13 Seconds
13
Fucking
Seconds
Pardon my French, but I'm a grown man and don't need some silly little code word to say are you fucking kidding me??? Josh Allen put the team, nay the entirety of Western New York, on his back at Arrowhead Stadium in a performance that would make a Marvel superhero look like Barney Fife. It was one of the most remarkable individual performances under the brightest of lights. They always say if you want to be the best you have to beat the best. Ever since Patrick Mahomes burst onto the scene with his MVP 2018 campaign, his Kansas City Chiefs have been the gold standard of the NFL. Tonight Big Josh went toe to toe with Mahomes and proved that he's among the NFL's elite.
His 17-play 75-yard touchdown drive in the 4th quarter was a thing of beauty. Josh burned 7 minutes off the clock with 5 3rd-down and two 4th-down conversions, the last of which was a missile to a wide open Gabriel Davis in the back of the endzone on 4th & 13. The two point conversion to Stefon Diggs puts the Bills up 3 with 1:54 left
"Too much time"
Like a heavyweight battle between two behemoths, Mahomes had a counterpunch to Josh's big right hand. The Chiefs answered with a touchdown drive of their own, leaving the Bills down 4 with 62 seconds and 3 timeouts at their disposal.
"Too much time"
Josh only needed 49 of those seconds, firing another rocket to Gabe Davis for his fourth touchdown catch of the night, setting a new NFL record for TD grabs in a playoff game. His 201 yards receiving slot him in at 9th for most receiving yards in an NFL playoff game, a list that is topped by Eric Moulds's 240 yard performance for the Bills against Miami in the AFC Wild Card round in 1999.
The instant Davis hauls in Josh's missile over the middle for the go-ahead score, the Seattle Bills Backers erupts in a tsunami of euphoria. It's absolute pandemonium. Greg & Joanne do a quick check on Super Bowl tickets. My stress drinking turns to celebratory drinking.
And thus brings us to the 13 seconds.
All the Bills need to do is hold on for 13 more seconds. 13 seconds. In a complete breakdown of coaching the Bills somehow manage to let the Chiefs drive 44 yards for the game tying field goal to send the game to overtime. Each and every decision the Bills coaching staff made was the wrong one. Any single correct decision and the Bills would be hosting the AFC Championship game. Just one. Squib kick it. Don't protect the sidelines when the Chiefs have 3 timeouts. Maybe cover Travis Kelce. Or at least get a jam on him at the line. Fucking anything.
It was hard to watch.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
The day started in Portland, Landon already well on his way to Tulsa. Mikey & I grab a quick bite at the hotel before heading North on Interstate 5. The drive can be quite scenic, unfortunately the entirety of the journey is shrouded in a dense fog. No Mt St Helens. No Mt Adams. No Mt Ranier. We can't even see the skyline of Seattle as we pull into town.
The Pacific Northwest is notoriously dreary, however we are in the midst of a particularly drab meterological phenomenon. The haze initially developed as radiation fog, where clear skies allow heat to escape into space, cooling the surface air & dropping it below the dew point. The fog is lingering due to Seattle's geography, sitting in a valley between the Olympic & Cascade mountain ranges. The foggy duvet is being held in place by a layer of high pressure air acting like a lid on a jar. The fog is expected to linger through Friday - 4 more days of obscurity before it clears to make way for a more familiar Seattle weather pattern: rain.
Just have a look at this cartoon.
The melancholic weather perfectly suits our mood as we return to Joanne's house after the Bills game. We cope the only way we know how: drinking in the hot tub.
If this were a movie, this is the point where we'd cut to me, lying on the bathroom floor in a wet, soapy heap all tangled up in a shower curtain. I would then turn to the camera and say something along the lines of, "I bet you're wondering how I got here." Then we'd play in reverse the scene of me tumbling out of the shower, tearing the shower curtain liner out in the process.
Apparently my brain thought the shower tub was wider than it actually was, my spatial awareness woefully impaired as it were. I took a step to the side and bam my foot hit the wall of the tub, all my momentum headed for the diaphanous facade of the shower curtain. The fall happened in slow motion, a rush of terror washing over me. A helpless feeling of panic looking for something, anything to grab onto. Oh dear god please don't rip the curtain rod out of the wall. Luckily Greg & Joanne are classy & have the type of shower curtain liner that snaps into place for ease of removal & cleaning. It surely doesn't have "tearaway" in the list of benefits on the package but in my opinion it should.
Joanne texts to ask if I'm ok. I assure her that I am, nothing hurt other than my pride.
To be fair I almost did the exact same thing a couple days later stone cold sober. Is that tub regulation size or what??
Well if you can imagine the combination of 3 hours of stress drinking followed by anger drinking in a hot tub and a bathroom tumble makes for a rough Monday. I'm pretty sure I didn't leave the house for two days.
Back to the Slopes
On Wednesday I muster the energy to engage in some recreation. As part of my Ikon ski pass I have the opportunity to take advantage of their "First Tracks" promotion. Once a month Ikon pass holders are allowed access to the slopes an hour before the general public. Ideally this would occur on a powder day, but today I have no such luck.
