Change

Change, I woke up yesterday and realized I forgot to change my underwear, or change the sheets on my bed, or towels hanging in the guest bathroom for the past two months. When do I change the sponge at the kitchen sink? We do when to change the oil in our car or truck. We do know when to walk the dog. I do know when to feed a baby...now. But real change, real change can change one's mind like nothing else.

Bridget hung up the phone, I did the same with a gentle press of the end call button. In the past it would have been a dramatic putting the phone in the cradle. More change. I laid there glaring at the ceiling with thoughts of the words Bridget just expressed to me. Frighting is probably the best description, "Oh My God" would put it into words. Karpy a father, poor kid. Who would have thought I'd be to a daddy, have a munchkin, a little monkey of my own.

Munchkins...

Hell, the only experience I've had with kids is a three week stint in kids ski school at the school house. Due to an injury collected in an OHG BumpBusters Mogul Clinic. Skiing beautiful bumps, with a big bunch of wonderful people. A quick glance over my shoulder, three seconds later my left calf torn in half and off the bone. Felt it tear, knew I hurt it, felt it swelling up tight against my boot. But Karpy doesn't get hurt, not like that, not teaching in slow motion. Beers would already have to be dealt out after falling under the chairlift and in front of four other instructors asking if I was alright. Yeah, I'm alright, I did something, but I'm alright. Finishing out the clinic landed me in the kids school house, where damaged adult instructors go to serve time while healing. Adult instructors avoided the school house like seeing an old girl or boyfriend. When a supervisor needed to call upon the aid of an adult Pro at lineup to head over to the school house, a mass one step back takes place. With eyes looking at anything or body than the supervisor who has been given this Grimm task.. Leaving the supervisor to single out an instructor that won't say no, can't stay no, one who doesn't want to risk creating the reputation of not wanting to work. Of course we want to work, but not with a 4 year old that will be toast in two hours. Well at least there will be a free lunch involved, dino nuggets, and a slider...nice.

Each morning the doors to the elevator would open and army of little muffins would file out like the guards at the Witch's Castle perched high on the cliff in the Wizard of Oz. Marching like robots in their tiny one buckle ski boots, "Oh We Go, Ohooo". Coming to mind the lad from Christmas story in his six layers of winter attire, glued to the snow, incapable of getting up. Arms stuck out to the side, mittens hanging down from the can't lose me strings. Snow pants that might have been purchased through a NASA website, hindering the knees of these brave little athletes to bend on their daring adventure to the dreaded Magic Carpet. That is, if they could catch sight of from under their huge hat that looks cute picked by mom, rather than keeping them warm. As it slides down to cover the tiny face and eyes, massive goggles handed down from brother or sister block any remaining view. The heat generated within their cosmic costumes by now was working on launching them into the first nap of the day, ten AM.

I rolled over beginning to put thoughts in order. Not like I was going to the store to pick up lunch. Rather as if going into battle: Where do I start, what do I do, who should I talk to, AAHHHHHHH! I popped out of bed forgetting my phone was nestled down in my winter blankets. As it flew through the air a new meaning to flip phone popped into my head, watched it fly, nice landing, no pieces bounced off, must be ok, back to matters at hand. A BabY! Are you kidding me, a infant, My little one, Bridget and My child, Boy or girl, when will we know that, should I know that. WHAT DO I DO!

Little Quinn needs to eat....back soon

Frisco Walmart...

Over the next few days life was like watching a TV show. Teaching skiing, people, trips to the Frisco Walmart, which normally could be fairly interesting people watching, (actually staring). "Hello, Goodday, How Are You" the famous greeter barks as you entire the twilight zone. You never saw people you knew in Walmart. Possibly not even people from Summit County...dispatched from the official Walmart people place. Don't ask any employee for assistance, don't unlock that can of worms. First there's the language barrier. Stuggling through that with hand gestures and for some reason speaking louder. I require something for my truck, fifteen minutes later I'm standing in the pet food isle. It never failed to scare the bejesus out of me. In and out, make the purchase and flee.

My vision wasn't on me anymore, it was on this new imaginary creature slipping into my life, for the rest of my life, whilst her life had just begun.

Never Be The Same...Not Even The Bus

It appeared as if nothing was the same, could be the same, even riding the bus to Copper each morning. Residing in Frisco had a bunch of wonderful advantages, but working and skiing out of Copper meant the Summit Stage bus system was tops. After a brisk eight minute walk down frozen Fifth street to busy Main, the bus almost pulled up and opened it's arms to whisk you off to the tundra of Copper. The ride to Copper was always on the interesting side. First, the melting pot of passengers. To the rear of the bus mostly asleep are the young hoodies that barley got out of bed. Shower? Not for days. The mix of cigarettes, yesterdays drink special, and the non-shower thing, emitted a rare smell only to originate deep in ski areas by a small band of transient wanta-Be's. When asked where they're from? "Dude I'm a local", with some strange made up attitude. How long have you lived here? Couple of months!

