Ski Santa Fe: Affirming Life on Muerte

Two weeks ago, I found myself making a quick car swap in Amarillo. The trade was simple: take my beautiful car with its high repair bills and swap it for my brother's car. As long as I was headed that far, I figured I'd join the family for a quick run up to Santa Fe where the eating is good and the skiing is great.

Muerte

Muerte, or "death" in Spanish, is probably my favorite run at Santa Fe Ski Area. The run is very steep and very fast. Very fast. The wide, flat slope contains several possible lines leaving the skier the option of diving into the most precipitous paths or taking a slightly more gradual approach down.

In the past, Muerte has been unkind due to lack of snow. Two years ago, my uncle, Rick, featured below, and I spent quite a bit of time bombing down that run. That year the snow was thin and crisp, and Rick and I had to stare hard at the slope in order to navigate. At those speeds, we feared hitting a small tree top, rock or pine cone left on the fragile surface, and Muerte presented a slalom course of perilous obstacles. We destroyed our bodies trying to get down unscathed.



This year was different. Santa Fe has copious amounts of snow, and Muerte holds a glorious, thick blanket. Early on Saturday morning, Dad had declared that we would not be skiing any black diamond runs that day. I stayed quiet as I eyed Muerte from the lift--the snow looked beautiful, and even at that distance, I knew we'd have to get over there.

Eventually, I coaxed Dad to the top of the run, and I think he had started to feel a bit more daring. As I began to put my hat in my pocket (I planned to go really fast), I heard Dad say, "Okay, Brad, I'm going to ski this slow and controlled." By time I had zipped my jacket pocket, Dad had devoured the first half of the run and was nearing its end. I pointed my skis down and labored to catch up, but he was gone. By time I reached him, I could tell by his smile that we'd be heading up again.

And we did, and it was glorious. There were times on the run where I took a particularly steep line and couldn't tell whether I was still attached to the slope. The run presented a feeling of controlled free fall, and it was beautiful. We will be back on the slopes at the end of March, and I can only hope that Muerte will be as inviting.

Group Ski

After spending a morning bombing down runs with Dad, it was time to rejoin the part of the family fresh out of ski school for a more leisurely afternoon on the slopes.



At lunch, my brother, Mark Everett, complained of a sore knee. He lifted his outer layer around his knee to find a bloody patch on his long underwear. Both layers looked as though they had been cut with a knife.

Apparently Mark Everett had suffered a bad crash during his ski lesson. In an attempt to master the art of heli-skiing, Mark Everett had jumped out of a helicopter onto the top of a snow-laden ridge. The ridge was heavily corniced, and his guide noted the avalanche danger. They turned on their avalanche beacons and decided the powder basin below called their name. With such beautiful snow, playing it safe means missing a great opportunity to baptize oneself in a holy fount of powder. Anyway, they started down the bowl making quick, telemark turns when a slab avalanche broke loose above. Mark Everett knew that he had no choice but to pick up the pace. As the avalanche gathered strength, Mark Everett and his instructor found themselves at the top of a series of frozen waterfalls. They precariously shot down the icy river bed with the powder on their heels before the avalanche caught them and smashed them into the trees. Fortunately, they were able to tunnel out of the snow pack, and Mark Everett escaped with minor injuries. (Note: This story has been embellished at Mark Everett's request. The actual accident may or may not have occurred at low speed on a groomed run).

The afternoon was good. I watched my younger siblings demonstrate a growing confidence and better grasp of the fundamentals. Mark Everett had shaken off the terrible events of the morning and managed to ski the afternoon with his knee wrapped . . . later he would receive 12 stitches, but for the time being, I treasured hanging with him on the slopes. Chairlifts are great spots for conversation, and we chatted until runs were covered in shadow and our legs wouldn't take any more.

We closed out the day at a Spanish restaurant called, El Maison. Diving into a massive skillet of seafood paella, we relaxed and recounted the days' glories. We only had the one day on the slopes, but we were glad to have made the most of it.

Amazing Travel Video

This video is pretty remarkable. Very creative idea in mesmerizing settings.