I hit the road bright & early, out the door with enough time for the 2 hour drive for my 7:30 check-in. I could seriously use a cup o' joe at this hour & I whiz past a drive-thru coffee hut before I can even hit the brakes. These little coffee stands are a common occurrence in the PNW, typically situated at the edge of a parking lot, no bigger than a walk-in closet. Determined to not buzz past the next coffee shop, I consult Google Maps, who shows me there is a joint called "Cowgirl Espresso" about 5 miles up the road. The name seems a bit odd, maybe it's just a Western themed coffee outfit. Whatever, I'm always down to support women owned businesses.
I turn off the highway into a muddy patch of desolate highway frontage with a few big rigs sprawled about. It feels eerily uncomfortable but at this point I just need a coffee. I pull up to the java shack & I am immediately startled by the sight of a woman in a skimpy string bikini stepping to the window. It's 15 degrees outside. Now all the semi trucks parked here make sense. Pervs.
I order a coffee & she makes conversation like nothing is amiss. She notices my Bills hat & comments how upset she was that they lost. I string together a few words, still flabbergasted at the situation. The coffee is, predictably, terrible. I pull back out onto the highway, eager to get to the mountain and put that nightmare behind me.
I arrive at Crystal Mountain at half past 7 & waddle up to the gondola to check in. After checking in I realize that I inadvertently set my skis at the front of the gondola line. I look at the two guys who were at the front of the line.
"Ahhh shit, my bad I didn't realize this was the front of the line"
"Ehhh It's no problem, are you from out of town?"
"Yeah I'm from Oklahoma"
"Well shit yeah stay right there you can ride up with us if you want"
And that's how I met Jeff & Eric.
Jeff is a character, boisterous in a fun uncle kind of way. He's loud, he's jovial, and he's not afraid to talk to anyone. Every 5-10 minutes he'll spontaneously break into his mating call.
"Wooooo!!!! Wolf Pack!! Wolf Pack baby!!!"
Am I part of the wolf pack? Is there some sort of initiation? Are you ok, Jeff?
Eric is a bit quieter, content to let Jeff do all the talking. They both work for Boeing & are able to take a few mid-week mornings off per month to embrace the send. Sounds like a hell of a gig to me.
Before we hop on the gondola, the liftie tells us the first 25 people to make a purchase at the Summit House Restaurant at the top of the gondola will receive a free Stanley thermos. Well you would have thought Jeff won the lottery with that news.
"A free Stanley thermos?? Ohhhhh heck yeah, I love those things! You hear that Eric? A free Stanley thermos.. We'll get a shot of Fireball & a free Stanley thermos. Can you believe that? A free Stanley thermos!!"
Yep a free* Stanley thermos.
*price of a shot of Fireball whiskey.
We load up on the gondola and I give them my spiel. I call it my "chairlift pitch," the skiing version of an elevator pitch. It's met with amazement, thinly veiled envy, and leading questions about my favorite mountain in the hopes that I say it's theirs. Jeff is interested in my story like a dog with a bone. He can't get enough of it.
"Well before you leave you need to get a beer at the Snorting Elk, it's been voted the best après bar in the country. It's like being in a Swiss chalet, it's really great. Eric & I will be down there around 1 today if you want to join us.
......
Ha! A free Stanley thermos!! Can you believe it!!""
The gondola reaches the top & we scurry into the Summit House for our free Stanley thermos. We throw back a round of Fireball whiskeys & snag our thermos from the bewildered looking girl at the register. I don't think they told her about the thermos promo.
Our whistles wetted, we gear up & head for the Green Valley Express, the only lift that will be open for the first tracks program. The corduroy is fresh and we rip it up. High speed carving on a relatively empty piste. It's not the most challenging but it is definitely fun, lap after lap.
Eventually the rest of the mountain opens & we venture out to other areas. I follow the fellas around a few runs, accidentally losing them on a run after dipping into the trees to take a leak. No matter, they've shown me a good portion of the mountain and explained all the best areas so I'm good on my own.
I head back up to the top of the gondola to enjoy the scenery. It's a bluebird day, a start contrast to the thick fog still smothering Seattle. In fact, I can see the fog in the distance, a seeming lake between the mountains. Poor bastards. The ski area is in the shadow of Mt Ranier, with Mt Adams & Mt St Helens in plain view as well.
I spend the rest of the day meandering here & there, wishing the snow was better. One lift in particular looks like it accesses some awesome terrain, which is unfortunately closed today due to the less than ideal conditions. They aren't terrible, just a bit crusty off the groomers.
Just after 1 PM I finish the day at the Snorting Elk with a Woodpile IPA from Stoup Brewing and a bowl of chili. I pop open my ski tracks app to see the damage I did today & I'm amazed to see I skied 33,650' vertical on 23 runs, my biggest day since I started tracking last season. Not too shabby.
I finish up at the Snorting Elk & lug my gear back to the car. The two hour drive back to Greg & Joanne's does not feature any scantily clad women, for better or worse. I worked up a hell of an appetite today, which is fortunate seeing that today is Raclette Day. Michael, for all his world travels, has never dined at a Raclette table, a fact that we plan to remedy tonight.
But not before a plop in Greg & Joanne's hot tub to soothe my sore muscles. While I soak, Greg is busy in the kitchen prepping for supper. Michael insists that we blanch the broccoli & Brussels sprouts because texture.. or something... I wasn't listening my stomach was rumbling too loud.
Greg gets the table all heated up and Joanne is able to peel away from her boss Gail's relentless messages long enough for some DIY dinner.
