On the Mountain - Part II

The lodge at the bottom of the north face of Mont Tremblant is surprisingly smaller then expected and sparsely furnished. It does not maintain the same sense of chaotic activity found at the top of Mont Tremblant or swirling around the restaurants and shops at the bottom of the south face. The large porch is empty of activity, as any warmth from the sun is offset by the bitterly cold wind.

I stopped at the small cafeteria to purchase yogurt, a cookie, a bottle of water. My appetite for the cookie disappears once I discovered that it was 400 calories and I was only able to eat 1/4 of it. I sat at one of the tables lined up against a row of windows, warmed by the sun, watching groups of skiers and snowboarders coming off the mountain and onto the lifts to reach the top once again.

I was alone. I was tired and keenly aware of the soreness in my ankles. With no shuttle available to take me back to the resort proper, I would have to take the lift back up to the top and board down the south face.

I am wary of lifts, having been hit on the back of the head by a chair when an attempt to get off one on a baby slope* went awry and falling off one while attempting to get in the chair, resulting in a mild concussion and a sore neck when my head hit the boards underneath the chairs. A deep breath, tighten my boots back up, strap myself back into the board and onto the lift. Struggle for several moments to get the safety bar down across my lap, out of the way of my board.

The ride up was long, the wind was harsh, the weight of the board dragged on my leg and they tired from dangling for so long without any support. My hands began to alternate between tingling and numb. A careful examination of my gloves revealed small holes on the sides, near the fingertips. Midway through the trip the lift slowed to a stop and I sat there, chair swinging in the wind, hoping that the lift would start back up and wondering how hard the ground was if I had to jump.

Off at the top, back onto the slopes. Fall shortly after getting off the lift and must quickly drag myself out of the way of the group coming off the chairs behind me. They cheer, relieved at my presence of mind to get out of their way.

Hands freezing, out of my bindings, inside the lodge to purchase some gloves. More sunlight pours through the window and inside is bustling. The gloves are expensive and made more so by the inclusion of a 2% resort tax on top of the 5% regional and the 7.5% provincial tax.

Retrieve board from the seemingly miles of racks of boards and skis in front of the lodge. Carry to a gentle slope and struggle to strap in - the bindings are new Flow bindings and I'm still learning how to set the straps properly and step in and out of them without falling over.

Once strapped in, I noticed that my left boot is tight, a painful sensation of a metal band clamping and digging into the front of my ankle. I take my foot out of the bindings, readjust and step back into the bindings. Still painful.

Fifteen minutes later and I'm still in pain and I still need to get down the mountain. I finally set off and begin the cycle of falling and getting back up all over again. The conditions on the south face slopes have deteriorated from use and the surface is rough and pebbly.

Getting back up becomes excruciating, the left boot digs painfully deep into my leg every time I try to get back to my feet, and the pain makes it more difficult to get back up. I become increasingly tired and must stop often. I can not get enough momentum going and must stop, unstrap my bindings and walk because the surface is too flat for forward movement.

In the end. I must hike down the last trail, difficult to do boots designed to fully limit motion in the foot and ankle. I am not alone, as I have run into J and his brother again. J takes my board from me and insists on carrying the rest of the way down.

I am exhausted when I reach the bottom. My body trembles and my ankles ache. We sit for a while in a café decorated to look like a Parisian corner bar. I eat a brownie and drink hot tea and talk to two residents of Tremblant.

On Friday J hands me a small bag containing one blue and one red Mont Tremblant. I take a moment to carefully apply a sticker to my board. I earned this one.

On the Mountain - Part I

I've had a difficult time finding the energy to sit down and write about my ride down the mountain. My left ankle is still sore, a souvenir from my recent trip to Quebec. I felt a strange, painful popping sensation earlier this evening, which makes me suspect that I may have done more damage then garden variety shin splints. J claims that spending all afternoon and a good portion of the evening sitting on the floor while constructing a Lego house is the cause and that I will be fine in the morning.

We split the drive over two days on the way up to Mont Tremblant. Day one was uneventful and included a stop in Wilkes-Barre to see the Baby Penguins play. Day two included an errant GPS, resulting in a ferry ride across the mostly frozen Ottawa river, a drive through the backwoods of Quebec and a surprise viewing of the Steelers game.

I only made two runs down Mont Tremblant, one down the north face, one down the south, both on the same day. I did not plan on making only two runs, but in a moment of forgetfulness I went down the wrong (north) face and was forced to return to the top and make a second run down the correct (south) facet

As I am an extremely inexperienced snowboarder, the first run took forty-five minutes and included frequent stops and falls on a mixed of groomed powder and pebbly ice pellets. By the time I reached the bottom of the face (and realized I had come down the wrong side) I was sweating, wet and my ankles ached.

In need of a break before getting back on the lift, I made my second, more fatal mistake of the day, and loosened my boots.

Stay Tuned...

Photos and commentary from Quebec trip coming soon. Right now I'm still recovering from driving all night.

Just Too Much

The problem with choosing a non-medicinal form of therapy for depression is that it is far too easy to get derailed when injured and much more difficult to force myself back into a routine that I know is good for me, especially when the derailment is followed with enough stress to push me back into a downward spiral.

Hobbled (literally, I could barely walk for several days) two weeks ago after a 20 mile bike ride by a massive, multi-day muscle spasm that pushed on the sciatic nerve, I was forced to stop exercising, pop ibuprofen and pray for relief from the pain. One of our friends, a licensed, non-practicing PT, was kind enough to run an ultrasound on the affected muscle, which bought me much needed relief and a very good, albeit embarrassing story, to share within our circle of acquaintances.

