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Gripped and Grinning

Putting on our pads and helmets at the base area we couldn’t help but feel a little bit like super heroes. Full-face helmets and a full range of pads, “I sure hope we don’t need any of this,” I said, cinching the last Velcro strap. A day filled with lift-accessed mountain biking ahead of us we were a mix of nervous energy and eager anticipation.


Photo by Dave Reuss

Climbing onto the lift for the first ride we were fairly giddy about the entire situation. I’ve been mountain biking plenty of times but rarely have I been able to climb onto a lift and skip the superfluous, lung crushing climbs and go straight to the goods. Not to mention the plush Norco bikes that we picked up at Different Spokes Bike shop at the Big Sky base area that would soak up any and all bumps in the trail and deliver us safely to the bottom. Dave was a first timer on the downhill bike and relatively new to the whole mountain biking scene and was rightfully nervous about the first descent.

Big Sky Resort has trails for all skill levels and at the top we decide to start off easy with a lap down Moose Tracks to warm up. Steadily ramping up the difficulty after each run we became a little less gripped and a little more confident, railing turns and hitting every little air we could find. Before long we were hitting the diamonds and found that they were definitely the better trails as they have seen much more maintenance then the others and were smoother and more thoughtfully crafted all the way through.



At the end of the day we were left wanting more, which is far better then the alternative. Just because the snow is gone in Southwest Montana, doesn’t mean you can’t get a lift-accessed adrenaline rush. Head down to Big Sky Resort for the only lift-accessed biking in the area and some insanely fun riding.

www.bigskyresort.com

Zippity-Do-Da-ing with Yellowstone Zipline

“We’re so high up!” I exclaimed as I gazed longingly at the ground. As soon as I said it, mischievous smiles spread across my two accompanying cohorts’ faces. I should have bitten my tongue. Shit. This had happened before—I thought back to last summer’s “adventure” on a ropes course, which had me clinging to a random pole while the rest of the O/B staff bounced up and down, taunting me like crazed zoo monkeys as I whimpered. I didn’t want a repeat of that, especially since cameras were now in tow.

I thought back to when I had two feet safely on the ground. The Yellowstone Zip tour instructors had made jokes about our undeniable “sex appeal” while we awkwardly hoisted ourselves into their less-than-flattering harnesses. To ease the group’s nerves, they explained how everyone is connected to an overhead line at all times, and that no one had died yet this year (except that one guy, but he kinda deserved it). Dave, Ryan, and I zipped (pun intended) through our training, as—let’s face it—this wasn’t our first rodeo. Compared to the three cheery O/B amigos, the rest of the group was quiet and serious. The other eight zippers were somberly pacing and double-checking their buckles, while we were spouting cheesy jokes, crass sexual innuendos, or scare tactics to make everyone else uncomfortable. You can’t take us anywhere.

As I approached the first bridge, I decided it was time to put my game face on. “Here we go,” I thought as I took my first steps onto the swinging bridge-o-doom. Just as I expected, there was an immediate bouncing earthquake accompanied by laughter and heckling. The guys were trying to kill me. “Suck it!” I yelled as I broke into a stumbling Indiana Jones sprint. I had found my new heart-pumping strategy: rather than slowly and awkwardly creeping across each bridge (with everyone laughing at my expense), I was just going to gun it. The worst was over, as for some reason I didn’t fear the part where I wasn’t actually standing on something.

One of my colleagues (I won't name names) attempted to show off his practiced zipline expertise, only to end up spinning into a twisted mess—earning him the new nickname Skydancer. (Anyone who was a young girl or who knew a young girl in the ‘90s should get the reference.)

I then watched one of the guides lunge into a perfect Superman pose, gracefully holding his position until reaching the next platform. “Bad ass,” I thought as the remaining guide strapped me into safety. I took a running leap off the edge of the platform, over-extending my Superwoman arm into the air, resulting in a nasty case of whiplash. Damn it. Unfortunately I never developed that standard natural grace that most girls possess. From there on out, I decided to stop trying to show off (as it obviously wasn’t working) and just enjoy the rush.

The two hours of ziplining were a scream… literally. One woman yelled (and cried) on nearly every zipline and rope bridge. Everyone laughed (including her)—not at her hysterics per se—but rather the fact that she was the one that booked the tour for her and her ever-so-calm firefighter boyfriend. On the other hand, the rest of the group happily hooted and hollered because when you’re not terrified of heights, ziplining is actually quite enjoyable. My favorite zip, The Wiley Wire of the Wild West, delivers a perma-grin as it rockets you almost 800 feet all while crossing the Gallatin River. This is their longest line, making it the easiest to get stuck on, forcing one (un)lucky guide to save you—whether they like you or not (hint, hint). After a delightful day of laughing, yelling, and flying, we gave goodbyes to our group and handed our guides our digits, telling them to let us know when we could go again. Unfortunately, they still haven’t called us back.

The next time a member of your city-slicker family shows up on your front step, we’d suggest impressing them with Montana’s version of a theme park by hitting up the Yellowstone Zip. Tell them that O/B sent you… or maybe don’t, it’s your call.

To book a reservation with Yellowstone Zip, call 1-800-799-4465 or visit www.yellowstonezip.com.

