Excuses, excuses...

So here are some photos from the past few weeks, and I promise there are more to come :)

And here's the 24 week pregnant belly photo we've been waiting for. Impressive. I know. 6 months! (And behind me, there's sneak peak at our bedroom walls... Painted and stenciled by the lady herself :) )
Family photo of (left to right) Joshua, Hannah, Eamon, Michael, me, and Mandy. Oscar is camera shy as usual :) This is on a little hike we took up near Mt. Evans.
Ashlee and I walking along Sylvan Lake.
Joshua and I above Mt. Holy Cross Wilderness.

Here's my excuse: we bought a house, I work at least 60 hours a week, and I'm six months pregnant. All of these things should explain why I have been absolutely abysmal at updating this blog. As you can see, I just now managed to post something that I wrote four weeks ago, the night we moved into our new house. Since that time, I've been unable to coordinate my power cord, my computer, internet, and the word document all in the same place. But today, I got my sh** together :)

Since the day we moved in, this place has been a whirl-wind of activity. I'll describe all of this in a little more detail later, but basically, Joshua knocked down two walls, installed french doors, redid the plumbing in the kitchen sink, moved electrical outlets, ripped up carpet and pergo, installed new cabinets and a dishwasher, and corralled the generosity of a few strangers and friends to bang out a new wood floor.

In the mean time, I strapped on a darth-vader-esque mask and painted like a madwoman. Kitchen, closet, bathrooms, living room, dining room, hall, and bedroom are all painted. As are the cabinets - thanks to the generous gifts of time and energy from the Pietaris and Peters.

Dad, Mandy, Hannah, and Eamon came for the long weekend over Thanksgiving, and for the day of the feast, we prepared a large deep-fried turkey (for the non-vegetarians) and gave thanks. More to come on that great day, too.

Anyway, I was convinced most of the time that we would never pull off everything that we intended to do, and yet, it all happened. Somehow. Since Thanksgiving, we've slowed down the pace a little, but I still managed to churn out a mad amount of curtains, pillows, and furniture dressings. We bought a new four-post bed, and also installed some shelves in the kitchen. It's coming together, but no brand-new photos for you until the New Year, when we get our new bedroom carpet and a fabulous counter top :)

20 Weeks

November 12, 2011

Yesterday, we drove to St. Joseph's hospital and met with the ultrasound technician, a small woman with a thick, Eastern-European accent. "Okay," she says, "we look at baby now. You want to know a boy or girl?" We nod our heads.

I lie back on the table, and she skirts blue-colored jelly on my belly. With the wand in hand, she turns to face her monitor. Joshua and I watch the monitor on the wall in front of us. Irina finds the baby sitting curled up, the head, knees, legs, and arms closest to the surface of my belly, with the head somewhere above my left hip bone and the feet above my right.

Irina begins taking measurements, and all the while, Joshua and I hold hands, trying to divine the form emerging, watery and skeletal. At times, we can distinguish a perfectly formed leg or arm. We see 10 fingers and 10 toes. We watch the baby's jaw work as it sucks its thumb.

Irina announces notable body parts as she measures them: tibula, ulna, palate, spine... In the midst of these observations, she seemlessly announces, "and she's a girl."

We watch a little more as our baby - who is now a she - kicks her leg and rolls onto her side. Irina mutters pleas with the baby to move just so for a measurement of the heart, but there is no such luck. Before, Irina lifts the wand, she turns on the sound, and we listen to the heartbeat, loud and strong at 140 beats per minute.

As I clean blue gel from my stomach, Irina prints out photos for us and begins running a report. When she hands us our photos, she smiles and says, "good baby. Healthy baby. Baby girl!" We're pleased as can be, and I push any Gattica-like discomfort from my head. It feels a bit strange to measure the cranium, palate, the size of the brain. I reminds me of that French colonial artist that did beautiful busts of African women, but in reality, the reason he had endeavored to create busts at all was because he was determined to prove that their cranial measurements held the secret to their intellectual and emotional inferiority. Nevertheless, I am happy to discover that our baby is perfectly average in nearly every measurement, clocking in at about 50 percent for nearly every measurement.

After our ultrasound, we meet with the nurse midwife. I like her immediately, and we tell her about the incident on Halloween. After a few days hiking at altitude with Ashlee, we came back, and on that Monday, I experienced what must have been my first Braxton-Hicks contraction, coupled with the some serious super-pubic and round-ligament pain and cramping. I called the midwife, worried, and she urged us to go to the ER.

Once there, a nice ER doctor who reminisced about his residency in the boondocks of Idaho where the obsetric stirrups were lined with sherling pronounced me in good health. He did a quick ultrasound (so quick that neither Joshua or I saw anything) to find fetal movement and a heartbeat. Everything looked good, and he also did a pelvic, just to be sure. None of the tests came back with anything to be concerned about, but he did come in just before he let us go and asked if I was a runner. When I said that I was, he nodded as if everything had come together. "No more running," he told me. "You can swim or do the elliptical instead."

Well, as we're telling our nurse midwife this story, she's looking more and more displeased. "Running is good for you, the baby, and labor. With all due respect, this is an ER doc, and he may not be very up to date on pregnancy. Don't go crazy, but there's definitely no need to stop running."

My only other question is silly. At 20 weeks, my belly is officially convex, but it's nothing to write home about. At intake, I stepped on the scale, and I'm exactly 6 pounds heavier than I was at my first appointment at week 9 (but I still haven't broken 125 pounds). When I tell people that I'm five months pregnant, the look immediately at my stomach and mutter sounds of disbelief.

While I'm certainly pleased that I haven't ballooned into a beheamoth of pregnancy too soon, I have worried that there might not be enough room for a 10 oz. baby the length of a banana. Here too, the midwife had only reassurances. "Your weight gain is fine," she says, "and I've measured your uterus. It's all the way up to your belly button. You're fine. Your exactly where you should be."

Before we leave her office, she takes out the doppler so we can hear the heartbeat once more. Joshua squeezes my hand.

On the way to the car, we're giddy. Joshua says that her feet looked like runner's feet, and I laugh. I thought the same thing :) We say Henriette a few times, just to try and make it seem real. Joshua accuses me of wanting a girl from day one, and I grin and deny it. I just knew she was a girl from the moment we found out we were pregnant.

Driving home, we call future grandparents, announcing Henriette's debut. I feel a couple good kicks, and her nickname comes to me, Little Hen. Henri for short; Hen for love. Joshua and I talk about middlenames. Georgia, our runner-up name gets put on the back burner (Joshua's now convinced that we'll only have girls, so he wants to save it. "Then I can call our littlest Georgie," he says.). We want either a family name or the name of a heroine. Starbuck, our favorite heroine from Battlestar Galactica comes up again, but we agree that we don't want to risk confusion with a certain dispensary of coffee. Rumphius, the name of the Lupine Lady in my favorite child's book comes up, but I don't like the way it sounds. For now, we're up in the air.

There's a whole lot else up in the air too, because...

WE BOUGHT A HOUSe.

Yup. On Monday. We signed our names and initials a few dozen times, forked over some cash, and bought us a house. We now live in the tiny (half a square mile-tiny) first-tier suburb of Edgewater, and while it pains me to admit that we got pregnant and then bought a house in the (shhhh) suburbs, I console myself with the fact that we live roughly five blocks outside of Denver proper, and it's a quirky, working class suburb where people own chickens and tattooed mamas walk down the sidewalk, holding hands.