As expected the the vittles are outstanding. The meat is marinated to perfection, the veggies are.. blanched to perfection. Chef Michael is impressed with the Raclette table & we spend the night cooking, tasting, drinking red wine.
This is Michael's last night here but not his last night here. His cousin Heather, who hosted us last week in San Francisco, is headed up to Seattle tomorrow for some vacay time with her folks, who are coming in from Chicago. He will be staying with them through the weekend at their Airbnb near Ballard, an area on the Sound with a plethora of breweries. No way we give that neighborhood a visit.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
The next morning I gear up and head to Alpental, one of four ski areas that make up The Summit at Snoqualmie, the closest ski resort to Seattle, about an hour East on I-90. Just as the weathermen predicted, the blanket of fog has burned off, exposing bright blue skies for my drive. Well most of my drive. As I pull into the parking lot I look up to the mountain and see a cloud of fog so thick I can't even see the lodge. Well shit. I debate just heading back, but seeing as I've already driven up here I might as well take a few spins.
I strap on the gear and hit the lift. About 2/3rds of the way up the fog clears and we're back to blue skies again. I soon find myself dealing with a Neapolitan layered weather situation, perfect clear skies at top, horrible can't-see-shit fog mid-mountain, and more moderate I-can-ski-through-this fog on the lower third.
They only have one lift running today, which is a shame because the upper mountain area looks like it has some decent terrain. As it stands I just lap the one lift a handful of times and call it a day. 5 runs, 6,000 feet of vertical, 51 minutes. I spend twice as much time in the car as I do on the slopes.
Oh well, that's just the way she goes sometimes. Plus I have plenty of skiing left on this trip, I'm not too worried about it.
Weekend Warriors
I head back to the house and enjoy the last few hours of sunshine strolling around Kirkland with Michael. We walk through a few parks that front Lake Washington, with beautiful views of Mt Ranier, the Seattle skyline, and the Olympic mountain range.
Greg & Joanne have booked us a reservation tonight at Flatstick Pub, the new indoor putt-putt bar in town. We get to the pub and the gang's all here, Greg & Joanne, Michael, Heather, and her folks Joe & Darlene. We enjoy a few ales and a few tales before grabbing our sticks. Much like any mini-golf track, many of the holes have a choice: you can go for the "hero" shot or play it safe. I bet you can guess which choice I took. Every time. To disastrous results. At least we met an awesome dog named Copper who had no conception of the tidal wave of embarrassment that washes over you when you write a "10" on your putt-putt scorecard.
Greg is a pro and smokes everybody handily. We enjoy another round of brewskis before Heather & her folks call it a night and head for their Airbnb, Michael in tow. We amble back up to the house and call it a night ourselves.
I spend the next morning chilling at a coffee shop in town, resting my ski legs. This evening I have plans to meet for happy hour with my friend Anne, a friend from Houston who currently lives in Seattle. She suggests a spot for libations in the Capitol Hill area of town called Linda's Tavern. I check the transit options because when you're in the big city you do big city things. Plus, given my propensity to cave to barroom peer pressure, it's best that I don't drive.
I stroll down to the Kirkland Transit Center, conveniently located adjacent to the main drag, where I hop on the route 255 bus headed for Seattle. I jump off at the light rail station on the UW campus, where I notice a peculiarly large group of able bodied folks piling on the elevator. I soon find out why. To get to the train platform you need to take three long escalators to the preposterous depth of 100 feet below the surface. For perspective, this would tie for third deepest out of NYC's 472 subway stations.
The Central Puget Sound Regional Transit authority is currently working through designs to build 62 miles of new light rail in Seattle, the fastest growing transit market in the US. The proposed depth of the downtown stations? 140 feet. As of writing, an article on The Seattle Times website detailing the plans has 228 comments. People are worked up about their subterranean labyrinthine future.
Anyway, I finally make it to the platform, which is so clean that it would make Michael uncomfortable, having spent the last decade-plus riding the NYC subway. I'm only on the train one stop, where I disembark at the Capitol Hill station. I later learn that this was the birthplace of grunge and you can feel it. The 'hood has retained a gritty vibe, unpolished by the sterile monotony that afflicts many contemporary urban neighborhoods. The streets are dotted with dive bars, live music venues, and graffiti. This isn't to say there hasn't been change - the list of online articles lamenting the closing of any number of neighborhood haunts is long - however the area has retained at least a modicum of the grungy angst that made it the preferred home for Cobain, Cornell, Vedder, and Staley.
I pop into Linda's, one of the aforementioned dives. The wooden back bar sports a wall of bottles afore a mirror that likely hasn't been cleaned since the 90s, all below a taxidermied bison head. Anne arrives right after me and we make our way to the back patio to enjoy the unseasonably favorable weather. We are soon joined by two of her Amazon co-workers and their wives, who immediately start scrolling through their phones any time the Amazoners start talking shop.
We enjoy a few rounds of suds on the patio before the others have to bail. Anne and I continue the merrymaking at Bait Shop, a nautical themed dive with tropical drinks. After a couple seafaring cold ones we head for a nightcap at Boca, an Argentinian restaurant a few doors down. The place is decorated with Argentinian mementos, soccer memorabilia, and of course a shrine to Maradona, Messi, and Jesus Christ above the bar.