Big Sky Adventures: Both Outside and In

All photos by Chris Ebeling

Stretching a cavernous 1,500 feet from the top of Chet’s Knob to Tippy’s Tumble, Big Sky Resort’s Twin Zip spans their entire base area. But such sprawling magnitude isn’t the only bennie of this new zipline—with two lines right next to each other, you can race your friends through the sky. Big Sky recently invited the O/B crew to check out their latest skyline traverse; after a short trek up the hill and a quick ride on the magic carpet, we were ready to zip.

As soon as the staff gave us the go-ahead, I leapt and rocketed through the sky, laughing and experimenting with different tucked positions trying to gain the lead against my competition, cheered on by hot-tub revelers below. Numerous head-to-head races followed, each getting more competitive. By the time we were done, mistakes had been made, luck had broken stalemates, and a hierarchy had been established… paving the way for much gloating and trash-talking throughout the rest of the evening.

On our way back to the lodge, Big Sky divulged their new 2011-12 season-pass prices: $789 for adults and an astonishingly low $589 for students. These prices only last until April 30, so you have to hurry to take advantage of this deal.

For dinner, we shot over to the new Fondue Stube nestled in Chet’s Bar and Grill. The description of “fondue served by singing German waiters in lederhosen” left us a little skeptical, but as soon as Yogi and Ahnold introduced themselves, we were sold.

As multiple bottles of wine began to circulate, our hosts explained that this would be more than just a meal. Each table received the most German-sounding team name possible (ours was Team Matterhorn) and points would be given to each team for participation: singing songs, performing tricks, and any other form of group interaction. Our table snagged a quick 100,000 points by teaching the restaurant how to fold their napkins into tiny t-shirts. Sadly, not enough wine had been enjoyed for anyone to try to wear their shirt/napkin.

For an appetizer, apples and bread dipped in cheese fondue did a perfect job of chasing off the chill from the zipline. After plates were cleared, our table erupted into an inspiring rendition of “”We Will Rock You” by Queen (complete with raucous stomping and clapping) which netted another several million points for Team Matterhorn.

The main course was more DIY but even more delicious. We enjoyed lean cuts of chicken, succulent elk, and tender veggies via traditional Swiss fondue bourguignonne cooked in boiling oil. It was here that we learned some of the subtleties of fondue: no double dipping, no poking neighbors with the fondue forks, and try to put a veggie behind the meat to keep everything on the fork. Just remember that if you lose any of your food in the fondue pot, Swiss tradition dictates you must kiss the person to your right (seat yourself accordingly).

For dessert, chocolate fondue with fresh fruit and angel food cake came out, and it would be hard to describe it as anything but heavenly. The entire restaurant sang alongside our waiters with a traditional skiing tune while the final points were being tallied, and, in the end, Team Matterhorn was victorious with several billion. Our trophy was a tiny man fashioned out of three potatoes and toothpicks. We’d never been so proud.

It was a truly unforgettable evening, and the zipline plus Fondue Stube delivered a true “dinner and a show” unmatched by literally anything in Montana. We definitely recommend checking it out, so give them a call at 995-5784 for reservations to Fondue Stube or contact the Basecamp for zipline info at 995-5769.

Full Gravity Day X

Full Gravity Day X - All photos by Chris Ebeling

The tenth installment of Bozeman’s best bouldering competition brought in gym rats from all across the Pacific Northwest, ready to pull down on over 100 new problems – from ladder-rung easy to way too damn hard. It was an absolute kick-ass full-day event, full of climbing, pizza, beer, crate stacking, excitement, and as a bonus, a portion of the proceeds went to “Touch the Sky”, a non-profit group that helps underprivileged kids get out and climb.

“It’s Full Gravity Day Ten, not X. The X stands for ten… it’s a roman numeral,” Aaron Hjelt reminded the crowd just before he and a few members of the Bozeman Climbing Team serenaded a packed house with “The Full Gravity Day Song”. When the last trumpet note rang out, the Adult Open officially began: competitors had four and a half hours to climbing as hard as they could, their six most difficult routes counting towards their total score. A problem worth 100 points correlated to a V0-, or so easy your mom could climb it. 1000 points ranked around V5-6 (pretty damn hard, but doable after a few years of training or lucky genetics), and a few 1300+ problems were hard enough that my tendons hurt just trying to conceive of the movements involved. Mutants only.

Thumping techno beats filled the air as dozens of rock jocks tried hard, cheering each other on as every route was finished with a cheer at the top or a disappointing fall. When the chalk had finally settled, scores were tabulated, kegs were rolled out, and a fresh delivery of pizza came through the doors. Then the curtains around the entrance of the bouldering cave were drawn, and while the super-hard final problems were set in secrecy, the crowd was entertained by a lively crate stacking competition. If you’ve never see it, climbers build a tower of milk crates while balancing on top, slowing adding one crate at a time until the whole damn thing tips over. (The climber is on a toprope and the crates are clipped to a tag line, so there’s no carnage at the end.) In an inspiring display of balance, local ultra-marathon badass Scott Creel dominated, ending up just below the ceiling with no crates left to stack.

After a silent auction, the six male and six female finalists were revealed: local crushers Kyle Vassilopolous, Joe Meiners, and Kevin MacCartney represented for Bozeman’s guys, and Bridgette Creel, Jo Onorato, and Inge Perkins pulled down for the home team on the women’s side. There were a few out-of-towners, but I had scored a few extra beer tickets off a friend and wasn’t really paying attention at that point.

