Vail Goes Dirtbag

The sun is out, the mud has dried up, and strangers are once again flooding the streets and filling out the night scene in my small mountain town. The off season has turned back on and the GoPro Mountain Games last weekend rang-in the official start to the summer.

Welcome back tourists. Would you like fries with that?

It’s a thought provoking experience, riding out the recession in a resort town. I have more friends than I can count using their college degrees to serve coffee to people who have more disposable income to spend in a few days than the average student's total loan debt (the current average is somewhere around $24,000).  By contrast, the average family of four who vacations in Vail spends around $30,000 for a week long vacation.

$30,000 for ONE week.

That’s $4,285 a day. 178 an hour. Approximately 3 dollars every minute.

I just got upset because I had to pay a 3 dollar fine on a dvd I returned late to the library.

Ski resorts are expensive places to visit and Vail ranks in as not only the most expensive resort in the country, but as the number one most expensive place to visit in the United States. Even in the summer.

Of course, not everyone spends $30,000 when they visit, but generally, the folks who vacation in this town have got some dough to spend. The Mountain Games are an exception.  These are peanut butter and jelly folks, camp-out in their car folks: dirtbag as it gets in Vail, Colorado. And I love them.

Granted, I don't have to work for tips.

So what's the trick to spending a weekend in Vail without breaking the bank?

Accommodations: Hotel rates are well into the hundreds around here. Don't stay in them. The best thing to do is to tell someone at the bar you're a pro-athlete and surf their...couch. Unfortunately, that doesn't always work. Fortunately, there are plenty of places to park your car or set up your tent and sleep for free. Over the weekend, people were spotted grilling and drinking 40s in the parking structure. The structure is free in the summer, but the ground slants and no one wants to sleep at an angle all night, plus, well, it's CEMENT. Better off driving up Red Sandstone or some forest land road and finding an open place to set up camp.

Food and Entertainment: Events like the Mountain Games provide an amazing assortment of free stuff. First of all, the spectating is one hundred percent free, and that can basically take up the entire weekend, and if you play your cards right, you can get yourself into a couple after parties that give out free beer and white zinfandel. Various venders peddle all sorts of goodies from braided survival rope key chains (do people ever really use those?), to granola bars and sports drink samples, collecting free stuff can not only score you plenty of repetitive calories, it also provides free entertainment. Just think of it like a scavenger hunt. Don't think you can survive off of samples all weekend? Just think about how much easier it is for you to get drunk when you buy happy hour beers before the free concerts!
But, if you absolutely MUST buy some food to eat, there are a few restaurants in Vail that are not ridiculously over priced. These are La Cantina (conveniently located in the transportation center next to public bathrooms, 'hello' showering in the sink), where you can buy a burrito combo for under 10 bucks and eat all the chips and salsa you can handle, Vendetta's, which features a 3 dollar cheese slice, Loaded Joes, whose mac-n-cheese will put you back a few dollars, and, if you're into pizza and willing to take the hike all the way across the interstate, Local Joes has got pies and drinks for cheap**.

Last weekend all of these places were SLAMMED. Obviously, these Mountain Games visitors have got it figured out.

Dirtbags, I salute you! Drink your 40s in the parking garage, leave large tipping to our regular costumers, you bring some flavor to the snow globe and though you don't exactly live that 'real life' my parents are still warning me about, I admire that you don't stroll across the street in full length fur coats. Granted, maybe it's just too warm...

Let’s shake it up, summer is here!

Odds are, it's gonna be good.

**Respective businesses please feel free to compensate me for this advertising (which reaches a plethora of readers ;)) via complimentary drinks and meals.

Exodus

When the mountain closes, the seasonal workers of Vail migrate en mass in a proactive attempt to shake off any haunting bitterness from spending the past five months holed up in the valley, catering to the needs of wealthy tourists. The destinations do vary, but from conversations held on the bus and bar stools, I gather that at least half of the Vail transient work force heads to Moab, Utah.*

So when Tod invites me on a trip to 'The Maze,'--an area for which the only information I am sure of is that it is located somewhere in the state of Utah, in general proximity to Moab (relatively)--I agree to come along.

