of Star Wars and G.I. Joe, but only after a strong couple of years memorizing all of the different dino names. I don't think I was as well versed as my nephew - the kid could say the names of some of the dinos that I could swear he just made it up - but I knew the basics; T-rex, triceratops, stegasaurus, I loved them all. And that love has stayed with me into adulthood, when I am now interested in learning about more than just their names.

I had put plans in motion several times to visit the national monument to satisfy my adult curiosity. Each time they fell through for one reason or another. But, my lucky day finally arrived while I was visiting on a Utah Office of Tourism-sponsored trip to see the northern part of the state. They took a small group of writers, myself included, to the Dinosaur National Monument to see the new visitor center and building that houses the famous wall of bones - a partially excavated hillside with over 1,500 bones uncovered and displayed.

I stood in complete awe from the balcony overlooking the wall of bones. I had never seen anything like it, because, simply, there is nothing else like it - anywhere. Dinosaur bones of all kinds - estimated at half of the species from the Jurassic Period 149 million years ago - are partially uncovered for examination and education from a safe distance.

It wasn't always possible, though, since the old building needed to be reconstructed because it was collapsing in upon itself due to structural issues. So, the last couple of years the wall has been closed to visitors. Enter the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act; money was provided to rebuild the structure surrounding the wall of bones and construct a new visitor center for the Utah side of the 210,000-acre park.

Before seeing the new building protecting the wall of bones, we toured the new visitor center. The building has been completed, but the moving in has only just begun; park rangers were busy at work putting together cabinets and desks and moving supplies into new offices. The public displays - including information not just about the dinosaurs found in the park, but also the homesteading families who settled the area - has yet to be put into place. But, the superintendent assured us that, without a doubt, everything will be ready for the grand opening on the 96th anniversary of the park; it started long ago as a tiny 80-acre plot of land only in Utah.

Today Dinosaur National Monument encompasses much more than just a history of the prehistoric and a collection of fossilized remains. While the dinosaurs are most certainly the main attraction, the park is also known for some spectacular vistas. We were able to spend a short period of time witnessing such beauty at a stop along the green river, a favorite spot for adventure-seekers looking to take a float and ride the rapids of the Green River.

The high walls surrounding the Green River as it spills back into Utah from Colorado can be seen for miles away. They set a dramatic background to the dinosaur excavations which still go on today. The park superintendent could not offer a guess at how much is left to discover, but many researchers are hard at work; the likes of students and learned professors from Harvard, Brigham Young University, and the University of Nebraska, among others, continue research at the Dinosaur National Monument.

We stopped briefly to admire some petroglyphs at the end of a short trail before leaving the park for Vernal. The American Indian drawings, which are scattered throughout the monument, are estimated to be approximately 1,000-years-old. Beautifuly done, admiring the rock art was a perfect way to end our short stay in the park.

However short the stay may have been, I left all dreamy-eyed over the future of what is certainly beautiful park that I took too long to visit. Had I known about it in my youth, I most certainly would have begged my parents to take me on a road trip. My only hope is that, once the visitor center and wall of bones building is reopened in early October, it does not take me as long to return and explore the rest of the park. What I saw was only a small slice of the Dinosaur National Monument, and not nearly enough to do it justice - but that will come in time with patience and return trips.

Hiking the Lakes of Rocky Mountain National Park

Mon, 29 Aug 2011 06:09:26 +0100

I ran for the cover under the tall lodgepole pine trees. Rain was falling in large, fat droplets at Rocky Mountain National Park's Dream Lake and I wanted nothing to do with it; I wasn't prepared with a jacket or even a cap. But I knew, as someone who was taking cover with me joked, that the weather in the park would change in fifteen minutes if I didn't like it. And I hoped it changed soon, since I was nearing the end of my hike with a friend and ravenously hungry.

I started the morning slipping into my hiking shoes at the Bear Lake trailhead. I hadn't been on a trail in over a month - the last time being my attempt at climbing a 14er - so I was eager to head out. We started with good energy and kept it all the way to Albert Falls, approximately a mile from the trailhead.