The cave was filled to capacity with spectators and the final problems were set: outlined in camo and tiger-stripe tape, viciously thin crimps and bulbous slopers hung on the wall mockingly, daring anyone to challenge them.

The showdown was, in a word, intense. Competitors were given five minutes to preview the problem, pantomiming their potential moves under the bright floodlights. Then, when the timer rang, they were shuffled out of the room and brought in individually, allotted two minutes each to do battle.

The Second Men’s Final was incredible. Arcing across the steepest, tallest wall, the route linked technical crimps and powerful shoulder moves with an amazingly hard dyno/compression move in the middle – ridiculously hard to do with days of practice, much less to read correctly in just a few moments with dozens of cheering spectators behind you. Local favorite Kyle V crushed it – first try. The crowd erupted when “The Vanilla Gorilla” nailed the mid-route dyno, flying through the air and slapping two rounded holds while his feet swung out behind him. One terrible crimp and a few slaps later, he snatched the top lip of the bouldering wall with the crowd roaring loudly. I think he ended up getting second place, but the scene was awesome anyway.

Final Male Results:

1- Mike Bokino. 2- Kyle Vassilopoulos. 3- Joe Meiners. 4- Dominick Speranza. 5- Kerrek Stinson. 6- Kevin MacCartney.

Final Female Results:

1- Molly Rennie. 2- Sidney Trinidad. 3- Inge Perkins. 4- Bridgette Creel. 5- Joanna Onorato. 6- Tammy Stowe-McClure.

Train hard and we’ll see you there next year!

Rafting the Yellowstone

There are many ways to get rich in this fine capitalist country of ours: investment banking, designing software, practicing law, repairing hail damage. Alas, working for an outdoor magazine does not make the list. As Outside Bozeman’s illustrious senior editor, Dave Reuss, recently explained, “Journalism is a road rife with poverty, and I’m okay with that.”

The rest of the O/B crew seems okay with it too, as we all continue to work for wages that qualify us for high-school gymnasium seating at Christmas dinner. We’re not complaining, mind you; just pointing out a fact that becomes relevant when people ask us, incredulous and almost accusingly, “You went rafting today?”

Yep, it’s a bright Tuesday morning in late June, and instead of sitting down in front of our mind-numbing computer screens, we’re piling into cars and heading to the river. Eat your hearts out, people with disposable incomes.

Steaming mugs of coffee coax us out of our morning stupor as we head over the Bozeman Pass. By the time we hit Livingston and Hwy. 89, we’re wide awake. As always, the mighty Absaroka Mountains jutting out of Paradise Valley inspire a silent and visceral awe. Expansive fields of green, undulating foothills, the inimitable Yellowstone River carving its way through—could that drive ever get old?

A small herd of deer in the borrow pit answers that question; I release the accelerator and stiffen, waiting for that all-too-familiar, heart-stopping cervine lunge into the roadbed. It doesn’t come. A collective sigh of relief echoes through the truck as we pass safely by the grazing ungulates.



















A sunny deck beckons us at Yellowstone Rafting Company in Gardiner, where we linger awhile before donning wetsuits, splash tops, and booties. Wetsuits are like waders—it’s almost impossible to look good in them, and even harder to take oneself seriously while thus bedecked. Especially if you’re sweaty and sluggish from a long night of drinking beforehand. We’re a motley crew indeed.

After a quick drive and short walk down to the river, our guides deliver a safety briefing, which covers river hazards, paddling commands, rafting do’s and don’ts, etc. It’s clear and direct, yet jocular at the same time—these guys obviously know we’re not tourists from Philadelphia, terrified of the aquatic doom that awaits us. The whitecapped water roaring by only stirs our blood and increases our eagerness to be afloat. Our guides’ last-minute preparations go quickly as we all pile into the boat.



















We’re off! The river grabs the raft and whisks us downstream. On command, we paddle hard to position ourselves in the center, where the rapids rage nonstop. Immediately we hit a huge wave and water douses the entire boat. We squeal in unison, caught off guard by the frigid snowmelt. Despite the warm air temps, it's only June and so the river is still ice-cold.

Bouncing and bumping, hooting and hollering, we rocket through the famous Gardiner Town Stretch. Huge wave trains splatter us; swirly holes spin the boat around before shooting us back into the current. This is big water. At a whopping 18,000 cfs, the river is fast and furious, the action nonstop. Permagrins plaster our faces.



















Eventually we exit the gauntlet and enter a calmer stretch, broken only by occasional pockets of whitewater. Between holes, we take the opportunity to practice rescue procedures—which basically involves distracting a fellow paddler (“Hey, is that a bald eagle?”) and then shoving him into the river. There’s nothing more comical than a shocked, frantic face emerging from the water after a surprise dunking. Especially when said face is attached to a body that seems to be impersonating a drowning cat.

The guides follow suit, talking smack and then shoving each other into the river. In the mayhem, one of them loses his prized ballcap. “Easy come, easy go,” he declares, shrugging and laughing it off as if he’d merely dropped a penny. Like us, these guys seem to embrace both the spirit of summer and the nonmaterialistic attitude that comes from lacking sufficient cash to actually own material things. We bond.

At the takeout, everyone loads the truck amid giddy exclamations of enjoyment and glee. Most of us are covered in goose bumps, still soaked and shivering from our involuntary ejections from the raft. But we’re happy nonetheless—in Montana, PTSD is usually a positive condition. Especially when you know big, fat Helen Burgers await. Our only concern now is whether we have enough money to pay for them.