Book Review: "A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier" by Ishmael Beah

I wandered into Starbucks late last week and noticed a stack of books near the pastries. The cover featured a disturbing photo of a thoughtful young boy walking with an AK-47 across his back and some sort of grenade launcher across his shoulders. Curious, I picked up the book, A Long Way Gone by Ishmael Beah, and decided to use it to break to the law school monotony. Instead, the book broke my heart.

Beah writes a beautiful memoir with succinct and devastating language. The narrative begins with a description of his childhood in a small village in Sierra Leone where he had a reputation as being "troublesome." As a child, Beah developed a passion for rap music and enjoyed dance and memorizing the lyrics.

Eventually, rebel forces attack the village and separate Beah from the bulk of his family. He becomes a refugee fleeing violence and horror only to find the conflict chasing him across the country. Eventually, as the title suggests, Beah becomes a soldier for a government army unit and watches his childhood vanish in a haze of drugs and killing.

The story follows him through the conflict and into rehabilitation, where life outside the war zone casts a spotlight on the transformation from child to soldier as Beah struggles to reclaim his former identity from a cloud of guilt and anger.

My description above seems dark, but the story is a continual roller coaster of hope and brief periods of elation interrupted with violence and sorrow. It reads quickly and beautifully, and I highly recommend it--after all, Beah's reality is echoed in conflicts across the world every day.

The Role of Nature

From a literary standpoint, I particularly savored Beah's invocation of nature. He grew up in a village surrounded by lush foliage. The bushes become a hiding place, the trees offer a food source and shelter from hog attacks, the streams provide relief from the heat, and the ocean heals Beah's torn feet.

But his use of nature goes beyond providing a setting and fuses two of three story-telling traditions Beah acknowledges as influential in his narrative (the third being rap music). He grew up in a culture of vivid nature stories, several of which are repeated in the memoir. For example, he tells the story of a hunter who could transform himself into a wild hog. Then, by eating a certain plant, he could change back into a hunter and kill the hogs. Eventually, the hogs discovered the hunter's secret and attacked, which is why hogs are distrustful of all humans. Later, Beah finds that the cycles of violence also make humans distrustful of each other.

Beyond the parables of his youth, Beah grew up on Shakespeare and loved reciting the great speeches from Julius Caesar and MacBeth. Suddenly, Beah's descriptions of nature took on a different meaning. I remember reading in awe at the way Shakespeare wrapped the natural environment into his works. When evil is afoot in Julius Caesar, the shutters begin flapping around in some sort of phantom wind. Throughout his works, good and evil in humanity is reflected in benevolent or menacing signs in the natural world.

Beah invokes his natural world in similar ways except, while Shakespeare's use of nature probably derived from Elizabethan-era theology and superstitions, Beah suggests a horror so brutal that nature itself cannot remain passive. The crickets, moon and trees are not immune from the violence.

After an attack on his home town, Beah notes, "With the absence of so many people, the town became scary, the night darker, and the silence unbearably agitating. Normally, the crickets and birds sang in the evening before the sun went down. But this time they didn't, and darkness set in very fast. The moon wasn't in the sky; the air was stiff, as if nature itself was afraid of what was happening."

Whether this reaction from nature existed in reality or only in Beah's mind, the effect is just as powerful. After an attack, "the moon disappeared and took the stars with it, making the sky weep. Its tears saved us from the red bullets." Here, nature responds to human sadness and, in doing so, provides protection to the scared children.

Eventually, Beah makes the transition from child refugee to soldier-barbarian, addicted to cocaine and methamphetamines. After his initiation into the world of bloodshed, Beah loses many good friends in an ambush in a forest and "left them there in the forest, which had taken on a life of its own, as if it had trapped the souls that had departed from the dead. The branches of the trees looked as if they were holding hands and bowing their heads in prayer." At this point in the story, I began to get the idea that the trees were the last creatures with the will to keep praying.

In the midst of conflict, nature offers shelter while disguising threats, offers food along with predators, and reacts as it watches the horror unfold. The description of nature enriches the reading experience and helps explain the magnitude of the evil involved.

Pick up Beah's book. It is a well-written story that, at minimum, will transform the way you think about the headlines. At best, his story will leave you with a burning question: how can I help? That's exactly what I intend to ask the author when he appears for a book signing here in Dallas on March 6.