The falls are no stranger to me. I have visited them many times; they are easily one of my favorite places in the national park, but sadly also one of the most crowded due to their convenience. We stopped for a quick photo and continued on to our goal: Mills Lake. I had snowshoed there a couple of years ago and was excited at the opportunity of seeing the beautiful winterscape I witnessed in the warmer summer months.

The hike to the lake was nearly all up hill. We had plenty of energy, though, so it was a welcome challenge with a fantastic reward. I believe my friend agreed, as I heard him let out a little "oh" at the first glimpse of the beautiful blue waters surrounded by a ring of mountain peaks. Silently I agreed with him; a new favorite Rocky Mountain National Park location had just been declared.

We lounged on the rocks surrounding the lake, basking in the warm morning sun. It was not yet noon and we had reached our destination. Briefly we discussed our return plan and decided it would be more interesting to continue in a giant loop, seeing more of the lakes in the area, instead of returning the way we had come; quickly that idea seemed to be a poor one, since the way to the next lake was entirely up hill.

Our legs began to ache, our breaths became shorter, and we were starting to get tired and hungry. Instead of remaining chatty and happy, we grew bitter and grumpy over our challenge. We cursed it and the idea of continuing on, but slogged on nonetheless. And anyone who told us we were so close, "only another 15 minutes up a steep trail," we threatened under our breath.

Despite all of our belly aching, though, we were happy to be presented with the challenge. It was undoubtedly difficult, but also good for both of us. And in the end, we found another stunning destination in the park: Lake Haiyaha.

We scrambled over and snuck around a few large rocks, boulders even, and came upon the gorgeous lake named for the rocks surrounding it; Haiyaha is an Indian word meaning "rock." A cool breeze fell off the mountains. The sun peaked through a canopy of puffy, white-cotton clouds. And the summer day could not have been more perfect now that we were at the top of our climb - just over 10,000 feet above sea level.

The rest of the way was a gentle downhill meander along the side of the mountains. Occasionally vast, open views were afforded the lucky hiker who took the time to climb back to the lakes. It was breathtaking, stunning, and so many other synonymous adjectives that the list could go on indefinitely; such a view overlooking several other lakes in the area was nothing short of impressive.

Little was left of our approximately seven-mile-roundtrip hike, yet three lakes awaited our arrival: Dream Lake, Nymph Lake, and Bear Lake. And that is when the rain began to fall. It quickly soaked into my clothing, making me run for cover after snapping a quick photo of the first of the three lakes.

We chatted briefly with other hikers, joking about the weather. Mentally I also cursed my arrogance in leaving a coat and hat behind. I knew there was a chance for rain that day, but scoffed at the idea of it raining on my hike. Had I not been lazy and brought the appropriate clothing, we would have been able to continue on with our hike. Instead, we had to wait it out in the hopes that Mother Nature would eventually become bored with her showers.

Crowds emerged simultaneously from the trees, everyone intent on moving on while it appeared the rain was beginning to receed. We dodged around a few groups, skipping down the trail at a good clip, and finally came out ahead of most of the other hikers. From here it was a clear shot of approximately a mile to the trailhead with nothing between us but the lilypad-covered Nymph Lake.

Some of the slower groups of people were picking up their pace and hunger was gnawing at our insides, so we stopped only momentarily for a couple of photographs. Had we planned ahead and packed a lunch, this would have likely been the perfect spot to stop and enjoy it; a lone chipmunk scavenged for food on a bench - something I considered an option due to my hunger - but the rest of his friends appeared to be more interested in frequenting the other lakes.

We quickly reached our return-destination of Bear Lake. Our timing could not have been better, since it was beginning to rain again. Briskly walking through the trees on the trail, we were able to snap a couple of quick pictures before returning to the car. The cover was welcome, but it was also disappointing; we had a great hike and I was sad to see it end.

Sure, I know there will be return trips to the park. With so much more to explore, especially all of the lakes I now see marked on my park brochure - dozens by a rough estimate - I know I'll be back for more. But, I'm not sure it can ever truly be enough when it comes to such a precious destination in Rocky Mountain National Park.