The house was built in the 1920s as a vacation home for Denver socialites, wanting a place in the "country" to come and be by the lake (Sloan's). It's a Sears and Roebuck kit, and it has beautiful wooden, craftsman details in the molding and the gorgeous, sunny front porch. Other perks: two bathrooms, one with a claw foot tub and one adjoining the master bedroom, salvageable wood floors in three out of five rooms, and lots of big, beautiful (and new) windows throughout. The basement is unfinished, and it's because of this that we got a deal and a steal. In an area where hardly any homes have unfinished basements, there's a great deal of room for appreciation when we refinish the basement.

Anyway, we love our new home, and there is a SHIT ton of work to do. Luckily, the bones are good. We get a new roof (free for us, not the seller), and the pipes and electricity were good to go. Pretty much everything else needs to be touched up and given some love. The floors, for one. Pergo in the bedrooms had to go, as did the carpet in the hall and living room. Ugly laminate flooring in the kitchen had to be pulled up, and the second bedroom had to give way (and wall) for a dining room.

Since Monday, Joshua has ripped up all the floors, knocked out the wall between the living room and second bedroom, and put in glass french doors. We've dropped a pretty penny at Home Depot, ordering carpet and installation for the bedroom (where the wood floors were beyond repair) and buying cork flooring for the kitchen (which Joshua plans to install). We also bought a carload of paint. As the unskilled labor in this marraige, painting is my domain. To date, I've painted the bathroom a bubblegum pink, and I don't care if you don't like it. It's very 50s, and I love it, so there (Joshua likes it, too, and so do the Pietaris). I've also painted the master bathroom a vibrant green (as in, Wow! That's green!). In the bedroom, the Pietaris pitched in, and we have managed a very elegant, very grown-up ochre/gold (or Sugar Maple as it was written), soon to have stenciled poppy accents in Vanilla Custard (creamy white).

And we had to move.

I'm sure most have similar feelings when it comes to moving: fear, anticipation, despair, denial, and anxiety. We were no different. In fact, although this whole home-buying thing has been in the works for a couple of months now, we didn't start packing until last Saturday (denial), and with Joshua working until the wee hours every night since we bought the house (he says that his hands throb at night, and he's pround of his new hang-nails and calluses), we hardly put a dent in anything moving-wise all week (including Sunday, because we had to work). So, basically, besides six to eight hours of work last Saturday with the Devanes helping, we'd done practically nothing.

And then came Saturday (today). We woke up at 7 am and fretted a bit. Joshua and I drove to Golden to pick up an armoire I had found on Craigslist*, and then we drove back to pick up the UHAUL by 9 am.

Back at the house, we met up with the Pietaris and David who, for six hours straight, packed up the UHAUL and unpacked it again. We released David after 6 hours, promising him a case of beer, but the Pietaris insisted that they were "in it to win it." For three more hours, we scoured the house, packing up the rest of the kitchen, cleaning the floors and the bathroom, the refrigerator and the oven.

By 7 PM. We were finished. The house is DONE. Sure, we can only move into the basement of our new house, and therefore, our new bedroom is hanging out admidst a forest of boxes, furniture, and stray shit, but at least now we only have to worry about one house, instead of two.

Anyway, we're super, super greatful for the Devanes who helped us pack up on Saturday, the Pietaris who helped us paint all last night and move all day today (and paint a little bit more, too), and David, who used his new skills as a UPS package handler to move, move, MOVE all of our shit into the new house. There's no way we could have gotten it all moved in this amount of time without them.

*Holy Shit. By the way, we totally SCORED on this particular Craigslist find. It felt ridiculous to spend 45 minutes we didn't have on moving day to go and pick up yet another piece of furniture to move, but was it ever worth it. It's probably 100 years old, has gorgeous art nouveau carving and molding, and a super cool movable hanger and mirror with shelving inside. The woman sold it to us for 60 dollars, and as I was looking at it, I could tell it was the real deal. I gave her the money and scooted out of there, quick, so she couldn't change her mind. It's BEAUTIFUL.

FALL BREAK (October 26 - 30, 2011)

The party starts when school ends at 1 PM on Wednesday. We've had RAP tests (Regular Assessment Period - kind of like really important unit exams in every class) this week, and school lets out early. Joshua picks me up, and we drive through the snow to Mead St. Station, a pub-like place with some seriously good food. We order lunch and crank out grades.

Later that night, I pick up Ashlee from the airport. She's here for four nights and four days, and we start the trip by talking up a storm.

The next morning, we go in search of bagels for the Hi-Rise and biscuits from the Rise and Shine. By the time we're back, Joshua is ready to go and the car is packed, so we bundle in the car for a trip to the mountains.

Past Vail, we drive through Eagle and then on towards Sylvan Lake. We've rented a yurt for three nights, and with a dusting of snow over the hills, it promises to be a beautiful trip.

Once we arrive, we unpack in the one room yurt, relishing the heat that belches from the gas stove in the corner. Before it gets dark, we go for a run up one of the trails, dodging icy streams and patches of slick mud all the way. We climb for a while, and after a bit, we come to a wide meadow with picturesque wooden fences, the mountains behind, and a pink sunset falling over the horizon. The snow sparkles, and we agree that it is perfect.

That night, we make dinner and play games around the table. Settler's of Catan makes us all vicious land barons, but before the end of the night, we've made amends.

The next day, we go for a long hike through the deep snow. The trail is forested, but the landscape is beautiful just the same. We talk and talk all the way through this private winter wonderland.

Back at the yurt, we make more food and relax, reading and talking for company. We have another night of good food and games, and then we fall asleep.

On our last full day, we drive out past Sylvan Lake up to higher altitudes. Along the way we pass hunters in their orange wardrobes, and we worry about the rifles strapped to their backs. For our hike, we climb up along a ridge, and as we get higher, we can see the Mount Holycross Wilderness, tall snowy mountains, and a wide, meandering river in the valley below. It's absolutely beautiful, but we rave to Ashlee, promising even more spectacular views in the summer when we can get higher - above tree line.

For dinner, we drive into Eagle, an odd place that looks as though everything in the entire town has been built within the past 10 years. After much searching, we find a little grill for some grub, and we're pleasantly surprised by the relatively gourmet fair. On our way back, we stop for a bottle of wine (for the non-pregnant people). At the yurt, it's games again as usual, this time abetted by the juice of Shiraz. Naturally, the sober one wins :)

On Sunday, we drive back, but before we arrive in Denver we stop at Bertraud Pass and hike up over the tree line. Here, we finally get the views that we've been raving to Ashlee about, and she is suitably impressed. We live in the most amazing place!

That night, we're sad to see Ashlee go, but it's back to Denver airport and then on to work the next morning. All in all, an excellent Fall Break.

Fruit of the...

Joshua suggested that I entitle this post, "Fruit of the Womb," but I don't think I can do it. It's just too too, you know?

Another thing that would be just too too would be growing belly pictures, but here you are. It may not look like much, but my eyes bug out just about as much as my belly when I turn sideways in the mirror. You might not be able to tell, but I can :)

Papa Tim and Grammy Joette, excited grandparents to be, sent us a couple of onesies after their visit to New Orleans. We're happy to say that the very first "baby things" in the house were gifts from Dirty Coast (http://www.dirtycoast.com/), and are suitably unconventional :)

As for our very first "baby things" purchase, it occurred spontaneously on Friday morning before work when we were picking up treats for our students at Safeway. They had a display for Halloween, and as we walked by the spread of witches' hats and bags of candy, I spied a baby banana. That's right. A banana baby costume. It was so whimsical and impractical and perfect that I couldn't go through the check out without buying it.

