The Piano Man of Vail

Twenty years ago, I was in Vail, Colorado attending a kayaking event called the Teva Games.  It was early June and I had began the day, believe it or not, skiing at Arapahoe Basin.  After the early morning turns, I decided to attend the festivities taking place along Gore Creek in the heart of Vail Village.  As the afternoon wore on, someone mentioned going to the Red Lion Restaurant nearby to go hear a guy named Phil Long play.  At the time, I thought Phil Long was the name of an auto dealership in Denver, but I decided to stick around into the evening and check him out.  I ended up staying late into the evening that night and had a great time at the show Phil put on.

I would learn that Phil Long not only played music at this place, he owned it.  And when I say he owned it, I'm telling you he had to be seen to be believed at how awesome his shows were and still are.  Phil has an uncanny knack at making everyone around him feel welcome and part of the scene.  He is a musician that plays piano and guitar and sings, but he is really an enormously talented entertainer.  Back then at The Red Lion Restaurant, Phil had menus of songs he could play for you to choose from.  He drew you in to his performances by inviting you to participate in them.  You could request a song, try and throw crumpled up dollars in a bucket for big prizes (shots of alcohol), and dance like a crazy person in front of the stage if you liked.

Fast forward to 2020 and Phil has moved on from his 28 years at The Red Lion and now has been at The Chop House in Vail for the past 5 years.  He is still every bit the showman and elite performer, although he has mellowed a little bit.  He no longer does his Bruce Springsteen imitation and play until late into the night until complete exhaustion.  He schedules his performances at reasonable times and has people reserve tables well in advance.  He still makes all who attend feel welcome and invites them to participate in the show.

I highly, highly recommend you make it a point to see one of Phil's performances when you are in Vail and he is in town.  As Phil says in his best Michael McDonald imitation voice, "You don't know me but I'm your brother", that pretty much sums up how you'll feel after the show.  Here's to 33 years of Phil Long in Vail and sorry Billy Joel, but Phil is the real piano man of Vail.

A Walk in the Smokies

The story begins 36 years ago this past May in the Glenbrook North High School library back in Northbrook, Illinois.  I was talking with a friend of mine named James Henmueller who was telling me about one of our friends that was planning to ride his bike from Illinois to Kansas after high school graduation.  The year was 1978 and we were to graduate that June.

James thought the long distance bike ride was cool because it was an epic adventure that marked time.  I said it would be cool to do something epic like that after graduation as well.  How we decided to go backpacking in Great Smoky Mountain National Park is beyond me, but that plan was hatched that day in the library.

I guess I thought the fact that I owned a backpack and hiking boots qualified me for this adventure.  Growing up in the land of the flat, Illinois, I was excited that I would be seeing mountains for the first time as well.  The dream was that we would be hiking along the tops of the Smokies on a flat path on the crest of the ancient hills.  Apparently, research back then was not my strong suit.  We were headed for an adventure all right, but not the kind I was expecting.

James decided to skip going to Prom and spend the money on a set of new tires for his Plymouth Valliant automobile for the drive down to Tennessee.  My preparation for the trip consisted of mink oiling a pair of heavy hiking boots that had seen their better days.  We were clearly heading into unknown territory.

A few days after we graduated from high school, we set off at dawn for the mountains of Tennessee.  Illinois soon was behind us as we made our way southeast through Indiana and then Kentucky.  The excitement built as we crossed into Tennessee.  James drove for about 12 hours straight before handing off to me.  I proceeded to nearly kill us heading 70 mph into a town that came out of nowhere when we got off the interstate. We lived and rolled up into the entrance to Great Smoky Mountain National Park around dusk.  The ranger’s station was already closed, so we decided to sleep in the car in the parking lot and get our park permit first thing in the morning.

Dawn broke as we crawled out from our sleeping bags in the car.  As the saying goes, “There’s nothing like a good night’s sleep and that was nothing like a good night’s sleep.”  We rubbed our eyes and went in to get our permit to backpack the week in the park.  We quickly learned that our preparation was a little sketchy.  The ranger wanted to know our itinerary for the week.  Both of us never even looked at a map of the park before we came.  So, we winged it and plucked out a shelter along the trail about every 10 miles or so.  They should make you take a test before letting people into the park who plan to backpack.  It would have exposed our ignorance.

So we set off to our selected starting point at the south end of the park.  We found the trailhead and parked and locked our car.  How we were going to get back to the car was beyond me because our new itinerary had us backpacking 71 miles to the north.  Then what?  It didn’t matter back then, we were on our way.