To book a trip with Yellowstone Rafting Company, call 800-862-0557 or visit yellowstoneraft.com.

Quality, not quantity

“Quality, not quantity” –never has there been a more appropriate mantra to round out a week of fishing in southwest Montana.

Late June brought an old friend out from Cincinnati to experience some of the world’s best trout waters. Jeff Strebel, a man whose attitude and physical stature suggests rancher rather than plastics researcher, came out to escape “city life” for a while. Coming from a family lacking any fisherman or hunters, Jeff was quick to take me under his wing years ago in the woods of Kentucky and Ohio.

Within an hour of Jeff’s arrival, we were on Hebgen Lake with dog, drift boat, beer, and whisky all aboard. As we set up camp on the edge of the Madison arm, the stress and concerns of daily life vanished, like they always do when on the banks of a beautiful lake or stream. Nick Taix, a good friend and even better fly fisherman, joined us on our adventure and began to set up our arsenal of fishing rods. We set sail for an evening booze cruise with smiles on our faces. Fish were rising all around as we watched the sun disappear behind the mountains. Flocks of pelicans effortlessly glided by as a loon let off call so crisp and perfect you could have heard it anywhere on the lake.

Jeff provided dinner—a 16-inch brown trout—and I brought elk steaks for dessert. Life was good. Our campfire stories included memories of our time together in Kentucky: mornings chasing cottontails around with beagles, my first turkey, and the evening I showed up at Jeff’s place with a whitetail in the back of my mom’s minivan, hoping to learn how to butcher my own deer. It quickly became apparent to me that Jeff’s involvement in my outdoor life was a big part of why I decided to come to Montana years ago.

The day to follow included periodic success on Hebgen, frustratingly fast water on the upper Madison, a much-needed midday nap on the shore of Cliff lake, and a close call between a cow elk and my pickup. As a storm blew in over Hebgen in the late afternoon, we opted to head back to town for the night and try our luck on the lower Madison the next morning.

Montana weather is a crapshoot, and we were on a roll. Our days of fishing were almost entirely filled with blue skies, enjoyable temperatures, and mild winds. What more could a few redneck fly fishermen ask for? Nick found success on the river, hooking an 18-inch rainbow that took him all the way down to his backing. Twenty minutes (and two beers) later, the fish was in the net.

The Madison pulled us back the next morning and we were on the water by 8am. Only a hundred yards into our drift, I landed a leaping athlete of a rainbow trout that put us all in a good mood. A lunch of smoked trout reminded us how lucky we really were. Fishing was slow, but when we got lucky, we got really lucky. Most all the fish we landed that week pushed 18 inches and fought like hell.

The mighty Madison River produced and we even escaped a life-jacket ticket, thanks to an understanding and even-tempered game warden. As our time together came near an end, Jeff and I discussed hunting plans for the coming fall. When he flew back to Ohio at the end of the weekend, I realized just how fortunate I was to call this place home. Quality, not quantity.

Bow-Hunting Montana Merriams

The five-hour drive from Bozeman to Glendive the morning after my 21st birthday was anything but enjoyable. As I fought through the headaches, which were only strengthened by the numbing view out the truck window, my mind was fixed on turkeys. We were headed to a ranch on the banks of the Yellowstone River, only a few miles outside of downtown Glendive, to bow-hunt Merriam turkeys.

The days to follow were filled with frustrating blown set ups, due to impatience on behalf of two college kids hungry for turkey. Our lack of success was comforted by the scenery of the river-bottom ranch we called home for the week. Our mornings were filled with countless whitetail deer encounters, fields full of Canadian geese, heart-stopping flushes of rooster pheasants, and discouragingly wise turkeys.

Morning of day three brought us new hope. We had put a few birds on the roost the night before in some big cottonwoods on the edge of an alfalfa field, only a few hundred yards from the river. The alarms sounded and we were on our feet. 4am was an early wakeup call after sleeping in the ranch shop for a few nights.

We set up decoys in front of our blind, which we had put up the night before after sundown, and crawled inside to witness the morning unfold. It didn’t take long for the world in front of us to explode with life, as well as sunshine. Pheasants, turkeys, and deer, all took the stage like a scene out of Fantasia. Birds were present in the field but lacked any interest in our decoys, or my questionable calling.

Hours melted away as the flock of turkeys seemed to cover every inch of the field, minus our “honey hole” corner. At 7am, it seemed as if they were finally headed our way! Working down a fenceline toward our ground blind, the turkeys closed the distance. As our cameras rolled, the big toms strutted their stuff trying to impress the hens. My heart was now at an unhealthy rate. The birds came within three yards, and I drew my bow back.

I held my pins on the side of one of the long beards and sent my arrow sailing. The arrow smacked into the side of the tom and sent him into an acrobatic move worthy of a Cirque du Soleil audition. The flock dispersed quickly and we lost sight of them all as they fled into the tall grass and cottonwoods. I was a mess, hootin’ and hollerin’ as we flipped back the ground blind and leapt into the morning sunshine.

After a long recovery effort through the thicket, we had our bird. My third Merriam turkey to date and one of the most memorable hunting trips of my life. My tom wore an 8-inch beard, and spurs just under an inch. Video of this hunt can be viewed at: blazinarrowproductions.tumblr.com.