An Evening at the Dushanbe Teahouse

Fri, 22 Jul 2011 16:13:48 +0100

I walked to my car in the cool summer evening admiring the fact that I tried something new. No, it wasn't anything crazy like eating some bugs, alligator tail, or even dog - although, I'm pretty sure I accidentally ate some while visiting the Old Summer Palace on my 2006 trip to China. No, it was nothing like that; I simply sat down for a cup of tea at Boulder's Dushanbe Teahouse.

I have desired to visit the Dushanbe Teahouse for many years, simply because of a snippet of history I had learned from a coworker. It seemed fantastic that a building, especially a teahouse, a staple of many cultures, particularly in Asia, could be built in Dushanbe, Tajikstan by hand, packed in crates, and shipped to its sister city Boulder, before being reassembled as a symbol of friendship between two amazingly different societies. But, such is the work behind Sister Cities International and the deeper meaning of a public teahouse - a place for socializing and sharing ideas. And I was enjoying it just so with other writers and bloggers like Grace Boyle, Josh Berman, and Cynthia Barnes.

I grew up with pretty liberal parents when it came to my diet. Never was I forced to eat anything I didn't care to try, with the exception of once - and I think that battle over a peanut butter and jelly sandwich soured my mother on ever making me try anything again. But, nearly thirty years - and an apptitude to be slightly more adventureous - later, I sat down for a night at the Dushanbe Teahouse in Boulder. I was there to sample some tea and goodies that they will be offering at the upcoming Rocky Mountain Tea Festival on July 23rd and 24th.

There was one problem, though: I had never even sipped a cup of tea before.

I suppose I could have ordered tea at some restaurant, or purchased some at the grocery store, but I never really had the desire to do so. My tendancy to get stuck in a sort of rut and stick with what I know and like, with the exception of when I'm abroad - think of eating dog - usually wins out when I'm at a restaurant or the grocery store, so rarely do I ever try anything new except while away.

On this night, though, I was going to make a triumphant return to adventuresomeness by simply sipping on some tea. Well, at least that's what I thought before someone plopped an orange blossom mojito in front of me, thus distracting my senses for the remainder of the evening. So, instead of being there to try something new in tea, I was engrossed in a new and tasty alcoholic drink.

The tea did come, though, and I found it unlike anything I had anticipated. My preconceived notion of tea took my mind toward the dark English teas I have seen, as well as that of sweet iced teas that my aforementioned coworker enjoys on a daily basis. I have never cared for the smell of those drinks, so I was pleasantly surprised when I took my first sip and found something much more mild, albeit still flavorful, in a tasty green tea.

Other darker and, as owner Sara Martinelli stated, much more "earthy" teas followed, but they were still much lighter in color than I had imagined a tea could be; I could still see the bottom of my cup. But, as much as I was engrossed in the tea and its descriptions, I was continually pulled back to the mojito and a discussion about the food menu - particularly in relation to the Tajikstan Plov. The description of the dish by chef and owner Lenny Martinelli made my mouth water and yearn for an immediate return visit to the Dushanbe Tea House, having skipped out on the wonderful array of snacks offered since I was still uncomfortably full from a late lunch.

Emboldened by my adventureousness, I have no doubt I will be returning to Boulder's Dushanbe Teahouse sooner rather than later. It had a fantastic atmosphere that seemed perfect for many occasions - like a romantic date or a relaxing afternoon - and as such right up my alley. But, while I enjoyed my first forray into the world of tea, my return will be for the food and, quite likely, another one of those orange blossom mojitos.

Climbing a Colorado Mountain

Tue, 19 Jul 2011 18:01:19 +0100

My legs shook like trees in the wind as I stopped to take a picture of a stream that ran through the forest on the east side of Mount Elbert, the tallest peak in all of the Rocky Mountains. I paused to rest for a moment - wondering if a few more trips to the gym would have really helped the situation - and covered for my weakness by taking a quick photo. I needed the break more than the memories, if I was going to skip across three stones in the water to continue back down to the trailhead.