While we were in Tahoe I discovered that in addition to crazy fact that San Francisco accounts for 25% of fernet's domestic market share, Argentina accounts for a mind boggling 75% international market share. It's so ubiquitous in Argentina that the fernet & coke has been described as the country's unofficial drink. Naturally, I order a fernie cola. When in Buenos Aires.
Now I'm pretty open when it comes to food & drink, I'll try anything and there are few things that I categorically detest. Fernie & coke is one of them. I just can't fathom how anybody would enjoy this vile concoction. I manage to choke down the swill and we call it a night. We say our goodbyes and I opt for an Uber back to Kirkland.
The next day we have plans to check out Ballard, the neighborhood by the Sound where Michael & Heather are staying. The area is riddled with breweries - there are 16 breweries or taprooms within a short walk of each other. I can certainly get on board with that.
I start the day with a quick run around the neighborhood to sweat out the toxins. I follow an old railroad line for a few miles, around the periphery of Juanita Beach Park, and back up set of stairs in the forest that never seems to end.
I get cleaned up and we set our course for Ballard, Seattle's brewery mecca. On the way we stop at the Fremont Troll, a 20 foot high concrete public art project built in 1990. Joanne and I snap a few photos, while being photobombed by a young girl climbing on the statue. I actually spend more time admiring the 170 foot high cantilever truss bridge above the troll if you can believe that.
On our way back to the car we stroll past a bronze statue of Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov. A man perhaps better known as Lenin.
Well now I have to find out how the hell this got here. It was discovered in a Czechoslovakian scrapyard by a Seattle native teaching English overseas named Lewis E. Carpenter. Mr Carpenter found the hollow statue with a homeless man living inside it, a felicitous allegory for Soviet Communism.
LEC had to work some bureaucratic magic to obtain approval to buy and move the statue out of the country. Once the proper wheels had been greased, it was chopped into three pieces, overlanded to Rotterdam, then shipped to the US. The statue eventually arrived in Seattle, where Carpenter planned to install it in front of his Slovak restaurant to draw business.
That was August 1993. Carpenter died in a car accident in February 1994.
The statue has been sitting at the corner of Fremont Place and North 36th Street ever since, waiting for a buyer. It can be yours for \$250,000.
It seems fitting for a neighborhood whose motto is Libertas Quirkas - freedom to be peculiar. Seattle is wild.
We depart Fremont for the quick drive to Michael & Heather's Airbnb in Ballard. We see Michael wearily ramble out of the house & tell us that he'll be the only one joining us for the brewery tour. Apparently they got into the wine last night and everyone is worse for wear. But Michael, being the trooper that he is, saddles up anyway. Good man.
We stop off first at Stoup Brewing, an outfit that I am familiar with from my après IPA at the Snorting Elk. I order myself a flight spanning the spectrum from pilsner to stout. Each offering tickles my taste buds in just the right way. They do good work here. After I down the flight I decide on a pint of the Mosaic Pale Ale to enjoy with our food truck nachos.
After Stoup we wander down to Obec Brewing, where I order a Not Dead Yet IPA. This one doesn't dazzle me the way the brews at Stoup did. It's not bad, however this particular tipple just doesn't suit my fancy. We dump down our beers and spill back out into the industrial brewery-ridden avenues.
As we wander around our stomachs start to grumble. All this drinking can really work up an appetite & the nachos are starting to wear off. Looking for a bite to eat, we stumble into the Walrus and the Carpenter, an appellative homage to Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking-Glass. This appears to be the place to be on a Saturday in Ballard, with a 2 hour wait for the dining room. As luck would have it, a table at the bar opens up just as we arrive. Since the eponymous characters in Carroll's poem eat oysters we decide to enjoy a few mollusks at the bar before a proper supper. We'll just ape John Lennon & pretend we don't know the Walrus & Carpenter are the villains of the story.
Joanne & Greg don't eat oysters so Michael and I order a dozen for just the two of us, chef's choice. They are all freshly caught in Washington, and they are delightful. The Chelsea Gems in particular are outstanding. So outstanding that Michael and I order a second dozen of just the Gems. My god what a gustatory treasure these little babies are.
We finish up our oyster feast and walk down the street to Ballard Pizza Company for a few pies and suds. At this point in the night our eyelids are starting to get heavy. We've had quite the day and it's about time to put it to rest.
We say our goodbyes to Michael, who will be heading back to Brooklyn in the morning. He has been my trusty travel companion for the past two weeks, through 3 states & 1,100 miles. That's equivalent to the drive from Buffalo to Tulsa. Love ya, cuz.
With Mikey Bob back on the East Coast, Sunday finds us in Woodinville, a town just a bit North of Kirkland with over 100 wine tasting rooms. Greg & Joanne are members at Chateau Ste. Michelle, which seems to be so popular nobody goes there anymore. So we instead head to the J. Bookwalter Tasting Studio. The Bengals-Chiefs AFC Championship game is on in the corner and I sit with my back to it. I can't even bring myself to watch the game that should have been in Orchard Park.