Mt. Blackmore: January Style

When a simple day hikes turn into extreme mountaineering adventures, you're destined to go home with some memories. This is exactly what we got ourselves into the other day when we began our hike toward Mount Blackmore. Needless to say, I was unprepared to summit a mountain that exceeded 10,000 feet on this random Tuesday. This didn't stop me from blindly following the bootpack of my close friend and experienced climber, Zack Weiss. At times we found ourselves waist-deep in snow struggling closer to the mountain. A few miles in we reached an extensive snow basin at the base of Blackmore.

The sun was shinning and we marched on. My dog Bear fought her way through snow over her head and awkward human bootpack on some of the steeper parts of the climb. Once we were about two hundred feet below the summit things started getting adventurous. Due to recent snowfall the final moves in our climb made it feel as if we were the first to ever go up there.

We succeeded, dog and all. The view from the top was nothing short of breathtaking. We filmed a panoramic and took some photos. We were both extremely impressed with Bear's climbing skills. I took a deep breath, soaked up the sunshine, and the view, and began to ponder our descent.

Packing in my boots and skis would have proven an easier way of returning to the car, but we improvised by sliding on our backsides and practicing self-arrests with ice axes. This was not only good experience to prepare for a serious occurrence that can and does happen to mountaineers, but it was also a blast! Reaching some pretty uncontrollable speeds and trying to spin over and sink an axe into the snow while you kick your feet like Michael Phelps was a real rush.

Outdoor Retailer Expo 2010

From multi-national companies to local brands, this famous tradeshow in downtown Salt Lake City gives just about everyone in the outdoor industry a chance to demo products, make connections, and otherwise have a damn good time. And after a grueling 7 hour drive (only getting pulled over twice for ‘allegedly’ speeding), we rolled into Mormon-central, ready to join the throng and soak in all the cutting-edge toys from the best outdoor companies.

As soon as I rode the main escalator down and stepped on to the convention floor, my jaw dropped and my eyes went wide. The Salt Palace, which boasts over 500,000 square feet of exhibition space, was absolutely packed, overflowing with extravagant booths touting the latest and greatest in outdoor gear. This year, the show boasted over 40,000 visitors and nearly 800 brands, 170 of those being new companies.

There was literally everything related to the outdoors I could think of: climbing, skiing, mountaineering, camping, backpacking, cycling, hunting, and much, much more. The scene instantly reminded me of a glitzy gaming floor in some sprawling Vegas casino: endless fields of pristine eye-candy, no clocks, no natural light, and the sneaking suspicion that someone was pumping in pure oxygen to keep everyone elated. Add in rubbing elbows with sponsored athletes, pull-up competitions at the climbing booths, and free kegs of beer at 4 pm, and I was in absolute heaven. (Arc-teryx, never

to be outdone, was offering free vodka-Red Bulls. We camped there for a while.)

We were all a little overwhelmed and an overnight storm left 12” of fresh powder in the Wasatch range, so we decided to give the OR show a one-day break to venture up Big Cottonwood canyon and sample the terrain at Solitude. It was the best skiing I’ve had in a long time. Excellent snow brought on “hero” conditions, and we found skiiers hooting with joy and launching off every cliff, completely unafraid of their pillowy landings. Multiple times, I found myself effortlessly floating through the powder, the nose of my board would dip, and I’d cartwheel headfirst into the snow. Hopelessly clawing at the powder trying to right myself, I couldn’t help but love it.

That night, we checked out the Salt Lake nightlife at Club Elevate (invitation only), where Chali 2na of Jurassic 5 fame was performing. We camped at the bar in a kind of social experiment, wondering how long it would take the rowdy U-tards to feverishly elbow us aside to get their $7 half-shots of Crown Royal. We lasted a surprisingly time. We then migrated to the dance floor, and with Chali and his live band ripping it up on stage, the O/B crew promptly decided that a career in rap might be infinitely more satisfying and lucrative than the magazine trade. Look for our first album to drop sometime in the Fall.

After a few late night misdemeanors, we nursed our hangovers and returned to the show the next morning. I had been wondering about how much companies were shelling out for these elaborate displays, and after chatting up one of the booth owners, we learned that a glamorous OR booth doesn’t come cheap. Start with a base price of $20 a square foot, then add in the cost of the booth display, staff to run the thing, and product to fill it with, and you might be looking at $20,000 for a medium-sized booth. I could only imagine the kind of cash required to fill some of the larger spots, which were approaching the size of tennis courts.

With free, real beer flowing from every other vendor, amazing skiing conditions, and an Outside Bozeman record of only three police altercations, Winter OR 2010 was an amazing experience. If this Salt Lake adventure has taught me anything, its these life lessons: shmooze like you mean it, doing 22 in a pull-up contest won’t get you anywhere, and never believe a “cop” wearing a badge you could buy online. Now that the Summer OR show is on the horizon, our goal this time around is not to prompt anyone to say, “SIR! Keep your hands on the truck-bed or I WILL put you in handcuffs!”

Like-Minded in Rhode Island

Dear Outside Bozeman magazine:

I live in Rhode Island, so Outside Bozeman contains news from afar, but there’s always a reliable collection of informative essays, articles and reviews, great photos and entertaining commentary like that recently aimed at folks who squeeze into lycra and shouldn’t. It was an amusing read, and visions of the strapped-on helmet-heads downing brewskies in the bar had me laughing out loud.



