Beijing Puts on Its Manners Cap

Growing up, we were frequently told to don our "manners cap" upon entering restaurants and other public establishments. The cap was a metaphysical reminder to not act like wild heathens in the presence of our grandmother--if I remember right, my grandmother actually crafted the hats herself and could remind us of their function with one of her classic looks (many have attempted to imitate her legendary facial gestures--few have succeeded).

Anyway, Beijing is apparently attempting to put on its own manners cap. China will find itself in an international media spotlight for the Olympics and, in an interesting act of self-consciousness, has decided to crack down on "anti-social behavior." The Chinese government hopes to thwart major Chinese pass times like spitting and cutting in line.

What I find puzzling is the application of the term "anti-social behavior" to these activities. Spitting and cutting in line is extremely social behavior--it's the social norm. Sitting on a bus in Beijing, Clayton Brown and I witnessed people hurling massive loogies onto the floor of the aisle, which was nothing compared to what happened across streets and sidewalks around town. The most shocking loogie event occurred in the Beijing airport where we watched a greenish glob of goo smack against the pristine marble floors--apparently this behavior knows no boundaries.

As for lines, they frankly do not exist. When an airplane lands, people race for the door in a no holds barred struggle to flee the plane. As an experiment, I once jumped out of a seat on an Air China flight immediately upon landing, yanked my bag out of the overhead bin (smashing two heads with my elbows in the process) and pounded past people toward the door. While this behavior would have horrified US passengers (and likely landed me in an interrogation room), the Chinese accepted my assault as normal behavior. Again, these are social norms--far from "anti-social."

Elevators provide similar forums for chaos. In the US, the doors usually open and the people at the front of the elevator exit gradually. Once emptied, the people outside slowly enter the elevator--usually ladies first.

China presents a life or death struggle for elevator loading and unloading. The folks outside the elevator doors are rushing into the elevator as it begins to open. They slip in rapidly through the doors like a wave of water while those inside have to struggle to get out. We would have to swim out of the incoming crowd or face another elevator ride. Again, this procedure is the social norm.

But China attempts to impose Western social norms on its people--"it's glorious to be polite." The efforts have been highly effective in Shanghai, where public spitting is a rarity. We'll see how it works for Beijing.

This is how China hopes to avoid embarrassment in 2008. But I wonder if they are looking the right direction. After all people spit and blow their nose onto the sidewalks probably because Beijing's air pollution causes serious mucus issues. I would end my days in Beijing by blowing black snot into tissue paper. I wondered how athletes planned to compete in the thick, green air. Long walks left our lungs agitated by the particulates--how will the marathon runners feel?

So, when 2008 comes around, Beijing may be as "polite" as Shanghai with the population kindly withhold their polluted mucus for more private locations. The homeless will likely be shipped out of town, and the government will then expect Westerners to awe at the cleanliness and sophistication of China. But late at night, when the tourists return from the day's Olympic events, they will blow their own black snot into tissues with lungs throbbing from the particulates. That is an embarrassment that China cannot avoid.

Waterproof iPod: Perfect Travel Toy

I tend to pack a massive load of zip-loc bags. Somehow, I always seem to travel during the rainy season wherever I go (Chiapas, Honduras, Tibet, Tanzania, etc.), and I often find myself soaked (see places above). Megan and I spent a lot of our days in Tanzania rushing to stuff documents in plastic bags while deciding who got to use our one large waterproof pack cover. I tend to travel without electronics for the same reason. At the same time, an MP3 player can offer desperate relief from a world of strange noises, offer a short break from the culture shock, or provide a Zach Braff-esque soundtrack for the world around you.

Anyway, iPod is apparently creating a waterproof Shuffle with 2 gigabytes of memory (link to a great blog written by a tech-savvy 12-year-old). This will be an amazing breakthrough for travel purposes. That's one key item that won't face ruin when I end up in my next rainy season (maybe India during monsoon?).

Valentine's Day: Hilton Head, South Carolina

Ever the romantic geniuses, Megan and I decided to celebrate Valentine's Day 2005 with a romantic getaway to Hilton Head, South Carolina. We had never visited the island of golf and retirees, so we were excited to see the ocean and weave through golf carts. Of course, to make things more interesting, we decided to run a half marathon just to spice up the weekend. I flew from Dallas to Atlanta, and we loaded the car to drive across Georgia to the island retreat.