I rarely make New Year's Resolutions. I find them shallow and holding little merit. After all, if someone wants to change, then they will do so on their own accord - not because they feel obligated to make a promise on a particular day of the year.

Yet, on New Year's Day, I made the resolution to try to get back into working out more in 2011 and thus getting in a little better shape. Things had started falling off for me when I quit judo approximately 18 months previously for various reasons and I was beginning to notice. But, I rarely do well with such ultimatums unless I have a goal. And so, a couple of months after making my resolution, I set my eyes on one: I was going to climb my first 14er - a 14,000 foot mountain peak - in the summer.

The water fell over my face in the shower the morning of the climb. The day before I had boasted to a friend that I had no doubt in my mind that I was ready and would make it to the top. But, as I stood there in a sleepy stupor, I questioned whether I could truly make it. Sure, it was one of the easiest 14er hikes in Colorado, or so I read, but it was still the tallest mountain in the Rockies at 14,433 feet. Maybe I had underestimated it and overestimated my own abilities. After all, I had never done anything remotely similar to this before.

Not even once.

The trailhead was at a lofty 10,400 feet above sea level. I had climbed to that height before, even breaking tree line, but never started there. The thought of I'm not sure I can do this crossed my mind in another flash for a second. I wanted to believe I could, though, so I tried to exude a confident demeanor; I was hoping I'd find a groove and in the end make the summit through sheer stubborness - one of my finer personality traits.

From the trailhead, I huffed and puffed and pushed my way through the forest with a single thought: the summit was only 3.8 miles away. We discussed the point at the start that this would mean more than a 1,000 foot gain in elevation for each mile, but I banished the idea; it would only cripple me further. I needed to keep my focus on smaller goals, various bends and landmarks in the trail, and then I would be fine.

With my chin tucked tight to my chest, trying not to look at the continual uphill climb, I followed my friend - Kory Kilmer - up the trail, letting him set the pace. He is a more experienced hiker, having climbed a couple of 14ers in the past, and knew what needed to be done. All I had to do was keep my eyes on the trail, so I wouldn't stumble and twist an ankle, and keep up with him as best I could.

The climb was hard, but we gained heart when we moved out of the trees. We were at least 11,000 feet above sea level at this point - and debated if we weren't higher - while we stopped for a snack. Our legs were already tired and we required the rest, but started to feel a little adrenaline pump now that what we thought was the summit was in site - further observations proved this to be true, what we were seeing was the peak and not a false one.

Our pace slowed as we gained elevation; the air was becoming noticeably thinner. I started to fade first, sometimes falling as far as a city block behind Kory and the strong pace he was able to hold. Despite a significantly slower pace, I couldn't breathe and needed frequent stops in order to catch my breath and slog on. But, I wasn't going to be denied. I had come this far from the first day of the year and wanted to prove myself by reaching the summit.

I was not going to quit.

And then I quit. We were less than a football field in height from the summit, not even a mile of switchbacks away, before I threw in the towel. I couldn't breathe, I was dizzy to the point of falling over, and I had a raging headache - all symptoms of altitude sickness. I knew it, but didn't want to admit it - plopping down to pout on a trail-side rock while ignoring the beautiful view - until it meant it could be both a danger to either of us.

"I don't know how experienced of hikers you guys are," said a grizzled old man who had obviously seen the top of his fair share of 14ers, "but there's storm clouds moving in and that means lightning. It may not be safe to be up there much longer." I wanted to punch him for pointing out the discouragingly obvious; I knew the clouds were rolling in, but I didn't want to hear another reason as to why I should be walking back down the mountain instead of up.

Yet, shortly after hearing his words, that is what we did. We both agreed that we had reached a respectable height and, for all intents and purposes, accomplished our goal. It didn't matter that we weren't on the summit, looking 360 degrees all around at the lesser peaks, because we had made 14,000 feet without breaking a leg or being struck by lightning - something that happens more per capita in Colorado than in any other state save Florida.