As I was confessing to Joshua my need to succumb to this particular impulse buy, he fingered through the bin next to the banana baby costume and spied something he couldn't go through the check out without buying. A baby pea pod. That's right. A pea pod baby costume.

It felt a little ridiculous to spend 32 dollars in the checkout at Safeway on baby costumes when I'm only 16 weeks pregnant, but I don't think either of us could have been more pleased with our first "baby things" purchase. "Besides," I said, "I'm growing kind of attached to the notion of our baby following the produce section week by week. We may as well carry on the tradition once the baby is born."

Spring Baby

As the past couple of weeks have gotten colder, and up in the mountains, the aspens have plugged into some electric source and lit up the forests with a sunny farewell to summer, I'm saying goodbye to my first trimester of pregnancy and hello to my second.

It's one of my favorite times of year. I pull out old sweaters, add another blanket to the bed, and find opportunities to walk through fallen leaves, and at the same time, I'm heaving a great sigh of relief that I've surmounted my first hurdle: the first 13 weeks pregnancy, the first nine weeks of the school year, and the stiffling heat of a Denver Public School in the last weeks of summer - without air conditioning.

And did I mention we're having a baby?

A spring baby. He or she is due the beginning of April - April 1st, to be exact. We discovered our new family member the last week of July, and since then we've been following the produce section, in awe as - week by week - the baby grows at a vegetable-in-a-Colorado-summer pace. At first, the size of a poppy seed, and the next week, the size of a sesame. In just seven days, the size of a lentil, and in seven more, the size of a blueberry. By week eight, he or she was the size of a raspberry, and by week nine, the size of a grape. On week 10, the exotic proportions of a kumquat, and on week 11, the length of a fig. By the next week, we had reached the size of a plum, and by the next, the size of a peach.

Now, our spring baby is the size of a large lemon. With a thumb to suck and feet to kick, I tell people who look at my flat belly in suspicion that our spring baby has all of its little parts. We got to see them when we had an ultrasound at week nine. We found ourselves particularly drawn to the part that beats - a little heart that gallops at 162 beats per minute.

You might think that I've been asked a hundred questions, but in fact, there have been hardly any. Apparently, people have babies all the time. Apparently, that's how we all got here. Even so, I'm completely floored by everything that's happening, and I treat each new symptom like some encrypted message from our spring baby whom I haven't quite met, but at the same time is sharing things with me like my food, my abdominal cavity, my energy... I'm fascinated and completely preoccupied - even if I look just the same.

And those encrypted messages have been suitably life-altering. Just now, I'm coming out of an exhausted stupor that gloriously coincided with my first nine weeks of teaching at a new and very demanding school. Each night when I came home from work, I would collapse on my bed and commence with an internal struggle that usually ended with me half-assedly pulling on my workout clothes and lugging my tired self a whole three or four miles. Afterward, I plead invalid status and sat on my duff as Joshua cooked all of my meals.

Headaches and nausea - though unpleasant - were constant reminders of my new status. All of a sudden, the woman who has never been picky, who loves vegetables and salty things in particular became a woman revolted by a long list of things, but most tragically, all of the things that came out of our beautiful (and by beautiful, I mean revolting) garden. Tomatoes made my stomach churn. I still shudder if I even hear the word, "squash." Steamed greens are about as appetizing as used kitty litter, and don't even talk to me about turnips. For the past six or seven weeks, I have only been appetized by yoghurt, berries, granola, and fruit. Oh, and I like sweet baked things. I know. SUPER nutritious for the growing fetus.

But I seem to be coming out of the worst of it, and even when I've felt pretty horrible, I wanted to feel horrible if that's what being pregnant meant. I like that my whole world has changed. Joshua asked me (a while ago, before the answer became stupidly obvious) if there was any way that I could not know that I was pregnant. I laughed. If I didn't know I was pregnant, I would probably think I was dying. Not to be melodramatic or anything :)

A Denver Life

A Little of This, A Little of That

In an effort to squeeze every last, delicious drop of freedom out of our last weeks of unemployment, adventuring, and general lawlessness, we have spent our time crafting, camping, hiking, socializing, and gardening to our hearts' content. The garden is now a jungle (Denver is thinking about re-zoning just our yard), we've eaten buckets and buckets of greens, sampled dozens of sweet peas, and snipped our first large, gorgeously un-blemished zuchini. In the following post, I've made an attempt to summarize some of the highlights from our other pursuits:

Anniversary

I can barely believe that we have already been married for two years. When we stop to think about those years, we marvel at all things that we've managed to fit into such a short time, and yet, it does feel brief. We've been together for seven years (seven?!) now, and although these two years of marriage aren't even half of those years, they have been two of the best. He is the best partner in adventure, travel, and life I could ever hope for or dream of.

Joshua and I fell in love when we were 17, and we have been lucky enough to continue falling in love with each other as we grow older - and sometimes wiser, sometimes not. No matter what else - the things that go wrong or get worse - this, us, gets better.

For our anniversary, Joshua made me the most awesome card using the comic strip function on his Mac, and he bought me a subscription to BUST, so that I may continue to betty-fy our lives. In return, I made him an apron and chef hat with the words, "It's Business Time," embroidered across the front of the apron. Joshua can't wait until our next pizza night.

After a few hours of studying Spanish at our favorite cafe, we made reservations at Duo, a french-inspired eatery, and gussied up. Joshua wore his Fedora at my request, and I rocked one of my silk tops from Kathmandu.

Duo was delicious, and with E.'s generous donation, we ordered a half bottle of wine. For an appetizer, we had a pesto and watercress tartlett (which made our eyes roll back in our heads with ecstasy), and for entrees, we ordered the sea bass in an impossibly delicious cream sauce and roasted vegetables on couscous in tangine sauce. Both were incredible.

Back at home, a late afternoon rainshower had cooled off the house, and as we fell asleep, the breeze came in from our window, smelling of tomatoes from our garden.

Hat and Apron

Joshua picked out the pattern and fabric, and I produced a hat and apron, made to order. The apron was lacking a little pizazz, so I embroidered, "It's Business Time," in honor of one of Joshua's favorite Flight of the Concords songs. Now, he looks even more handsome when he tosses pizza dough like a pro.

Collars!

In other crafty news, much of my creative energies have been targeted toward Ms. Stacy Pietari, teacher of a Denver charter school that requires all of its employees to wear collars.

I know you just gasped when you read that. I know I did. When Stacy told me, I considered the proverbial fashion gauntlet to have been thrown down. Shirking feelings of devastation, remorse, and dismay, we bravely went where no fashionista has dared to go before: collared-land.

After a number of visits to thrift stores, a couple of on-line tutorials on how to add collars onto shirts, and even a foray into removable-dickie-collars, I am very pleased to report that Stacy has an enviable, funky, and very collared (which sounds slightly politically incorrect) wardrobe. Now she just has to win over some of her charter-school-square co-workers.

Work Out Classes

I'm afraid to put this out into cyberspace, but in the name of fearless honesty, I will admit that I have injured my foot by running barefoot. But now, before you feel validated in your skepticism, let me first say that this was a user error. I am to blame. Not barefoot running.

