aintbroke: (Default)
I come from a photographically retarded family.

No, really. We’ve never really been into taking photos, or looking at photos, or thinking in photos; at least, not until the advent of the Parent-As-A-Teacher. Now, we’re evidently all about documentation. (Tsch, leave for a few years, and your family goes all wacky on you.)

Which is why the eight hundred plus photos we ended up with from our trip in Peru is a little shocking. I mean, more than a hundred of them are actually decent! Madness. With that heartening intro, I’d like to share some this unexpected photographic windfall. )
aintbroke: (carpool or die)
Maybe it's just my family, but any trip we take seems to culminate with people kissing the lintel and muttering "ohgodohsweetjeasus" or "we're all alive and no one died and how is that statistically possible?" and generally gibbering.

It's very wrong of me to feel like I've somehow been gypped when a family trip leaves no lasting scars on my psyche. I understand that, and still: gyppedness is the prevailing feeling in my home today.

In other news, I was kind of excited to get home, that I could get to my stash of phone numbers and stupidly cheap calling card and call people because they have cell phones and are thus at my mercy but. Uh. I've got a nasty chest cold (courtesy of Mike, of course, the bastard) and have lost my voice. I'm sure it's all very amusing for you people who are not me, but my Captain Beefhart impression is wearing thin.


REGARDLESS (because on the internet, they can't hear you speak): I hope you all have a lovely holiday. Yeah. That's pretty much all I have.
aintbroke: (Default)
Where I have been for the last ten days, a very short essay by Caitlin, age two: COLD

The slightly longer version: In my family, no trip is complete with out a portion we like to call "The Thrash," in which, all parties must honestly fear for their lives for a period of at least twenty minutes.

This trip, The Thrash took place at dusk, with two inexperienced cross country skiers, very unknown terrain, and truly terrible directions. After the initial quite panic (we're going to DIE out here in the SNOW and we will FREEZE and they won't find our bodies till the THAW and I can't feel my TOES and I MISS THEM), it all turned out well, and my introduction to back country skiing was marred only by a bout of flu which developed in time to ski out. (That wasn't The Thrash, because only one person was in danger of collapse and/or death.) Looking back at that sentence, I realize it could be read sarcastically. What does it say about me that I really mean that in a good way?

Then we went to Wolf Creek, which claims to get the most snow in Colorado. (I, for one, am not inclined to doubt them.) I am just barely to the point where snow conditions impact my ride, but MMMmmm, powder. Also: I can land simple jumps. The sense of triumph I get from this is nothing short of stupid, but there you go.

I return to skip=600. I think this is a sign I should not attempt to catch up on whatever has happened in the last ten days. Chatty lot, you ljers.
aintbroke: (it had to end sometime)
Seeing as we're leaving tomorrow, it was good that we finalized our plans today. Basically, we'll be back on the thirtieth, and by the time we return, snow will tremble in fear at our approach.

Have fun and stay out of trouble.
aintbroke: (Default)
The thing I dislike most about traveling, is the lag time from when the adventures actually end, and when I can tell people about them. While I was up at fourteen thousand feet, I was mentally composing an epic ramble about what mountaineering is all about, and etc.

Now, however, it’s been days and all I can write about is how much I hate unpacking, the funny conversation I had with PB today, and why I am not going to Mexico tomorrow.

No matter how much I would like to pretend otherwise, I used to romanticize mountaineering. Those Vast Expanses of Driven Snow! Ice! Cozy Camps, Well Stocked With Cards! Glorious Views From Mountaintops! The Pure Mountain Air!

In all honesty, I have to say that all those things are true. They are all out there, but they’re all slightly overshadowed by The Cold! The Wet! The Screaming Agony of Your Calf and Back Muscles! The Howling Wind That Never Lets Up! The Burning Hatred You Develop for the Inside of Your Tent! The Perpetual Running of Your Nose! and so forth.

Despite all that, we climbed two fourteen thousand foot peaks, one of which we climbed on Kiddo’s fourteenth birthday. This is not going to become a family tradition, but it was eight kinds of spiffy.

I’ll scan pictures as soon as I can get my grubby little hands on developed film, and a scanner. In the mean time, you can look at pictures that other people took of Humbolt and Crestone Needle. (Warning, the pictures of the Needle, which is quite dramatic in person, really suck. Mine will be better, I swear.)

The one thing that everyone I've dated has had in common, disguised as a story about PB's grandmother. )

Why I am not hiking around Mexico. )

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