I choked on my pride while I bounded down the mountain at a far faster pace than going up. I was happy with the height we reached, but grumbled about it the whole way down. I had made my attempt, coming close enough to call it mission accomplished, but was doing nothing more than venting my frustrations; I had come so far and worked so hard and was now admitting defeat to any future 14er. I would never try climbing one again.

I continued to grumble - another one of my finer personality traits - for the two hour drive down the mountain to Denver. I wanted to say I did well enough through bitching and moaning, but I was only winding myself up for another attempt. Sure, I made a respectable go of it and hit 14,000 feet, but close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, not - even though I snipped about it many times afterwards - when it comes to climbing 14ers.

Ghost Hunting at the Stanley Hotel

Mon, 13 Jun 2011 06:09:29 +0100

NOTES: Read about A Ghostly Tour of the Stanley Hotel before continuing. Also, observe the large orb on the right side of Karl's head on the left side of the picture as he stands next to Callie. It was taken in the Stanley Hotel's Concert Hall basement foyer.

Sitting in a stall in the women's lavatory in the Stanley Hotel's Concert Hall made me question my sanity. I never thought I'd be where I was, particularly with a dozen strangers surrounding me. Yet, there I was, on the toilet in the dark room calling out to the ghosts who are said to reside in that part of the building.

Stifling a laugh, I thought of Harry Potter's Moaning Myrtle. It was quite comical, the idea of a ghost living in a toilet and diving down a U-bend to hide. But, these ghosts in the Stanley Hotel weren't quite like that - they were real people who had strong attachments to the hotel in life. And with their deaths, neither Lucy nor Paul seemed to have left.

"If you're Lucy," I called out, "please come toward this green light on the device I'm holding in my hand."

Nothing happened.

"If you're Paul, please come toward the light. It won't hurt you. It will just cause other lights to come on and let us know you're here."

There was a pause and nothing happened. And then it flickered. The K-11 meter in my left hand lit up.

"Are you Paul?" I asked.

It lit up again, but quickly stopped.

"Did you hear that?" someone else in the group asked.

A chorus of confirmations followed with another noise. Not only were footsteps falling on the concert hall floor above us, but something that sounded like a small pebble bouncing three times off the metal stall partitions also attracted the group's attention.

"Hang on, let me see if anyone is upstairs," said Karl Pfeiffer, the winner of the first Ghost Hunters Academy show. He was leading this part of our hunt and wanted to see if the other group, presently at the Stanley Hotel's Manor House, was walking around above us in the Concert Hall.

They weren't.

The other group was still at the Manor House conducting their ghost hunt. We were there only an hour beforehand and, at that time, I had my first experience of the night while sitting in room 1302. Callie, the other group leader, told us there had possibly been a terrible fight in that room over a poker game when single men stayed there. They were separated from the ladies in the main hotel for reasons of decorum. Thinking back to the poker fight, I agreed the separation was more than justifiable.

The wind fiercly beat on the sides of the Manor House as rain lightly fell, setting the appropriate mood for the hunt. Unfortunately, though, the noise of the storm audibly contaminated the setting and made it impossible for us to hear anything happening in the room. So, we pulled out a pair of electronic instruments to assist with communication.

Callie, the group leader, used a PX meter while I heled the K-11 meter and used an app on my phone called Ghost Radar. It seemed silly to think my phone could detect ghosts in the room or help me communicate with them. I only ever thought of my phone as just that, a phone. Sure, it can run other apps, but talk with ghosts? No way.

Storm.

"What was that? What did it say?" asked Callie.

"Storm," I said matter-of-factly. "It said storm."

Did a ghost just speak with me through my phone? I blushed at the possibility, but it was also highly unlikely that this app spit out the word storm at such an opportune moment. This wasn't the only time such an event occurred with the phone, though.

Shortly after downloading the Ghost Radar application, I decided to test it out in my own home. I was sitting on the couch watching a hockey game when I opened the program for the first time.

Ice.

Effort.

For the first time I heard its computer-generated voice speaking to me. It was a chilling occurrence. Did a ghost, through this special app, really say ice and effort to me while I was watching a hockey game?

