Sundance Film Festival: Adventures in Standing in Line

Last weekend we took advantage of our flight benefits and my friends Zach and Monica who live in Park City, UT, to go to the Sundance Film Festival. Since I went two years ago, I kind of knew the drill--how to get around (not with a car--traffic and parking are a nightmare), how to see films without advance tickets, etc.

Let me just start by saying that this year's festival was a lot more crowded than the first one I attended, the result being that it was much more competitive to get into films. Zach pointed out that I was there for the Recession Festival. So here's the drill: if you didn't start the ticket purchase process months ago, you have to join the wait list to get in. Two hours prior to the start of the movie, volunteers hand out numbers to people in line. Then 30 minutes before the movie, you line back up in numerical order (if you're not there by the 30-minute cutoff, you have to join the back of the line no matter what number you hold). A few minutes before the start time, they start releasing seats to the wait list. A certain number of seats are previously held for pass holders, volunteers, and people associated with the film. If not all those are taken, of if ticket holders are not in their seats by 15 minutes prior to start time, they're fair game.

Friday got off to a bit of a rough start since I got home from work at 10:30 Thursday night and we were up at 4 to catch the early flight to SLC. But we both got seats and were on our way. We arrived at The Playground (although it's now Zach's full-time residence, not just a weekend/holiday destination)around noon. After lunch and settling in, we set off for an afternoon of wait listing.

The mid-afternoon shows we were interested in already had long wait list lines, so we hopped a free shuttle out to the Eccles Theater to try our luck at The Future. If you've ever heard of Miranda July or read her stories you probably already know what we discovered: she's weird. Very weird. Not necessarily in a good way. The movie had its funny parts early on, but settled into a slow-paced, increasingly trippy non-plot. The weirdness was exaggerated since July wrote, directed AND starred in the film.

Saturday was a total debacle. Had I not had a cold, I would have gone skiing in fresh snow with Z&M which would have made the whole day worth while. But I was not feeling well and certainly not like exerting myself at 7,400 feet with a stuffy head and clogged lungs. So we stood in lines. All day. And did not see a single film. We redeemed ourselves with a soak in the hot tub, a bottle of wine and a delivered pizza.

Sunday morning we actually had tickets to The Devil's Double, a partially fictionalized account of an Iraqi army lieutenant who is forced to become the body double of Saddam Hussein's eldest son. An intriguing and action-packed account starring Dominic Cooper, who did an amazing job of playing two diabolically opposed roles. The best part of Sundance is the post-film Q&A session with the director and actors that offers greater insights and leads to a better understanding of the film than if you just watched the movie and walked away. The producers are hoping to market this film based on the character story and not as just another Iraq war movie. I highly recommend seeing it if it comes to the big screen; if not, look for it on dvd.



Now savvy to the wait list system, Scott and I decided to see Morgan Spurlock's (the Supersize Me guy) latest, The Greatest Movie Ever Sold. We drove out to Kimball Junction's Redstone Theater, had lunch at a great Asian bistro where the fire alarm honked throughout our entire meal, then lined up for the wait list line two full hours before the wait list line would officially begin. I knew we were in when Rusty, the volunteer in charge of the wait list knew where Watkinsville, Georgia was. We were the first to arrive and he directed us to an area with tables and chairs where we could be comfortable for the next two hours. We settled in with magazine and Kindle, grateful to not be standing in a cold, drafty tent. Rusty made sure we were first in line and we were handed numbers 1 and 2. Spurlock did a clever job of illustrating the prevalence of marketing and product placement in films by securing funding for his documentary with marketing and product placement, all the while keeping the audience chuckling and not pissing off a single sponsor.

Crime After Crime, a heart-wrenching documentary about a woman serving a life sentence for her part in the death of her abusive boyfriend, brought home the level of corruption, political influence and injustice in our criminal justice system. Although we had tickets to this one, Scott opted out since it was a little too much like work for him. I thought it was very well done and I hope it inspires more states to adopt laws that allow the courts to revisit the cases of incarcerated victims of domestic violence. In the early '80s, evidence of abuse wasn't even admissible as part of a defense.

All in all, a great time was had. By the time we came home my cold had subsided and we were discussing plans to get on the ball and purchase tickets in advance for Sundance 2012, that is if Zach and Monica will be our gracious hosts again.

