Day: March 15, 2025

It’s barely 6pm on June 18th, and the air is still thick with that summer heat… a blessed relief from the absolute inferno we’ve been dealing with down in the valley all day. Mo is behind me, struggling a bit on the access road, her water bottle already half-empty. I swear, I was born for this stuff. The mountain and me, we’ve got this understanding. Mo? She’s more of a determined struggler, but hey, love makes you do dumb things, like voluntarily biking up nearly 8,000 feet of Montana elevation when you’d rather be watching F1 on the big screen.

The climb starts gentle, winding through the Lolo National Forest, but soon, the incline kicks up, and I can hear Mo’s breathing getting heavier. I slow down a bit, pretending I need to adjust my gear. “Did you know Point Six has a prominence of about 440 feet?” she huffs, mostly to distract herself from the burning. I laugh. “I knew you were gonna start dropping mountain stats the second you got tired.” She’s not wrong. I know her too well.

The higher we go, the quieter it gets… just wind and the crunch of our tires on loose rock. The Montana Snowbowl ski area sprawls below us, looking kinda naked without its winter coat. There were once plans to expand the ski runs all the way up here, but that never panned out. Probably for the best, honestly… there’s something magic about how untouched this part of the mountain feels.

A mile or so from the summit, we stop to catch our breath (okay, she stops—I could keep going forever, but I’m not gonna be that person). “We’re at about 1.12 miles of isolation from the nearest taller peak,” Mo says between gulps of water. I smirk. “And how does that make you feel?” She thinks about it for a second. “Small. But, like…in a good way.” Sometimes I wonder how I got so lucky to find someone who cares about nerdy mountain facts as much as she does.

Near the top, the wind picks up, funneled by the ridgeline. Thank god for that breeze. Somewhere up here, there’s a weather station, quietly collecting data on wind speed, temperature, and whatever else weather stations track. Mo would probably know the exact sensors they use. She’s probably mentally recording the data herself for some project I’ll hear about later.

Then, finally, we reach the summit. The valley spreads out below us, a patchwork of green, gold, and the deep blue of distant lakes, all soaking up that magic evening light. I can practically see the heat waves still rising from town. I glance at Mo, her face flushed with effort, hair stuck to her forehead, and I feel this weird rush of… something. Pride? Love? Whatever it is, it’s good.

“This,” she says, breathing hard, “was a terrible idea.”

I grin. “You love terrible ideas.”

She’s right. She does. Especially when they involve me.

And especially when they come with a 4,000-foot downhill ride back to the car before dark. Now we’re talking.

You know, I’m still riding that merry-go-round of meh. But hey, it’s not all gloom and doom on the horizon—I’ve been stirring the pot a bit more lately. Got some plans brewing, and if the stars align, I might just yank myself out of this funk with a good ol’ bootstraps hoist. Time to play detective and backtrack to the starting line, see if I’ve actually moved an inch. But honestly, who am I kidding?

The journey kicked off with “Metamorphasis,” where I first dipped my toes into the sea of change, both in my personal universe and in the vast expanse of the internet. Picture it as the digital equivalent of stepping onto a new planet, but with familiar gravity.

2003 brought the rays of optimism with “The Day is Sunny,” a contemplation on the bright spots of life and the quest for the perfect nook to bask in the glow. It’s about the sunny dispositions we choose, even when clouds loom large.

By 2005, I ventured into the wild with “Woods Gulch Last Night,” sharing tales of tranquility found off the beaten path. This was about discovering pockets of peace in the whirlwind of existence.

Fast forward to 2008, and it was all about growth in “Thanks Don For The Upgrade,” a salute to the journey of self-improvement and the allies we find along the way. It’s like getting a new set of wings when you didn’t realize you were molting.

In 2017, “Trip to Togwotee Classic” chronicled a journey of endurance and fellowship, showcasing the strength we draw from collective endeavors and the shared road less traveled.

And in 2023, “Cape Mears Lighthouse” became the emblem of the voyage thus far—a lighthouse in the fog, symbolizing the guidance and steadfastness that mark our passage through both life and the digital frontier.