"Is someone here?" I asked. "I've lived here for six years now, so you should know my name if someone is here. Can you tell me what my name is, please?"

Jimmy, it immediately answered.

"No, my name isn't Jimmy. It is Jason. Is your name Jimmy?"

It didn't respond directly to my question, but instead went on to say things like hay and wagon. Perhaps it was trying to tell me something. Perhaps there was a spirit living in my home and it was actually trying to tell me my name; there are a limited number of words programmed into the application, so maybe it was unable to answer directly with my name and instead called me Jimmy, choosing another name beginning with the same letter.

I recalled the brief exchange in my home while I sat in the dark in the Stanley Hotel's Manor House. Hearing the phone speak storm, during a storm, made me wonder if the program really did work; it is an amazing coincidence, nonetheless.

We left the lady's restroom shortly after the group heard the metallic noise and the footsteps upstairs. Nothing else seemed to be happening in the room, but we had some positive occurrences and exchanges through the various electronic equipment we were employing. Hopeful we would elicit more reactions, we continued on to visit Lucy and Paul's rooms.

Lucy didn't actually live in the room when she stayed in the hall after running away from home, upset with her parents over a boy. When she was discovered living in the basement, she was turned away. She was later found frozen to death in the streets of Estes Park. As the Concert Hall was renovated, a powder room of sorts was cut from the building's foundations. It is now believed that Lucy's ghost occasionally resides in that room.

"We were in here one night, Callie and me," Karl began to explain. "While we were sitting there in the dark the door closed all by itself. It did it once, and then twice, and then again and again. After sitting in the room for several hours, it had done it a total of eighteen times. And that is just not something it can do on its own."

Karl stood by the door and demonstrated how it can stick on the ground. He explained how it would actually take some energy to close the door. It just couldn't do it on its own. Yet, that night, it happened repeatedly.

Our group sat around the floor, our backs against the wall. We asked for Lucy or Paul to come and join us, for them to close the door, but nothing happened in the room. We also didn't have any substantial experiences while in Paul's room, another room must down the hallway. Paul was apparently working in the room as a maintenance man when he began to have a heart attack. He tried to drive to the hospital, but died en route. Now, years later, his spirit still works in the Concert Hall as both maintenance man and security guard, another duty in which he was employed.

"Paul doesn't like me for some reason," Callie explained. "He likes to call me the B-word. I think that is because he knows I bring people here late at night past the eleven o'clock curfew. No matter why, I don't come down in this hallway alone any longer."

Callie went on to explain how two men who were on the ghost hunt one night, coerced by their wives, rolled their eyes at this thought. One of them, though, brave enough to walk into the hallway and the room alone later in the evening, was met with a frightful noise - Get out! The man certainaly did that, according to Callie, as he ran back upstairs to the main concert hall and his group. He refused to return on his own, now better understanding what she had explained.

As our complete group of thirty sat in the actual concert hall, Callie told the story of how one night a contractor was doing some work on the stage. It was late at night and he was by himself when he felt someone grab him around the waist from behind and lift him up. The man sprinted from the building, refusing to return, since no one was in the building with him. He was so spooked that he returned the portion of his payment for his unfinished work.

Later in the evening we were allowed to wander on our own throughout the Concert Hall. I returned to Lucy's room and the lady's bathroom, but did not have another significant experience. The K-11 meter lit up briefly again, but it was not enough to keep my attention in either room. Since everyone was downstairs exploring those rooms, I decided to head upstairs to the balcony overlooking the concert hall.

Earlier my group had a few brief experiences there, but nothing substantial. I wanted to try again, though, so I returned and sat talking with myself in an attempt to elicit a response. And once again, I questioned my sanity. After all, there I was, although not in the lady's lavatory, talking to myself on the balcony of a concert hall in an attempt to get a ghost to speak with me.

A small group of two or three people were doing the same just across the hall on the left side of the stage. They obviously grew bored with the lack of action, as they got up and walked across the front of the stage and down the back staircase leading to Paul's and Lucy's rooms. I was growing anxious, too, since nothing was happening, so I decided I would leave momentarily if nothing happened. And then, from that same back staircase, a man walked, crossing in front of the stage and going up the short staircase in the middle of it. He stopped at the top step and sat down on the edge of the stage.