We are greeted by a friendly sommelier/waiter/salesman, coincidentally also named Mike. Mike pours us our wines and waxes poetic about the superiority of J. Bookwalter wines to all other Washington wines. Having yet to taste all other Washington wines all I can say is that J. Bookwalter squeezes a fine grape. The glint in Mike's eye shines bright like a diamond when we voice satisfaction with their viticultures. He immediately breaks into the full court press, pushing Joanne and Greg to buy a bottle from their premium collection. They don't cave to his pressure and buy a couple more moderately priced offerings, which seemed perfectly adequate to me.
When we ask Mike for recommendations of other tasting rooms, you can almost hear the visceral pain jangle through his body. He can rattle off dozens of rooms we should avoid and can only offer the most meager of praise to a handful of wineries. When we tell him we'll just head across the street to Guardian Cellars he winces like he's getting a tooth pulled. Whatever Mike, we'll do what we want.
We venture across the street to Guardian, a tasting room with a chic, modern feel adorned with posh couches for casual lounging. A much more relaxed vibe. Our waitress Candace comes around to explain their wines, all of which come from the Tri-Cities area in Eastern Washington.
Which brings me to another pointless digression.
I have a minor linguistic quibble with the term "Tri-Cities". The largest city of the triumvirate just barely tops 70,000, which doesn't scream "city" to me. The US Census defines an Urbanized Area as a "a continuously built-up area with a population of 50,000 or more," while the OECD defines a small urban area as a municipality with between 50,000 and 200,000 residents.
If you want to call a small urban area a city, by all means go right ahead. But I doubt you'll find a building over 30 stories tall in a polity of 70,000 souls, which I'll just arbitrarily throw out there as my definition of a city. The Tri-Cities could go the alliterative route and call themselves the Tri-Towns. Or the Triple-Hamlets. Or the Trigonous-Villages. Or the Tripartite Alliance of Small Urban Areas if you're not into brevity.
So the wines come from the Tri-Cities area, which sits in the region of the Columbia, Yakima, and Walla Walla valleys. I'm familiar with Walla Walla because that's where Drew Bledsoe hails from & where he makes, from what I've heard, great wine. We really squandered a golden opportunity last week because I'm just now seeing that he has a tasting room in Bend. A real Bend blunder.
Jesus, I can't stay on track. Ok we're at Guardian Cellars. These wines are much more playful & funky. Their insouciant approach to winemaking pleases me; it's more in line with Tank Garage Winery than the snobs over at J. Bookwalter.
Joanne & Greg make it evident that they are actually interested in the Bengals-Chiefs game so I pull it up on my phone. We tune in just in time to watch Joey Burrah work his 4th quarter & OT magic to vanquish the Chefs and punch their ticket to their first Super Bowl since another Joey led the '9ers to victory with the help of a 11 grab 215 yard day from MVP Jerry Lee Rice. Great googly moogly!
Candace continues to pour us more wines but all I can think is Big Josh would have beat the Bengals. Ugh.
We settle up at Guardian and saunter back to the Jeep. It's been a nice little Sunday of good wine & great company. But I'm ready to hit the slopes again.
Baker Beckons
When I made my PNW trek last spring, the only mountain still open that late in the season in all of Washington state was Mt. Baker. Which makes perfect sense, given that its 641 average annual inches of snowfall is one of the highest in the world. It also holds the distinction of snowiest season ever recorded anywhere on Earth at 1,140 inches - that's 95 feet of snow in one season. Outrageous.
The skiing last year was tremendous, and while not on my Ikon pass, I must go back. Luckily it's more remote, less developed, and more moderately priced than some of the resorts that charge \$200+ for a day of skiing. It's so old school the only place you can buy a lift ticket is at the window. None of this fancy online shit. I love it.
And the terrain is terrific. The two lifts up the left side serve some nice cruisy blues, while the hill on the right has some hard chargin' leg burners. And the backcountry looks incredible.
It's a bit of a haul to Baker, about 2.5 hours NNE up near the Canadian border. The last 20 minutes I wind through a marvelous forest of snow covered trees that look like they've been individually decorated with frosting. I wish someone else were driving so I could enjoy the view. I pull into the White Salmon Lodge parking lot just after 11 & head for the left side for a couple warm up runs.
Today will be my first day of fresh snow - only about 3-4 inches - but I'll take it. Seeing as I am nowhere near the first to the mountain today (given the brewery tour & wine tastings this weekend) the snow has been skied out quite a bit. I am, however, able to find some sweet, sweet pockets of delicious untouched powder. The effortless feeling of floating through fresh snow is divine. It's shin deep in some places.
After a couple warm ups, I head over to the more challenging right side of the mountain. Given the type of skier that frequents Mt. Baker, it's substantially more carved up than the other side. I shred my legs for a couple runs over here & decide to head back over to the gentler slopes to work on my powder turns in some better snow.
Halfway down the very first run back on the easy side I get lazy on a turn and catch the inside of my right ski in the pow. It yanks my foot back & I take a tumble, which is actually quite fun on a powder day. But as I stand up I realize I've tweaked something in my hip. I didn't tear anything but it's just a little tender to put weight on and more painful when I do certain movements. Sunofabitch.
I'm able to cruise down to the lodge no problem, where I decide to grab lunch & see if it feels better after a little rest. After about an hour and a PB&J for strength I decide to call it a day. It's not too painful, there are just some angles where it's weak and I don't want to injure myself worse. It's a bummer but no sense risking it.
You win this time, Baker.
