Too much snow to ski

This is going to be a bummer if the pass doesn't open by Saturday. It's not looking good.

Avalanches from above

Who knew that trees could be as scary as wide mountain slopes?

On Wednesday, my friend Tricia and I and her intrepid dog Fletch headed out to snowshoe Heather Lake off the Mountain Loop Highway.

We chose that hike because I remembered it being a nice, easy stroll up to a beautiful mountain lake during the spring. And, also, Snoqualmie Pass has been mostly closed for three days, even burying a few cars in a roadside avalanche yesterday. That's not something you mess around with.

Not to be outdone, the Mountain Loop Highway had it's fair share of snow - I'm horrible at estimating, but I would say at least several fresh feet in the last couple days. We were the only ones at the trailhead (well, a few yards from the trailhead as the snow was too deep to actually get up there), prompting a friendly snow-plower to remind us that a little girl had died in an avalanche not far from there only a couple weeks ago. That trail, like Heather Lake, was also mostly wooded.

Turns out, the biggest danger for us were the massive clumps of hardened snow falling from the trees and pummeling us from above like a totally one-sided snowball fight. We just sort of had to stand their helplessly taking the abuse from above, hoping that the branches would break up the snow chunks enough to keep them from hitting us unconscious.

In what seems to now be a winter tradition for me, we made it most of the way up - having to crawl occasionally under trees that had fallen from the weight of snow - only to reach... nothing. Well, what we reached was a lot more snow and no way to find the trail underneath. Of course this led us to the obvious question: "Why did those two guys who passed us going down not tell us that the trail ended??"

We sort of clomped around (sinking more than moving, really) and finally decided that we were cold and this was probably a rather fruitless exercise since the lake could be two yards away or two miles.

Which leads me to a question: When you're snowshoeing does it really matter if you reach your destination, since isn't the main point to enjoy the off-trail solitude anyway?

The scary ride down

I avoided it as long as possible I suppose. I made it through nearly a decade, including three years in Colorado, without downhill skiing. In Colorado, I actually think there is some law against this just like in San Diego it's illegal to avoid the ocean. I mean, come on people, you're in San Diego for God's sakes.

But on Saturday, I finally did it, fulfilling part of a promise to Steve (who grew up near Lake Tahoe and was on the high school ski team) that I would go downhill skiing at least twice this season.

There's a reason I've avoided it for so long. First of all it's expensive as hell, especially if you don't own skis (which I now do, compliments of Steve who drove all the way down to that weird city that I can't pronounce south of Seattle that starts with an E where there's a good used ski shop).

Also, my first experience skiing consisted of my dad "accidentally" taking my friend and I to the top of a black diamond on the very first run. Then I spent the rest of the day in sheer frustration, walking down the majority of the slopes, as my friend (who had also never skied before or so she said) glided by with no problems whatsoever.

Anyway, these were the bittersweet (well, mostly bitter) memories I carried with me as Steve and I pulled up to The Summit at Snoqualmie about an hour east of Seattle.

Recommendation No. 1: Definitely visit this resort if you're a beginner. Tons of green and blue runs for people like me that are still figuring out how you're supposed to do that cool hip-swivel turn thing all while not falling into the snow.

Recommendation No. 2: Definitely visit this resort if you've ever wished you were back in high school. It's like party central with the "cool kids," (i.e. the snowboarders) all in their trendy Burton gear, hanging out by the bonfire and doing shots at the bar. Meanwhile the losers (i.e. the skiers) spend most of the time trying to avoid them both on the slopes (where they're littered about like an annoying obstacle course - why do they insist on sitting on the snow for so long? Isn't that cold?) and in the lodge, where they cluster in small packs. (Want to know why snowboarders think they're so cool? Check out this history...)

Recommendation No. 3: Definitely wear goggles if it's snowing really hard, like four to five inches in one hour. This is not Steve's fault that we didn't have goggles. He really didn't think I would be moving very fast on my first try after so long. He didn't know that I was really hustling him and had been secretly practicing for weeks. (Just kidding of course). And he couldn't predict the weather. In Seattle, there's only ever rain. At least he didn't "accidentally" take me on a black diamond.

All in all, the day was a success and I've decided I will become the best mediocre skier possible - maybe I'll even learn how to do shots at the bar. That can't be too hard.

The little bike that could

This is a love story about my bike, the best bike that ever was.
So cool is this bike that in addition to it's name (Dawson) it also has an acronym S.R.B. (Shiny Red Bike).

