The Inaugural Post

Utah by way of Taiwan.

After a year away, one week home just wasn't enough. Many happy moments were shared with friends and family but there wasn't enough time to really settle into my old stomping grounds and rehash some of the more secretive stories with my best friends. Though a party was had, and it was indeed wonderful, I wasn't able to spend the quality time with my friends that I would have hoped. In due time.

One fine Monday morning I set off on the familiar Interstate 90, beginning the long and wearisome crawl towards eastern Washington. This same drive used to have me in fits of rage as I found myself staring out at a vast empty plain, a solitary strip of pavement in front of me like a long zipper that wouldn't budge. This trip was different however, I swung south after heading through the beauty of Snoqualmie pass and made towards the Oregon border.

I merged onto Interstate 82 and hardly noticed the change in pace or scenery as it was much the same as I was used to after four years of driving back and forth between eastern and western Washington. Where the 82 becomes the 84 marks the beginning of Oregon, and as I crossed the bridge in Umatilla where a large sign welcomes you to the state, the sun was beginning to throw a golden light over the verdant wheat fields. The shimmering light bounced off the flowing stalks and cast a pleasant hue over the otherwise plain highway. I rode along, listening to various new radio stations as one would fade out and the next would crackle to life, enjoying the solitude and independence of the classic American combination of automobile and open road. On my right, resplendent fields awash in sunny glow, on the left, towering jagged peaks capped with snow and stretching as far as the highway would take me.

Darkness began to set in around the time I was coming to the far edge of Oregon, hugging the snake river as it winds down into the heart of southern Idaho. When the sun went down, the moon came up, obscured as it was by great thickets of fog.

While passing through the aptly named Deadman Pass, I encountered a fog bank so thick that coming upon it felt akin to slamming through a cement barrier. My visibility crunched down to about eight feet from the wind shield to the roadway. I hit the brakes and slowed down to thirty, despite it being a sixty mile an hour zone. The only way to indicate any direction was to follow the meager hash marks between lanes, which came out of the fog like lethargic snakes in front of my tires, only two or three marks visible at a time in the heavily saturated air. Despite this obvious hazard, I was continually passed by eighteen wheelers in the left lane sending buckets of spray in front of me as they did so, further destroying any semblance of view that I was clinging to. After twenty minutes of this pace, sitting stock straight, both arms crooked and ready for any movement necessary, eyes swiveling from hash mark to hash mark, I suddenly burst through the fog without a trace of evidence to the contrary. It became a scepter in my rear view as though nothing had ever occurred at all; a completely clear and starry night found me on the other side.

I spent the night at a friend of my sisters in Boise, a couple who welcomed me, a veritable stranger, as well as anyone could hope: a bed, three thick blankets, a hot shower and a warm meal. We chatted about my drive and came to my future plans. I mentioned wanting to work on a forest fire crew somewhere in the northwest, as it turned out, Steve was just the man to see about such work. He works for the Bureau of Land Management in Idaho and has a successful career in smoke jumping, the granddaddy of forest fire fighting work. These are the guys who are rappelling out of helicopters into the middle of blazes, fighting them from the inside-- a very serious business. With his help, I came away with a list of people to call and a step-by-step of how to apply online for the position I was interested in. I thanked him for this advantageous information and went to enjoy the comforts of the spare bedroom that they'd set up for me.

In the morning I had a hot shower and cooked up some blueberry oatmeal on the range top before packing up my things. I took a moment to fill my water bottle at the sink. The simplicity of cold, drinkable water flowing from every tap in the house did not go unnoticed by me, as I recalled the various tactics I'd engaged on a daily basis in Taiwan for the same luxury.

On the road again, I hopped onto Interstate 84 which wound all the way down into northern Utah. Along the way I was treated to views which compelled me to pull over and stop on the side of the road, hazard lights blinking and fellow road warriors passing by without a second glance. I stood at the guardrail of a particularly entrancing view and soaked in the majesty of a serene valley filled with a thick blanket of fog encircled by a range of gently sloping mountains. I was overcome by the notion that I should immortalize the moment on film, which I did, thanks to my trusty old film camera.

I never did notice a state sign for Utah. But I realized without a doubt that I'd entered the state when I saw a billboard standing gloriously above the highway with the immediately recognizable evolution of man image with a large red circle and "X" through it. Next to that, in a beautiful and wistful font were the words "And then God created... (Genesis 1:1)"

As I climbed the canyon leading from Salt Lake City to Kimball Junction and finally Park City, I called Kyle, my soon-to-be roommate to confirm the location of our apartment. He assured me that I was close and that I should turn onto the road for The Canyons Resort, our employer for the season, explaining that our house was located along the main drive. This was exciting news, as up until that moment I had no idea where I would be living, and up until a few days prior, neither did Kyle. He had been in Salt Lake for a week, living out of his car and on the couches of friends from his previous season at The Canyons, frantically scrounging together leads on a suitable place to live. He put in long hours on his tireless search, and came away with a gold nugget to show for it.

As I pulled into the resort's main drive, I was struck by the beauty of the deep snow covering the hills around my new home. Though the terrain is very different than the mountains I have grown accustomed to in Washington, jagged peaks standing solitary among great evergreen forests, it held it's own appeal in sheer range. They may not stand alone, but the mountains here sprawl out into a ski paradise of over 150 trails covering eight total peaks; and that's just this one resort. I called Kyle again, not sure of the directions he'd given me, and turned down an icy street lined with small buildings containing two to three apartments a piece. He answered with a frantic "Dude!" before continuing, "I see you! Just keep going forward, do you see me in the window?" I didn't, but if he could see me then I was fine with that.

He ran down the steps of our second floor apartment and met me in the parking spaces outside our door. It was good to see him, as it had been over a year since we'd last met, and I was happy to find that he was just as goofy and gangling as ever, decked out in an over-sized puffy down jacket and unkempt hair. Like a couple of happy puppies, we hugged.

He couldn't wait to show me inside, and we decided to leave the truck bed full of belongings alone for a moment, so that I could enjoy my first glimpse of my new home unencumbered. When I stepped inside, it was far more than I could have hoped for.

The foyer consists of a narrow hallway lined with shelves on the right side for boots, shoes and snow gear. Hooks on the wall provide ample storage for coats, gloves, helmets and ski pants. Behind the door is a space for skis and snowboards. The hallway leads into the living room with it's rough-hewn wood walls and high pitched ceiling. Across the ceiling, halfway between the floor and the eave of the roof are two beams of solid wood which give the lofty room a cozy, cabin feel. On the left wall is the fireplace and mantle, which is now adorned with equal parts books, knick-knacks, and photos. Along the right wall is a steep ladder leading to the loft, where Kyle has set up shop and is now sleeping comfortably, nights. Beneath this loft is the single bedroom, which is so small that should we house chickens in it, PETA will be on our ass for setting up a factory farm. Through this bedroom is the entrance to the bathroom and shower, both adequate and functional. In the living room, the far wall sets back into a recess creating space for a dining table and a corner of windows facing towards the mountain and accompanying resort, to the right of this is the simple but spacious kitchen.

We hauled in all the new furniture and gear, taking time to build our dining table as we had a beer and some oven baked pizza, served in bowls as is customary when moving into a new home and you can't find all the dishes.

Enjoying our meal, sitting on the floor in our apartment which was and is so cold that you can see your breath, we clinked beers and toasted ourselves on a job well done. He we are, two wanderers who made a life possible in a ski town from two countries thousands of miles away. Drinking our beer and finishing our greasy dinner, we laughed as we caught each other up on a years worth of stories beginning with, as ever: "Dude, I wish you could have been there..."