Off to the Race

The drive itself was relatively uneventful except for noting the shifting location of chewing tobacco. In Atlanta, the chewing tobacco remained behind the counter with the normal tobacco products. Outside of Atlanta the chewing tobacco moved closer to the customer until we finally found it next to the candy bars near South Carolina. This is another reason why the South is awesome.

We pulled into Hilton Head late Friday evening and found exactly what we expected. The number of golf courses was staggering. I would like to see actual statistics, but I'm guessing there is roughly 3 holes per person at any given moment. Naturally, my sticks were at home.

After checking into our hotel, we met friends at an Italian restaurant to try to intimidate ourselves. One of the friends was training for a full marathon and saw this as just a practice exercise. The other friend had qualified for the Boston Marathon by running some other marathon in 3 hours 10 minutes. They told stories of injury and glory (amazing how "injury" and "glory" come all tangled up together in the running world), and I looked sheepishly at my mound of chicken parmagiana. These warriors of the asphalt are featured in the photo below.



Megan, on the other hand, loved this talk. Megan is a runner. She ran cross-country in high school, and the competitive running environment really gets her going. She lives for that sort of thing. She is a natural competitor, runs without injury, and has willpower that lifts her abilities to a much higher level.

I am not a runner. I started "running" as a way to ease the stress of law school. Initially, these outings consisted of high-speed strolls around the block. When that didn't suffice, I started circling several blocks. Eventually I was running six to eight mile stretches faster and faster. My routes were arbitrary, my times were irrelevant, my joints were beginning to not like me. How I ended up signed up for a half marathon was beyond me, and, as I stared into my pasta, I felt a touch out of place among the runners.

Jitters aside, I downed my pasta, followed it with ice cream, and assumed this fuel would lead me to glory (hopefully without injury) the following day.

Pre-Race Ritual

We woke early. Well . . . that's an exaggeration. To say, "we woke" would imply that we slept, which we did not do. How could we? Megan was in some competitive zone that night, readying herself to will herself to go really, really fast. I was in a different zone: readying myself to hopefully not have a heart-attack around mile 4 requiring me to be stretchered off into some Hilton Head hopital, presumably over-flowing with patients who recently threw out their backs on the golf course. No, sleep was tough to come by, and around four, still three hours until race time, we decided to join the day.

Somehow we had determined that our best start would come from bagels and coffee. The bagels would provide more carbohydrates while the coffee would help us . . . hmmm, what euphemism to use . . . would help us lighten our digestive load a bit.

While downing these tasteless items (bagels were cold and soggy, the hotel coffee tasted like metallic dirt), we stretched and stretched and applied body glide and tied and retied shoes . . . heck, I was even wearing foam nipple protectors since I had a tendency to chaffe (did I mention that I am really not a runner?). The nipple protectors were part of my Valentine's gift from Megan.



Of course, these hours of warm-up ritual only left me more nervous, and the awful coffee left me losing my breakfast in the toilet. That didn't concern me--I had consumed enough carbs to run for a while. What did concern me, however, was the amount of liquid I lost with that upset stomach. Dehydration would be scary, and I had taken a huge step in that direction.

Meanwhile, Megan tried to calm me down. She seemed nervous in a different way--maybe nervous someone would beat her. We made for quite a duo--she was driven to win this thing, and I was hoping to come home alive.

Ready, Set, Go

The air was cold that February morning. Romance, it seemed, had yet to fill the air. Worse, we realized the route was not going to be what we expected. We assumed that a half marathon on a beach resort island would mean 13.1 miles of running along the sea, fresh wind at our backs, sun rising over the ocean. Instead, the route seemed to follow a very, very busy road in the center of Hilton Head that was only partially blocked off. So, we realized we would spend the next 13.1 miles breathing fumes without so much as the sounds of the ocean breaking the monotony.

Shake it off. I had tried to drink a little more water, but I seemed to constantly have to urinate . . . nerves, I was told. Megan, at this point, was freezing, so we jogged in place, moved up to the starting line, re-tied our shoes, and tried not to think about how bad we had to urinate.