["Living with Lycra," Summer 2009 issue]

And it was interesting to learn about the presence of Terrifiedus idiotus in your environment, since a variety of that species also migrates to our coastal habitat during the summer months and exhibits similar behaviors and characteristics, except ours try to adapt to the ocean-side ecosystem by adorning themselves in brilliant green or coral-colored pants. We also tolerate their sometimes aggressive tendencies because there’s no denying their greenback droppings significantly fertilize our economy.
























["Creatures that Can Kill You," Summer 2009 issue]

Between reading your magazine and making periodic trips to Bozeman to visit family, I’m torn between promoting Bozeman as the great place it is or keeping a lid on it in the interest of sparing your citizenry from the potential onslaught of a westward-ho invasion. I don’t mean to suggest that you cowboys can’t manage a stampede (although that “Wait Here For Lead Car” routine makes me wonder), but I struggle with whether to share the innards of your magazine or stifle myself when reading it in public because touting Bozeman to extreme might generate a level of interest you don’t necessarily want. Rhode Island has its share of folks seeking that surge of adrenalin or a creative, laid-back lifestyle, and my experiences in Bozeman, along with OB’s descriptions, suggest it’s a worthy contender for satisfying either or both in spite of its distance from our beautiful ocean.

But the majority of Rhode Islanders’ sense of comfort, challenge and triumph is probably more than satisfied by creeping bumper-to-bumper toward the local mall to partake in our favorite sport of shopping and buying things we don’t know we need until the SALE sign triggers our “must-buy-don’t-know-why-but-I-better-get-three” gene; or by making tortoise-like progress to a state beach where we pay $15 to park the car then repeatedly boast about our accomplishment not only for having found a parking spot in less than twenty minutes, but also for out-maneuvering another driver who’d apparently been circling the lot much longer than us judging by the overheated, screaming kids in the back seat and the expletives delivered as we masterfully careen into the empty spot s/he was aiming for. Who cares if he had his blinker on first. No guts no glory, go for the gold, keep your eye on the prize and all that jazz. That’s our version of competition, perseverance and battling the elements, mostly in the form of each other.

So I guess no matter how enthusiastically I promote Bozeman, it’s doubtful there’ll be an immediate full-tilt exodus from here to there – you’ve got the natural protection of those long winters and bears roaming neighborhoods for starters. Then there’s the extended measures of silence and sky, the ease of travel between Bozeman and wherever you’re headed, along with the absence of that edgy, survival-of-the-fittest competition for personal, parking and road space. Folks who are accustomed to horn-blaring, cheek-by-jowl, over-stimulating environments probably consider a place like Bozeman just too quiet, boring and far too lacking in opportunities to flip others off or things to complain about in general. Hopefully Bozeman will stay that way.

Linnea Lundwall
North Kingstown, RI

First Tracks

The first snowfall of the season is the greatest. That fall feeling is in the air as the flurries begin to come down from the sky and coat the ground for the first time. The entire town seems to feel different. I find myself watching the radar and checking the weather constantly throughout the day, anxiously watching the snow outside. While some people are inside their homes mourning the potential loss of another season, my mind goes elsewhere. All I can think about is early season skiing. I pace around the house after work and watch the weather go from rain to snow to rain again and snow once more. In Bozeman, the precipitation seems wet and rather lacking. But to anyone who considers themselves a skier, they know that this day-long mix of rain and snow probably means a decent snowstorm at higher elevations. A phone call to a couple friends confirms my ambitions. Tomorrow will be the day.

Each of us with our specific time constraints, we decide that we might as well do this right and go after a good old-fashioned dawn patrol to start the season. So we did just that. As the 5:30am alarm went off, followed by the other 5:30am alarm (you can’t be to careful) I woke up, put on my ski gear, made a plate sized pancake and climbed into the car. As I sipped my coffee on the way out of Bozeman and up the canyon it seemed as though we had made a giant mistake. The ground in Bozeman was empty and fairly dry, and the accumulation that we noticed on the way up was hardly more than a dusting. I had to keep telling myself that this would all be worth it but I wasn’t quite sure that I believed it. Too late now, we will ski with or without snow.

With rock skis on our backs we took off on foot up the mountain. As the hike progressed and the ascent began to get steeper, the snow got deeper. What started out as a few inches in the parking lot had morphed into a knee-deep posthole with each step. As we neared the top, the clouds began to open up and the snow-covered bangtails showed themselves, it felt good to be back. We clicked into our skis and headed down. The skiing was not amazing, marginal at best. But mixed in with the rocks and grass of early season skiing were a couple great powder turns. And that is all we were looking for today. Somewhere to get out and lay down that first set of tracks. On my bike ride to work in the morning after getting back into town, with a chill still in the air, I realized that I could now relax and enjoy the rest of my fall in Bozeman having logged at least one ski day.

Big Sky Zip Line!

You’ve double-checked every piece of safety gear, but your stomach still drops out every time you leap into the void. There’s always that split second of uncertainty just before the line catches and you rocket off through the trees at 25 miles per hour, 50 feet off the forest floor. The O.B. crew headed to Big Sky recently to check out the newly installed zip-line, so with five digital cameras and a bevy of Southern housewives (they showed up separately, I promise), we took to the skies.