It's a sad slog back to the car after only a couple hours of skiing on my first powder day of the season. Bummer. I make the drive back through the Bob Ross forest of happy trees and stop off at North Fork Brewery for a lugubrious ale. I order a flight & slice of pep that lifts my beleaguered spirits. Then back on the road to Seattle.
You Won't Believe This... But I Have Another Cousin Coming to Visit
Yep. Cousins galore. If you can't keep it all straight, don't worry about it, neither can my brothers.
My cousin Laura is on her way from Buffalo to hang with us in the great Pacific Northwest. Laura and I are pretty close, she 5 days older than me after all. She was my marathon sherpa last November in the Big Apple. She brought my Australian bush hat all the way back to the States after the dumb brain that ostensibly should have been under said hat left it at a hotel in Perth. Laura is a treasure.
Growing up every time I'd talk with my Grandpa Skip on the phone he'd ask me how my grades were. More times than not he'd interrupt me to tell me Laura got straight-A's. She always got straight-A's. And my grandpa loved rubbing it in my face. Not a chance that emotional trauma scarred me as a child and has anything to do with my current nomadic vagabondage. No way. Also can you clean tears out of a keyboard? Asking for a friend.
Laura's arrives at SEATAC just before 11 and I scoop her up, headed for Victrola Coffee Roasters, a spot in Capitol Hill that was recommended by my good friend Cameron. We properly caffeinate ourselves before a little neighborhood wanderin'. Our first stop is a quirky boutique called Standard Goods that has eclectic bags, stickers, mugs, and postcards, alongside an assortment of PNW themed threads. I find a kickass flannel shirt and an impossibly soft cardigan for my mom, whose sole criteria when purchasing clothing is "is it soft?"
Laura barters for a few wares of her own and we continue our jaunt. We're walking down a random street when all of a sudden I hear Laura exclaim, "Oh my god!! They have a Glossier here!!"
"A.. uh what?"
"Don't worry about it, can you give me about 10 minutes?"
"Yeah sure, I have nowhere to be"
We dip into Glossier and it appears to be a makeup store? Skin creams & lipsticks & nail polishes galore. According to Laura, they have been exclusively online and just recently opened a few stores. Of all the skin joints in all the cities in all the world we stumble onto this one. I pop a squat on an artsy bench-couch situation that, if it's not called "The Man Corner" it surely has some such similar sobriquet.
A woman comes to help Laura and gives me a knowing nod on the Ottoman du Gentleman. I non-sardonically implore her to take all the time she wants, I really am in no rush. No I mean it. I'm serious. No joke.
Laura does whatever it is you do at a Glossier shop and seems to be really enjoying it. Perhaps we should change the phrase "kid in a candy store" to "adult woman in a Glossier store." I suppose "adult man mouthbreathingly staring at an electronic slab displaying modern gladiatorial combat" would do just the same.
I take a look at the Glossier website and right on the front page, in big bold letters it reads,
I want to smell like this forever
Now I really regret calling this place a skin joint.
Laura's Glossier craving now satiated, we continue our ramble. We stop at a Mexican restaurant called Poquito's for a margarita in their makeshift Covid sidewalk lean-to. I don't normally enjoy margaritas in 40 degree overcast weather but my goodness does it hit the spot. A top notch tipple.
After our round of margs we venture back to the car & head for Kirkland. Laura drops her luggage before we saddle up for the quick walk to town for supper. On the way we pass a house with a ferocious guard dog that yaps at all passersby that dare cross his domain. We name him Colonel Cornelius Wadsworth Longstockings III.
Jo made us a reservation at a French brasserie called Feast. We split a bottle of wine and some seared scallops, one of my favorite aquatic treats. To my great chagrin, the bivalve mollusks are just ok; but my grilled Pacific halibut & sweet potato puree is positively dynamite.
After supper, we head back to the house for a nightcap & hit the sack. Laura's had a big day of traveling and the jet lag has her circadian rhythm all out of sorts.
Weekend Warriors, Part Deux: Electric Boogaloo
I wake up on Friday, very excited about the night's plans. We have tickets to see one of my favorite bands, the Delvon Lamarr Organ Trio, who are based out of Seattle. According to the band's website they are "a soul-jazz concoction that goes straight to your heart and head makes your body break out in a sweat. Live, the band’s fiery and intuitive chemistry is unstoppable, brimming with improvisation, instant composition, imaginative takes on classic tunes, and a booty-shaking back catalog of soulful gems."
I have yet to see them live and I am ready to shake my booty. I'm giddy.
Anticipating our future condition we eschew the car and opt for transit. The show is at the Crocodile, a venue that has been a staple of the Seattle live music scene since it opened in 1991. It's in the Belltown neighborhood of Seattle, which just so happens to be right next to Capitol Hill. Since we liked Capitol Hill so much during our frolickin' yesterday we decide to head there.
Our first stop is a real hole in the wall called the Comet Tavern. We walked past it yesterday & knew that we needed to return - Laura shares the same affinity for dive bars as I. We walk in and find ourselves treated to an absolute gem. The bar features wooden booths set below exposed brick walls and heaving wooden beams, vintage beer signs, and dollar bills hanging from the ceiling. Pinball and billiards tables dot the joint for those interested in a little barroom sporting, and a pull tab machine for those interested in a little barroom gambling. But the pièce de résistance has to be the phenomenal gabled wooden mid-Century back bar, appointed with a built-in mirror behind bottles of cheap booze. It has to be at least 30 feet long, all one piece. I can't imagine having to move that thing.