Adventures in Reading

I've loved to read ever since I can remember. But when I was a kid, I dug some pretty deep ruts with my book choices: the Buttons books from the elementary school library, then Beezus and Ramona--all of them. Then every Nancy Drew mystery I could get my hands on; I even collected them just to make sure I didn't miss one. By 7th grade, I was all about teen romances. Then Gothic romances in high school. Not much variety in there--I pretty much stuck with a single genre, even a single author if I could get away with it.

College didn't leave much time for pleasure reading, but luckily I discovered a wide range of fabulous books after graduation. When I worked in Yellowstone Park, I became fascinated by the history and geology of the region and read accordingly. The Lewis and Clark journals, books about Park history and politics, plus assorted fiction.

One day I was mystified when the pilot I was flying with said he didn't like to read. At all. Not magazines, not newspapers, and certainly not books. Wow. Another pilot friend is an avid reader. We often exchange book lists and sometimes books. But he refuses to read fiction. I think he's really missing out. For one thing, I firmly believe that genuine fiction--completely made up stuff--is hard to come by. People write what they know, so every book has an element of truth to it. For more on this, study the debate around Wallace Stegner's Angle of Repose.

This happens to be one of my favorite all-time novels and it won the Pulitzer Prize. But portions of the book--some say too many portions--came directly from the journals of the thinly disguised main character.

I also think Barbara Kingsolver's The Poisonwood Bible is one of the greatest books ever written and it, too, is loosely based on real-life experiences. The Big Rock Candy Mountain is another Wallace Stegner fave and it's semi-autobiographical. Since I largely missed out on the classics when I was young (too busy reading Nancy Drew), I've been trying to catch up on those. A couple of favorites: A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and The Grapes of Wrath. Although technically fictional, both offer realistic accounts of life during the Great Depression.

Now I'll read most anything I can get my hands on, although there are so many books that should be read in this lifetime it's hard to justify "bubble gum" books or things that just don't seem worthy. As much as I love book stores, they remind me that there are more good books than I can ever read--and more being published every day! Yesterday I made a rare book purchase (I usually borrow from the library or from friends): The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein and Kingsolver's latest, Lacuna. I hope they don't disappoint.

Winter Running

This is an oldie I found in a notebook from the Wyoming days. The memories came flooding back when I was in Calgary a couple days ago--minus 22F and fresh snow on the ground. Brrrr!

Outside the snow is falling in big, soft flakes. The flag hangs straight down the pole, unbuoyed by wind. At five minutes to 12, I pull my running clothes from my bottom desk drawer and slip quietly out of the office. My faithful running partner meets me at precisely noon and we trot off into the white abyss. For the first five minutes, we work to avoid cars and the hard-packed, slippery surface, but once we turn onto the golf course, the untracked snow is soft and powdery.

Here, on this soundless winter day, there are no disturbances, no other signs of life. The snow continues to fall, leaving fluffy white flakes in our hair and eyelashes. For 20 minutes we run in companiable silence, enjoying the quiet solitude after the past few days of vicious howling winds. Those runs were laborious, leaving us irritable and unsatisfied. But today we enjoy the peaceful calm afforded us by the still air and the steadily falling snow.

As we leave the golf course and reenter civilization, we begin to chat again, sharing the difficulties of our work days and the events of our love lives. We have no secrets between us; everything comes out on our daily noon runs.

Our shoes are wet, socks soggy from the sloppy roads leading back into town. Back at our starting point, we make snow angels on the lawn before heading back to our respective offices. Tomorrow the snow will be crusty and uneven, the streets icy.

But today was perfect.

Adventures in Politics

I generally keep my political views to myself. It keeps the peace in the family and among less like-minded friends and coworkers. But on occasion (twice, to be exact) I've been coerced into joining a campaign.

The first time was two years ago when I unexpectedly had some time on my hands and limited physical ability. I spent two or three days a week campaigning for a certain presidential candidate who may or may not have brought about the hoped-for change.

The second time was today. Apparently I'm now on a certain political party's calling list and they happened to call me when I was half-way through my second happy hour beer and was feeling more agreeable than usual. The caller was seeking volunteers for the campaign of a certain non-former-professional-sports-playing candidate for governor. For a moment I thought I was off the hook since the office is in the next county over. But they graciously found a more conveniently located post for me.

This morning, I had a twinge of buyer's remorse and almost called to cancel my shift, but thought better of it and decided to follow through with a loosely- and tipsily-made promise. So I pedaled my butt down to the campaign office where I followed hand-written signs and a line of tape up stairs, through a maze of phone banks, cubicles, whiteboards and frantic staffers, then down some stairs to my assigned volunteer post. I spent two hours in front of a computer, calling voters to persuade them to cast their ballot for our candidate.