After 10 miles of barefoot running over the span of three days, I began to feel a sharp pain in my transverse arch (the stretch between my pinkie toe and heel). I knew running wasn't an option, so I called up Stacy and roped her into joining 24 Hour Fitness with me.

Since then, I've been working out like a maniac and taking classes on offer, including Body Pump, Step, and Turbo Kick. In Body Pump, I completed my first bench presses, and therefore experienced considerable chest pain the next five days. In Step, I made a fool of my uncoordinated self in front of some very talented old ladies and coordinated gay men. They were beautiful in all of their synchronicity; I was not.

This morning, Stacy and I showed up for Turbo Kick. While requiring some coordination, I was able to keep up much better, and during the super-speed tae-bo-esque Turbo Kick sequence, I believe my heart rate may have spiked up into the 200 bpm range. Consider me a convert.

Pizza Night

Two Fridays ago, Joshua treated Stacy, Kyle, Brian, Brittaney, and me to another lip-smackin', pizza-lovin' affair. Among my favorite moments from this night:

1. Watching my husband toss pizza dough. It's pretty attractive.
2. Drinking margaritas with Stacy and getting rather trashed.
3. Explaining the role of Diva Cups in the menstrual cycle to a room full of people.
4. Playing "Loaded Questions," a game the Devanes brought over.
5. Laughing so hard that I fell off my chair and my abs hurt the next day.

Green Mountain

On Sunday, we gathered the Anderts, Devanes, and Pietaris for a reprisal and drove up past Boulder to hike up Green Mountain. Although the trail from parking lot to summit and back is only 4.5 miles, it took us nearly four hours. The first half was comparable to a stairmaster, and once we arrived at the top, a lightening storm rolled in. We took a peak and then beat a hasty retreat.

Collegiate Peaks Camping/ Mt. Yale

On Tuesday, the Devanes picked us up, and we droved to Buena Vista through the rain. Despite the foreboding forecast, we arrived at Collegiate Peaks Campground as the last raindrops fell. The rain held off all night, and then, the next morning at 5:30 AM, we ate a quick breakfast and headed for the trailhead to Mt. Yale.

The path from trailhead to summit covers roughly 4.5 miles, and it took us just under 4 hours to make it to the peak of Mt. Yale. Although clouds and mist shrouded the tops of the mountains and hikers who were returning from their summit told us that they hadn't seen a thing from the top, we ran into some serious luck. About 5 minutes after we arrived at the top, the clouds parted, and all of a sudden, it was a clear day. The view was spectacular. Buena Vista sprawled out to the East, and to the North, we could see Mt. Harvard. In the South, Mt. Princeton stood tall, and to the west, we could see the tall, snowy backbone of the Rockies.

The hike itself was very nice. The first part traverses streams and walks through trees that gradually thin until you arrive at treeline. Above treeline, marmots perch on boulders, and peaks rise up on the abbreviated horizon.

The last hour before the summit begins the climb in earnest, and the last 15 minutes include a scramble over boulders. The scramble wasn't particularly scary, and I would say that I have an average to healthy fear of precipitous drops.

8 hours after we had set off, we arrived back at the trailhead, and after a short drive back to our campsite, we spent the afternoon playing games, snacking, and talking. Definitely one of the best days of the summer.

A Weekend with the Pietaris

We returned to Denver on Thursday, cleaned up, stowed away our stuff, and laid low, giving our muscles a chance to recover (besides Mt. Yale, I had just completed my first bench presses, and Joshua had just run 13 miles - 8 miles barefoot). That night, we headed over to the Pietaris for a delicious Pietari concoction of quinoa, kimchi, egg, and authentic soy sauce. While Joshua and Kyle talked logistics for camping, Stacy and I spent a girly hour admiring her new collared (I know, I can't help myself) wardrobe and mystifying collection of glimmery powders and instruments that beautify.

On Friday, we piled into the car and headed for the Indian Peaks Wilderness. Joshua had called ahead to make reservations, but he was informed that reservations need to be made four days before-hand. So, crossing our fingers, we entered the first campground. All 100 sites were full. Then we checked out three more campgrounds. They were all full too, all 400+ sites.

Feeling quite dismayed and grasping at straws, we turned down a random Forest Service Road. Driving past cabins full of lucky people who own cabins, we stopped to gape over an Elk with a rack the size of a Buick. He was stupendous.

We drove on for a couple more miles, and then, wonder of wonders, we stumbled upon an informal dispersed campsite with other campers and - voila! - room to spare.

The next morning, we decided to pack up. Although the site had been a boon, Stacy hadn't slept well, and after driving so much yesterday, we were a good distance from the trails we wanted to hike.

Following Joshua's master plan, we drove to the trailhead of Mt. Audobon, a 13er in the Indian Peaks wilderness. When we arrived, a Forest Ranger asked us our intentions, and when we informed her, she asked us if we had our snow gear and then leveled her hand somewhere in the range of her forehead, to indicate the amount of snow.

Kyle looked down at his homemade footwear. He'd forgotten his vibrams. The rest of us looked down at our shorts.

We decided to try anyway. We could always turn around if it got bad, and it's a good thing we did. Of all the hikes we've done, this was one of my favorites. Although we did cross a couple of snowy patches, they were hard-packed and easy to follow. Kyle, like the crazy person he is, hiked most of the 9 miles barefoot.

Quite a bit of the trail was above treeline, and the relatively clear day offered fabulous views. On our way up, we met an older gentleman and woman, and we bonded over recent trips to Nepal. We all agreed that this almost as good, the only barrier being our access to dal Bhaat.

On our way down, we got caught in a lightening storm, and we flew down the trail, desperate for treeline. Luckily, we made it back to the trailhead safe and sound, and although we all felt as wet and smelly as our happy dogs, we were definitely high on life.

That night, we returned to Denver, made Huevos Rancheros in the Pietari kitchen, and played an unforgettable round of Cranium (Stacy's new favorite game).

Starting Work

So that's it. That's what we've been up to. Tomorrow, bright and early, Joshua and I drive to our first day of Professional Development. Work begins. I'm actually coping rather well. I can't say that I won't miss our year (plus) of freedom and adventure, but I'm not freaking out, either. I'm feeling good. We've got friends. We live in Denver, and we've got each other (and Oscar and Thibodeaux!). Life is good.

Tangerine Tank

I confess that this has become a bit of an addiction. Yes. I spent four hours sewing today. Yes. I spent six hours sewing yesterday. Yes. I'm strongly considering beginning my next pattern tonight. Above you see the back of a tank top I made using the vintage McCall's Pattern no. 6749. I chose view B, and although the mannequin madame looks very sleek in the illustration, the finished product is a bit shapeless. This could have a little something to do with the fact that I have a size 14 pattern, and I tried to make it smaller... Say, a vintage size 8 (which, after three successive projects - the first at a size 12 which was massive, the second at a size 10 which was also quite loose, and now, a heavily docotored size 14 which fits a little bit like a paper sack - I have ascertained to be my correct size. This is nothing if not trial and error.).

A bit baggish, but I love the color! It's tangerine! Also, the slippery fabric was a bit trixie... The center seam in the back is slightly puckered.