The bartender says it dates from the '50s & was brought in when they renovated the place a few years back. Before the reno, the entire bar was covered wall-to-wall in a thick patina of graffiti. There are a few panels of graffiti-plastered walls that remain sprinkled throughout the establishment. During Prohibition, the basement was used to smuggle liquor through a series of tunnels. And how could you forget about Ethel O'Hearn, the unofficial patron saint of the bar. Ethel was a chain-smoking old woman who tended bar at the Comet for over 40 years and didn't take no crap from nobody. She's a part of the bar. Literally. Her ashes are inside the barstool at the end of the bar, marked with a brass plaque bearing her name.
I love this place.
I order a Black Beer from Holy Mountain Brewing Company, a brewery I patronized last year with Greg & Joanne. As expected from my experience with Holy Mountain the suds are excellent. Laura and I enjoy our cold cruisers and meander around to further bask in the glorious milieu of the Comet. On one wall hangs an enormous red illuminated "C" - the "C" from the famous Pike Place Market sign that stood from 1938-1998 before being replaced. A long time bar patron won it in a poetry contest the market held when tearing down the old sign. This place.
As Laura and I grudgingly acknowledge our time at the Comet is running short, we ask the bartender for some recommendations of places to hit before the show. He rattles off a few spots & we decide on the tiki bar, called Inside Passage. On our way, we saunter right past a place called La Josie & we both look at each other & know that we have to duck in. Everyone in the family's nickname for Joanne is Josie so we couldn't not get a drink here.
Laura and I belly up to the bar and she immediately spots her swill of choice. \$10 for a shot of Hornitos and a tallboy Modelo. Damn good deal, I'll take that deal.
We enjoy our beverages then back out to the crawl. A few minutes later we stroll into Inside Passage, which as it turns out does not like being called a tiki bar. According to their website, they are "a Pacific Northwest, underwater, sunken ship, tropical immersion bar... A bar which allows the guest to be transported away the moment they enter and become immersed in a new reality. Windows to the outside world are limited or closed off. The décor has an incredible amount of detail which wraps around you and stays true to the concept and time period."
Cool, so can I get a drink?
I order The Turnbuckle, a Cynar based drink with a dash of rum & passionfruit that I hope will tickle my fancy now that I'm immersed. It arrives in a special Cynar artichoke glass that really adds to the experience. They certainly don't skimp on the pageantry here. As anticipated, the cocktail hits the spot, a perfect elixir to loosen my hips before booty shaking.
We depart our underwater tropical immersion back into the concrete jungle of downtown Seattle. It's just a few more blocks until we arrive at the Crocodile, where we weave our way inside to a pretty packed house. It turns out that this show is a pre-release party for their new album, Cold as Weiss. Righteous. We find a nice little spot near the back of the joint, but it's not a huge venue so we're still pretty close.
DLO3 comes out and they waste no time bringing down the house. Delvon is feelin' it on the organ, Jimmy is bringing the juice on the 6 string, & Dan is right in the pocket, keeping everything on schedule. I'm dancin'. I'm groovin'. I'm shakin' my booty.
About halfway through the show, Delvon's wife & manager, Amy Novo AKA Shortcake Mafia, comes out to announce a secret show at the Kirkland Performance Center in a few weeks. Unfortunately by that time I will have moseyed out of town but I make sure to let Greg & Joanne know to catch it.
Amy is notorious from a story that Delvon told on their last live album. During a show that the band put on as part of their first annual Tacoma block party, Amy took the mic to thank everyone for coming to the block party. But, according to Delvon, and apparently everybody who was in attendance, the way Amy says "block" sounds like "black." So when Amy thanked everyone for coming to the first annual "Tacoma Black Party" the band knew they had to write a song called Tacoma Black Party.
Enjoy.
The night is full of silky smooth grooves, playful jazz-funk riffs, and face melting guitar solos. Their self-described brand of "feel good music" drives deep into your soul, conjuring subconscious emotions that can only manifest themselves through an ear to ear grin suspended above legs doing the full tilt boogie. Even the surliest of curmudgeons couldn't help but bust a move. It's the type of show you remember for a long, long time. It's the type of show you can't wait to see again.
Laura makes it to the end of the show, despite waking up at the crack of dawn yesterday & a body clock ticking 3 hours ahead. I think she was planning to head home early but the concert was so damn good she couldn't leave. Either that or she was just appeasing me. In any case we saw one hell of a show. We hail an Uber for the ride back across Lake Washington to Greg & Joanne's & crash immediately when we get back. What a night.
And Now for a Little Culture
We have a nice little Saturday planned today. Laura has arranged for us to attend a performance at the Pacific Northwest Ballet - a little obscure show written by some English guy called Romeo & Juliet. Laura, a dancer and avid fan of dance, is thrilled. At one point she reprimands me for calling the PNB the "Seattle Ballet," which, in her estimation, is one of the top ballet companies in the US.
I've never been to a ballet in my life so I have no idea what to expect. Some folks dancing about I suppose. We find our way to our seats in the mezzanine, ready for a tale of star-crossed lovers engaged in a doomed tryst. As with most assignments in high school, I didn't really pay attention when we read Romeo & Juliet. Hell I probably didn't even read it. But I know the broad strokes, I'll know what's going on.
