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At last -- I'm planning a "real" trip! I'm holding the details close to my chest until they solidify, but suffice to say that it promises to be a glorious expedition, the realization of an idea hatched on a beach in Thailand by my darling friend and travel-goddess-extraordinaire Lily.
I'm crossing my fingers that we can turn the dream into reality. Warm sun, blue water, glorious sights, and plenty of active adventure await us . . . .
I decided to sleep in this morning, rather than freezing my ta-tas off in minus-fifteen degree cold waiting for the bus at 5:30 a.m. As a result, I caught a snippet of the Today show, during which Tim Russert was telling Matt Lauer about what a huge challenge the Democrats face in trying to turn all the "red" states "blue" this November.
Apparently, not only do vastly more Red Staters than Blue Staters go to church, synagogue, or mosque on a regular basis, but 59% of the Red folks think that abortion is the unlawful killing of a child. "Only" 46% of the Blue Staters share this view. This little statistic stayed with me all morning, and I remain horrified and saddened to realize that a majority of Americans still oppose reproductive freedom.
Even more disheartening was the realization that despite having the theoretical upper-hand in the matter for nearly my entire lifetime, we have failed even to correct the lexicon of the abortion debate. Those Red Staters and nearly half of the people in their purportedly-liberal Blue neighbors still control the verbiage, and even intelligent commentators still bandy about loaded labels like "Pro Life" and the equally inaccurate "Pro Abortion."
How can it be that thirty-one years after Roe v. Wade only 41% of the people in blue states and 30% of those in red states think abortion is not murder or manslaughter? That well over half the population nationwide conceptualizes abortion in terms of "killing babies" instead of "saving women's lives," "preventing unwanted pregnancies," "providing options to victims of rape, incest, and domestic violence," and "helping women and families get out of poverty"?
Back at Vassar, I served on the steering committee of the Pro Choice Coalition, and one of my most powerful college experiences came when I marched on Washington, linking arms with thousands of women and men to raise our voice for choice. In the ensuing decade, though, I've become complacent. I shivered in front of the State Capitol last winter at a 30th birthday rally (and hopefully not a wake) for Roe. I give moderate contributions every year to Planned Parenthood and NARAL and respond to their congressional-contact action alerts. But I haven't done much more than that in recent years to protect a woman's right to control her reproductive destiny.
Sure, I think we need to do everything we can to turn those red states blue this election year. Sure, I recognize that the next President is likely to fill several Supreme Court vacancies, and thus to shape American jurisprudence on reproductive freedom and other civil liberties for generations to come. But I also think we need to redouble our other efforts to protect Roe, educate the public about what so-called "abortion rights" really mean, and advance the cause of reproductive freedom for all women, both in the United States and worldwide.
Here are a few organizations that are striving to do just that:
Planned Parenthood of the Rocky Mountains
National Abortion Rights Action League ("NARAL")
Emily's List
The United Nations Population Fund
Catholics for a Free Choice
The Pro-Choice Public Education Project
The Alan Guttmacher Institute
Choice USA
Perhaps one or more of these organizations will interest you -- please consider donating your time, your money, and/or your voice to help them, and all of us who understand that reproductive freedom saves lives.
Well, I'm frozen. Denver's been hit by some sort of arctic chill, my office building is having a heat-retention problem, and I've got lousy circulation in my extremities (thanks to my mom and grandma). This entry thus finds me typing with the two blocks of ice that have been appended to the ends of my arms. Perhaps it's the deep freeze of the day, or perhaps the effort of uncluttering my various e-mail and physical inboxes, but my brain seems devoid of anything interesting to say today.
My foggy mind may also result from the fact that there's very little of moment happening on my docket these days. I have a frustrating brief to write, but am procrastinating as I await a Supreme Court certiorari decision (anticipated Friday or Monday) on precisely my issue. And I have a hearing next week in a habeas case that has languished in the judge's chambers for nearly a year. I have no idea why the judge is holding a hearing, since my only outstanding request is for access to the state-court file and time to respond to the government's opposition, but I figure I should be prepared to address any conceivable issue the court may raise.
Really, I need some new cases. One of the realities of public defending, particularly at the appellate/habeas level, is that my caseload lies at the mercy of the courts, and when things slow down, there's not a whole lot I can do to ensure that I get appointed on some fresh cases. I've let my superiors know that I'm open for business, so hopefully the Tenth Circuit will throw a new habeas appeal my way, or one of the federal magistrate judges will see an interesting issue in a pro se petition and appoint us on something new. In the meantime, I don't have quite enough pressure to keep me motivated. Of course, if the Supremes don't grant cert on the issue I'm briefing, I'll have plenty of deadline pressure . . . .
Time to chronicle our New Year's getaway! Sit back and relax, since this will be a long one.