We hoisted our packs, adjusted our straps and belts, and immediately noticed that we were both looking straight down as we made our way up the trail.  Breathing became constricted.  It was very warm and humid.  Are we having fun yet?

We ascended and descended the hills into low lying green worlds of moss and ferns.  There were huge dead tree logs everywhere.  We hadn’t covered that much ground when we realized there were bugs in the Smokies too.  Tiny black nat-like flying insects called no-see-ums seem to be in their own atmosphere orbiting our human body planets.

We climbed up out of these ravines onto a now rocky trail leading up and up and up.  Each time we thought we had made it to the top; we realized it was just another false summit.  As we felt the warmth of the day, our packs became more and more cumbersome.  Unfortunately for James, his shoulder strap broke and he was having a tough time rigging up a suitable fix.  For me, something began to feel warm and stingy on the heels of my feet.  At a rest break, I took off my boots to reveal the horrors of silver dollar sized blisters on each heal.  Houston, we have a problem.

When you undertake an activity like backpacking, your feet are everything.  You blow a tire and your trip is in serious trouble.  Walking barefoot was not an option I guess, but looking back on it, if I only had a pair of Tevas, I may have been able to weather the panic and the storm.

Blisters hurt, a lot.  When you are carrying a third of your body weight and are already really uncomfortable, blisters make you do crazy things, like quit.  I was determined to make it to the first nights shelter that we had picked out though.  The thing was, the trail had to be marked wrong or something because 4.2 miles seemed liked a full marathon.  Near dusk, we saw a sign that indicated our shelter was just off the trail a piece.  Maybe after we regrouped a little at the shelter, my spirits would pick up.  They didn’t.

The shelter was open on one side with a chain link fence gate at the opening.  It sat up on a low platform.  Upon entering, we selected a couple of built in bunks made out of wire and laid out our sleeping bags.  I don’t remember a whole lot about the shelter after that except for the mice.  There were mice crawling everywhere.  They were crawling over the rafters and they were crawling over my sleeping bag.  Oh well, just so they don’t get any of my food I thought.

Morning came and my spirits were soon crushed by the realization that I could barely walk with the pain from my blisters.  Panic turned into terror and I announced to James that I was heading home.  I told him he should continue on, and that I would head back to where we started and hitchhike home.  James tried to calm me down, but I had made up my mind.  Then, James decided that he would join me and we would be going home.

In the years since, I have told James that I felt I had held him hostage in a weird way by saying I was going to hitchhike home.  I really felt genuinely bad about it.  What was he to do, let me go off like a crazy person alone in Tennessee to be murdered by some lunatic on the interstate?  James has told me since that his feet were killing him too and it wasn’t completely accurate that he was fresh and ready to continue.  Bless James for helping me to feel a little less of a complete loser and more like a guy that just didn’t know any better.

So we went back down the trail from where we came the day before after a stirring breakfast of Carnation Instant Breakfast and some Pop Tarts.  When we came to a stream, I had the idea of soaking my sore feet.  Unfortunately for me, I had popped my blisters and the wounds filled up with freezing water.  As we were almost back to the car, James informed me in a panic that he had lost the car keys.  This was not good.

For some strange reason, we searched for the keys near the car and for some strange reason, a miracle occurred and we found them nearby.  By this time, we were both on edge, annoyed, disappointed and dreading the 14 hour car ride home.  As we looped around the mountain coming up out of the pit where the trailhead started, James almost drove off the road.  The sound of the car bottoming out was like nails on a chalkboard.  This was going to be a very quiet ride home.

As the states slipped by and as the sun lowered in the sky, we approached the urban metropolitan areas of Gary, Indiana and Chicago.  I remember a very strange sense of relief that we were once again in the land of concrete and buildings and pollution and I was glad.  Nature had completely kicked my butt and I was heading home with my tail between my legs.  Even now it feels weird to say, but that was how I felt at the time.

With dusk and fatigue setting in, James almost killed us on the Edens expressway by almost rear ending someone at 60 mph.  He had had enough and we were fortunate that we did not make any contact.  James was so done with the trip that he literally dropped me off down the block from where I lived and said I could get my things in a couple of days.  Ok.

I cut through familiar backyards in my neighborhood and then appeared like a ghost in my own backyard.  I must have looked like the opposite of the Field of Dreams baseball players going into the cornfield.  There was a summer party going on in my backyard and the guest made a double take as the guy on the backpack trip appeared, a day later, downtrodden and dispirited.