What have we figured out. Really nothing I guess.

Yesterday, we decided to embark on what I’d call an epic adventure. Remember, it’s been practically summer here, unless you decide to venture up the mountains. So, in my infinite wisdom, I figured, “Why not keep the summer vibes rolling?” and planned a 6-hour escapade, aiming to cover about 15 miles, steering clear of any snowy mishaps. Because, honestly, who wants to trade flip-flops for snow boots in March? Our daring spirit paid off big time when we found ourselves on the banks of the Madison River, right smack in the heart of Beartrap Canyon.

Ah, the trek from Bozeman to Missoula! There’s this gem called Pipestone tucked away. Picture it: a spot so parched, you’d think it’s been borrowing the weather from a desert – even in the clutch of winter, it’s all dust and whispers of tumbleweed. Yet, here we are, tiptoeing into spring, and suddenly, Pipestone feels more like a slice of Utah than Montana. It’s like nature’s own plot twist.

So today, on a whim, I decided to pull over with Ol’ Turner in tow. We had ourselves a grand adventure, frolicking in the dirt like we were auditioning for the next big wilderness reality show. Then, dusting ourselves off, we hit the road again, bound for Missoula with our spirits a tad lighter and our shoes a whole lot dustier.

Ugh, me and procrastination, it’s a never-ending love-hate story. Tonight? Small core workout, easy peasy, enough time to pack for Missoula like a boss. Guess what? Nope. Fast forward to me face-planting on the couch, napping harder than a koala after a eucalyptus binge, and Craig Ferguson cackling on repeat on the TV. Whoops.

But hey, sometimes even unplanned naps work their magic. Woke up feeling like a new me, ready to tackle the week with more zen than a meditating panda. Kinda like watching a storm roll into a valley – yeah, it’s gonna be a slog getting out, but if you squint just right (or maybe through a camera lens), it’s kinda beautiful, you know?

So here’s to embracing the unexpected, finding peace in the chaos (and maybe catching up on my packing later ). Missoula, here I come, nap-rejuvenated and ready for whatever adventure awaits, even if it involves navigating my way out of a metaphorical wilderness (or maybe just unpacking a suitcase of wrinkles).

Farewell to Google, on the Ides of March, 2013. And let’s pour one out for http://www.digg.com/reader. May it rest in peace amidst the digital ether.

Welcome back, fellow adventurers and photography enthusiasts, to installment numero 19 of what’s shaping up to be the never-ending saga of “Photos I Adore from 2009.” This time around, we’re diving into a snapshot taken on a crisp November 7th, 2009. Now, let’s be real – this photo won’t be winning any beauty contests. But hey, this series is all about the pics that stole my heart, not those that polished their way onto magazine covers. And considering this was snapped with the ol’ Apple iPhone, it’s not half bad, right?

This gem features my buddy Ed S. and yours truly, setting off for what would be one of our final treks with the gang around the scenic Nine Mile area that year.

In yesterday’s episode of “How Far Will I Go?”, I managed to clock a cool 82 miles cruising in zone 1, going full knobby tire mode. During the epic 5-hour saga, I kept the engines running on Carbo Rocket and Perpetium, making them my go-to snacks for those crucial pit stops. My journey took me over the majestic Lolo Pass and right into the heart of Idaho. It was the kind of ride that leaves you feeling refreshed, yet buzzing with energy – honestly, I could’ve kept pedaling, but duty called. Home was beckoning, along with the promise of a week filled with life’s little joys.

As I sit here now, tea in hand, it feels like the perfect moment to reflect. Let the reminiscing begin.

Big shoutout to Don for the level-up: Hats off to USA Cycling, folks! They’ve bumped my road racing license from the newbie ranks of category 5 right up to 4. Now, I’m all for the thrill of early-season races, but let me tell you, nothing zaps the fun out of it like being greeted with eyerolls and those “Oh look, another sandbagger” comments at the starting line. You see, I’ve been perpetually stuck in cat 5 purgatory, not because I’m a slouch, but simply because I couldn’t cram enough races into my schedule to climb the ranks. But then, bam! At the state cyclocross championships, I somehow managed to snag third place overall. That’s right, third! Doesn’t exactly scream “novice rider,” does it?