Last Saturday, Steve and I ran around town printing maps and picking up a few essentials at REI, then spent a small fortune on food and a somewhat lesser sum on a bottle of Andre Champagne and a box of Franzia Cabernet (the backcountry is no place for a wine snob). We woke early on Sunday and headed south, stopping briefly in Pueblo to pick up my brand new K2 She's Pistes at the Edge, a great little ski and paddle shop. Then, on the recommendation of Bob at the Edge, we veered slightly off course to watch the Broncos/Packers game in the tiny mountain hamlet of La Veda, Colorado.
We drove up the main drag in La Veda searching for an open bar, but found only a steakhouse (closed on Sunday) and a tiny diner (no TV). Fortunately, the folks at the Main Street Diner directed us a bit further up the way to the Pub and Grub. When we walked inside, the place looked something like a union meeting hall, with folding tables and chairs scattered about. But it not only was the only open watering hole in the vicinity, it also boasted the day's entire NFL lineup on satellite TV. Even better (at least from Steve's perspective), seated at neighboring tables were several die-hard Packer fans, who improbably had congregated in La Veda for the game.
I was perfectly content to see the Packers beat my boys' third-string offense, particularly since a Green Bay victory would guarantee a far more pleasant start to my vacation (Steve takes these games veeeeeeeeeeery seriously). But the drama of the day began when Dallas managed to lose to the Saints, meaning that even if Green Bay won, the Packers could only make the playoffs if Minnesota lost to the pathetic Cardinals. Throughout the game, the Packer crowd in the bar kept one eye on the Minnesota/Arizona matchup. Though it was close, by the last few minutes it appeared that the Vikings had a lock on a win and a playoff berth. But football miracles happen, and in the final seconds, Arizona's quarterback recovered from a string of sacks to throw a game-winning touchdown pass. Steve and the other Packer faithful jumped up an down, slapped hands, and generally went nuts. I breathed a sigh of relief that I wouldn't be skiing into the wilderness with a grumpy, grouchy man.
After several elated calls to Steve's buddies back in Wisconsin, we continued on to Alamosa, our destination for the evening. There we spent a quiet night in our motel room, eating pizza and watching NFL highlights.
We managed a reasonably early start on Monday, and drove through the San Luis Valley to Cumbres Pass. The valley was beautiful -- dry and yellow at this time of year, but dotted with farms and small towns and surrounded on all sides by snow-capped mountains. Though we saw virtually no snow in the valley, as soon as we reached the base of the pass, the white stuff manifested itself in abundance. This was a slow drive on icy roads, but absolutely gorgeous. Finally, we crossed La Manga Pass and continued to the trailhead, just below the summit of Cumbres Pass. Feet and feet of snow awaited us there, and we were soon skiing along on lightly packed trails.
Although the trailhead turned out to be a veritable snowmobile convention center, after our first mile we didn't see a single other person. The trail was well-marked and mostly a gradual uphill for 4.5 miles, taking us through the woods to open meadows, past a rotted-out car and a few small (and apparently uninhabited) cabins. I struggled some on Monday. Whether from the minus-ten-degree weather, lack of sleep, a mediocre chicken sandwich in La Veda, the weight of my pack (which was loaded with way too much food and a bottle of champagne), or dehydration, I felt nauseous and dizzy most of the last two-and-a-half miles or so. But finally, around 2:00 p.m., we reached the Flat Mountain Yurt.
Unfortunately, while the folks at Southwest Nordic Center had provided me with a thick confirmation packet, including maps, waivers, yurt maintenance requirements, and a welcome letter, they had made absolutely no mention of the fact that the yurt would be protected by a combination padlock. We tried the last four digits of the SWNC phone number, we tried the usual easy combinations, and we tried to call SWNC but had no cell service. At this point, we were both freezing cold, and I was feeling ready to puke or collapse, so Steve took matters into his own hands and kicked in the door. Fortunately, he managed to do this pretty gracefully, resulting in minimal damage to the yurt.
Once inside, we found that the yurt was cozy and clean, though the woodstove turned out to be finicky and Steve nearly burst a blood vessel in his head trying to get the darn thing started. But at last, the fire was burning, the yurt was warming up, and I emerged from under a down jacket (which Steve wisely had toted along) to whip together some hot chocolate and lunch. Soon, we were warm, dry, and full, and we spent the afternoon playing cards and sipping wine in a concerted attempt to lighten the load of the box in Steve's pack. The down jacket turned out to be a yurt-trip essential, along with our new down booties; the perfect attire for trips outside to gather snow to melt for water or to visit the outhouse. Outhouse trips, by the way, involved a short trek behind the yurt while carrying the toilet seat, which hung on a peg near the woodstove to protect one's buttocks from frostbite.
Steve cooked a delicious meal of lemon-garlic chicken and orzo that night, and after dinner we spent the evening talking, reading, and playing two-handed Sheepshead into the wee hours. Though the yurt included two bunks, each with a pillow and futon, we piled both of our sleeping bags onto one of the lower bunks and huddled together for warmth. The fire kept the yurt quite toasty into the night, partly due to Steve's restless night of monitoring it.