Unspeakable Amounts of Greens and La Falda Ora

Here are a few images of my most recent sewing adventure, Simplicity Pattern 2226. I chose an ochre/gold polyester fabric with crimples (not a real word, but one that I believe should be added to our vocabulary). This is version C of the skirt.
Cute pockets. And, unlike the yoke, which was a slippery little sucker, they were fun to sew.
Miss 2226 is supposed to sit at my waistline. I measured and decided I was a size 10. Finished product sits about four inches below my waistline. I think I've done something wrong.
You can't tell, but this zipper adventure did not go nearly as well as my first zipper adventure. (At the bottom of the zipper, there was much sailor-cussing, seam ripping, re-sewing, seam ripping again, and finally, a needle and thread to soldier in the sucker.) On the pattern it's supposed to be hidden, but oh well. I still love it.

Josh asks, "how much does it cost to make a skirt like that?"

My response, "well, it's no skirt from Goodwill, if that's what you're asking."

Fabric: $3.99 a yard, on clearance. 2 yards.
Notions: $1 zipper, $1 gold thread.
Pattern: $9.95 on sale.
Labor: 2 hours of cutting (while watching trash TV. I refuse to tell you what show it was, and I have Joshua sworn to secrecy.) 6 hours of pinning, sewing, etc. 8 total hours of cussery (also not a word) and joy :)

As we were backpacking, I was fantasizing about sewing. My first completed project, the 50s Housewife Dress, gave a me such buzz, and I was tweaking for another fix. However, apparently sewing is a bit like heroine, and just as I snipped my last thread on the skirt, I was already scheming my next project. It's time to break out the vintage patterns!

In other news, I have conquered Weed Invasion 2011. It took me 8 hours and a sunburn, but now we can see our sprouting rows of winter veggies. The tomatoes have politely seceded their burgeoning monopoly and additional branches have been tied to the trellis.

And the greens! We've been having salad for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and I shall never grow sick of peppery mustard greens and mesclun. Delish :)

The Wide Weminuche: Photos

Oscar and I at the Window.
Joshua and Oscar on the Continental Divide Trail. That's the Window in the background.
Fording rivers? No problem. Love Oscar's face :)
But I am le tired...
Granite Lake, haven of the Blood Suckin' Skeeters
These, everywhere.
Elk Park
Lots of pretty wild flowers.
Day One: Saddle after Squaw Pass
Stop to smell the dandelions.
MOOSE
Sheesh. That was a long hike.
Joshua at the Window.
Finishing Born To Run.
Too cute for words :)

The Wide Weminuche

Day One

On Monday morning, we piled into the car. Unlike pretty much any other form of vacation, backpacking requires just two efficiently packed bags in the trunk. No coolers or knick-knacks clutter the back window, Oscar has plenty of space to sprawl out over the back seat, and we have leg room to spare. As we roll down Osceola, we revel in our weightless departure.

Five hours later, after driving through the Arkansas River Valley, we roll into Creede, a tiny town in the foothills of the Weminuche Wilderness. Creede doesn't look like much, but their "strip" does boast a couple of gems, and among them is Kip's Grill, a funky Santa Fe style Mexican cafe with a patio and plenty of multi-colored tile. Feeling manly and carnivorous, Joshua decided to forgo his usually vegetarian diet in favor of a juicy buffalo burger. I ordered the chile relleno tacos garnished with guac, cilantro, and lime. Yum yum.

From Creede, we drove another 45 minutes to the Thirty Mile Campround Trailhead, just a quarter-mile from the Rio Grande Reservoir. Shucking our clean clothes, we donned our hiking outfits, and while they were also dryer-fresh, there's just something about vapor-wick and zip-off North Face that makes you feel like you're about to get very dirty.

Which we were. I, for one, wore that same outfit for the next six nights and seven days.

At the trail head, we signed the register and announced our intent: 10 days of backpacking, from here to Squaw Pass to the Chicago Basin and back. We had barely walked 100 yards, and already, the weight of my pack was sitting heavy on my lower back and pinching my shoulders.

And we were off. Following Squaw Creek, we climbed the trail into a high alpine valley. Before long, we emerged from a conifer and aspen forest to greet a wide, open river plain. Save one other hiker and his dog, we saw no one, but the trunks of aspens recorded the names and dates of other hikers, in memoriam of a day or two or ten stolen in the wilderness. It doesn't bother me that they have carved their names, but I feel no urge to whittle my name into the white bark; I'm too busy dreading the next 10 days.

It's true. As much as I hate to admit it, I walked 100 yards in that 50 pound pack, and I thought, "holy shit. What in the HELL have I gotten myself into?" But I don't like to admit defeat or physical weakness until I've been defeated, so instead, I put my head down and focused on the trail. The pack was so heavy that I couldn't propel my knees forward in the fashion of - I don't know - any normal person, so instead, I swayed from leg to leg.

Four miles into our hike, ecstatic from the prospect of reenacting Christopher McCandless' last days on Earth, Joshua finally noticed that I hadn't spoken a word. "You ok, hon? Want to take a break?" I give a curt nod and immediately adjust my path. I head for the closest rock, dump my pack, and slide down to the ground on quivering legs. Reaching for the gorp that we've rationed into five ridiculously small ziplock bags (one bag of gorp for every two days), I down my rationing in 10 seconds flat, hoping the protein in the almonds and walnuts will somehow miraculously make me into Wonder Woman or just any woman who can carry a 50 pound pack 10 to 15 miles a day for 10 days straight at high altitude would suffice.

Sucking on a chocolate covered peanut and avoiding eye contact with my blissed-out husband, I spy a movement along the tree-line. In milliseconds, I've considered all the possibilities - mountain lion, bear, yeti, lunatic-ala-Deliverance - but as the enormous shape emerges from the woods, I realize that I've neglected one possibility: a moose that weighs more than our car.

It's a female, and sans an enormous, velvety rack, she's a bit less intimidating. Still, her long face and bulbous nostrils turn and hone in on us almost immediately. Smelling fear coming off of me in waves, she decides it's all good and begins to walk closer to us, stopping to graze frequently.

I slap Joshua, and rather than plotting our escape, he digs for the telephoto lens. Since I'm clearly the only sane person left in this couple, I reach into my pack to leash Oscar, who's just now sniffed the delicious scent of Moose on the wind and is currently calculating his chances of agility, speed, and teeth against - well - hulk.

Casually, behind the eye of the lens, Joshua recalls a tidbit of information he once learned from the Discovery Channel or National Geographic, "I've heard you should always keep a tree between yourself and a moose. They can be very unpredictable creatures." He is unfazed and although there is not a stinking tree anywhere - except behind the moose - he seems to almost relish the risk.

The moose wanders closer and closer, and after grazing a bit more here and there, she grows weary of our presence and gallops back into the trees. I release an anxious breath and decide I may as well heave my pack back on to my shoulders. The campsite isn't getting any nearer, and I don't want to wait around to see if Madame Moose favors a more violent reprisal.

We hike on, looking for a split in the path. Here, where a bridge leads up to Squaw Lake, the other path veers left, toward Squaw Pass. We veer left, and as we cross a small stream that feeds the river, we skip over a bottle of Barcadi Rum and Gatorade, cooling beneath the mountain melt. A young, smiling man (probably also thrilled to be reenacting the last days of Christopher McCandless) and an older, less gleeful sir greet us and inform us that they're from Orlando, they've been packing for eight days, and over yonder in the creek is their cocktail hour awaiting.

We wish them happy drinking and stumble up over the next knoll, looking for a flat spot to drop our packs.

