I'm not a skier, but I play one on TV

North Dakota has officially broken a standing record for most snowfall in one month. We're currently working to tame roughly 30 inches of snow on roads and in yards, and that kind of accumulation means one thing: powder day on the prairie. It doesn't happen often (I haven't skied powder in North Dakota since middle school), but here it is.

For anyone not subjected in person to my endless childhood ski stories, Huff Hills Ski Resort is a modest mom-and-pop joint nestled in the Missouri River bluffs south of Bismarck/Mandan. The Beck family opened Huff 15 years ago this year, an anniversary they'll celebrate with a torchlight ceremony this Wednesday night. The resort, consisting of two double chairlifts and a three-story chalet, was built on the site of the former Twilight Hills. Several decades before, a group of doctors and other well-to-do folk in Bismarck opened Twilight Hills to feed their need for skiing. Unfortunately, their concept of mountain management was to ski often and work seldom. The place folded as the ski boom of the '60s subsided.

Conditions have varied drastically over the years. Jim, the grizzled Beck paterfamilias, has perfected the art of snowmaking out of desperation, using an armada of second-hand snow guns and groomers from Red Lodge, Montana. The teen snowboarding craze that swept the rural west in the late '90s kept Huff from going under, though a fair few skiers of talent have crept out of the rafters lately. Die-hards like Dad, my sister Em and me established a friendly repoire with the mountain management, eventually joining the National Ski Patrol to volunteer our services a few days a season. Giving lessons, putting up tower pads, patching up the occasional tweaked wrist or broken collarbone. Another of Dad's former students, my friend David, fell short of joining the NSP but has followed the skiing bug to Colorado College. I won't rail on him too hard here for dipping his toe in the telemark pool.

With low annual snowfall the past seven years or so, business at Huff has been in decline. But this season has breathed new life into the place. I trucked out to patrol a third day today before heading back to Missoula, and the place was packed. Over 500 day-pass holders alone, not to mention the scores of high school snowboarders with season passes. Surprisingly, there wasn't a single injury on the hill. Just kids, parents and grandparents out for a good time in the snow. Temps stayed around 30, with sunshine and low winds. For the first time since I was 13, I stood in a North Dakota lift line for more than five minutes. Jim summed up his opinion of the day by smiling past his tobacco pipe and telling me, "I'm tired."

In the words of Bing Crosby...

As we all know, winter storms over the past two weeks have draped large swaths of North America in a nice white Christmas blanket. High winds, subzero temps, relentless snowfall. It's been a long time coming. Only a month ago I was complaining over pints of Cold Smoke that Snowbird and Alta were receiving unfair powder conditions while Whitefish, Lost Trail and any other ski resort in my backyard couldn't even turn on snow guns. Even a week ago, the coverage at Montana Snowbowl proved pathetic, reminiscent of my first season skiing there in 04/05 (northwestern Montana received roughly 50 percent of average snowfall that season, according to the National Climate Data Center). The inch-long coreshot on the base of my left Rossignol Bandit is testament to the fact.

No more. The latest cadre of severe weather systems are hellbent on making up for the late start to winter. North Dakota has seen higher snow accumulation this December than all of last year. Friends flying through MSP International Airport, O'Hare and Denver walked into bars over the holiday with stories of delays, re-routings or full-on cancellations. Ian described watching airport personnel dole out billet pads to stranded passengers when nearby hotels reached capacity. Four days ago the National Weather Service said Bismarck was on its way to breaking a 1916 snowfall record of 21.7 inches for December. At that time, accumulation in town had hit 19 inches. We've received at least six inches since. Daytime temps have remained in the single digits, with occasional windchills around -10 to -15.

So, the personal impact: I spent Wednesday and Friday this week on National Ski Patrol duty at Huff Hills Ski Resort, south of Bismarck/Mandan. Dug out equipment, ran tobaggans, etc. I shoveled the driveway and sidewalks twice, with a reprieve this morning when my elementary school P.E. teacher Kurt came by with his snowblower. I rediscovered the dangers of digging out window wells while helping Dad roof-rake the house (always make sure you announce your presence in a window well unless you want to suffocate in a prairie avalanche). I cleared paths to the woodpile, to the driver's side door of my car, and in the backyard. The latter proved necessary for our aged border collie, Freckles, to make it to the bathroom. And I high-centered my Subaru Sport on a berm outside the coffee shop, resulting in more digging and the drafting of three hefty passersby to push. Not since 1996, when I crafted a series of tunnels through the drifts in my front yard, have we had anywhere near this much snow. More to follow, but for now some pictures.

