Outside Bozeman

Gripped and Grinning

2011-09-15T13:02:00.001-07:00

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

2011-06-06T15:37:00.000-07:00

“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

2011-04-05T09:28:00.000-07:00

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

2010-11-10T12:29:00.000-08:00

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

2010-07-22T12:04:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-09T08:20:00.000-07:00

“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

2010-06-02T15:21:00.000-07:00

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

2010-02-04T10:56:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-02T14:03:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-04T08:17:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-01T13:07:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-09-26T13:02:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-24T11:50:00.001-07:00

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.

Leverich and Beyond

2009-08-18T13:33:00.000-07:00

Went for a hike up Leverich canyon last night. Only three things needed for a short hike – dog, 44 ounce camelback and a powerbar. It was such a nice night I didn’t even take a fleece or a shell. Even though I’d be running portions of the trail I took my camera.

Leverich has a new trail to help separate the uphill traffic from the downhill bikers. I’ve only mountain biked a few times but loved the wind in my face, banking my turns and picking my line. But, I was always holding back a little bit because I worried about hitting someone. So, I’m happy they have a place to let ‘er rip without worrying about going ass-over-handlebars because they T-bone my dog. I hear this trail, for an extra touch of grins, has some great banked turns, jumps and features.

The uniform grade, width and line of the fresh trail rips through the side of the mountain. Shaved roots and rocks border the uphill side of the trail-cut like the side of a crappy raised flowerbed. I wonder what the trail will look like in a few years as the birth-scare heals. The three-foot wide path reminds me of the ‘M’ trail highway and I expect to find an obese Texan and leashed punter around every corner. Visions of the human-ant hybrids crawling out of Bozeman in search of recreation food flow across my mind as I walk up hill. This trail is nice but my soles prefer the worn rock, silty sand and gnarled root of old, unmanicured, single-track.

I’ve traveled backcountry all over the west and it’s hard to not see human impact everywhere I go. From mines, old cabins, logging roads, cigarette butts and earthen dams to trails and carins, people have been everywhere, crawling out of their houses and cities to extract, wander and explore. I’ve been wandering the west for 15 years and when I first moved to Montana I was surprised at how little first-growth forest I’ve hiked through and how many trails are built on old logging roads.

The sparkling trail does two huge switchbacks then gains the east ridge of Leverich canyon. I love hiking on the shoulders of mountains. They are broad and solid and I never doubt eternity. Smells traveling 1000’s of miles saturate the wind. The forest thins, allowing panoramas to flirt with my peripheral vision. Below, Leverich canyon is steep but shallow allowing my ears and eyes to catch flashes of excited mountain bikers ripping down the bottom of the canyon.

I run into a group of mountain bikers by the old miner’s cabin and pit. One of them is on a BMX bike because "someone said the trail’s too rough and I’m going to prove it’s not.” His smile show’s he knows he’s in for a challenge but there isn’t any apprehension in his eyes or body language. I’ve skied with his type before and like it when people step it up. I also remember when I used to guinea pig lines and drops. (bikers in photos, L to R - Matt on BMX, Hilditch, Doug)

Three miles and an hour later I reach the forest road and walk up another mile to catch the view and eat some wild berries. The Bridgers roll north, dissolving into the late summer haze. Two trucks rumble by, there mission unique and unknown. The sky shifts from yellows to reds as rays travel sideways and the sun begins its evening ritual.

As I coast down the trail I keep my senses tuned to the setting sun, waiting for just the right moment to catch it in a photograph. Occasional sunset beams filter through the forest painting trees and brush with red-orange light. I am thankful the smoke tinting the sunset is far, far away from the Gallatin Valley this year.
(Aaron Schultz is a writer, photographer, marketing intern and chronic wander.)

Photo Workshop in Yellowstone National Park

2009-08-11T11:33:00.000-07:00

Classical music is much harder to wake up to at 5 am then the news. But, I refuse to begin my day with the “EINT, EINT, EINT” of the buzzer. I roll over and sit on the edge of the bed for a moment. My daytime systems begin boot up one by one and when I feel balance and coordination come on-line I stand.