Nope.
The plot of the first act is completely lost on me. I know there are the Capulets & Montagues and they hate each other with the heat of a thousand suns. But I couldn't tell you which family Romeo or Juliet belong to. So that's where we're at.
Luckily the plot is just the loose facade upon which the choreography is hung. You don't need to know the story to appreciate the artistic merit of the dancers, whose movements are so fluid and effortless it's difficult to comprehend. The skill & dexterity they display is a beautiful sight to behold. Plus the meaty gams on the fellas are unbelievable. Beefcake alert!
The first act ends with the balcony scene & intermission. We head out to the lobby, Laura offering astute & nuanced commentary regarding the artistic interpretation, the quality of the dancers, and the set design. While I have such enlightening questions as, "which ones are the Capulets & which ones are the Montagues?" and "who's that Cary Elwes lookin' fella?" and
"What was with those weird one-eyed mask things they were wearing?"
"Are you serious??"
"Uhh yeah"
"Oh my god, Andrew. That was the Capulet masquerade ball, it's one of the most important parts of the story, it's where Romeo falls in love with Juliet"
"Oh yeah, I caught that Romeo & Juliet part"
"Jesus, you're an idiot"
I don't think she actually said that last part, but she surely thought it. And, the uncultured swine that I am, surely deserved it. After intermission we head back in, armed with at least a cursory understanding of what's going on. The second and third acts are just as dazzling as the first.
According to the PNB, the choreographer Jean-Christope Maillot has approached the story from a fresh angle, instead of "focusing on themes of political-social opposition between the two feuding clans, this Romeo and Juliet highlights the dualities and ambiguities of adolescence. Torn between contradictory impulses, between tenderness and violence, fear and pride, the lovers are caught in the throes of a tragedy that exemplifies their youth and the extreme emotions and internal conflicts that characterize that time of life"
I was just thinking that.
After *spoiler alert* the young lovers die in each other's arms, we head back out to the car. I couldn't help but notice how close we are to Holy Mountain Brewing and Josie agrees to take the kids to the candy store. I order a flight of The Chariot double IPA, Throne of Blood altbier, and two saisons, the Demonteller and Wall of Light. The penultimate pour earns itself a full pint upon conclusion of the flight.
Greg snags a four pack of the The White Lodge Belgian wit, his favorite offering from the brewery, before we load back up headed for the land of Kirk. We drop off the car at the house & stroll down to a Mexican restaurant called Cactus. I've lived in Texas the past 7 years so my bar for Mexican food is quite high. I order a margarita and the butternut squash enchiladas, which are served stacked, New Mexico style, as opposed to rolled up like most enchiladas. Low expectations be damned, both the cocktail and enchiladas are outstanding. I prepared to be disappointed & was dazzled instead. Bravo, Cactus, bravo indeed.
We enjoy another round of drinks before hiking back up the hill to the house and a little shuteye.
The next morning we arise with plans to hike Snoqualmie Falls, a 270-foot high waterfall (~100 feet higher than Niagara Falls) about 45 minutes away. We strap on our hikin' boots and load into the Jeep. The weather is gorgeous, a perfect Sunday morning without a cloud in the sky.
Until we get to the falls.
About a mile out we drive into a thick fog. A fog that seems to have parked itself right over our point of interest. We can hardly see to the other side of the parking lot but we venture out to the viewing platform anyway. To our supreme dismay the falls are completely obscured from view. You can hear the thunderous clash of rushing water cascading over the precipice. But you can't see a damn thing.
We decide against the hike & head over to the lodge to see if there's at least a view from there. No dice. But the gift shop has a book on the best bars in the world, so I guess I got that goin' for me, y'know?
All I have to say is that Laura now has a convincing reason to come back to Seattle to see the falls, as if just seeing her cousin Joanne weren't enough.
Since that plan was foiled, we decide to head down to Tacoma for brunch before Laura's flight. With the phenomenal weather everywhere else besides the falls, we should get great views of Mt. Ranier from Tacoma. We head out from Snoqualmie & drive about 10 miles SSW on WA-18 when we hit a logjam. And I mean logjam. Cars aren't moving, guys are out of their cars walking around, it's madness.
We sit for about 15 minutes, when the traffic inches forward enough to reach a break in the concrete median & we whip the Jeep around. Cars are lined up for at least 2 miles, stuck between dense forest on one side and a waist high concrete median on the other. It's very fortunate that we didn't get caught up in that mayhem, we probably would have missed Laura's flight. After that detour we won't have time to do Tacoma so we end up brunching at a place on the water in Renton, right next to a million square foot plant where Boeing builds the 737.
After brunch, we whisk Laura Liz off to the airport, headed for Buffalo & the real world. We exchange hugs and vow to see each other soon. And just like that she's off.
My original itinerary had me heading to Canada tomorrow, however earlier this week cousin Randy sent me a text that he found a great deal on a flight to Bozeman. He wants to meet up with me for some Big Sky shredding. Sounds like a hell of a deal, however the date is about a week later than I had planned. I brainstorm for a bit and decide that a quick trip down to Redwood National Forest wouldn't be the worst use of my time.
Let's go see what these big ass trees are all about.