Now, there’s a darn good reason they make sure you’ve got some miles under your belt before they let you race on the road – it’s a whole different beast compared to the forgiving trails of mountain biking. Just the other day, I got this notification from the man, the myth, the legend – Don Russell himself, granting me this upgrade. And while landing in category 4 might not have me doing cartwheels, it’s a step closer to my ultimate goal: category 3.

Why this sudden obsession with road racing, you ask? Well, in the wilds of Montana, bike races are as rare as hen’s teeth, so I grab ’em whenever I can. Feel free to chime in with your thoughts!

Epic Road Rides Alert This Weekend: Just so you know, I’m plotting two epic out-and-back road adventures this weekend, both kicking off at the civilized hour of 1PM from their respective launch pads. Open invitation, folks – join me if you’re game. We usually stick together like a happy little peloton at the start, but eventually, it’s every rider for themselves, cruising at whatever pace doesn’t make your legs scream in protest. I plan on setting a brisk pace, though.

Lost Trail (Saturday): http://tinyurl.com/27ekme
Georgetown Lake (Sunday): http://tinyurl.com/293b2k
I’ll be caffeinating at City Brew each morning, so drop me an email if you’re keen. For those of you who decide everything last minute, give me a ring. If I’m not home, the answering machine will happily listen to your life story.

Hope to see some of you there!

Ah, a groggy hello to the world from my little corner of it. The thermometer’s flirting with 27 degrees this fine morning, and here I am, for the umpteenth time, staring at the ceiling at 4 AM, wondering if sheep have a union to ensure they’re counted in proper working conditions. Here’s to sharing new snapshots today (feast your eyes on this teaser from the South Fork of Lolo Creek).

Last evening’s escapade involved me attempting to conquer Woods Gulch by trail running. Marcy, in her typical superhero mode, zoomed ahead, while yours truly was more like a vintage car on its last legs—sputtering and coughing. Today marks day 20 of my mountain running marathon, and I’m eyeing 10 more before I allow myself the luxury of rest. Yep, that’s a new record in the making for my tired legs.

And now, as the last of my Malt O Meal bids farewell and my toast plays its swan song, I must too part ways with this digital confabulation. Until next time, adieu.

Good afternoon! The sun’s out, guns out (if you’re into that sort of thing), and it looks like we’re hitting the sweet 50s today. Time to break out the camera, chase some light, and soak up that Vitamin D. The only pickle I’m in – where on Earth to go? Hmm, decisions, decisions!

Hey there! Just spruced up my webpage a bit more. Chipped away at it and got the first two buttons (aka the sub-sites) polished off. Might dive back into it this weekend, post mountain bike resurrection. It’s not brand new, just blessed with a fresh derailleur and a frame that’s seen the warranty gods. Hit up the racing link at the top of this page to see what I mean.

Lately, the sandman’s been dodging me. Last night, my brain decided to throw a throwback party, dredging up the weirdest old memories. Like, remember Scotty, my dog? Poor fella darted into the street one day and… yeah, didn’t end well. It hit me hard last night, remembered every little detail. Must be morphing back into my cyclist form – tingles and all. Shedding pounds and sleep, thanks to a mix of excitement and the whole moving saga.

Big scoop – New Haven might be my next base camp. Keeping fingers crossed that my application cuts the mustard. Looks like Pat Lannon and I will be shacking up again, saving a cool 600 bucks a month compared to our last crib. Maps and snaps to come.

On the training front, tackled the trails for a solid 2.5 hours last night. Totally wiped afterwards and nursing some battle scars today. But now, it’s off to the grindstone. Make today count!

Mom Bulletin

Tonight’s tidbit: Starving. The mountain bike’s eating into my schedule, but that site update’s on the horizon. Just heard from mom – Randy and Tami are in town from Wyoming, living it up. Mom’s gearing up for surgery Monday. How about we flood her inbox with some cyber cheer?