Whether the spot was flat is debatable, but we dropped our packs and set to work: we set up our new, sexy little tent (one pole?!) and Joshua went off to hang a bear bag ("a rodent bag really," Joshua gleefully amends). I find a little spot to cook dinner. Unfortunately, this spot is also hardly flat; I hold the pan handle while the water boils, and then I add the spaghetti. As I lean to grab the dehydrated tomato sauce, the entire pan spills over the grass and dirt. Swearing like a sailor or hungry backpacking who has just soiled her dinner, I burn the tips of my fingers as I plop each noodle back into the pot. The bits off grass look a bit like oregano; however, they do not taste like oregano. Joshua, again, is unfazed: "it's pasto pasta!"

Day Two

We slept for nearly 12 hours. As soon as my back hit the ground, I was asleep, regardless of the weak light that still filter in through the tarp of our tent. In the morning, only the stuffy heat could wrest me awake.

As I packed up the tent, Joshua retrieved the bear bag, and once he returned, he finished packing while I made oatmeal. Though we haven't backpacked many times, this part feels familiar. I realize that it was nearly a year ago today that we left for England, and it makes me a little sad. Already, I want to be going on another epic adventure.

But this is adventure enough for now. With our bags packed and the sun at our backs, we head up the valley toward the pass. Along the way, we see a few elk, and after a couple of miles, another group of campers.

As we forge on, the trail begins climbing up in earnest. Above, we can see the pass, and the peaks on either side are frosted in snow and scree. This morning, Joshua gallantly took a good 10 to 15 pounds of the weight that was in my pack yesterday, and as a consequence, I'm feeling great. So is Oscar: he darts up ahead and then circles back again and again. I swear he is grinning all the while.

At the top of the pass, patches of snow stretch into one long blanket, and following a post marked "Cimaronna Creek Trail," we turn to the left, eschewing the even snowier Continental Divide Trail. After just a few hundred yards, it becomes clear that their is no trail to follow: no footsteps precede us, and the path is buried beneath the snow. Joshua takes out the topographic map and we follow the ridge, aiming for the saddle where we know the path eventually leads.

As we climb up, we take out our ice axes to stabilize our weight. The pitch of the slope becomes steeper and steeper, but after an hour, we've made it to the pass. We sit down for a lunch of tortillas and cheese, and Oscar perches next to us, on high alert for marmots. They seem to be teasing him with their high-pitched chirps.

From the saddle, we can see the high ridge where, supposedly, we will cross over to Hossick Trail. Unlike the saddle we are straddling, there is no obvious pass; it's just forbidding rock and snow.

After a lunch which was heavy on dried plums (their heaviest, so Joshua insists that we stuff our cheeks until they're gone), we take out our ice axes and once again follow the ridge that leads to Hossick Trail. At first, it's smooth going; we see the trail through patches of snow, and the terrain is fairly gentle. But after a bit, we loose the trail again. Joshua, feeling the weight of dried plums, cries for the toilet paper in a sudden emergency. His cries echo throughout the valley.

When we continue on, our chosen path becomes more and more treacherous, and I need to use my ice axe more than once to prevent myself from catapulting down the ridge. I'm terrified and close to tears. Joshua feels guilty that the more scared I get, the more exciting he finds the whole experience. At least he's staggering under the weight of what must now be a 65 pound pack.

Eventually, we meet up with what must be Hossick Trail, but as we study the slope above us, we loose sight of any path under the snow. It looks so steep and forbidding, Joshua decides that we will have to scrap our original plan. We cannot crossover Hossick Pass, and because we cannot crossover the pass, we will not have enough time to make it to Chicago Basin. The snow on the south facing side of any mountain at 12,000 feet is too deep to find a trail, and if we continue to try to follow trails this high, we'll be bushwhacking the entire way - a prospect that excites Joshua and absolutely terrifies me. I refuse to bushwhack. Not when there are precipices, snow, and bears involved. Nuh-uh.

But bushwhack we must. If Hossick Pass is out of the question, that leaves Cimarrona Creek Trail, leading down out of the valley towards Williams Reservoir. Slipping and sliding down the mountainside, we're able to find the trail through patches of snow for a little while, but as the sun dips lower in the sky, we loose sight of it again. By now, Joshua is so bone-weary that he is falling as much as he is walking, and on the side of a rather steep slope, he commands that I begin to pitch the tent. I refuse, because, as I mentioned, there isn't a goddamn piece of flat ground.

We backtrack a hundred yards or so and find a dry, flat piece of ground. Before we collapse, we set up camp, hang a bear bag, and whip up pasta with alfredo sauce. Having seen the wisdom of my ways, Joshua has forgiven me for refusing to set up camp on a cliff side, and we enjoy the shadows and they cast longer and longer across the valley until the sun is set.

Day Three

We run through our morning routine with even more efficiency this time, and by 8:30, we're back on trail - err, snow. While the two of us just recently learned that blazes are a literal, physical thing, every freaking rip or tear in the bark looks like a goddamn blaze. We stumbled through the snow for a couple of hours, climbing over fallen trees and icy streams. Joshua held the topographic map in his hands and muttered things like, "well, if I triangulate our position..."

After a couple of hours with my heart in my throat, I spotted a buzzed tree stump. Scrambling up the slope (that suspiciously looked very familiar), I found a trail through patches in the snow. We had descended far enough that the snow was more and more patchy, and from here, we were able to follow the trail.

While we were now certain of where we were going, the going still wasn't easy: each patch of snow was a small mountain to cross, and our crossings were hampered by windfall, stumps, and trees. By the time we finally saw a stretch of dry path, I was absolutely bushed.

Walking down switchbacks, we ran into a group of riders on horseback. After feeling a bit like we would die on the side of a snowy mountain, it felt surreal to nod and greet people who had clearly showered the night before. I think it was pretty clear that we hadn't showered. I was already beginning to stink.

We kept walking down, down, down. And I'll tell you what: going down hurts way worse than going up. I don't say that because I'm some sort of masochistic endurance athlete that likes to rub it in; I say that because it's true. It hurts a lot.

We stop near the lava tunnel, an arch of rock that reaches across the trail, and pull out our food. Both of us are starved, but looking at the map, we've only covered the equivalent of three miles. I look at the wiggly black line of the trail and audibly curse whichever bastard decided that a meandering trail through the woods was a romantic gesture.

After lunch, we continue even further down. The sun has come out in full force, and it's hot. My backpack is now sticking to me by more than just the straps. I think I may have to peel it off when we're finished.

By 2 PM, I'm exhausted and hot and really, really, really hating switchbacks. I saw the reservoir hours ago, and it didn't look that far, but these switchbacks are adding up. I keep praying that I'll see the trail head around every corner.

Finally, I do, and when I reach the signpost, I drop my pack like a ton of bricks and just collapse on top. I'm so tired, I don't believe I'll ever be able to move again, much less three more miles down the road. Joshua takes one look at my quivering, pathetic self and decides that we'll camp in the Cimaronna Campground, just 200 yards down the road. I feel to weak to protest, but inside, I'm mortified. We barely covered 7 miles today, but I'm sacked. I thought I was in good shape, but now I feel like a weakling.

At the campground, we pick a shady spot away from the other campers. Across the way, there's a well, and instead of pumping our water by hand from the stream, we lean into the arm a dozen times, and cold, clear water gushes forth. We gulp it down.

It's only 3:30 when we arrive, so we set up camp and then walk to the creek to wash off some of the grime. The water is ice cold, and standing in the water hurts our feet. We dunk our faces and splash our legs and arms as fast as we can, and then we hurry back to camp to sit in our crazy creeks and read.