After a while of that dance, the gun fired, and we were off. Megan and I clicked our watches as we crossed the line. And thus began a great experience for learning about one another. Some learn these sorts of lessons about each other slowly, painfully, over years and years--we condensed all of that pain into under 2 hours . . . and the watches were the root of these lessons.

Out of the gate, we were flying, soaring. I hardly felt my Mizunos on the pavement, hardly noticed to cold vanish into a brilliant warmth. I definitely did not realize that we had destroyed the first mile in 7 minutes and 22 seconds, a pace faster than I had ever run. Cool, we could do this.

Mile 2. 7:21. At this point, I'm getting a little more concerned but still feeling good. Megan is a machine and shows no similar concern. "Hey, should we slow it down to around 8 or something close to what we've practiced?" I asked for two reasons: first, if you can speak while running, you're still doing okay. Second, I really wanted to slow down. "No," and Megan focused on the road.

Mile 3: 7:22. I only know this, mind you, because Megan is keeping our split time down to the second. Her watch is computing almost as fast as her mind as she calculates split times and speeds, visions of glory dancing through her head. Meanwhile, I'm noticing the trees and the joy of moving.

Mile 4: 7:22. Amazing. I don't know how this gal next to me keeps this pace so perfectly, but she's moving as if her race were forecasted. I'm inspired. I notice a water station on the side of the road. During all my training, I tried to master the art of drinking on the run, and I never got very far. I grab a cup and immediately pour it all over me, so I grab a second and try to slow down--Megan refuses to take water and definitely refuses to slow, so I ditch the cup and move on. This is how downfalls begin.

Mile 5: 7:24. Megan is disappointed at the two-second slip, and I'm wanting to run back a mile just to lick the water off the sidewalk. Another thing about me--I sweat. I sweat like a Knapp, and for those who don't know, Knapp men sweat enough be considered a major water source. As I jogged, I pictured weather forecasters scratching their scalps in puzzlement at the great Hilton Head Flash Flood of '05. Meanwhile, Megan had scarcely broken a sweat.

Mile 6: 7:22. Back on track. I'm starting to not feel so healthy. Another water station passes without my being able to drink, and I'm wondering where this is going to lead. I'm starting to feel a bit grumpy. I have one pleasing vision: removing the watch from Megan's hand and trampling it to pieces.

Mile 7: 7:22. Megan is now counting the women. She keeps track of how many she passes, how many pass her, and, most importantly, what age group the faster women are running in. I am often consulted. As long as they are older or younger, she doesn't care. But if they are her age, she's taking them down. I, on the other hand, become jealous of the folks taking stretch breaks on the side of the road.

Mile 8: 7:24. Another water station goes by without a drop, and I'm sinking fast. I start to slow, my muscles cramping. I'm still sweating, but my mental state is crashing rapidly. I feel upset, but I don't know why. I'm feeling awful and not able to communicate well. I realize somewhere in the cloud that I am dehydrating.

Mile 9: 8:12. I've slowed Megan down, and here, at a water station, I send her on her way. We're trying to run the same race on very different philosophies, and it is time to split up. Somehow, Megan can run for 13.1 miles without a water break. I hit mile 9 without water, and I'm quickly approaching serious health problems. The parting is not a problem. I need to swallow 9 mini cups of Gatorade and 8 mini cups of water. Megan needs to destroy her competition.

Mile 10: ?. I'm recuperating. I'm moving slow, my muscles hurt, but my mental state is more balanced. I'm back to running as I tend to run. I can't think in split times, and I find myself returning to the joy of movement for its own sake.

Mile 11: ?. No sign of Megan. I'm hoping she is preparing to hoist a trophy. I hit another water station and take the time for 8 or 10 more of the little cups full of fluid.

Mile 12-13.1: And I cross the line. I see Megan and a distance, but I'm so shaken by the entire event that I really need to be alone. I grab a water bottle, a Gatorade and a slice of pizza and head off to a field to pull myself together. The sensation was amazing and intense. My muscles chastized me for the audacity of those first few miles, but, caloried and hydrated, they started to quiet down. Megan found me, and we hugged for a while. Oblivious to each other's stench, we had made it, and, finally, it felt great. In the end, we had to run slightly different races, but we ended up in the bliss of the finish together.