The night before we leave, I decide I might as well do some research (mostly so I know what to wear).  The first link that pops up after I type 'The Maze' into my search page is a 2008 Backpacker article detailing the 10 most dangerous hikes in America. 'The Maze,' a specific area in Canyonlands National Park, with its difficult scrambles, lack of water, and tricky navigation (perhaps leading to the name), is number one.

Awesome.

Look I love nature, I really do, I do quite a lot of hiking and I have spent quite a few nights in a tent, but I’ve gotta admit: I don't actually know what I'm doing.

I consider staying in Vail and renting movies, but I know I'll never make it through the summer if I don't at least try to shake off some of the unbearable lightness of ski-town living. I decide to trust that Tod, or rather, his two friends Drew and Mark know what they are doing. On the ride out Mark informs me that he has brought both a compass and a map. These sound like good things to have.

The first day in Canyonlands we park the car by the trail head. The high lookout provides a clear view of at least thirty miles in all directions, filled with pretty much nothing but rocks. Yes, they are pretty cool looking rocks, colors ranging from red to beige to the green of scrubby looking juniper trees that give some scale to the gigantic twists and turns, but rocks none the less. It's hot, and as we descend a path called the 'Golden Stairs' I am already sweating, dreaming about a cold beer while trying desperately not to twist an ankle. Drew and Mark have sturdy hiking boots, and Tod has a solid pair of athletic shoes on, while I, in my infinite wisdom, deemed this trip to be a good place to try out my new Chacos. If Mike Fay could hike across the entire Congo in the same sandals, I figured I could last 4 days in Utah.

So not only am I struggling to keep up with the three dudes (two of whom, BTW, have leg strides that are CONSIDERABLY longer than mine), I'm also trying to keep rocks out from under my heels, and wondering if the sharp pain gathering in my achilles is part of the normal ‘break-in’ process of hiking in sandals.

The main part of the day is spent crossing the main canyon floor, and that’s not so bad, despite the heat, because it’s relatively flat. But, the descent down into ‘The Maze’ itself is sketchy at best, and as I am already tired, I resign myself to a state of denial, refusing to look over the side of the hairline crack in the rock I am stuffing the edge of my feet into as we follow cairn after cairn down the rocky walls.

At least I’m burning those off-season calories, I tell myself as I crawl into my sleeping bag early that evening.

In the morning, the situation improves a bit. The guys seem to have lost the need to RUN through the desert with heavy packs on their backs, and the fact that they are covered with bug bites, while I am not gives me a secret boost of confidence.

Clearly, nature loves me. And the fact that bugs are not buzzing around MY ears when they are driving my hiking partners insane, is a sign that the desert will NOT send rattle snakes to bite me, scorpions to sting me, nor throw me off high places to tumble to my death.
This realization/some-might-say-delusion, greatly improves my attitude, and when we decide to ditch our packs in the afternoon for some day hiking, it is pure magic. Liberated from the ungainly backpack, I feel like I can fly up the trails. Those twists and turns become geological wonders millions and millions of years in the making and the illusions created by the canyons themselves, the way how sometimes one canyon can't be separated from another is no longer an impediment to survival, but a powerful piece of art, like the drawings on the walls themselves, etched out by humans thousands of years ago.

My Chacos may not be the best modern footwear, but they are definitely more advanced than what those folks wore.

The more miles we hike, the more worries fall away, as they tend to do in nature, which is why so many people feel the need to strap 30 lbs of gear on their back and walk along a path into the woods. On the last night I clamber up a shallow canyon wall and meditate on rocks that now hum in tune with my heart as the sun goes down.
A smile, like a tick, keeps spreading across my face, even as we pack up the truck to leave.

“I have just come alive,” Mark says as we toast a beer, still cold from the car cooler, “Now I go back to slowly die.”

Until next time, I know he means. But why, when we face those odds, do we ever go back in the first place?

*this fact is in no way objective whatsoever   

Getting Out

Living in one place does offer certain conveniences I have come to enjoy. Example: I totally dig having a bed, regular income, and more than one set of clothes. But, I'm a vagabond at heart, and I recently realized that it has been several months since I have left the Vail Valley.

