What’s it lookin’ like in the mountains? This seems to be the question I’ve started getting again in phone and text messages, in emails. Of course, everybody wants to know if there’s snow up here in Vail, Colorado. If it’s currently snowing. What the road conditions are. And—most importantly—want to ski? The gist of my response right now is: yes, people, it’s snowing. But there’s barely any snow cover. So it’s best to go climbing for a few more weeks, and then I’ll be psyched to ski knee-deep powder with you—in January. I know that’s not a hard-core skier’s response, and you know I love to ski. In fact, I’m planning on getting back on skis this weekend for a hut trip. To be honest, though, skiing isn’t really all that fun when there’s only one lift open, and the mountain is more covered in ice than snow. I’ve been spoiled by this place, you know. I’ll wait for the good stuff to fall and then ski off the mountain within a five-minute walk of my apartment. But there has to be a good base first.
In answer to your question. Right now, out my front door, it looks like this:
Actually, I took this photo a few days ago, but you get the point. It’s snowing. However, you can still see grass sticking through it all. I live just off the West Vail exit from I-70, so the hill in the distance isn’t anything near the scope of Vail mountain, but imagine that the mountain’s not much better, okay?
A few hours later, there was more coverage, and you can see that a few inches have accumulated on my porch. This is a start. It needs to snow like this every day for a few weeks before the conditions are really good. Last night, temps were down to 6˚F on my drive home from work, so the good news is that the ground is freezing, and whatever falls will now start to stick. So call me in a few weeks if you want to go ski. And in the meantime, let the shoveling begin…
I’m allowed to gush openly here about books I love, right? Good. Because when you write about books for publications that are not your own blog, you have to temper yourself somewhat. Like you can’t just come out and say that a book makes you smile from the innermost depths of your soul or that a book is so good, you think it’s better than you’re recent favorite thing in life: matcha green tea lattes sweetened with agave nectar. But since this is my site, I can say wholeheartedly that Nick Hornby’s Juliet, Naked did make me smile a deep, soulful grin, and it rivaled my best matcha latte. It also kept me up reading late at night with a headlamp on one of my recent climbing trips. This book had me so enthralled that I read it within two days and turned the final page still wanting more. 
One of the best parts about getting outside is the dwelling there. Sure, it’s nice to have a stable shelter over your head. A warm shower every now and then. The four-burner stove and refrigerator and comfy bed in my apartment go a long way. But there’s something to be said for setting up camp, both the short- and long-term kind. It’s fun to cook sizzling bacon on a camp stove (moi, at right, makin’ bacon) and roast marshmallows over an open flame. I’ve been vehicle camping on these last few road trips, and even though this has kept me from venturing too far off of the beaten path, I’ve felt way closer to the rock and dirt of living than I do in my Vail, Colorado studio apartment. 
Dog days. The phrase usually refers to the longest days of the year. Those hot, sticky summer ones when the sun shines on late into the evening. When Sirius—the Dog Star—once rose with the sun. But now, the days are getting shorter, and I find myself still trying to hold on to the summer as long as possible. Don’t get me wrong—I love winter. I live in a ski town, so I get my fair share of the snow. But I’m not ready to shovel myself down the stairs in the morning. Not just yet. My efforts to keep winter at bay have involved making a few recent road trips to Utah, where the sun still burns against the red rock faces and where it’s still possible to go out rock climbing in a tank top. 
I’ve never been disappointed by books from the Best American Series. As Houghton Mifflin says, this series is “the original showcase for the year’s finest writing since 1915.” And since these publications were released last month, this is an exciting time of the year for good reading. Although the series includes a number of books (best travel writing, best essays, best short stories, best non-required reading, best recipes?!), I tend to go for its Best American Science and Nature Writing, being the nature buff that I am. In this year’s edition, the topics range from psychology and biology to carbon footprints and electronic waste. Readers will find a lot of hope in these essays about developments in medicine, technology, and science. But, as most of the essays on topics of nature and environment reveal, we need more than hope to solve the global environmental crisis. Ultimately, these essays offer readers the information they need to begin making more informed choices about things such as waste disposal and carbon emissions, for starters. The only hope is in this area is that we start making more of the positive changes now, with this new information fresh on our fingertips. Final word: These writers exude passion for their subjects, and the essays they write will wow readers into a rapt state of reverence for all of the awe and wonder in the natural world. 
A few days ago, I returned from a four-day/five-night camping and rock climbing adventure in sunny Utah. But as I was unloading my gear back home in Vail, Colorado, it started to snow. The snowstorm ended up being the first big storm of the season here in Colorado, blanketing the hills and finally covering the ski slopes. I can’t say I’m much amused. Yet. In order to prolong my denial that winter’s fast approaching, I’m devoting this post to the sunny skies I just returned from in Utah. To days out climbing in a tank top with the sun on my back. To golden desert sunsets. And lizards, and other creatures who can’t deal with the cold. 
Working for the weekend? You’re not alone. Being a bit more restless than usual, I’ve been plotting weekend getaways like no other. Since my first autumn trip out to Utah’s canyonlands two weekends ago, I’ve been making plans to return. This time, for an extended weekend getaway. So for the next five nights, I’ll be out of cell phone range, out of email range, out of warm shower range. I’ll be camping in one of the places I love most in this world: Indian Creek, Utah. Indian Creek is about 45 minutes by car southwest of Moab. It’s perhaps best known by rock climbers of the trad variety. Canyon after canyon of perfect Wingate Sandstone splitters rise out of the red dirt here. Coyotes howl at night.
Mike Roselle teams up with Josh Mahan to write Tree Spiker, the latest in the area of nonfiction enviro-action-adventure (if such a category exists?). This book’s lengthy subtitle—From Earth First! to Lowbagging: My Struggles in Radical Environmental Action—gives a good overview of its contents. Roselle’s tactics as an environmental activist make him loved by some and despised by others. This man has stood his ground in front of charging bulldozers to prevent the logging of old growth forests. He’s been involved in high-profile protests against acid rain and crook timber lords, hanging banners from Mount Rushmore and the Golden Gate Bridge, respectively. And as one might expect, he’s been arrested many, many times. The co-founder of Rainforest Action Network, Earth First!, and the Ruckus Society, Roselle has devoted his life to environmental causes, and this book takes a good look at the trajectory of his (sometimes) dangerous yet purposeful career. Roselle’s been around long enough to see protests turn violent and witness a new breed of eco-terrorists in action. But in Tree Spiker, he explains why he ultimately supports environmental protest that remains rooted in the tradition of nonviolent, civil disobedience. Roselle writes with environmental journalist Josh Mahan to produce this book that will be at home on the shelves of every muckraking, monkey-wrenching nature lover out there, and it will certainly inspire many of its readers to action. 
You’re either a re-visitor, or you’re not. Edward Abbey was a re-visitor. He returned to Utah’s deserts season after season to work as a park ranger at Arches National Monument, before it turned into “Arches Natural Money-mint,” as Abbey calls it in his Desert Solitaire polemic on industrial tourism. I’m a re-visitor, too, meaning that every once in a while a place gets stuck in my consciousness, and then I dream of returning to it again, and again, and again. There’s Trof, my favorite diner in Manchester, England. Otto, my favorite pizza joint where I hang out with my sister in New York City. Mount Sanitas, my favorite hike/trail run in Boulder. MBC, my favorite micro brasserie in Chamonix, France. And then, on a much grander scale, there’s Utah’s canyon country. 
Title: The Fallen Sky // Author: 