Whole lot of nothing

Completed yet another 800-mile cross-country trek yesterday. The Deer Lodge Valley offered up a nice ground blizzard to keep me awake, and shooting stars intermittently kept me entertained between Glendive and Bismarck. But 12 hours is 12 hours. I'll do a little jig the day someone invents a car that drives itself.

Keeping ye olde blog updated has been a challenge. Not a whole lot to write about. The freelance assignments continue to trickle in. The needle on my savings account gauge gets a little closer to empty with every rent check and trip to Kettlehouse. Beyond that, life is an endless series of writing clips and applications. Feels a bit like fishing the Teton River. Whole lot of nothing.

In broader news, the Minneapolis Fed released its economic forecast for '09 a few days ago. Every state in the ninth district save North Dakota shook the magic 8 ball for community economies and got a resounding "outlook is bleak" (Three cheers for NoDakers and their tireless optimism). Employment to drop, manufacturing to decrease, ag outlook mixed. Income levels might go up a bit, but not enough to cover rising costs of living. Damn inflation. Some might see the downsizing or closing of some independent businesses in Missoula as indicators of a failing economy (Shakespeare and Co. closing its sattelite non-fiction storefront, World Games and Stoverud's closing), but it seems a bit early yet to make that call.

One bit of cynical humor to come out of all this economic turmoil: the founding of a new journalistic organization in New York. ASSME (American Society of Shit-canned Media Elite) held a big holiday to-do last week, and I hope the organization's membership swells nationally. Laughing in the face of mounting unemployment. Other stories on the layoffs make it sound like the media is going the way of the dinosaur and the dicso-themed roller rink without resisting or acknowledging it. And this depressive outlook has spread. I received and completed a survey for the University of Georgia today on my experiences in the field of journalism since graduating with my BA. Loaded with questions like "will broadcast radio be around in 20 years?" and "will newspapers be around in 20 years?" (Being from NoDak, I answered yes to all). I'm hoping its just widespread seasonal depression.

The Cutting Room Floor #1

One of the most interesting aspects of journalism is also the least talked about: the cutting room floor. I can't count the number of pages of chicken-scratch that have gone unused in stories over the years. Not just partial quotes, erroneous facts and source details with no bearing on the story, but really good stuff that simply got the axe due to word count limitations. These never see life beyond the facing page in a reporter's notebook.

I've been haunted by a moment trimmed from a recent piece. Three weekends back, I covered the Proposition 8 protest in Missoula as part of my ongoing freelance stint with the local alt-weekly. My focus quickly became paternal support for a gay son, but that wasn't the only story I documented that morning.

The crowd marched in a lane-wide column from the Xs at the end of Higgins Street to the court house lawn under the guidance of a local gay rights activist, Jamee G. Along the way I spoke with several individuals about their involvement in the movement. One in particular, Deborah G., informed me she'd been active in rallies in a number of states in the past. For some, Prop 8 was a major setback banning gay marriage in the movement's bastion state of California, a huge blow that took the wind out of the post Obama-win sails. But as everyone pointed out to me that morning, Montana is in dire straights. A person can still lose his or her job based on sexual orientation here.

So what was your initial reaction to the passing of Prop 8 on Nov. 4? I asked Deborah.

She fought to choke back tears, but it all came out. Sobs. Broken sentence fragments. I felt a bit awkward, distanced from her emotional response by the pen and notebook. "It was really sad and it also upset me to see that I don't have the same rights as other people in this country," she managed to say.

I nodded, unsure what to say. She explained how difficult life was, feeling like a "second class citizen." We parted ways when we reached the court house, and I conducted about five more interviews before calling it a day. Though I found a compelling story, the one I submitted to the editor, I didn't find a story with as much raw emotion as Deborah's. Her's was simply too brief, too disjointed from the rest of what I witnessed at the rally.

Amazing what you find on the cutting room floor.