Effective? Who knows. I personally hate campaign calls and don't think I've ever been swayed by one (at least not the way they wanted to sway me). But (if I remember to mail my own ballot in time) I feel I've done a civic duty and participated in the political process. I even met a few really neat people along the way and got to see the internal chaos of a late-state major campaign office.

FAT55 Mountain Bike Marathon

I very nearly bailed out of the inaugural FAT55 mountain bike race in Oakridge, Oregon (aka OROR) yesterday. It was early in the race on an atypical rainy September morning and I was already struggling with both bike- and rider-induced challenges. I've always enjoyed racing but promise myself to keep it fun and not take it too seriously.

On this particular morning I was not having fun. And not just in the way that you don't have fun at mile 21 of a 26-mile marathon, but seriously not enjoying myself. The internal conversation went like this: "You know, I'm just not having fun here. And I really don't feel like riding my bike in the rain over wet roots and rocks all day." I decided I would finish out the current loop that would deposit me at the finish area mid-race. I would have had a decent workout and I would load up my stuff and go home. End of not having fun.

Then I exited a rocky, root-strewn section of trail and started a gravel road climb up to the Aubrey Mountain trail. I put on my iPod which I wisely programmed the day before with a solid playlist designed to encourage me uphill through the rain (the race-saving song turned out to be I'm Only Happy When It Rains by Garbage). Comforted by the knowledge that I was in this for the short haul, I pedaled determinedly up the relentless mile-and-a-half grade known as "The Wall." I whispered sweet nothings to my derailleur when I passed the poor bastard walking his single-speed.

I reached the junction to the Eugene-to-Crest and Aubrey Mountain trail sooner than I expected and was treated to a few sweet miles of well-structured singletrack. Now this is why I mountain bike! Winding along the side of the mountain, rolling through forest and meadows, then down, down, down. My tunes still spurring me on, I ripped down the trail and tore through the industrial park and into the midway aid station at Greenwaters Park. Somewhere along the way, I changed my mind about going home and decided to keep racing. I stayed at the aid station just long enough to switch Perpetuem bottles, refill the Cambelback, and apply fresh chamois cream. Eugene (a friend and the race organizer) yelled encouragement as I rode out of transition and across the footbridge toward Larison Creek and Larison Rock, the last two sections of the course.

Now I was really on fire, regaining lost ground from this morning as I pedaled furiously up the gentle gravel grade and settled into a steady pace on the steeper paved road. I passed several riders that I never saw again. Then I felt all alone as I made my way along the seemingly endless 8-mile gravel-road climb/traverse to the top of the Larison Creek trail. Periodically I would glimpse a brightly-colored jersey as it disappeared around the next corner and work steadily to catch up, then pass. Finally, feeling that the trail should surely be close, I began to falter both mentally and physically. I struggled to focus on the task at hand, to keep my upper body relaxed and not expend unneeded energy. When I really thought I might die, The trail appeared on my left.

The first bit was a smooth descent toward the creek, then the trail dropped and twisted furiously, combining tight switchbacks and wet roots to force me off my bike time and again. While dry roots can make for fun and interesting riding, wet roots are pure evil. They tend to snatch your wheel out from under you, slamming you hard to the ground. Weather-smoothed rocks are no better when rain-drenched. I rode cautiously and walked when I had any doubts about a successful outcome. I passed one rider and was passed by another. Then the trail smoothed out and I flew along the creek as it neared Hills Creek Reservoir, cornering through the lush forest and rolling gently up and down.

When I reached the paved road at trails end I felt confident in my position and knew I could reach the finish if I just kept moving. No need to kill myself by pushing hard. Instead of stopping to eat, I pedaled easily along the flat road and ate a small energy bar out of my mountain feed bag. Hardy volunteers pointed the way up the final, 4.5-mile climb to the Larison Rock trail which would deposit me at the finish line. It was raining steadily now and a miserable day to sit still for hours, marshaling slightly insane mountain bikers in the right direction.

I suppressed any feelings of shame about using my granny gear and engaged it to spin slowly uphill. The guy who passed me on Larison Creek was on the side of the road nursing a cramp. Another guy dawdled at the final aid station as I rode by. No stopping now. Must. Keep. Moving. Finish. Line. Near.