My self-esteem has taken a small beating as a potential job dematerialized after three intensive interviews. Asked to submit a technical writing sample “with some length” I spent part of my weekend holiday and late into the wee hours of Sunday crafting a sample that was non-proprietary. I received an email Monday morning that the potential employer would contact me shortly to set up a final interview – then nothing. Apparently my carefully crafted sample was a resounding disaster.

Normally I would not think too much of it. But emotionally vulnerable, weary of the various layers of crap at my current place of employment and simple physical tiredness have taken its toll on my psyche. Mysteriously vague emails from J were not reassuring. I returned home cranky and moody to discover J experiencing the same level of negativity as myself, without the spectator of depression hanging over his head.

It has been quiet for too long, which is the only reason I can come up with for J's father calling him before eight AM to complain that I had not yet send a thank-you note for my birthday gifts or for my in-laws attendance at the non-birthday party, held on my birthday, at my parents home ten days ago.

The party which was held in honor of my twin brother making it halfway through his second tour in the service of Operation-Whatever-the-Hell-the-Shrub-is-Calling-it-Now. My mother deliberately withheld the information that it was our birthday from the guests. Some knew, most did not. One friend, upon learning that it was our birthday, asked my mother why she had not mentioned it.

In turn, my mother chastised me for “asking for gifts” and said that I was too old to be behaving like that. As all I had done was tell the friend that I had spent the prior day celebrating early with J and some close friends, I found the conversation a tad bewildering. Later that evening she also told me that my shorts were ugly.

And she wonders why I don't come home much.

As I had not wanted anything to do with the party and only changed plans to make my parents happy, J knew that this complaint would make me irate. His attempt to withhold information about the conversation from me was an admirable, but unachievable goal when both of us are equally at odds with the universe. After venting my displeasure and suggesting that J's father needed to have his head examined* I pulled out the cards (as I had intended to write notes to everyone that week) and wrote out a thank you.

I realized after I sealed the envelope that I forgot to mention one of the gifts. No doubt he will be happy to have the additional ammunition in his next round of complaints about me.

Is it ironic that a thank you note from one of J's second cousins, for the graduation gift we gave to her four weeks ago, was in the mail today?

On the upside I spent this past weekend in Chicago. Photographs will be forthcoming (defined as whenever I get around to gathering all the equipment necessary to download the photos to my laptop). My first trip, ever, to such a lovely, lively city and I had a lovely tour guide, in the guise of Lisa and her friend Glenn, to show me around.

Friday I took trip to the Art Institute of Chicago to view its beautiful (temporarily limited) collection of Impressionists paintings. I sat in front of Georges Seurat's A Sunday on La Grande Jatte and listened to my thoughts bounce from the song Sunday in the Park with George to The Simpson's infamous interpretation of the same painting. I wandered through the other galleries to take some photographs.

I met up with Lisa and Glenn (at the Bean, natch) for dinner at Taste of Chicago and some blues. Saturday was some work in the morning for the failed job application, a trip to Shaler's for lunch, then off to U.S. Cellular Field to see the White Sox play the Cubs.** More fighting the mob at Taste of Chicago (I blame Stevie Wonder) for dinner and the sounds of the Orchestra Baobab at the pavilion.

Sunday was sleep, more writing, a plane ride home and the aforementioned late night.

*In all seriousness. He had a stroke last year and has gone from friendly control freak to petty and mean spirited.
**First time in recent memory that I actually saw a competitive baseball game.

Quick Hits

• I'm tired. Really tired. And a little bit sick. A little too much celebrating this weekend.
• In case you don't have NBC or Versus... the Penguins are going to the Cup! I'm going to a Stanley Cup final game!
• We attended a wedding in Williamsburg, VA this past weekend. Bride and groom were married at the Jamestown Church and the reception was held at the Shield's Tavern in Historic Williamsburg.
• It appears that the Penguins will be playing the Red Wings. Detroit is up 4 - 0 early in the second period.
• New bedroom furniture (and mattress) arriving sometime tomorrow.

And I'm Back...

... have finished the final Harry Potter (Jay - your thoughts?) and fully caught up on my sleep.

This entry will be brief as the first episode of the Spike Television series Kill Point is airing at 9pm tonight. Stop laughing. It was filmed in Pittsburgh. For three weeks I had to do battle with camera crews who set up filming in front of and around my office building.

I want to say that the travel gods were unkind (surprise!) as my July 1, 6:10pm flight from Newark did not leave until well after midnight of July 2.

However, since the reason my flight did not take off until after midnight was because the auxiliary cabin engine, the one that runs the lights, circulates the air and allows passengers to flush the toilets, died as the plane was leaving the gate. After 45 long minutes of sitting in the dark as the pilot struggled to coax the engine back to life, the plane was towed back to the gate.

Because of the nature of modern air travel, a spare engine was not readily available and had to be flown into Newark. We were allowed off the plane and I indulged myself by buying a burger and fries from McDonald's. I wandered the halls. I loaned my pen to a fellow passenger so she could take some notes. I called J to update him on my latest travel obstacle. I wandered the halls some more. I considered calling around to nearby hotels for reservations.

Sometime after 11pm, long after the other two Continental flights to Paris took off, we were loaded back onto the plane. For once we did not have to wait an obscene length of time in line to take off. The crew served drinks, dinner and more drinks. By the time the plane landed everyone was exhausted.

And it was raining. Which it continued to do for 12 out of 14 days.

A view from my apartment window:

A neighbor's cats:


Place de la Nation: