Click Here to read about the Glen Phillips performance I went to!
Just about this time last year, my friend Carter and I took a wander over the hill to Mammoth Mountain, a ski resort in the cold and blistery Sierra Nevadas. The drive up was a long one, and we stopped at an absolutely disgusting Japanese fast food restaurant. I ordered some kind of beef bowl, and the beef did not look at all real. But moving on, we arrived in the middle of the night, in a light blizzard, and could not see a thing. It took all we had, there were four of us, to make it to the door of the cabin we were staying in and get our bags inside. We were greeted by three other friends that had already set up camp, and we all sat down to a game of Coup, a card game, until the real fatigue set in. On the next day, a Saturday, we hit the slopes early, renting our skis and trying to make it to the lifts before the large mob of people that comes with a large and popular skiing place. This evidently did not pan out as we thought it did, but the lines moved quickly and we got to the top of the rock in moderate time. I of course, did not immediately choose the black diamond slopes, as I am a less than amateur skier, instead choosing to follow the blue and green signs on the mountain. Carter, on the other hand, quickly chose the more difficult paths, and that choice often sent him and his snowboard flying.
Sorry I don’t have any images, I had trouble uploading them, I will get them up as soon as possible though!
We both hit our groove at an area with abundant small jumps and rails that tested the fiber of our snow-travel apparatus skills. Carter would try flips and jumps and all sorts of neck-breaking, thrill-seeking ventures, while I just tried to land whatever jump I went off, making about half or so. Before we knew it though, our time skiing came to an end, and we settled in for a night of board games and Monkey Bread, waiting for the next morning when we would test our mettle again.
Just a few days ago, I was watching Orange is the New Black, when all of a sudden, I heard my mom yelling from across the yard, calling me over to look at something. Curious, I walked to the entrance of her office, which is a separate building a ways away from our house, where my mother stood, pointing at a furry black and white creature. The little animal, a baby skunk, was waddling about, beneath a loquat tree, eating the fallen fruit and paying us onlookers no mind. My mom filled me in on all the details: She had seen it some minutes before with the mother, but the mother had since disappeared and left the little one on its own, and I should be wary of the bushes around, as they might be harboring an angry skunk. Excitedly, I raced to get my sisters camera to capture the moment.
I took pictures for a good fifteen or so minutes, trying to capture every angle, and get a good shot of its cute little face. As time went on though, I caught sight of Sly, my sisters jet black cat, coming ever closer. And not far behind him, some rustling in the tall grass notified me of the Bad Cat, an old, previously tame but now wild Maine Coon that lived somewhere in our yard. The Bad Cat had a limp, so it might have run into the mama skunk before. I decided, after seeing these possible attackers, that it was my job to follow and protect the baby skunk.
It waddled from one place to another, slowly sniffing every branch and every fallen leaf on the ground, testing each paw placement before taking a step. The highlight of my time with it was when I stood stock still, and it crawled up and over my shoe, brushing up against my leg with its soft fur. After a while, I decided I should leave, but I didn’t want the little guy to get eaten, so I urged it in the direction of where my mother had last seen its mother, which was a difficult task on its own, taking a half hour of leaf rustling and noise making to direct it. When I finally felt satisfied, I looked about to make sure neither Sly nor the Bad Cat were in sight, and I let the baby skunk roam off into the wild on its own.
Just a couple of weeks ago, my father, uncle and I flew to the beautiful state of Virginia to participate in the Virginia State Frisbee Tournament, a gathering of mainly old, Frisbee players who all helped found various niche Frisbee sports and events. The tournament itself was over a long, ‘lost’ weekend, as they call it at the tournament, beginning on Friday and going through Sunday evening. It is hosted in Fredericksburg, Virginia, a small town an hour south of DC, where we flew in. The town is situated along one side of the Rappahannock River, which flows into Chesapeake Bay, and Pratt Park, the park we play in, is just across the river. Pratt Park is actually an old Civil War battlefield, and often our Frisbees will land in the dugouts the soldiers used 150 years ago. We flew in on Wednesday night, from California, so we could get to DC and drive into Fredericksburg by 9 am. We stopped at a local diner that we visit every year, the 2400 Diner, and had scrambled eggs with bacon and potatoes.
That Thursday was full of Frisbee Golf rounds and greetings with all our good friends that we hadn’t seen since the year before. When the tournament officially began on Friday, we had nearly tired ourselves out trying to prepare, but we played great, and the highlight of the day was seeing everyone at Lazlo’s Weenie World(AKA The Canteen), a pop up vegan restaurant that is set up specifically for the players. Dozens of volunteers prepare and serve food to players who can sign up for the “Lost Weekend”. What this does is after a small fee is payed, you are guaranteed free breakfast, lunch, snacks and unlimited Pabst Blue Ribbon for the entire weekend, Friday through Sunday. The effort and work that is put into The Canteen is simply mind blowing, and its amazing how dedicated the volunteers are. I am so excited to return next year for a weekend of fun and exhausting Frisbee adventures.
Feel free to comment below, and check back next week for another post!