Cramp Guy passed me again. We agreed that there must be less than two miles to the summit. Maybe around the next bend? Or the next three or four. We kept going up. And up. If I didn't make the top in five more minutes, I would stop and stretch. Four minutes later, a rain-coated volunteer waved us into the trail for the descent. I thought I might be hallucinating.

I was so exhausted I could barely steer my bike. After a couple turns, I remembered that I had locked out both front and rear suspension for the climb. The trail was much more fun when I opened them up again. Then cold set in and shivering added to fatigue to make keeping my wheel on the trail a challenge. My glasses were wet, dirty, and steamy. I couldn't see through them, but without them things were blurry. Better to not see with glasses or not see without them? I kept them on, but slid them down my nose so I could peer over them. I told myself to just relax. I didn't have to ride fast, just keep riding.

After what is normally a super-fun, ripping-fast lark (but today was a miserable, cold, wet, slippery descent), I exited the trail for a brief stint of gravel road, then some fast, twisty trails back across the Middle Fork Willamette to the finish line. Feeling strong and anticipating hot food and warm clothes, I hammered in: 29th overall and second in my age group, good for my first ever prize money!

But the most exciting part of the weekend was the ongoing saga of the Cultus Lake Carjacker. Eugene was concerned that the race course would be impacted by the manhunt. The morning of the race, the local sheriff brought him a map of the area where the suspect was thought to be corralled. Later that night, we got word he had been shot and captured near the Fish Hatchery--which we rode through during the race!

Hells Canyon: The Rest of the Story

The three miles between Wild Sheep and Granite rapids disappeared in a flash at the high flow. We made a mad paddle for a campsite on river right, just above Granite. The site featured a gravel beach with a flat-ish area for the kitchen and a row of tent sites on a partially wooded bench above and to the right. A trail hugged a granite wall downstream to a view of the rapid.

The first camp was a bit chaotic as we struggled to remember where we had packed certain items. It took me several hours to round up everything Scott and I needed to make breakfast the next morning. The Cattertons served up a tasty meal of hamburgers, green salad and potato salad. It was clear and warm, so Scott and I opted to forego the tent and sleep on our tarp under the stars again. We had a few minutes to regret this decision when it sprinkled a few drops in the wee hours, but it stopped before we could rouse ourselves.

After breakfast (Spanish eggs with corn tortillas and orange slices) we began the arduous process of getting all the gear back into the boats. Why is it that gear always seems to expand beyond the capacity of the storage space that it came out of?

We hoped to run Granite before the river came up, but we timed our launch almost perfectly with the high flow. We were able to confirm this at Pittsburg Landing a couple days later when we could look at a flow chart and mentally insert our position on the river at various stages. We scouted the giant wave train that formed a "green room" mid-way down. It seemed possible that the overhead curlers could flip the smaller raft. Cindy decided to hike around which meant ferrying across the river to let her out on the opposite bank where she could follow a trail and then bushwhack through a poison ivy thicket to the shore below the rapid.

When it was all said and done, Granite gave us more fun than fear. We relished the memory as we sat in the poison-ivy-laden eddy to wait for Cindy. After watching us float through, I think she regretted her decision. She and Mike lathered up with Technu as soon as we were back on the water.

The rest of the trip was much more relaxing if less exciting. Day two featured lots of Class II and III water with epic canyon scenery. We spent two nights at the second camp, enjoying the layover day with no packing, loading and unloading. I hiked, others napped, swam, and chilled out. Although we had tied the boats up in two feet of water, we admired the 10 feet of beach that had appeared between them and the river when the river abruptly dropped and never rose again. On Day four, lunch at Pittsburg Landing meant the end of the whitewater.

The rest of the canyon was mellower, but no less beautiful. After three days of seeing few people other than a few jet boats and a small guided raft party that took out at Pittsburg, it was a bit of a disruption to begin seeing jet boats in greater numbers. We were nearing Fourth of July weekend and the motorheads were laying claim to the best beach campsites. The last night, we squeezed into what I named the "barefoot camp" since the sandy kitchen area made it easier and more comfortable to go without shoes--at least until hopping across a rocky creek to the tent sites on the other side.

The last day we stopped at Kirkwood Historic Ranch for a quick tour of early American life in Hell's Canyon (we got a brief glimpse of late Indian life two days earlier when we passed the point where Chief Joseph led his tribe across the river during spring floods when the early Americans chased them from the Wallowa Valley). A few hours later, we all groaned in disappointment when we rounded a bend to see Heller Bar--the end point for our week-long adventure.