I am heading to Yellowstone for a series of free photo workshops. There aren’t to many better ways to spend a day then to geek out on photography while spending the day in one of the most beautiful place on the planet.

Accompanying my drive are: a travel mug of coffee, a travel mug of granola, four pod-casts of Planet Money and a beautiful sunrise alpenglow highlighting wispy clouds suspended by treetops mid-way up mountainsides. Two and half hours later I pull into the Upper Geyser Basin section of Yellowstone. Most of us know this as the Old Faithful area.

The Amer ican Park Network has been touring our national parks all summer giving free photo workshops for all levels. Because of a Canon sponsorship they provided camera gear for people to try out. And, Cannon is sponsoring a photo contest. During the day workshops they teach everything from basic camera skills (what’s and F-stop?) and basic composition (the rule of thirds) to more advanced technique like HDR and landscape composition. The nighttime lecture, presented by George Lepp, illustrates some post processing techniques and workflow, a slide show of Lepp’s work and informational pitch about Canon products.

After I sign some paperwork, shake some hands and give them my drivers license and credit card as collateral, I hold a Canon 5D Mark II with a 100-400mm lens. The 5D Mark II is 21.1 mega pixel full frame SLR with HD video. I’ve been dreaming of buying this camera but I used my savings coping with the recession so it’s awesome to be able to work with one. I keep wiping the drool off my chin so it doesn’t drip on the camera.

For those non-camera geeks this is a 2010 BMW M-5 compared to my 1996 Subaru Legacy. I immediately put the camera strap around my neck. I can’t afford a BMW. I can barely afford my Subaru.

I attend all three sessions. They divide us into groups based on level. The morning session I tour the geyser board walk with Lepp, picking his brain, drawing on his 40+ years of experience in technical knowledge and shooting technique. The afternoon I walk around with Professor Jon Long from MSU. He is also incredibly knowledgeable. The evening session I again get to pick Lepp’s brain. I need to attend more photo workshop.

I’d like to give a big thank you to Federico, Larson, Jon, Erica, and Joel of The American Park Network, George Lepp from Canon and Yellowstone National Park for an amazing day!

Please visit our Facebook page to see more photos. Click the link to enter the Canon Photography in the Parks contest.

(Aaron Schultz is a writer, photographer, marketing intern and chronic wander.)

Lava Lake

2009-08-07T09:19:00.000-07:00

I was sitting at my desk on my computer yesterday afternoon and I suddenly had the urge to get outside. Since I arrived in Bozeman at the end of May, I had always heard about how great Lava Lake was; and having the itch to do all that I can before I go back to school in Ohio at the end of the month, I decided to finally hike up to the lake.

I went back to my apartment to pack up my 5-weight 3-piece T&T fly rod--just in case the usual fly fishing urge comes over me--and headed off down 191 to the Lava Lake trail head and parked my Chevy HHR in the packed lot full of Subarus and minivans. At 4:15 I strapped my fly rod tube on my backpack and headed up the trail, passing a mix of experienced hikers and overwhelmed tourists with their tiny little dogs coming back down from their day on the trail.

The last person I saw for the rest of the day--about two miles into the three mile hike--laughed and said "hope it doesn't rain on ya" as they were passing. They were right. A couple minutes later it started pouring, and continued until the end of the trail.

I reached Lava Lake after 6pm; about two hours after I began. That three mile hike up was a long three miles. I was pretty exhausted. But the rain had let up and the sun came out again just as I had my first look at the water, so my mood was restored.

I walked around the lake and took a seat on a tree that had fallen over to put my fly rod together, but mostly to rest my legs and take in the beautiful scenery. It wasn't until after 7pm and a few fruitless casts later that I realized I should start heading down soon if I wanted to have some daylight to aide my journey back.

It rained my entire way. Mixed with decreasing sunlight and increasing clouds, it got dark on the trail pretty quickly. I got back to the trail head at at around 8:45, with my lonely car waiting for me in the lot.