For the first time on our trip, I crack open a book. For the next few hours, I loose myself in Christopher McDougall's Born To Run, and at the end of every chapter, I look up and off into the grove of aspens next to our campsite. Just a couple of hours ago, I was miserable, but I'm feeling better now. Joshua tells me that it's ok; we don't have to hike all day. We can still get a good work out in and also arrive at camp early enough to enjoy an hour or two of sunlight. We can read. I try to make peace with this. In my head, backpacking isn't something you do to relax; it's something that hurts, so if you're going to do it, you may as well go all the way. In other words, backpacking is pain, and the more successful the trip, the more painful it is.

I'm beginning to understand why, with that attitude, I'm really hating backpacking.

That night, as the sun dips from a blaze to a glow, we made another pot of pasta and play a game of speed scrabble. I feel another few glimmers of enjoyment, and I think, huh. I guess backpacking doesn't have to be completely miserable.

Day Four

We wake up when the sun comes up and pack up before any one else is awake. Then we wake up everybody else by pumping the squeaky well to get our water for the day.

On the dirt road leading to Poison Park, we don't see a soul. While we had thought to hitch-hike and save ourselves three miles of gravel, the distance slides easily under our feet, and before we know it, we're at the trail head. For the next couple of hours, we hike into the woods and then over a few gushing creeks. We climb gradually, and then we climb in earnest. My whole outlook has changed today, and even though it still hurts, I'm enjoying the walk. For the first time, I unclench enough to talk with my husband, and we do, for hours and hours. We talk about Unconventional Parenting, Mexico, and other adventures we'd like to take.

Seven miles from the campground, we decide to call it a day. We find a wide, grassy campsite that's clearly been used before and set up our tent. There's a stream running nearby, and all around us, aspens shake in the breeze, casting dancing, lime green shadows. Again, I dig into my book, Born To Run, which has gotten very, very good. I'm fascinated by these ultrarunning freaks, and I secretly want to be one. If I could just walk further than 7 miles with a 40 pound pack, I'd be good :)

That night, we find a spot among new green crocuses and shoots to cook a dinner of rice and beans. Up above us, we watch a stripe of sunshine narrow and then disappear on the craggy rocks. It's been a good day.

Day Five

We're up and off early again this morning, but our start is brought to a shuddering halt when we encounter a problem: our hand-held water pump is on the fritz. It takes us nearly two hours to sit by the buggy stream, pumping a trickle of precious water into our nalgene, and then giving up and taking out the camp stove to boil the water instead.

When we finally have enough water, we check ourselves - we're not getting crabby today! We leave the sourpusses at the creek and head back on the trail.

The trail from Elk Park to Granite Lake takes us through a meadow and then up into the woods. We cross a couple of deep, rushing streams, and then pick our way over fallen trees. We meet a couple of riders on horseback and then another couple of backpackers. All of them look a bit worse for wear, and they warn us that the mosquitoes up by Granite Lake are absolutely terrible.

We decide to forgo a campsite near the bug-infested, jewel waters of Granite Lake, and instead, we climb a steep, narrow path over the blue water. At the top, we break for lunch, and then we move on.

We walk and walk, talking and not talking. At one point, I see what appears to be a fresh bear paw print, and I have to inwardly talk myself down for the next two miles. I don't care if they're special or beautiful or whatever; I don't freaking want to see one. Period.

After six or seven miles of walking, we emerge from the woods to find another wide river valley. The Pinos River throws lazy oxbows out on either side, and we slosh through, making our way to the other side. In places, the water runs so deep, I decide to carry Oscar across.

We're feeling good, and the scenery is so gorgeous, we decide to forge on to Weminuche Pass. When we get there, we're glad we held out: it's a wide, grassy pass with a river running through. Elk graze in the green and drink from the water. On either side, ridges reach up to the blue sky, and from here, we can see the Rio Grand Pyramid and the Window, a rock formation that looks like a ridge missing a tooth.

We find an old campsite and set to work, raising the tent, boiling water, and making dinner. As light falls, we look out over the pass. This place is beautiful.

Day Six

We're so in love with the pass, we decide to stay another night and make a day trip up to the Window. The path from our campsite winds up trees and into another high alpine meadow. From there, we follow a stream and then its former self, a waterfall, up the hillside. We walk and I go on and on about my book, Born To Run. It's one of those books that I feel the need to retell in between my readings. I try not to spoil everything, but I can't help it: I tell Josh everything.

At the top of the waterfall, we cross over a patch of snow and climb up over one last hill. At the top, we're treated to an incredible view: the treeline drops away, and now the highest ridges are revealed. This is where I like the mountains the best. While Joshua has a strong affinity for woods and trees and streams, I like the wide open. I love the treeless peaks and the expansive meadows. I like to see forever.

Up ahead, the Window beckons, and we continue our pursuit. The last quarter mile is very steep, and the trail peters out. We scramble through bracken and running water to find purchase, and eventually, we make it to the top.

The wind tells you when you break over the crest of the highest point around. Up here, you're buffeted from all directions, and all of a sudden, the horizon is revealed to be 10 times the size and magnificence it was before. We snap pictures and huddle behind a rock to eat our lunch. Oscar lifts his nose, and drinks it all in with his eyes closed. He is happy beyond compare.

It's getting cold, so we make our way back down, scratching through the bracken and bounding through the snow. We walk and walk, and eventually, eight or nine miles after we left, we arrive back in camp.

That evening, we read, eat rice and beans, and take in our vista once more. It gets colder, but I resist getting up to go get my jacket - I have just 20 pages left.

When I turn the last page, I read the last line twice. I look up over the pass. There are elk drinking from the river. Oscar is laying next to me. Joshua is reading Cormac McCarthy. The light has faded so that the words on the page are hard to see. We gather our things and go to bed.

Day Seven

Although the second half of our trip turned out to be very enjoyable, we woke up ready to go. Downing some gorp and dried dates, we skipped oatmeal in favor of the trail.

As we walked, I watched the light play out over the pass. Dust motes hung on the air like pixies or ghosts, and elk flirted with the tree line.

After a mile or so, we reached the end of the pass where the trail descended into the trees. We crossed a stream and began walking down. We passed a slumbering campsight and may or may not have spied a young gentleman in the midst of his morning ablutions.

Eventually, the path made its way down alongside a stream rioting over rocks. The rush of the water drowned out the sound of our voices, and we walked silently for a while, enjoying Oscar's tail curled up and perky, his grin from ear to ear. Through the trees, we could see the Rio Grand Reservoir.

After six miles of descent, we arrived at Thirty Mile Campground, the trail head from where we had begun. We made a beeline for a faucet of potable water and drank until we had to take a breath. In the parking lot, Heidi sat, ready to go. We dumped our bags in the trunk, peeled off our muddy, wet hiking boots (not a pretty smell, I assure you), donned our clean clothes, and hopped in the car.

As we pulled out of the campground, Oscar promptly fell asleep. While he loves hiking, he never sleeps well. Every scent warns him that we are not alone, and every rustle or snapped twig sends him on alert (me too, for that matter). We look back at him, blissed out and passed out, and laugh. He'll sleep like that for two days now.