About half an hour before the ride, we met up with Trey, Scott, and Sally in front of the Adventure Center to sign waivers and get our name-tags. After the legal necessities, we circled up like gym class to get decked out in full safety gear, complete with a body harness and stylish Petzl helmet. A quick ten-minute hike up the hill brought us to the first zipline, right at the bottom of the Huntley Hollow run. We lined up like little helmeted lemmings, clipping ourselves to the safety line, while the guide outlined a few more issues to keep in mind.


“We’ll do all the work, so relax and have fun,” Sally reassured us in her southern accent. “Just lift your feet up when you get to the trees at the other side. Remember to yell!” I didn’t think that would be an issue. I was first in line, so I bravely walked on to the wooden platform and Sally attached my pulley and safety line to the cable. “Well, you can either walk off the end, or take a little running jump.” I glanced back at the line of wide-eyed people waiting for me, so I knew I couldn’t back out. With a deep breath, I took two running steps and leapt out into the forest. The line caught and I rocketed across the landscape, giggling uncontrollably.


After all our group had all zipped, it was the ladies’ turn. The first two zipped with the expected hoots and laughs, but the third lady really surprised us. Ann, in a slight departure from her otherwise quiet and polite demeanor, let out a full blast, blood-curdling scream for the entire length of her ride. After crying with laughter, we got it on video the second time. Check it out, and make sure to turn the volume up.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5g3g7WEtAyE

“We had no idea how it would perform, but the response has been overwhelming,” Chad Jones told us. As the P.R. director for the mountain, he’s watched the zip-line’s popularity skyrocket over the last few months. “We started with just a few trips every other day, but during the busy season, we have the line booked solid for three weeks ahead.” And it’s easy to see the appeal. Anyone over three feet tall and under 300 pounds can sign up, and Chad’s seen everyone from little kids to grandparents ride the line. “It’s a great activity for college kids when the parents come into town.”

At the second line, Scott outlined the different tricks one could do. “There’s the backflip, front flip, gainer, back-flop... you can really get creative on this one.” This approach was different from the first one; instead of running and jumping, you climb up a six-foot platform and jump off like a diving board. “Which trick do you wanna do?” I opted for the front flip. It was just like jumping into a pool, only the sting of the water was replaced by the exhilaration of flying through the trees. Here’s a first person video of David riding the second line.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=spLsKNo-elw

The third line, Moose Drop Alley, has yet another type of approach; this time you start with the line about even with your shoulders and run straight down the hill. You leap just as the path drops away, but there was one more important piece of advice. “Try not to jump too early, or you’ll be making friends with Proctology Rock down there,” Scott said as he gestured toward a football-shaped spire just down the path. Thanks, Scott. This final line runs above the stream with Mt. Wilson in the background, making for exquisite photographs.

Originally, the plan was to run only during the summer, but the Zipline now runs during the ski season as well. When the snow flies, people can suit up at the base, ride up on the chairlift and then ski down to the line. Anyone interested can sign up at the Snowcrest Adventure Center or call 406-995-UZIP to set up a trip.

Lycra-Wearing Cyclists and the Human Response: An Investigative Study

Outside Bozeman received an unusually high amount of flack regarding a certain article by editor-at-large Drew Pogge called “Living with Lycra”:

It’s scientific fact that 99.8% of people should never, ever, under any circumstance wear lycra. Especially attention-grabbing, brightly-colored lycra. So why does nearly 100% of the amateur roadie population insist on donning belly-fat-squeezing, frank-and-bean enhancing, ass-crack sweating “cycling apparel”? Seriously. Spandex is gross, and I petition that people wear it only in the privacy of their own homes, or at German raves, where it’s appropriate

Many in the “biking” community felt this was an unfair attack on their lifestyle; stern calls, angrier voicemails, and formal letters of complaint from certain Bozeman area bike teams. Some were afraid that the article would incite dangerous threats and violence against innocent lycra-wearers, some felt it was an attack on the already low body-image of Americans, others were angry that no other group was attacked (they were right! No other group was made fun of in that article!). I’ll admit, I was initially astounded by the shockingly low sense of humor and equally amazed at the illogically formed complaints that the lycra-community showed regarding a light-hearted humor article that poked fun of the clothing that they choose to wear.

I’ll also be the first to admit that my judgment was premature. Could I accurately judge the feelings of another person if I’ve never walked in their shoes? (or in this case, biked in their lycra) Being the investigative journalist and open-minded citizen of the world that I so expertly am, I decided to immerse myself in the lifestyle of the people whom Outside Bozeman so unfairly attacked this summer. I wanted to see what they see, feel what they feel, drink what they drink, shop where they shop. I wanted to live like they live.

I became a Bozeman lycra-cyclist.

When this ‘cycling’ enthusiast finally stopped heaving and stood, his jersey rode up to just under his generous man-teats and revealed an enormous grey belly covered by sweaty tufts of dark hair. He also appeared to be smuggling a small buffet of grapes and sausage in his sagging lycra shorts.

To ensure the most accurate response, I had to look the part. Fortunately our skinny photo editor, Ryan, is an avid mountain-biker who happened to have an extra lycra suit laying around; one that correctly made me look like the cyclist portrayed in the above paragraph on my 6’1 225lb frame. I couldn’t help but think of Chris Farley in Tommy Boy the first time I put it on. I put on my skin-tight uniform (it was tough), tightly buckled on my aerodynamic helmet, strapped a huge sports watch on my wrist, put three large water bottles in the back of the jersey, and headed out of the office on editor Mike England’s sweet new expensive Kona bike to Summit Bike & Ski on Grand to complete my look. The guys at Summit hooked me up with some cycling gloves and some glamorous 1980’s multicolored sunglasses with a biking mirror clipped on the slide. Needless to say, I looked the part.