Alright, I thought, this is ridiculous. Nothing is happening up here, so I'm going to sit with that person and see if they've had anything else happen.

I leaned against the stage for a few moments, experiencing and feeling nothing. And then the thought struck me. It wasn't possible, though. Yet, in my mind, there could be no other explanation. But, I had to be sure, so I ran down the back staircase and poked my head into Paul's room. A small group was collected on the floor conducting their investigation. When I questioned if any of them had just returned from upstairs, they all answered no. The same was true in Lucy's room, in the small downstairs foyer, and in the women's restroom. No one had been upstairs and no one had walked by them to leave.

Unless my eyes were deceiving me, there was no other explanation - I saw Paul's shadow figure walk up and sit on the stage.

Was it because he was annoyed with everyone downstairs? Did he just want to get away from them? Or was it something else playing tricks on my eyes? I thought about it, but that wasn't possible; the blinds to the room were all drawn, so there was no light contamination. The wind still howled outside, but that wouldn't affect what I saw, only what I heard - which was nothing. There was no one else in the concert hall with me and simply no other explanation.

I left, as I did on my first visit to the Stanley Hotel, curious about my experiences. I knew I saw something and I believed no one in my group was upstairs; what could it have been? The same could be asked of the words and exchanges I experienced with my telephone's app, the K-11 meter, and the sounds we all heard as a group in the restroom. I didn't have an explanation for any of it, nor would I, but there was no doubt that I was one shadow figure closer to believing in ghosts.

Gearing Up for My Climb to the Top of Colorado

Mon, 09 May 2011 16:36:47 +0100

I ended the week feeling demoralized. I thought I had worked hard, but apparently it wasn't enough, because I struggled climbing a hill only 8,000 feet above sea level, Sure, to a low-lander that may sound like a veritable mountain, but in Colorado it only constitutes a hill. I now can tell that I'm not only going to need to spend my time in the gym better, but also purchase some more tools to help me along the way.

The week began with a false start. I drove up the scenic Poudre Canyon to the west of Ft. Collins to take a hike I had my eye on for some time only to find it is still snowed in. The warm weather had not made a dent in the record snowpack the mountains had seen this winter and I was more than a little over zealous to get going. It was no bother, though, since it allowed me to instead spend my time purchasing a good pair of hiking shoes, something I've been in desperate need of for some time.

The rest of my week was split between the gym and hiking the trails at the Rocky Mountain Arsenal, a national wildlife refuge in the heart of the Denver metropolitan area. I've enjoyed hiking through the park before, catching the occasional glimpses of wildlife, and figured it'd be a good way to get some trail time in when the weather was just right. It would certainly beat the routinely mundane gym.

This, I believe, is where I went wrong. The trails at the arsenal are flat and offer little challenge. So, while it is perfect for an occasional visit, I should not substitute the gym for it. I need to instead stay focused on lifting weights and utilizing the stair climber to the best of my abilities. I have believed from the start, and still do now, that it will be the best way, particularly when combined with difficult hikes on the weekends, to increase my lung capacity and reach my goal.

Well, that and a good pair of hiking sticks.

The new hiking shoes I purchased came in handy this past weekend when I traveled to the stunning Mt. Falcon Open Space Park in Jefferson County. The trails,w hile well-kept, were rocky and steep at times. A good pair of sneakers would have sufficed, but having that extra bit of traction certainly helped. In the end, though, it was not enough, since I had to stop more than I cared on an uphill climb that should have only required a drink of water at the end.

My only consolation is that it is still early in the hiking season and I have plenty of time to build up to my goal of 14,000 feet. This is only a minor setback, mentally more than anything, and one that I'll need to push through because, while I will accept the occasional stops for breathers and drinks when I'm climbing to my ultimate summit, I know I can do better. I have done better and will do it again.

But, not even halfway to my goal now, I believe this just isn't good enough.