Teleportation

A thought occurred to me last night, somewhere between Deer Lodge and Drummond as the umpteenth pair of LED-blue headlights washed out the stretch of I-90 in front of me: the future inventor of teleportation will unquestionably be from the Midwest. The invention itself will be born out of a moment of frustration with the inadequecies of Amtrak, Greyhound, Rimrock Trailways and the DOT of the great state of Blank.

On a semi-related note, I've decided a tram system from Sula to Missoula would reduce or completely nullify the necessity for a Western Bypass. If Bitterroot Valley commuters could simply take a train in to the city to work, traffic on Highway 12 and Reserve would calm considerably. Tourists would go nuts for it in the spring, summer and fall, enviro-geeks could stop complaining about levels of carbon emissions during peak traffic hours, and the Mountain Line would be forced to seriously reexamine its efficiency. There is no doubt a considerable list of challenges and drawbacks to the idea, but it's been nagging at me all the same.

Finally, I've been reading an absolutely fascinating book the past week. "Beyond the Green Zone: Dispatches from an Unembedded Journalist in Iraq," by Dahr Jamail. With a limited background in journalism, Jamail quit a job at Denali National Park in AK and paid his own way in to Baghdad. He had limited contacts, but documents everything. I'd always known wire stories and major news outlets were laced with Washington spin, I just never knew how "off" that spin was. Jamail documents not only the process by which he reported for alternative news outlets online and the interaction he had with fellow journalists, but creates a horrifying backdrop for the war and peppers it with the most realistic and earth-bound characters.

"I saw a small boy holding a huge stone, standing at the edge of the street. He glared at the Humvees and Bradleys as their treads rattled loudly across the pavement. A soldier riding atop another passing Bradley pulled out his pistol and aimed it at the boy's head, keeping him in his sights until his vehicle rolled away toward the bright sun. As we regrouped, one student asked us, "Who are the terrorists here now?"

Read it. Or don't.

"Like 27 bad dates"

While drinking my second $1.50 long island iced tea at the Ground Round last night, a waitress wandered over and asked me by name if I was old enough to drink. Katie, an old babysitter. She admitted she had a hard time picturing me beyond 8 years old. Turns out she fled the Twin Cities after finishing her acting degree. She was laid off from a job when the economy flopped earlier this year and struggled through 27 job interviews before throwing in the towel. She likened it to "27 bad dates." North Dakota promised a brighter employment horizon, a fact that had never occurred to me before. Bismarck's population has swelled from 48,000 to a little over 60,000 in four years. Developments springing up on the northern, southern and eastern fringes. Explains the rash of box stores and the twin Super WalMarts that pitched camp here while I was away at college. With Mandan boasting a population of 30,000 and rising just across the river, the Missouri River Valley is experiencing some serious economic growth in spite of the nation's woes. Doesn't mean Katie's necessarily all that happy fetching drinks for former babysitting clients at Ground Round, but beats the Hell out of countless bad dates in Minneapolis/St. Paul. And there are much worse places to live.

In broader news, I hope others are following stories on the developments in India and Thailand as closely as I am. Hostages in the Taj Mahal Palace and Oberoi hotels, Thai police and military prepping to force an end to protests at both Bangkok's airports. Condolences to the family of the chief of Mumbai's anti-terrorist unit and the loved ones of over 100 people killed in the streets and transit stations of the city, British and Indian nationals alike. It's terrible that agressors in Mumbai are targeting American and UK nationals, but those don't account for the bulk of casualties.

Going home ... again

About two months back, I received a fairly cryptic e-mail from a friend of my dad's, coincidentally also the father of one of my roommates. Attached were a series of photos of a steel trestle bridge blowing up over the Missouri River. Now, any Bismarck native will tell you just how much of a cornerstone Memorial Bridge was. Completed in mid-September, 1922, the bridge was dedicated to veterans of the first World War. Since then it's entered the lives of countless thousands of locals. For me, Memorial Bridge always held memories of driving around in Dan Bauer's '88 hatchback Honda Civic, ducking heads out windows at 85 mph in -15 degree weather till our eyes froze shut. Nostalgia sat waiting for me on the Bismarck side of the bridge every time I drove home from Missoula. I can still see the sandbars of the Missouri zipping by through those trestles, Bismarck State College perched on the hill to the north, the Missouri bluffs and Fort Lincoln a few miles south.