I'm going stir crazy and my roommate Tod is feeling the same way.

“Tod, should we hitch to Denver where we have plenty of friends to stay with?” I ask.

We look at each other.

“Nah, let's just go west,” he says.

In an act of desperate wanderlust, we head out the door, intending to go wherever the first car that stops is headed.

As I walk outside I realize I am a little chilly. I'm wearing my spring hiking jacket, and leggings, which  do match my frog hat and mittens...but don't really provide any real warmth. This is fine, I figure, since I am certain we will be offered a stay in some fabulous mansion by some stranger we meet before the night arrives.

The second car we hop into is a minivan, driven by a gregarious Asian lady named Jenni headed to Glenwood Springs.

Ten minutes into the ride and she's already offered me a job (teaching her and her daughter how to bake), and a place to stay for the night. These things happen when you hitch-hike.

“I give you the key,” she says, “And you sleep there tonight. I just check with my roommate. She's a teacher. Very nice.”

I have half a mind to refuse. This is just too easy. We can't find a place to stay already, we've only been on the road an hour.

Turns out it doesn't matter since she can't get a hold of her roommate anyway. Instead, she drops us by the Glenwood Springs hostel, “You can stay here. Only 12 dollars a night!”

Yeah right lady, I don't even have to look at Tod to know he's thinking, we don't pay for accommodations when we travel!

It takes us an entire hour to hitch out of Glenwood and during the wait I realize that I am legitimately cold. And the sun is still out. “I think maybe I should have worn more clothes,” I mention to Tod.

He just shakes his head.

A truck finally pulls over, and the driver is headed to Carbondale. After some conversation in the car, the man decides to drive us out to some hot springs south of the town. It's lovely...complete with naked hippies and everything.

We soak for a half hour and then decide to make it our goal to get to Silverton, where we have contacts. It's a little ambitious, but we've had such good luck catching lifts up to this point that we believe it's a possibility.

In the meantime, the sun starts hiding behind the mountain tops, and I start jumping up and down and running paces along the side of the road to keep warm.

Cars pass. They do not stop.

Ah...the emotional roller coaster that is hitch-hiking.

Fortunately, someone always stops. Eventually.

Unfortunately, sometimes they do not stop fast enough for you to get where you want to go before night fall, when hitching is basically impossible.

This is how we end up in Montrose, about an hour short of Silverton.

“I once CouchSurfed here with an older couple that used to hitch hike. Let's go to their house and see if they are home,” Tod suggests.

Good plan.

We walk, basically forever, across the entire town, which stretches a length of some miles.

As the outside temperature falls, we consider our options if the couple is not home. They are:

1.                  Get drunk at the local brewery and have a competition to see who can get invited home first (Fact: I would have won, hands down)

2.                  Visit a local liquor store and walk around town for a few hours with a solid buzz, and then eat it off by eating pancakes and drinking bottomless coffee at Denny's

3.                  Visit a local liquor store and then break into an ancient popcorn wagon parked in an alley off the main drag and spend the night huddled on the floor

I pray the couple is home.

Finally, we reach the house. Not a single soul in sight.

At this point, I imagine the conversation I am going to have with my co-workers when I get back, “So, let me get this straight: you took your weekend off and decided to hitch hike, an activity that involves the possibility of rape and death, in order to get to a humdrum town in the middle of no where, to spend the night nearly freezing to death, just to turn around the next day, again with the possibility of rapage and death, and head back to Vail where you have food, shelter and skiing and hiking out your back door?”

Um, yes.

But...I have this new high-tech device called a smart phone!

 Which means we have one more option: to send out some last minute CouchSurfing requests to every single person that lives in Montrose. We drop into the Target, and as soon as my fingers start working again, Tod and I take turns sending out messages.

We haven't even left the parking lot when my phone rings.

“Hi!” the voice says, “You just sent me a couch request. Do you need me to pick you up?”

“Yes! Yes!” I say, and tell the voice where we are.

“Whohoo!” I holler when I hang up.

“Who was it?” Tod asks.

“I don't know!” I say, “But they have a blue truck!”

Thank god for CouchSurfing.