I headed back towards Bozeman, making a stop at Stacey's in Gallatin Gateway for a Jalapeno Burger and a couple Moose Drools. I wasn't there 10 minutes before a bus of several dozen 20 and 3o-somethings from a wedding party got dropped off at the bar. It was very funny seeing fancily dressed New Jersey and Philly natives ordering equally as fancy mixed-drinks at a place like Stacey's.

Yesterday was a great day. I'm glad I got to experience Lava Lake before I go back to the flatlands of the midwest.

The sun came out when I was at the topResting/getting my flyrod readyOn my way back down My trusty HHR waiting for me at the end day.

Bridger’s Baldy

2009-08-01T14:28:00.000-07:00

I like timing my hikes for two reasons – first, knowing how long a hike takes so I know what hike I can pack into the time I have. Second, I like to know my pace, judging my fitness and comparing different terrain. Last week, Mike E and I had a conversation about how, at our age, we need to combine fitness and fun. We’re not old (we’re not 24 either) just busy, so every moment has to be budgeted, efficient, effective.

Got to the trail head about 4:30, timing it just right to avoid the after work onslaught. There is only one car in the upper lot. The Dog and I plan on hiking Baldy via the Sypes trail head. I haven’t hiked in about a week and a half because I have been very busy with my various work projects so I wondered how my body would respond.

After the short uphill at “burn out bulge” (you know, the little overlook about a half mile in. It’s last uphill on the way out and I usually charge it. Hence the “burn out”) my body clicked into the first warm up stage and the dog and I hit our pace, her canter becoming more fluid and springy and my stride lengthened. Half way through the second switch back leading up to the overlook I feel my body lighten, my lungs relax all the life tension cut loose and rise away from me. I grin and step up the pace another notch.

It took me an hour and 15 minutes to get to the Bridger Recreation Trail junction.

Three miles an hour up hill, even stopping to pee, snap photos and space out on the view. Not to bad, I told myself, a little worried I would be out of shape. But, just the opposite, I had a lot of energy and stress to burn off. But, even at this pace we are passed by a mountain biker and two people training for the Ridge Run. It just makes me hike faster, even jogging some sections.

We leave the junction and enter the steeper section, skirting the buttressed ridge and entering the shadow of the opaque mountain hood. This brings a little relief as we push up, ever mindful of the pace, the train of thought and mountain lion habitat. Meditation, footwork, positivity, awareness and, always, back to breath.

We summit in two hours and 10 min.

At the summit I sheepishly ask another Ridge Runner trainee, who had come up from the M, to snap a shot of me. Since I am a photographer, I rarely indulge in photos of myself or “snap a shot” because I feel weird demeaning my photographic gear and process in that way. But, instead of 15lbs of camera gear hanging off my belt and chest, I have a little point and shoot in the cargo pocket of my shorts, so the only thing being demeaned is me. I do miss my 11-16mm with the polarizer for the scenic shots.
…took some photos, listened to eagles, let the wind and the shadows from clouds play across my face, gentle breeze just teased the sun out from the clouds, hazy rays are dusting the valley, the dog snoozes… - my contribution in the summit log.

For an extra workout we run all the way back to the car, pausing briefly to admire the steaming pile of mountain loin shit in the middle of the trail that wasn’t there on the way up. Hi Kitty. Good Kitty.

It takes about an hour to get to the beer wrapped in a coozy, which is wrapped in a sweatshirt to keep it cold. Beer always tastes best after a great workout.

Scuba Diving in Montana

2009-07-30T10:47:00.000-07:00

Yup, it's true, there's a devoted (deranged?) group of aquanauts who dive the lakes and rivers of Montana on a regular basis. The guys in our particular scuba circle may not be as obsessed as some of the other divers around here, who will happily submerse themselves in a muddy pond in November; but we still like to get out and explore Montana's subsurface sights once or twice a year. This time it was the spear-friendly Seeley Lake area, followed by the incredible visibility and cool underwater structure of Flathead. Let the diving begin!