I despise cliches, but all good things come to an end. During construction on the bridge four or five years ago, some idiot with the city didn't factor in seasonal expansion when pouring concrete. The bearings froze, the bridge's life was reduced to less than ten years, and the city got what it wanted: the opportunity to build a new four-lane replacement. I was home this summer when hundreds of local residents took an early lunch to drive over Memorial Bridge for the last time. I took photos, said goodbye to an old friend. Then I left town for the fall.

Driving into town last night, I took the I-94 bridge (Grant Marsh) over the Missouri, turned off at the Divide Street exit and drove past the YMCA on Washington. A speedier way to my house, yes, but it felt wrong. What trace is left of Memorial Bridge lies on the sandy bottom of the Missouri River. I finally realized what I've talked about with so many friends lately. There's a point when the changes stack up, tip the scale and push a familiar place beyond recognition. I can drive 800 miles to my parent's house for Thanksgiving, but I can never go home again.



http://www.memorialbridge.info/

A Lesson in the Mechanics of Carbon Monoxide Detectors

My roommates and I had a small problem with the carbon monoxide detector in our house last night. Ann was in the midst of fixing Todd's birthday dinner (lasagna and homemade strawberry cheesecake; living with a couple is actually working for once in my life) when the first round of shrill chirping started up. In minutes, it crescendoed to a no-holds-barred, earsplitting cacophony. Tana (Ann's saint bernard) went nuts. This continued every ten minutes for an hour and a half. Instead of thinking "wow, the detector must be going off for a reason," we opened up the windows and I pulled the 9 volt out of the damn thing.

Fast forward to 11:30 p.m., when Ann and Todd returned from the late show of "Be Kind, Rewind." Ann climbed into the basement for whatever reason and about passed out. Gas smell. STRONG gas smell. I called the emergency number for NorthWestern Energy. They told us to wait outside for the tech guy, so we dangled our legs off the bed of Todd's pickup. I played mandolin until the cold and my E-strings teamed up to slice open the tip of my index finger. The tech pulled up half an hour later and walked into the house, armed with beeping boxes and geiger counters all labeled "Randy." I followed him all over the house while he stuck rods and cables in flus and vents. He looked increasingly more pissed with every test, every readout. Finally he told me we didn't have a leak, didn't have a problem at all. I stood in the middle of the kitchen, head hung low, and he lectured me on how we needed to keep fresh batteries in the CO detector and relocate it so the exhaust from the oven and steam from the shower wouldn't monkey with the sensor. Talk about feeling like a total ass.

In other news, I had a job offer last week. A flat-out job offer. Regional and county reporting for an independent daily in Montana; not such a bad gig. But the position is open now, meaning I'd have to take it right after graduation at the latest. Not kosher. Especially since I've ironed out my plans for my trip to Europe this May/June. Fly into Edinburgh, Scotland, to visit/drink with/sleep on the couches of old friends from my study abroad for a few days. Then a ferry to Ireland with Trevor (fellow idiot American from said study abroad) and five days of rental car camping. Hopefully more of the same near-fatal shenanigans of our past adventures. Next, Luxembourg and Vienna (fellow Bismarck High School speech nerd Amanda is currently working in Austria). Two weeks of pure, unadulterated awesomeness with people I haven't seen in far too long. Translation: tempted by the prospect of a salary position in my field straight out of college, and appreciative of the interest, but more tempted by the prospect of a summer without any journalistic endeavors at all. Am I totally whacked?

Finally placed my call to the Sylvan Learning Center for an interview today. My freelance story is due April 1, and I have little to no material for it. Something tells me my priorities are slightly misplaced. On the upside, played Sorry! for nearly two hours last night. Classic boardgames will never die.

Horseshoes with pine trees

Found myself in a very odd position today. Bent at a 90 degree angle around the trunk of a sizable pine sapling, my stomach playing pin-cushion for needles and small branches. Guess I misjudged my last turn at the base of East Rim, a steep powder bowl at Whitefish Ski Resort. I laughed it off, but my ribs are a tad sore and I've discovered the beginnings of a saucer-sized bruise near my stomach, a few inches left-of-center. Damn, playing horseshoes sucks when you're the horseshoe.