Whenever I ride my S.R.B., usually along the Burke-Gilman trail, I always see all those bikers in neon spandex on their thousand-dollar road bikes stare at it in admiration, wishing their bikes had the coolness factor that mine does. They wish they could ride 30 miles round trip to Kenmore (like I did this week) using a ladybug bell to signal people that they're passing and have their own personal musical accompaniment, namely the heavy squeaking of the five gears as they're forced into action.

My S.R.B and I met on a hot summer's day in Dawson Creek, Canada in the middle of our months-long van trip in 2006. The only reason we stopped in Dawson Creek, Canada on our way up the Alcan Highway was because (and I'm vaguely ashamed to admit this, but not totally) I was obsessed with the teen angst show of the same name. (That was, of course, before Lost, The Best Show, Ever.)

Unfortunately, Dawson Creek in Canada is nothing like the reed-lined blue stream that Joey Potter used to paddle her boat across in Capeside. The Canadian creek is mostly a thin brown streak covered in mosquitoes and filled with trash. (Who knew Canadians littered?) But laying right next to a rusting metal shopping cart in the shallow waters was the S.R.B.

Even covered in muck you could tell it had the potential to be the best bike there ever was. We decided to rescue it. The problem was, the creek was down a fairly steep grass-covered slope and, in addition to trash, there were other sharp objects pointing up out of the creek that could potentially impale us as we reached for the bike.

Luckily, Steve is an engineer. So, he devised a long hook out of a coat hanger and some string and together, we began fishing for the bike. I went first and after several tries, managed to hook a spoke and pull the bike halfway up until it got caught in between two cement blocks and refused to move further. Steve took over from there and after much pulling, realized he would have to scale the cliff and actually pluck the bike from its cement captors. Which he did. By this time, we had an audience of three, curious Canadian boys one of which said, "Isn't that Joey's bike?"

The S.R.B., rescued from the lake, was covered in green slime but in surprisingly good condition. Everything worked, it was just dirty. Afraid the Canadian boys would go tell the Mounties and they would come galloping after us on their horses with no guns, we brushed it off quickly and strapped it to the back of the van.

That evening, in the Wal-Mart parking lot in Dawson Creek, (because that's where you stay when you're poor and on a cross-country van trip), I bathed it and Steve did whatever he does to things to make them work and I hopped on. It was like the bike was made specifically for me. It fit me perfectly and I've been obsessed with it ever since.

It traveled with us for the next six months, proudly collecting dirt on the back of the van during long stretches of driving. When we returned home, I promptly sold my other, much newer, show bike which I had only used a couple times. That one just didn't have the history.

A Seattle miracle

For the last three days, it has been sunny in Seattle. As in, the sky has been clear of even the slightest trace of clouds and the actual sun has shined down upon us. Yesterday, I actually saw a sunset for the first time in at least six months.

This is a truly miraculous occasion here and you can bet that for the next few months, conversations will go like this, "Do you remember those three days back in January when it was clear?" "Do you remember what you were doing? I worked in my garden and went on a run ...." Seriously, people here keep track of things like this, like they're keeping track of the Seahawks or the Mariners.

When we moved here, there were two camps. The first, non-delusional camp said, "The winter sucks, it's gray and rainy, and you just have to suffer through it." The second camp, who I'm convinced watches Oprah, or maybe Dr. Phil, said, "The winter is totally not as bad as it seems, it's just an urban legend." Urban legend my...

The weather here is horrible in the winter and on several occasions, I've actually caught myself comparing it to Germany, which actually does produce the worst winter weather, ever, in my opinion.

So bad is the weather here, that our forecasters are forced to make up new terms for "cold and cloudy." My favorite is the "sun break." That's when the clouds actually part for between five minutes and two hours (although two hours is on the very long end) and shadows start to appear around parked cars, buildings, etc. Here, I've realized, that "sun break" actually means "hope." Like, it's going to be completely gray, but you can hope to see the sun for just the briefest of moments to remember what it looks like.

The other one I've recently gotten a kick out of is "wintry mix." That also denotes a cloudy day, just a little bit worse. As in, it might rain harder or even turn to "snow," which just means slushy rain.

After these glorious three days of sun, though, I've realized that our weather forecasters are actually fatalistic. Because shouldn't we at least deserve a sun symbol in our forecast after all this nice weather? Instead, they show icicles hanging off the space needle because, sure it might be sunny, but it's still only 37 degrees, and, Hey, you live in Seattle and you're supposed to be depressed about the weather, that's part of our charm. Even when it's sunny.