Trailed by Ryan documenting with his camera and Mike documenting on paper, I walked the bike down Main Street and began the experiment of “lycra-wearing cyclists and the human response.” I discarded the exuberant laughter about my appearance by the Summit employees from study, as they were privy to the experiment.

I was initially shocked by how few people stared at me during my first city block with most people walking by looking at their shoes. My first human interaction came from the ladies behind counter of Wild Joe’s staring, smiling, and obviously holding back laughter while taking my “small cherry Italian soda” order. The first to acknowledge the elephant in the room, one of them sarcastically said “so, ya go biking today?” to which I responded, “beautiful day for a bike ride” (a line I commonly used the rest of the day) and commented how I wish I had a pocket to put the change left over from my purchase. Mike, Ryan, and I plopped down on seats by the window to enjoy my Italian soda, one table over from a mother with her three energetic children. Children, always the most honest with their opinions, openly laughed at my clown-like appearance. It was time to gauge more human reactions lycra-cyclists so we headed out to the sidewalk.

Thinking there would be a bond between fellow cyclists—regardless of clothing and bicycle choice—I attempted to make small talk with a college-aged gentlemen wearing khaki’s and a t-shirt trying to unlock his reasonably priced cruiser. “Beautiful day for a bike ride, huh?” I said. After what felt like five minutes (probably 3 seconds) of the most uncomfortable silence, with him trying to pretend I didn’t just talk to him by locking his eyes on his bike lock, I answered my own question: “any day’s a beautiful day for a bike ride, am I right?” He couldn’t have unlocked his bike fast enough and sped off.

Next, I saw a group of attractive college girls coming out of a clothing boutique, the kind of girls that I’d like to meet. I needed to see what they thought; maybe a couple of them were into cyclists? I walked to the end of the block, to ensure that the group and me would pass on the sidewalk. They were coming; here was my only chance. “Hey, how ya doin’?” I said while grinning. Nothing. Exactly zero response, other than a few deer-in-the-headlights look at me. Maybe they didn’t hear me. “Hey, how ya doin’?” I said a second time. I did get a reaction this time; as soon as they were behind me, a snarky “uhhh no” a disapproving “wow” came from two of the gals. I was shut down.

Next, I decided to lean against the bike in a relaxed pose, and engage passersby in conversation. “Hey, how ya doin’?” I said while nodding to everybody walking by. After 10 minutes or so, I moved to the other side of Main Street to do the same thing. I received a mixture of people horrifyingly walking past me in silence without eye contact and people smiling at me like I was a clown making balloon animals. What I learned was that pretty much everybody did a double-take when I came into view and the longer I stayed in one place, the more likely they were to both answer my prompt with a “I’m fine, you?” and openly giggle at my appearance. I sat down on a bench with a goateed gentleman in motorcycle regalia, hoping he would harshly judge my appearance. He was the nicest one all day; instead of laughing at me he asked me about how my bike ride was and where I went.

It was time for the conclusion of the study

I recently watched another group of roadies drinking beer at a bar—an indoor bar—wearing not only their ridiculous lycra body-condoms, but their helmets. Yep, they sat there swilling beer with chin straps buckled for over an hour. It was like Revenge of the Nerds, Spandex editions.

I headed to Ted’s to enjoy a couple of adult beverages in my cycling outfit (on my 21st birthday!) and took an outdoor table so we could still study people’s reactions. We stayed there a long time. With almost everybody walking by taking a glance at me once, quickly. We noticed a couple of guys sitting on a bench across the street, in front of Chalet Sports, that Ryan, Mike, and Abby (who joined us at Ted’s) insisted I need to take a seat with to end my day in lycra. I made small talk about the weather, they laughed, sat down between them and we went back to Summit to drop of some of the supplies and when back to the O/B office.

It was over; I unbuckled my helmet for the first time in hours, and put on my legitimate, non-lycra clothing. Thank god. Waiting for this experiment to come to an end was like a second-grader waiting for the first day of summer. It felt like it took so long, but it was so good when it finally came.

Now that I’ve put myself in the place of the cyclists that were upset, angry, and offended by the “Living with Lycra” article, I feel that I can accurately judge the article and the complaints of the lycra community.
1) Displaying your junk while running errands in lycra is much more offensive to the general public than any humor article about people displaying their junk while running errands in lycra.
2) Lycra is silly in almost every circumstance. If you are unsure of whether you would look silly in your particular circumstance, look around you. If you don’t see Lance Armstrong, France, an international sponsor on your jersey, and a bike between your legs, then you will most likely look silly in your particular circumstance
3) Other than the group of attractive college girls shutting me down, laughter and avoidance were the only overt responses that could be thought of as negative. Never once did I feel threatened.
4) Instead of calling and emailing Outside Bozeman with angry and offended messages, look in a mirror. Instead, get baggier clothing or learn to not be hypersensitive and learn when a joke is just a joke. At the very minimum, if you can admit that your look is kind of funny, you’re on the right path to living a logical existence.