Our CS saviors are Lindee and Jeff, who make a delicious cup of tea and offer us a marvelously warm bed. The next day we have breakfast with Lindee and then she drops us off at the edge of town.

We hitch straight back to Vail.

When we make it back, I jump in the shower. Hot water has rarely felt so good.

Ok Ok...so it wasn't our most successful trip ever...and you're probably thinking this hitch-hiking thing is a waste of time, but that's the thing: 

“It's a dangerous thing, stepping out your door...You step into a road and if you don't keep your feet there is no telling where you might be swept off to.”

                                                                                                                                             -Bilbo Baggins

Sometimes, you just have to play the Odds.

Falling in Love

It was Valentine's Day this week, so you know it's been on your mind. I mean it's hard to miss, what with all the Hallmark cards, flower deliveries, chocolate hearts and hand holdin, smoochin, huggin advertisements (please, don't gag on the memory).

I've got to admit, I'm not the holiday's biggest fan, but this year, I've fallen.

Yes, I am in love.

HOW did this happen?   You ask.

 Let me tell you.

 One                         

       I broke the old slalom skis I was using at the beginning of the season, which forced me to set-up my new skis that have been sitting in my basement since I bought them this fall.

Two      

          We got snow.

Three     

           I went skiing on said new skis in said new snow.

This is when I realized: Me and the Mountain 

= 

Match.     Made.     In.     Heaven.

Now, this was NOT love at first sight. I'm a terrible skier, and while I've always enjoyed it, I've never loved it (Shh...don't tell anyone). I mean, the whole, falling on my face, scrambling up slope for lost skis, and losing sight of all my friends hindered our relationship for many months. BUT, once I got on these new skis, the game changed dramatically. Suddenly, I can ride over that choppy crap, I can hold an edge, I can make a graceful turn (down a groomed blue run anyway)...it's like...I'm almost a local!

Don't worry. I will still get confused for a gaper many a time. I am certain.

But, the butterflies in my stomach, the late nights dreaming of our next meeting, rosy cheeks and girly giggles... 

...I have got it bad.

This year for Valentine's Day, the Mountain gave me powder. 

It's true

Screw the Odds, I'm going skiing.

 

Making Predictions

Where Does the Night Lead, 

and

Will he Call Me in the Morning?

Ambiguity of meaning, absence of commitment; they (whoever they are) say both are rampant in today's society of young 20s somethings living the single life. I can't speak for my entire generation, but I've got to say a lifestyle with both of these characteristics certainly flourishes in Vail.

But...perhaps we aren't as bad as our cross Atlantic counterparts.

My friend Andy recently told me, “You know, in Europe, when you kiss someone when you're out at night, you're having sex.”

Ah

“So that's why I pissed off so many guys on my Eurotrip...”

Call me a prude, but I've made out with far more dudes than I've brought home to bed. A make-out session in Vail means nothing. Right?

I decided to poll a few Vail girlies to address the question:  

Just what DOES dictate how the night is going to end?

First question: If you kiss someone, does it mean they're invited home with you?

A: Absolutely not.

“It means I like your face and I want to lick it.”

-Anonymous answer (from Beth)

I also wanted to know, “What about if a guy buys you a drink? Do you owe him anything.”

After some serious consideration, the answer was almost always the same, “Well, maybe some conversation. You know, to be polite.”

So, “You aren't more or less likely to go home with a guy if he buys you a drink.”

Apparently, if a guy does buy a girl a drink, it's no guarantee of sexual gratification, however, if he doesn't buy her a drink, it doesn't appear that he “takes her seriously.”

Well, that's fitting somehow, because if a girl does take a guy home, to make-out or more, there's no guarantee of a phone call.

I suspect that's true in Europe as well.

My friend Lee has this to say on the matter, “I never really go on dates, but every now and then the guy I go home with happens to buy me dinner.”

So in conclusion, predictions on how the night will end cannot be made on kisses given, nor drinks bought.

“Sex and things like sex—things people pretend they regret—weren't about a decision made in a heated moment. The decision is made when you leave the house, when you get on a plane, when you dial a number.”

-Dave Eggers How We Are Hungry

Guys, that about sums up the odds.