All along the water tower

I know I said I wasn't a climber, but I hardly think bouldering on a water tower counts. And if that sounds random, believe me, I totally agree with you.

If you've been to Volunteer Park in Seattle (and if you haven't, why are you reading this? Go there, it's great! But not at night, that's when it gets dodgy), you've seen that giant round tower of bricks that looks like half of a castle. Well, turns out it actually has a purpose besides as a decoration - it's holding our water supply. Much more exciting than that, though, is the discovery that Steve and I made this weekend - it's climbable!

Unfortunately, the giant white splotches of chalk circling the tower (or standpipe as it's also called) make it abundantly clear that not only are we not the first people to discover this, but every single other person who's ever heard of climbing in Seattle has also probably attempted it. Strangely, though, there is not a trace of it online (except for this photo) oh, and (except for this blog mention), probably because it's totally illegal, as most fun things are.

Steve of course quickly figured out how we could top rope it by tying a rope to the metal banister inside and feeding it under the bars on one of the windows. I had visions of me climbing down the side like some crazy fair tale where instead of long hair, I had a chalk bag. Anyway, that dream was quickly dashed by Steve's largely irrational, deep fear of the law and we moved on to bouldering.

What if we could boulder around the entire perimeter of the 75-foot-tall water tower? This is a goal worth trying for!

We tried and we failed, mainly because of our sneakers and cold hands. But I was determined, oh yes. I returned today, with my climbing shoes. And even though my hands froze in under 20 seconds (it was 37 degrees) I made it around a full 20 feet without falling off! All while small children and their parents watched me with that there's-another-one-of-those-crazies-don't-touch expression.

Of course, once I made it 20 feet it got significantly harder because all my footholds disappeared and my hands really didn't have any feeling any more.

But I will persevere, oh yes! This water tower will not get the best of me!

Poo!

There is nothing worse than hiking straight uphill for a solid hour with the promise of a stunning view point, only to to finally reach the top and find ... nothing.

This was my fate Saturday when I struck out on the Poo-Poo Point Trail on Tiger Mountain in the Issaquah Alps east of Seattle. (By the way, I thought the whole Alps name was a joke, but apparently they're really called that.)

I had so far avoided hiking on Tiger Mountain since it's a wildly popular hiking area 1) because it's close to Seattle and 2) because it's so close to Seattle. But Saturday was gray and rainy, which strangely scared people away even though the weather here is gray and rainy every day.

The trail is supposed to be 7 miles roundtrip, a pretty average day hike, and the hiking book I use warns right from the start that there are a lot of twists and turns and unmarked trails that can make it confusing to follow. They weren't kidding. Unless you know the area, which of course I did not, I could completely see how you could get lost up there, stumbling onto one trail after the next until eventually you become one of those stories that people read about in the Sunday paper.

Not to mention that the overgrown, almost jungle-like, shrubbery of the first two miles unfortunately reminded me of Lost (otherwise known as The Best Show on Television, Ever and you'll hear more about that later) and I kept expecting an Other to jump out of the woods and grab me or at least see that crazy French woman with the gun.

You gain about 1,500 feet on this hike and I could feel it, especially because the last mile and a half I was trudging through thick mud and a fairly good layering of snow. By this time I was sweating profusely and hating the trail runner I had just met who said to me: "Oh, I'm running this 19 mile loop but I am so out of shape! I just had to walk the last half mile."

Anyway, I was pretty proud of my map following skills (okay, let's be honest, my book-reading skills) when at the end of the trail I reached, not a gorgeous view point where para gliders jump off on a beautiful day, but another trail. Where was this alleged parking lot and these picnic tables I was supposed to hit? I walked half a mile back up the hill to the last sign, reassured myself that I had indeed followed it correctly, and then came back down only to again be disappointed. (Thus adding a mile to the the total hike time.)

Of course I can't blame myself. So, I'll have to blame the snow for covering everything so I couldn't see and distracting me by making my fingers cold. And the writers of that book because I'm sure it was just a typo or something and they told me to take the wrong trail.

So would I recommend this trail? If you just need some exercise and you're sick of snowshoeing and your husband is off ice climbing and there's no way you're ever going to try that then, yes. But be warned: the amazing overlook might not be there when you arrive.