We woke to a foot of fresh snow and lightly falling flakes. After a breakfast of egg-and-potato burritos and hot drinks, we packed up, left a note about the broken lock for our successors, and set out for the Trujillo Meadows Yurt. This 4.1-mile trek was moderate and rolling, but proved challenging work as we had to break trail through nearly a foot of snow almost the entire way. But the day was gorgeous -- the woods were blanketed in fresh snow, the temperature somewhat warmer than on Monday, and the absence of old tracks or other signs of human presence created a feeling of utter solitude.
Like Flat Mountain, the Trujillo Meadows Yurt was locked. But this time, we were prepared for the problem, and Steve was able to unscrew most of the lock and get us inside without damaging the door at all. This second yurt was quite a bit nicer than the first (perhaps because our entry into it was less stressful). The woodstove started easily and burned reliably, the gas cook stove had three fully-functional burners, the Coleman lanterns brightened the whole yurt enough for me to move comfortably at night, and one of the bins turned out to include all sorts of board games.
The snow continued to fall lightly until just after we'd finished our lunch. We contemplated exploring our surroundings that afternoon, but decided to stay inside, and instead relaxed, napped, read, and worked our way through more of the Franzia. After a dinner of hearty minestrone soup and a potato gratin, we nibbled no-bake cheesecake and played Cribbage until we couldn't keep our eyes open anymore.
Wednesday brought us a day of rest (at least from touring), and so we set out to find some turns. Steve led the way through the woods, eventually convincing me to slide down a steep drop to a beautiful powder-filled basin below. Despite the frustration of having my climbing skins repeatedly fall off, the day was filled with powdery fun. (For those of you who are unfamiliar with backcountry skiing, having your skins fall off means that your ability to ascend even a moderate slope is severely compromised, and reattaching the skin involves taking off your skis and standing in waist-deep snow while you attempt to manipulate a long, slippery, and very sticky strip of rubberized mohair.) We eventually found ourselves at the base of a near-perfect "ski run," which we hiked up, then skied down through perfect champagne powder. After a few up-and-downs here, we headed back to the yurt, stopping several times during the steep part of the return trip for me to wrestle with my skins.
Not long after we arrived back in our cozy retreat, it began to snow again. We watched the snow accumulate on the deck as we battled one another in Cribbage.
For our New Year's Eve celebration, we made linguini with shrimp in a garlicky pesto sauce, zipped up with a bit of spicy red pepper. We struggled a little to stay awake until midnight (Steve actually napped for an hour or so while I curled up with my book in front of the fire). But we made it, and popped open our champagne and toasted 2004 with cheesecake and bubbly.
We woke on New Year's Day to find bright sunshine painting diamonds on the fresh snow outside. After dong our very best to finish the remaining food, we hoisted our far-lighter packs for the four-mile ski back to the car. Though we had to break trail a bit on the way out, the freshies weren't quite as deep as we'd plowed through before, and we made short work of the return trip. The final mile brought us back to civilization, when a convoy of a dozen snowmobiles suddenly roared past us. Barely two hours after leaving the yurt, we reached the car (which even started!). The rest, of course, is history (or at least recounted in Friday's entry).
I've left a message for the SWNC staff, and Steve and I are crossing our fingers that our breaking-and-entering won't have us banned from future trips back to these wonderful yurts. We're thinking next time we'll round up a crowd and head to the Bull of Woods Yurt, just two miles from the Taos Ski Valley . . . .
I intended to post an "away from my blog" message before my week of play began last Friday, but somehow it slipped my mind. Hopefully, you faithful readers have not abandoned me in my absence, and will be around in the next day or two when I gather the energy to write all about Steve and my wonderful adventures in the backcountry. And they were wonderful -- deep, fluffy snow, no other people whatsoever, and cozy, comfy yurts to keep us warm and dry.
Alas, our return trip was marred by an encounter with a rather large rock, posing deceptively as slush, on the way down Cumbres Pass. This resulted in a large and unpleasant sound, followed by many lights flashing with disturbing intensity on the dashboard of Steve's trusty Civic, and culminated in a complete engine shut-down about fifteen miles later, fortunately far enough for us to reach a gas station. Needless to say, of all the times and places to have your car break down, Antonito, Colorado on New Year's Day is far from ideal.
Steve's car ended up having to be towed the whole 260 miles back to Golden. But the good folks from Louis' Auto Body Shop in La Jara, CO (pop. 600, 14 miles from Antonito) were as nice as could be, and had us rigged up and ready to roll in roughly an hour from the time we reached the gas station in Antonito. And they gave us a Ford Focus to drive home in, instead of having us ride four-plus hours in the cab of the tow truck, and then simply towed the Focus back to La Jara after they dropped us off.
So the past couple of days have been a tad stressful, but not so much as to cast a pall over the happy memories of our snowy adventure. About which I will write in detail soon, I promise!