It would be nearly 12 years till I attempted another backpack trip.  A few months later, a new chapter in my life began as I moved with a friend and his family to The Woodlands, Texas.  Funny the moments in your life that have such meaning and impact.  Some of them, that at the time were huge disappointments, laid the foundation for greater triumphs down the road.  And some of them just make interesting stories about life lessons we have learned.

On the trail - April 22, 2012

Opening Day

 

There comes a time each Spring when the decision is made to remove the ski rack from my Jeep.  A ski season of fun is taken off and stored away until next Fall when the first flakes of snow fly again.  Luckily, there is another rack to be put back on in its place, the kayak rack.  This installation signals the start of flat water kayak season on the reservoirs and lakes in the area.  Like Opening Day in Major League Baseball, there is a renewed sense of possibilities as the kayak is loaded for its first voyage of the year.

This Spring in Northern Colorado has been a mild one, and I am a little surprised it has taken me this long to hit the water.  But on a beautiful 75 degree day with light winds, I set sail on Horsetooth Reservoir for my maiden voyage of 2012.

The reservoir lies still and peaceful.  The relatively clear water is high this time of year.  The concrete boat dock ramps are nearly completely under water.  I put in on the rocky shoreline and push off, taking my first paddle strokes.

I hear crickets that seem to be serenading me as my paddles enter and exit the water.  Cold water drips from my paddles and occasionally hits my bare legs inside my kayak.  It is good to be back on the water.  I have not been on it since last October, when a couple of early snowstorms ended the season a little prematurely for me.

I paddle along in the middle of the reservoir that is devoid of motorboat traffic on this quiet weekday afternoon.  I spot mule deer feeding on the hillsides on a banquet of emerging Spring foliage.  Their brownish-red coats match perfectly with the sandstone rocks around the reservoir.

I notice a lone Canadian goose out for an afternoon swim as I approach the docks of Inlet Bay.  They are all but abandoned for now with only the wild plants growing underneath them showing any signs of life.  Soon, they will be full of boats in every shape and size you can imagine.  For now, the skeleton framework stands quietly waiting for the boats annual arrival; like the cliffs for the swallows of Capistrano.

As I paddle on, my strokes become easier and easier.  My shoulder muscles remember this activity and seem to enjoy the repetition of its movement.  My field of vision is out ahead of me now as I scan the horizon of the water.  Occasionally, I look up to the cliffs around the water in search of any signs of animal activity.  I see no mountain lions or bears, just the mule deer feeding in their Shangri-La.

A whiff of the flowering trees and shrubs greets me as I head out of Inlet Bay and back toward South Bay.  The wind on the water greets me as well, but it is manageable and not cold.

I realize why I like flat water kayaking so much.  It is a very relaxing activity that lets your mind wander where it may.  In essence, you are rocked like a baby in the water as you paddle along.

I make it back and exit the kayak from the dock instead of the shoreline.  The journey is over for this day, but I am excited at the paddling yet to come.  For as with other opening days, the drama of the season lies ahead of us, waiting to be played out.

On the trail - April 15, 2012

When I was a kid, our house had plastic runners laid on top of the carpet in heavy use areas to protect it from dirt and moisture.  In the winter, our family would inevitably track snow in from our boots.  If left, undetected, these deposits melted into landmines of cold water waiting to trap unsuspecting passersby.  A “soaker” was that unexpected moment when you stepped on a puddle.  It was always a surprise and a nuisance.  Bare feet had to be dried off and socks had to be changed.

Wet feet were also a condition to be avoided when exploring in our woods across the street in the spring.  We had to cross marshy areas frequently on the trails.  Hopping from one grass clump to another was common practice, but there was always the unexpected, quicksand-like area that swallowed up your shoes with mud and water.

When you are hiking, wet feet are not what you want.  There really is no bombproof footwear solution for this either.  A myth in the world of outdoor gear is the term waterproof.  If what you wear is waterproof, chances are that if the moisture can’t get in, it can’t get out either.  In other words, say you have waterproof boots on and the water can’t penetrate your boots.  Well, when your feet get too warm because the boots are trapping the heat, they perspire and this moisture can’t get out.  You have now manufactured wet feet from the inside out.

The best you can hope for when hiking is to manage your exposure to moisture.  If you are hiking in the summer on a really wet trail, maybe you can wear sandals instead of hiking boots.  If you are hiking in the winter in the snow, maybe you can wear gaiters to keep most of the moisture from traveling into your boots.  And if you are going to be traveling in really wet areas were staying dry is almost impossible, maybe you need to have footwear that you can dry out fast over the fire at the end of the day.

Another way to increase your odds of keeping your feet dry when you hike is by using trekking poles.  They help you keep your balance when you walk on top of logs and rocks when crossing streams.  Just one trekking pole is all you need, but a pair of them works even better.

Keeping your feet clean is also important, especially on multiday hikes.  Wearing low rise gaiters, even in the summer, helps to keep rocks and debris out of your boots.

A good way to keep your feet clean is to hike with an extra pair of socks.  About halfway through your hike for the day, change your socks.  Then, wash out the old pair and hang them from your pack to dry.  This will help you have clean socks to sleep in by the time you go to bed that night.

Your feet are your mode of transportation when you hike, so you’d better take care of them.  Painful blisters can turn a memorable experience into a forgettable one pretty quick.  Taking the right precautions and knowing how to manage your battle with moisture on the trail can make all the difference for an enjoyable hiking experience.

On the trail - April 8, 2012

In the movie “Dead Poets Society”, Robin Williams plays a teacher who inspires his students to “carpe diem”, seize the day.  He encourages them to read poetry and to “suck the marrow out of life” quoting Thoreau.  He also challenges them to think outside the box.  He has them stand on top of their desks and take a look around to see what the view is like from up there.

With that same type of bravado, I recently took my first flying lesson at Leading Edge Flight Training at the Fort Collins/Loveland Municipal Airport.  And let me tell you, the view from on top of my desk that day was incredible.  It was a whole new way to experience the beautiful mountain scenery in Northern Colorado.

My instructor, Patrick Hinton, was gracious enough to grant me my wish of flying to Rocky Mountain National Park and back that day.  I was excited at the opportunity to see what the park would look like from a non-commercial airplane.  I learned there are regulations that a plane needs to fly at least 2,000 feet above the park to not disturb the wildlife.  We also could fly near Longs Peak, but not over it, due to its altitude.

On our early morning flight, Patrick showed me around the twin propeller plane as he went through the required pre-flight checklist.  The Diamond Twin Star DA-42 N16FA plane looked like a big fiberglass kayak with long wings attached to it.  I stepped up on the wing and lowered myself into my seat, careful not to bump the joystick now positioned between my legs. 

Patrick lowered the glass canopy, checked for propeller clearance and then fired up the diesel engines.  He handed me a headset to wear to muffle engine noise and to communicate with him.  We taxied for awhile and he had me steer the plane a little with my foot controls.  Soon, we were poised for takeoff on the runway.

Patrick gave it full power and we lifted off the runway.  The first thing I noticed, as we started our flight, was how quiet the plane was.  The speed at takeoff reminded me of a regular commercial airplane, without the loud jet engine noise.

At 150 mph and a climbing rate of 1,000 feet per minute, the distant mountains came up sooner than I expected.  I took as many pictures as I could as we closed in our destination, Longs Peak.  We were at an altitude of 13,900 feet when suddenly we hit some turbulence.  I was bucked up out of my seat momentarily and wondered where the rough air had come from.

Patrick explained that the mountains act like a rock in a river that creates an eddy behind it.  The winds aloft were hitting the other side of Longs Peak, creating an eddy of bumpy air on this side.  We banked to the right and headed back east.

In the brief turbulence, my photography skills were challenged, as the camera lens repeatedly hit the clear cockpit glass.  I had not expected that.

Nor did I expect that Patrick would now have me fly the plane almost all the way back!  I trusted him though when he told me that there was nothing I could do wrong that he couldn’t fix.  Patrick eventually took the controls and landed the plane.

What a great experience!  Here in Northern Colorado, I highly recommend you give flying a try at Patrick Hinton’s Leading Edge Flight Training.  Elsewhere, check out the Let’s Go Flying website at www.letsgoflying.com.  It is an experience you won’t soon forget.  Carpe Diem!

On the trail - April 1, 2012

April showers bring May flowers.  Let’s hope so.  Our recent relatively warm and dry winter in Colorado has transitioned into a warm and extremely dry spring.  This weather has put us in a very vulnerable position.  With the pine beetle epidemic turning the once green hillsides reddish brown, the stage seems set for a disaster.  Our landscape currently is the perfect storm for wildfire.

Smoky the Bear says that only you can prevent forest fires.  Even if we all never light a single match this upcoming hiking and camping season, we will still be at risk from something out of our control, lightning.

One of my favorite folk songs is “Cold Missouri Waters” by Cry, Cry, Cry.  It is a song about the tragic Mann Gulch Fire in Montana in 1949.  13 smoke jumpers were killed by this forest fire that was started by a lightning strike.

The main character in the song, the crew chief Dodge, survives by setting a small fire in front of the main fire and lying down in the middle of it as the firestorm roars over him.  The panicked crew thought Dodge was crazy when he asked them to step into the fire he’d set.  He told them it was the only chance they’d get.  They cursed him and ran for it instead.