Happy Valentine's Day

Megan won her award, taking one of the top places for her age group. Our competitive friends from the pasta dinner were similarly successful. As I ate more pizza along with some oranges and apples and more water, I felt very successful as well--after all, that pizza tasted really great.

We hobbled back toward the hotel and collapsed. We knew napping would leave us immoble, so we reluctantly decided to take a stroll along the beach. Fully hydrated, we enjoyed a glass of red wine and some smokey cheese as the sun vanished over the sea. Tired and content, I think we realized this Valentine's Day celebration would be tough to beat.

Long Way Round: Vicarious Travels Across Asia

Frequently, a traveler finds herself jaunting between a series of transportation hubs. The backpacker headed to Europe normally explores larger cities connected by the rail system. Travelers to Asia tend to stop in only major cities accessible by large aircraft. But these sort of travels cut out the amazing opportunities available by road . . . opportunities exploited to the max by Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman in "The Long Way 'Round." I'll just call them "Ewan and Charley" from here on out because, after watching the documentary, they are starting to feel like old friends (they even note this phenomenon when they meet the folks at Orange County Chopper).

This weekend, Megan and I indulged in some vicarious travel by enjoying the DVD of the Long Way Round, a documentary of Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman's trip around the world . . . by motorcycle. While neither Megan nor I ride motorcycles, we found ourselves drooling at the thought of setting off across these vast territories by road.

The trip began with what seemed like Ewan and Charley's insane dream to travel from London to New York by motorcycle. After months of intense preparation (self-defense classes, first aid classes, the desperate search for motorcycle sponsorship--KTM lost a great opportunity as this film could be the greatest advertisement for BMW motorcycles of all time), the duo heads out on a pair of BMW's with a camera man and two support vehicles ("support" is a bit of a stretch: for most of the trip, the vehicles merely allow the bikers to restock on food and film before setting out on their own again).

The route was daunting. From London they would take the Chunnel train to Paris. After crossing Western Europe, the pair traveled to Prague and through Slovakia into Russia. From Russia the team entered Kazakhstan (finding a very different country than Borat describes). After Kazakhstan, they reenter Russia before crossing Mongolia. From Mongolia, they make a third entry into Russia and travel Siberia's "Road of Bones" to Magadan. From there they fly to Anchorage, Alaska. Then, they enjoy pavement toward Fairbanks and into Calgary before dropping down to the US and crossing the plains toward Chicago and, finally, New York City.

The route meant 20,000 miles through often absurd obstacles. The joy of the adventure often comes through the experience of random fortune. Kazakhstan finds them at the center of bizarre media frenzies. They end up spending the night in the home of a random, underworld character who entertains with machine gun and guitar. The "roads" in Mongolia leave the group at the mercies of random passersby who can perform instant repairs. Finally, they try to navigate the Road of Bones shortly after the winter thaw, so the roads often vanished into raging rivers, leaving the travelers to hitch rides in the backs of passing trucks. Needless to say, this trip wasn't easy.

To avoid spoiling the film, I'll cut the description short. Megan and I watched it with hopes of changing the way we travel in the future. While I doubt we'll cross Asia by motorcycle (and my mother and grandmother just breathed a huge sigh of relief), we would like to start hitting the road more often . . . probably even starting in Mongolia. Traveling by road, the duo encountered the joys of empty space and open highway, often finding themselves in nearly inaccessible hamlets in Far Eastern Russia. These sort of places offer rich experiences and fascinating interactions unavailable in major cities. I watched the DVD and found myself growing both jealous and bolder by the minute. And I'm guessing Ewan and Charley wanted their viewer feeling those exact emotions.

We finished the series aching for more, and, as if reading our mind, Ewan and Charley plan to deliver with the "Long Way Down," a journey from the tip-top of Scotland to Cape Town. While I do not know the exact route (and imagine that will depend largely on political conditions), the journey is bound to be as harrowing and fascinating as the first. Megan and I, after crossing part of Tanzania, assumed that navigating large parts of Africa by road would be prohibited by peril . . . we're hoping that Ewan and Charley prove us wrong.