Hell's Canyon Rafting Trip

It all started in the damp and dark of January when the Four Rivers Lottery opened. The lottery is how one procures permits for the Main Salmon River, the Middle Fork Salmon, the Selway, and the Hell's Canyon section of the Snake.

Scott, our friend Justin, and I agreed on dates to submit on our applications and that we would all apply. A few weeks later, the lottery results arrived by email: I was successful in drawing a Snake River permit to launch June 28. Seventy-eight river miles, 4-6 days. Non-transferable. When I asked Scott and Justin about their results, they confessed that they never actually got around to submitting the application.

Scott and I started making some vague plans and inviting people that we knew would enjoy such an adventure. When it was all said and done, only seven of us made the trip: Scott and I, our friend George who has accompanied us on several 3-day trips down the Deschutes, our next-door neighbor Darcy, my friend and former co-worker Janeen who lives in Boise and is known to be adventurous, and our Wyoming rafting friends the Cattertons.

On June 27, George and Darcy met at our house where we spread out a ridiculous amount of gear, food, and beer that somehow had to fit in two vehicles plus a flat-bed trailer while leaving room for the four of us to sit. When it became apparent that this would take a while, Darcy went home and returned with a pitcher of Bloody Marys to help speed things along.

Some hours later (I won't say how many) everything was loaded and we were driving toward Halfway, Oregon, the last bit of civilization we would see for a week and the meet-up point with Mike, Cindy, and Janeen.

We arranged shuttles and stocked up on block ice at Scotty's Hells Canyon river supply store then mosied to the cafe next door for dinner--the service was nearly as bad as the food.

After a night of camping under the stars, we drove to the launch site where I made coffee and Janeen made jalapeno-cheddar french toast while three carloads of gear, food, and beer were once again strewn about and sorted into dry boxes and coolers for the trip.

Much later in the day than we wanted, we shoved off and peeled into the current, Scotty and Mike on oars and Darcy commanding the rest of us in the paddle raft. The first few miles were fairly uneventful Class III with some welcome splashing to cool us off. But we were all a bit anxious about Wild Sheep, the infamous Class IV lurking downstream.

The river was running high and we reached the scouting point for Wild Sheep in no time. Stomachs in throats and adrenaline surging, we surveyed the scene from a trail high on the river bank. No clean line was visible, so conversation turned to potential consequences of screwing up a particular line as a means of choosing the lesser of several evils. Mike wanted to take the left side through a series of lateral waves that seemed sure to push the boat into a pile of rocks below. The rest of us preferred the right-hand line with big waves and more laterals, but fewer obstacles.

Mike went first while the rest of us watched to see what happened to his boat. He went in a bit farther right than I thought desirable and the entire boat occasionally disappeared under the turbulent water. But each time, his helmet emerged on top and he finally floated into calmer water below the rapid. Scotty went next and we followed him in the paddle raft. Our strategy was to hug the right side of the hole that bordered the channel so as to (hopefully)remain in the left side of the current and not get pulled to the right into the strong laterals.

We entered exactly as planned with the boat pointed dutifully left, paddling for all we were worth. But it made no difference; the strong current tugged us right and before we could turn the boat to hit the laterals head on, the right side of raft pitched up high. I was sure we were going over. Then I felt a release and the boat plopped back down right-side up. Incredible! Then I realized George was out of the boat. Darcy was yelling "Swimmers! We have swimmers!" I looked behind me and saw that Cindy and Janeen were also missing. I looked ahead and saw all three bobbing feet-first through the wave train, tightly clutching their paddles. But Darcy and I were still in the meat of Wild Sheep and needed to keep the boat upright before we could think about a rescue. She shouted commands and paddled from the rear while I knelt in the floor at the front of the raft and paddled on the left or right as instructed.

As the current began to mellow out, Cindy swam into an eddy and was suddenly beside us. As I fumbled for the throw rope, Darcy stuck the T of her paddle toward Cindy who was able to grab on and get pulled toward the boat. Darcy likely could have pulled her in solo, but knowing Cindy had already had a long, tough swim, I wanted to make sure we got her in on the first try; I got behind Darcy and we pulled together on a count of three, the three of us falling in a giggling heap on top of me.

Okay, Cindy wasn't giggling. She was gasping. And after she got safely off our boat at camp, she never got back on it again, opting for the safer ride atop Mike's heavily loaded gear boat. George and Janeen both swam into the pool below the rapid and boarded Mike's raft for a short float to our first camp.

Check back for the rest of the trip report including the other Class IV, Granite Rapid.