Virgina City, MT

2009-07-20T14:43:00.000-07:00

(story by Aaron Schultz)

Last Saturday I traveled to see the Virginia City Players in Virginia City, MT. Map Quest says it’s an hour and twenty minute drive from Bozeman but we make it in an hour, including a pit stop to get some ice-cream in Ennis. It’s a beautiful drive. Most drives through Montana are.

View Larger Map

If you’ve never been, Virginia City is worth the trip. The downtown is a national historic landmark and a ghost town.

I wander the boardwalk looking in all the old windows and reading plaques describing each building’s history. Some buildings contain wax museums. One contains a barbershop scene, barber a with handle bar moustache giving an aproned cowboy a cut and a shave. Others contain remnants from the day the building was boarded up. It seems as though one could wipe the dust off an old carriage, hitch it up to a horse, throw open the faded wood doors and tour the countryside. But, the carriage looks small and fragile compared to modern forms of transportation (think Escalade) and, as the boardwalk sags and creaks under the passing tourists, leaves me wondering how many modern Americans could actually fit in it with out getting stuck or crushing it like a wet cardboard box.

People are forced to look around and interact because there isn’t cell phone service. I can only imagine the horror of all the 13-year-old girls dragged to this place on family vacation. Even I had a hard time turning my phone off, occasionally checking a blank screen. But, it doubles as my watch, so I have a valid excuse for any network separation anxiety, right?

Next, we hang out at the Bale of Hay Saloon for a few beers. It sits next door to the theater. I’ve never seen so many hawt cowgirls in one place before. I chalk it up to a beautiful modern combination of feminism, Levi's, big-ass belt buckles and push-up bras by Victoria.

Someone hollers and people file towards the theater. The actors are also the ticket takers and ushers. They didn’t even blink at the bottle of PBR I carried into the theater. Ahhh, the old west. One of the reasons I love Montana is most Montanans don’t tell others how they should live – as long as you don’t hurt anyone else and clean up after yourself. The theater is an old stable with river rock walls and a low hanging, rough-sawn plank ceiling from 18-I-don’t-know-when. I can feel the narrow theater heat up instantly as all the bodies pile in.

The first half of the show is a comedy called Aggie, the Mail Order Bride. It’s an adaptation of Moliere's The School for Wives. The actors and actresses are amazing, projecting their voices, filling the old theater. Despite the sweat the laughs kept coming. To attract this level of professional the Virginia City Players must be famous. But, what do I know? I’m a writer not a thespian.

I carry another bottle of beer into the theater, this time without concern. The second half features a variety show packed with song, dance, bare midriffs, one-liners and music provided by a Cremona. “The only other one in existence is in Australia,” the musician informs us. Not usually my style, but this part is better than the play. I find myself understanding the true definition of performer and entertainment. The crowd gets into it and the old lady in from of me stomps her cane on the floor and hollers at the performers.

It’s family entertainment, but like the old Bugs Bunny cartoons, there is plenty of humor for all ages. And, with 132 permanent residents, the town seems free from the local's normal projection of tension and annoyance because the people who work there are seasonal like the tourists. But, it’s still early in the season. Maybe the vibe will change in September.

After decompressing over pizza we head home, tired but smiling, Yanky Doodle Dandy rattling in our heads…

(Aaron Schultz is a writer, photographer and chronic wanderer)

The Not So Hidden Lakes

2009-07-16T19:31:00.000-07:00

story and photos by David Rabenberg

After a long day of work on Wednesday, I was ready to get outside. With so many choices nearby, it’s always a tough decision to decide where to go. I wanted to go somewhere I hadn’t been before, and after some thought, decided to head up to Hidden Lakes, suggested by your favorite local magazine (*wink).

Driving the rough road up to the trailhead, my girlfriend Angie and I were not expecting to see many (if any) people at the trailhead. We round the last corner, and sure enough….at least ten cars, and one spot left for us. Did the recent mention of Hidden Lakes in Outside Bozeman bring all these people here?

Almost immediately after leaving the trailhead, we ran into two fishermen coming back down. “That’s one car down…only nine more to go,” I thought. This wasn’t the real wilderness experience I was hoping for. As we hiked further, we ran into one more group of two, and then two large groups of 20+!! These two groups were full of older people (age 50+. No offense anyone… It’s all relative), hiking up steep and rocky trail. I can only hope that in 30 years I can still be as active as these hikers were.