Moving forward of the rear door you drift into a mix of hard core, real deal riders and skiers, along with Copper's worker bee foundation. Citizens who have found the uncommon ability to create a living, while still existing in the place they truly love. Some have found the soul of the mountains. Vocation and recreation one hundred percent outside, sunrise to sunset all winter long, dark to dark. When not working hard to support their habits of skiing, mountain climbing, biking, sailing or the zen of wetting a line fly fishing, they live it, raise their family in it...wake up every morning, rub their eyes, pour a cup of Joe, look out the window while mumbling, "Living the dream".

A short couple of paces still farther forward on our means of transportation, the bus holds in my mind the most remarkable cluster of riders. It's a mix of the retired, volunteers, business owners and a few ski instructors thrown in to stir the pot. Rising up within this collection on certain days with a ready to kick ass energy, are the dare devils known only as "OHG". (Over The Hill Gang). Darned with near perfect equipment matched to the days conditions, they travel, bike and ski in groups tighter than an LA gang. Hundreds strong, they ripped around the mountain as if they have a chip on their shoulder, "I'm old, but I'll kick your butt if you ski with us". Awesome!

To the front of the bus lives the driver. Quietly, their choice of music seemed to piss off the entire confines of the bus. If it was their personal preference of music it most likely turned out to be something like show tunes from the fifties. If they forgot that CD, they turned to the radio. Blasted it louder as the station lost contact with its host and we sat looking at one another in a blanket of white static noise, nobody ever said a word. The noise didn't really bother me. What did, was the evil capability of the unknown driver to have complete control of the bus's temperature. For some god unknown reason, the vehicle became a torture chamber. Sweat would build up at the top of my neck and droplet after droplet would run down the center of my back collecting in a small wet spot on the waist band of my tighty whities. Only the opening of the doors meant freedom from the heat only worse in Africa.

I Do What I Do...

I stroll across the frozen street, dodged the Union Creek bus and tourists driving SUV's sometimes going the wrong way in a one way traffic circle. Wander past the HR desk, see who was busy working away, on god only knows what. Down the Ski School hallway, by the memo board, stopping if time allowed. Down to the ski room to get my tools for the day, different skis for different conditions, I liked to mix it up, if I could just remember the combo to this dam door.
Blooping down in front of my locker, trying to remember yet another combo. Finally on the third try and a shake of my head, the door pops open. Hands rubbing my face, I begin to wonder what is going to happen. How does this all work? What will tell others, friends, loved ones? In less than a year, I will be a father. Bridget has been more than fair concerning my responsibility in the matter. Offering up more than one option. Mmmmm, should I opt for door number two, get out, not get involved. Door number three had a ring to it, oh hell...there's no choice, I have no choice, Door number one it is. I want door number one. I'm so happy I chose door Number one.

The Plan...

My plan was in place, and the remainder of the winter sped by with the swiftness of a race car. Working everyday, along with putting in shifts at a local restaurant. Money, it was all about money. The past twenty-five plus years of my endeavors in the restaurant and ski industries, permitted me to cache enough capital to ease into the closing stages. My soon be youngster created a dilemma concerning my outlay of savings. Here, existing in one of the most amazing places on the planet. Skiing all one hundred and sixty days of winter, relish the warmth of Moab's high desert in the spring, National Parks in any direction, sailing, along with whatever toy fell out of the garage when I open it's door filled summer. Travel blocked out the months of fall as winter slipped back. But at my personal back door, each year the warmth of a climate only a beach could accommodate called at my bones. Each March, I grew more and more tired of educating people in the culture of skiing. The arctic cold infiltrated the layering system that worked so well in the former months. Is this the conclusion of more or less thirty years of skiing? My way of life? Me?

Maybe The Last...

2008-2009 ski season concluded with people departing, never getting to say goodbyes. Snow melting and warmer weather, allowing one's mind to shift gears to the next season and recreational activity that arrives with it. Off to Moab, trying not to die mountain biking legendary rides like Porcupine Rim, Slickrock and Amasa Back, North Trail, along with a pile of rides only Moab could supply. A place where nothing is similar to the mountains, it's balmy and hot during the day creating consistence H2o inventory and cool at night. At dusk one can finds a high rock and park yourself. Gazing off to the West and benefit from some of the most exquisite sunsets produced just for you and your thoughts. I desired alot of sunsets.

The Valley...

Bridget on the other hand was pregnant, working, spin class, Body Pump, salad, pregnant, working, yoga, repeat. Finishing up and counting down the days at Ebay. I reside in the mountains and survive by teaching skiing, unknown to me Bridget's world of Silicon Valley, High Tech Computer stuff, Product Management. I was learning the ways of the Valley over the phone and through the wonder of the world wide web. So like any computer savvy guy would, I "Google Earth"it. So began my education to, "The 101", "The 280", "The 880". Highways to the rest of the world, but here in California they add "The" to jazz up just another road. Santa Cruz Mountains loomed over the petite Village of "Saratoga", my new address to be.