The first weekend of spring break has, so far, been as refreshing as I could have hoped and more. Skiing, family time (which I only seem to get in five-day installments six times a year), and a river of free beer. Great when the folks pick up the tab.

Forgive me a random interjection, but kid-siblings should be banned from prom. Em told me earlier last week that she found a date for the BHS prom, a sad state of affairs for a brother whose sole purpose in life is defending his baby sister. Now how am I supposed to screen this kid from afar? Trust the parents to the job? Ha, not good enough. And watching her shop for prom dresses online breaks my heart. This time next year, she'll be the one spending a college spring break skiing with the family. Who gave us all permission to grow up?

Lots on the docket for the upcoming week. (A reminder to myself) Two freelance stories, two research papers, 15 pages of original non-fiction writing, at least three books. Throw in fishing, skiing, drinking and I have no idea how the Hell I'll survive. Spring break? Psh-a. Try spring overload. What happened to dreams of Fort Lauderdale, or skiing in Alaska? Gone and gone.

Oh well. I guess my biggest concern right now should be that I miss Al, the tap-man at the Kettle House taproom, more than I've missed my own mother at times. Symptom of a disease? (Mad ellipses)

I remembered a joke a few weeks back, one of those jokes I used to tell on boy scout trips in middle school. These two Norwegian immigrants, Ole and Sven, are plowing their field near New Salem, N.D. Several furrows into the job, their horse drops dead in his tracks. Sven turns to Ole, stunned.
"Ole," he says in that Hollywood slow-talk we Dakotans have been so unfairly stereotyped with. "Dat horse der, he jus' dropped dead right in his tracks."
"Ya," Sven replies. "Whatcha think we should do 'bout plowing dis here field?"
The two agree that a new horse is in order, as neither feel too inclined to yoke-up and grit through the lash. They trudge to town only to learn of a mass horse shortage. Seems the equines, having successfully joined a labor union, went on strike. Ole and Sven are about ready to call it quits and head to Kroll's Diner for some fleischkuekle when they stumble on a decrepit looking donkey with 10-foot-long ears. Desperate, they settle and deem their new steed Ant.
Ole and Sven have nearly finished plowing the field when they see a thunderhead rolling across the prairie from the direction of New Salem Sue. Lighting. Hail. A microburst. They drive Ant toward the barn, only to find that his ears are about two inches too tall to fit through the door. Their Swedish neighbor, Leif, watches all this from the fence.
"Hey, neighbors," he shouts. "Got a problem?"
"I'll say," Ole answers. "Dat der donkey, he jus' won't fit inta tha barn. His ears is just too long, doncha know?"
"Nah, all you have to do is dig some of the dirt away from under the door and he'll slide right in."
Proud that he's helped his neighbors, Leif retreats to his house for some tuna and lefsa. When Leif is gone, Sven bursts out laughing.
"What's so funny der, Sven?" Ole asks.
"Oh, Ole," Sven replies. "Dat stupid Swede. He tinks he's so smart. It ain't the LEGS that are too long, it's the EARS."

Yeah, I know. Lame. And drawn out. But I'm guessing if you're reading this blog you don't have anything better to do than read stupid Ole and Sven jokes. So I wasted three minutes of your life. Suck it up. What do you want me to do, write a sonnet?

Work is painfully slow tonight. For those of you who don't know, I'm the entertainment editor of a certain illustrious rag of a student newspaper. My reporters filed their stories on time or earlier tonight, and I'm now rocketing through page design. Helps that I only have enough material for one page. Ideally I'll be out of the newsroom and at James Bar by midnight. Ideally.

I always promised myself I wouldn't be one of "those guys," the ones with blogs. I blogged professionally for four years, a paid gig that pretty much funded my a.m. Finnegan's runs and tobacco pipe habit freshman year. It wears on you. So we'll see how this goes. Maybe I have more to blog about now. Lord knows the last few weeks have presented endless fodder for ego-driven rants. Studies, the job, changes in the social atmosphere. But perhaps for now I'll leave you with Ole and Sven and Ant. Hell, if that joke doesn't somehow relate to my life right now, I don't know what does.