We drive back the way we came, through Creede and then Del Norte, where we stop at the Peace of Art Cafe for lunch. It's a cute, funky place with painted chairs and a covered patio. A sign says for sale, and we marvel at the price: 899,000 dollars. It's both ridiculously cheap and completely out of range for us. Knowing it could never happen, we think about what it would be like to live in Del Norte, just outside the mountains, with four fun and funky buildings filled with hippy artifacts.

Back on the road again, we make our way past Saguache and up towards Buena Vista, admiring the bare and snowless mountains all the way (they're west-facing, and this valley gets a ton of sun).

Just outside of Buena Vista, we fill up on gas and buy a couple of ice cream cones. I take a turn at the wheel, and we follow a long line of cars back into Denver (where everybody goes to play in the mountains on the weekends). The sun beats in on my arm and I notice: I'm completely nut brown now. It's hard to stay out of the sun in Colorado. Hell, it's hard to stay inside at all.

Back at the house, we survey our garden. Thanks to a daily dousing by the Pietaris, it's gone buck-wild. The squash is five times the size it was when we left, the peas are blooming, and the tomato plants. The tomato plants have annexed a part of the garden. They now have their own government, and they're seriously considering world domination.

Oh. And the weeds. They've gone crazy, too. They're a carpet of green.

In the house, Thibodeaux yowls to greet us, and the mudroom roof has caved in. The enormous ceiling tile has finally given into the drips and just let loose - there's an explosion of dust and plaster everywhere.

Whatever. We're home. We dump our bags and jump in the shower. We're headed to dinner with the Pietaris at a Mexican place, and we're starved.

Scissor Happy

Joshua, Stacy, Kyle and I went to the Denver Roller Dolls Roller Derby today. We had a bunch of fun, and we even thought up a couple of would-be Roller Derby names for Stacy and me: Exstaci and Mrs. Derty. Anyway, I've been looking forward to going to the Derby for a while now, and I took the chance to dress up, and Joshua snapped the photo of me in my duds (above). The necklace is from Dharamsala, and the silk shift is one of my precious finds from Kathmandu.
Tonight, I finished my dress for Eamon's Bar Mitzvah. Among the accomplishments: pin-tucks, darts, zipper, stand up collar, interfacing, facing, and sleeves. All went according to plan except for the sleeves. Trixie little f****ers. One is slightly longer than the other.
Here's a view from the front.
Me: scissor happy; DIY proud.
Another gamine scissor shot :) Joshua says, "you look like a 50s housewife!" I say, "mission accomplished. Do you mind picking up your socks and doing the dishes, sweetie?"

Ms. Teacher Lady

So, as you may gather from the day's posts, it's been a busy month. As usual, the more I have to write about, the worse the writing, but I'm thinking of this as a functional diary - more who-what-when-how than prose.

Speaking of which, apparently some people think I do have a bit of a knack with the prose. This winter, a gentleman working with thegreathimalayatrail.org e-mailed me with a bunch of questions regarding our travels on the Tamang Heritage Trail. Just last week, he wrote me another e-mail with the link to my responses. You can also see my profile on the list of contributors.

Anyway, I've clearly fallen off the wagon when it comes to the blog and writing, despite all my resolutions while we were traveling. I tried my hand at some submissions and fiction during the Spring, but to be honest, my heart wasn't in it. What I really love writing about is traveling.

Speaking of which, I've got the itch again, bad. I'm trying to convince Joshua that we should live in Mexico for a couple of years in a few years' time, and I think I've got him hooked. I think we may never be able to buy a house, because I'll just want to keep traveling (and why have a house?).

Enough rambling! I began this post with the intention to talk about teaching, and here I am talking about writing and traveling instead! I swear this is not some Freudian slip :)

And it isn't, because for the past three weeks, I've been teaching summer school at my new school. It's been demanding and I've had a lot of prep time for two 100 minute periods, but after a couple of weeks, I really started to feel like I was getting the hang of it. I became more efficient, and already, I felt like I had good relationships with the kids. They're fab, and I love the age. 6th graders are a little doofy, a little squirrelly, and a lot adorable. I love them.

For my students, summer school means that they didn't pass their classes during the year. In order to get into 7th grade, they need to pass a cumulative test at the end of summer school. It's very high stakes.

And I'll be honest with you: although we worked very hard, I gave both of my classes a quiz mid-way through. It wasn't good. The no one got more than a third of the questions right, and I was basing all of my lesson plans upon the content of these quizzes. I had no idea what I was doing wrong.

On Friday, my principal came in to ask me how I thought my students would do, and I told him my fears: they had done terribly on the quiz last week, and although they were doing better on their Exit Slips this week, I was still concerned that many of them may not pass. Their reading levels are still significantly behind, and many of them had poor attendance. To top it off, I still feel as though I'm climbing my own learning curve. I wanted to maintain high expectations, but to be perfectly honest, I'm so accustomed to my students' and my own failure when it comes to teaching that I really do have low expectations.

Well. They all passed. Every single one of them. Even the three kids that I was almost positive would fail. It was a network-wide test with a fairly standard grading system, and I had a couple of students in the 90 percent range, a number of them in the 80 percent range, and all of them above a 65 percent. In average, they passed with a 81 percent average. I was ecstatic, and it felt like the most rewarding, meaningful thing in the world to hand them their tests with their grades and tell them they passed. They were so proud of themselves, and I was so proud of them.

So my introduction to teaching in Denver was a success. I feel good about the basic skills that I already have and was able to hone just a little bit, and I feel confident that I can become even better this year. I adore the students, and I'm convinced that I'm working for good, hard-working, and compassionate people who have extremely high expectations and have already begun doing amazing things. It's going to be hard work, but I think it's going to be good work.

That's all for now, folks. Lots of love, and happy summertime.

Backpack Food Prep

Had the idea to by bulk beans at the store, slow cook, and then dehydrate them on wax paper in our dehydrator. We've done black-eyed peas, black beans, and pinto beans, and they've turned out great! They're light weight and they won't waste gas because it will only take minutes to get them to a place where we can eat them!

Here is the equivalent of a huge slow-cooker full of black beans. Yum yum!

Pin-Tucks and Zippers

Here's my dress for my brother, Eamon's bar mitzvah. I picked out the fabric and pattern this winter, but after I cut out the fabric, I was paralyzed with fear and moved not further. This week, I pulled out the sewing machine and got to work. It's not finished (it still needs a hem and sleeves), but this photos shows you the zipper (which gave me nightmares). I've never attached a zipperfoot or put a zipper into anything before, but here's my first attempt, and it looks pretty good!

Front view of pin-tucks, pockets, and bodice darts.

I'm making the one in the middle with the short sleeves.

These are some of the vintage patterns I found at the Salvation Army in Red Wing. I absolutely adore the one in the upper right hand corner.


I've been crafty too! Kyle's mom, Gaylynn, was visiting Kyle and Stacy for the past couple of weeks, and she's a master seamstress. We went to Hancock Fabrics, and I went a little crazy finding fabric for some of the vintage patterns that I had bought on the cheap from the Salvation Army in Red Wing. In the picture above, I've arranged the fabrics I bought and the patterns I intend to use. I'm going to make a couple shirts with the tangerine fabric, the short short sleeved dress with the black and white and magenta fabric, and a skirt with the magenta and ochre fabric. Someday. Hopefully. One at a time.

Although I wasn't able to finagle a private lesson, Gaylynn did give me a bunch of tips, and I've been inspired to complete a dress that I started this winter. I haven't finished yet, but I've posted the photos of the half-finished product :)