Judging by the masses of people we had just seen, I figured the trailhead would soon be emptying, and sure enough, by the time we got to the lakes, it was all ours.

The second lake has a perfect launch pad for a 10-15 ft jump into a deep pool. The water was perfect. Cold enough to make your lungs panic when you first jump in, but not so cold that you can’t get used to it.

After drying off on the warm rocks above the lakes, we spent some time exploring around the lakes and eating lunch before heading back to the car.

All in all, it was a great day. Time to head back to town and BBQ.

Walking Daydream on Table Mountain

2009-07-13T17:38:00.000-07:00

(story and photos by Aaron Schultz)

It’s 8:30 am on a Sunday. I am hiking up Deer Creek, across Table Mountain, down it's ridge and finishing out past Lava Lake. According to the topo it’s about sixteen miles, not including elevation. Cyber-weather calls for high of 85 with a 40% chance of thunderstorms. A little rain, a little sun, lot’s of miles and a beer hiding under a rock in the Gallatin makes for my version of a perfect day.

Extra camera batteries, check. Flip flops, check. Dog treats, check. Grab the poles and go.

First, the senses tune into the birds and the wind, tickled occasionally by a single strand of a spider web across my face. Then the lungs breathe deep but not labored, absorbing air mixed with humidity and pine. The mind and body loosening up, but something’s not quite right…

Stop, dig for the TP. Then back on the trail. My body now fully liberated and my mind free to wander, I hit my pace for the day. It’s a warm, humid and steady climb. I put a bandana on to catch the sweat dripping off my eyebrows and daydream about a breezy ridge, not wanting the heat or the rain.

Summer sausage and pepper jack tastes better on top of a mountain. Sitting cross-egged behind a juniper the hail pelts my hood and the dog wiggles deeper. Mount Jumbo to the west holds back true darkness and Table’s wide, grassy ridge flows north, the far half in the sunshine. I am content. Then, directly above my head, thunder and a flash of lightening. Time to go.

Two hours of sunshine, grassy meadows, wild flowers and cairns dance with my walking daydream. I often find a camera or a map in my hand as I take bearings on everything but my life. A massive, dark bully of a storm stays trapped one canyon west. From its mouth to the north, I watch it spill down pour after down pour over Bozeman and into the Bridgers.

Feeling every rock and root in the soles of my feet Lava Lake switchbacks larger and larger. I find a secluded spot, dig out the flops and jump naked into the lake. My heart skips a couple beats. My lungs contract. My skin sings three octaves higher. As I surface I whoop at the thrilling lack of excess and do it again. Sitting naked, on a rock, in the sun, next to a lake, is to know God. Or, it’s a good way to dry off, at least.

The image of my PBR pounder stashed in the river comforts my raw soles. Thunder and lightening dance and sing over the ridge to my left but keep the drama away. Sporadic spray from the storm hits my shoulders and bare forearms like little water balloons, soothing my skin.

Then, hissing car tires on wet pavement. Squealing college kids, packed like clowns in the bathroom, avoiding the warm summer rain. And, Subaru’s, so many Subaru’s.

My treasure sits safely under the rock that acted as camouflage and anchor. I’ll hitch a ride back to Deer Creek in about sixteen swallows.

(Aaron Schultz is a writer, photographer, marketing intern and chronic wanderer)

Photo Contest Party!

2009-07-07T15:43:00.000-07:00

Mark your calendars, everyone: the 2009 Photo Contest party & awards ceremony will be on August 27th at the Gallatin County Fairgrounds. Dinner and drinks on us for all those who entered images; the public's welcome after that.

We're working out the details now, but expect music by our talented interns (DJ Double A and/or Joe's funk band, Cure for the Common) and one hell of a slideshow. More info to come.

Keep checking this blog or http://www.outsidebozeman.com for info.

And, as always, Read it, Live it, and see you outside!