It was a decision that cost 13 of them their lives and haunted Dodge until the day he died.  Like the phoenix, Dodge rose from the ashes of his fire and found only one other survivor.  When more help arrived, the two survivors helped carry the bodies of their fallen comrades to the cold Missouri river.  They placed crosses on the hillside where the men died as well.  It is a really sad story.

How did this happen?  How did these smoke jumpers get caught in a situation that cost them their lives?  When they arrived from the air onto the scene, they were in a good position to fight the fire with the river at their back.  Unfortunately, the fire crowned and jumped the valley, blocking their escape route back to the river.

The conditions were ripe for a disaster that year.  The song says it was the hottest day on record and the forest was tinder dry.  In Colorado, we had a similar tragedy back in 1994.  The South Canyon Fire on Storm King Mountain, near Glenwood Springs, Colorado, killed 14 firefighters.  Once again, the fire was started by lightning.

In nature, fire can renew an area, but it takes time.  I never visited Yellowstone National Park before the horrible fires of 1988.  I wish I had, because when I saw it in 2000, the park was still recovering from the fires.  Even though it was 12 years later, the scars of the fire were still plainly visible.  Decades of a forest management plan that suppressed wildfires had created a fuel supply, that once ignited, burned so intensely that the resulting fire was uncontainable until the first snows of fall arrived.

March statistically is the snowiest month of the year in Colorado.  That did not happen this year.  While I do not want to jinx us and see 3 feet of snow in April, an occasional soaking rain would be nice.  All I am asking for is that it rains say every Tuesday in April; so that we can see those May flowers.

On the trail - March 25, 2012

Back in 1997, I strategically placed my cross country skis and poles inside my Buick Regal Limited and drove out to Colorado from Illinois.  It was the month of March and the temperatures were approaching 70 degrees by the time the Rockies came into view.  I skied that year at the Devil’s Thumb Ranch in Tabernash and at the Nordic Center in Breckenridge.  The fresh mountain air coupled with the beautiful scenery was quite a treat for a flatlander from down below.  I remember navigating the groomed trails over rolling hills in my shirt sleeves without any problems.

This March, my family and I spent most of our spring break in Steamboat Springs.  My wife and I enjoyed a snowshoe adventure up on Rabbit Ears Pass.  With sunny skies and temperatures in the mid-50’s, we took in the scenery and enjoyed a snack in an aspen grove.  We also enjoyed a day on the slopes where we skied through Steamboat slush instead of their infamous Champaign powder.  The cross country skiing portion of the trip was another story.

I decided to head up to Rabbit Ears Pass to cross country ski the West Summit area where I had snowshoed last November.  While the weather was unseasonably warm, I discovered the snow on the trail was hard packed ice.  My body soon became tense due to a general lack of confidence skiing on this slick surface.  I had to visualize my intended path on the downhill sections and make sure there was a bail out area just in case I tried to make friends with a tree.  This was not fun.

As I continued my journey, nervous energy and the heat of the day had me peeling off layers of clothes until all I was wearing was my shell.  I also took off my gloves.  As I made my way through the trees in a downhill section of the trail, I spotted a large tree with a lot of snow at its base.  Maybe this tree was magnetic because I was making a beeline straight for it.  I tried to stop my forward progress by sitting down.  My last resort was my hand brakes and that is when the soft flesh of my hands met the crusty iced over snow.  I believe the scientific name for it is bloody knuckles.

One of my pet peeves is an injury that could have been avoided.  While I did avoid hitting the tree and sustained only minor flesh wounds, I was irritated that these hand issues could have been avoided by just wearing my gloves.

A short while after my spill, I saw a trail map on a signpost at the intersection of two trails.  I looked it over and remembered that close topographical lines on a map mean one of two things; either the land is rising up or it is going down.  I saw the hills in front of me and proceeded to go up knowing that I couldn’t possible ski down.  I struggled up to a high point on the trail and stopped to contemplate my situation.

A young skier, who was carrying his skis and walking down the trail, came by and we got to talking.  He informed me that I was only about a third of the way on this loop trail.  He told me that if he had run in to me on this trail and asked me what I should do, the correct answer would be to turn around.  So feeling a bit defeated, I took off my skies and walked down the steep hills I had just climbed.

In a valley, after sinking in up to my waist with only one of my legs, I reluctantly put my skies back on and managed to ski back to the trailhead in one piece.  I think I’ll stick to snowshoes from now on for my winter adventures in the mountains.