Grand Targhee 2013 / My Wintery Romeo

I feel I should recap Targhee 2013 in an ode...as it is, I am not talented nor educated enough to do so. Enjoy this post.

Targhee 2012

What can I say? Some feelings are so strong you can't do them justice through words. But... I'm going to try to convey some of what I feel for this magical, otherworldly, and alluring place in words; if you can comprehend even 25% of my feelings for Targhee, then I have done well. Or you have done well. Or we have both done well... Teamwork!

Not many lifts (only four) but lots of snow... I have long held the belief that Grand Targhee is underrated. To me, Targhee is perfection: the snow is always light, pure, and plentiful, and lines? Lines are unheard of! The cold is refreshing, and when the sun comes out, it's enough to make me cry because I feel so alive and so happy. My talk is cheap, but well, adoration is the thing that really showcases that. I was skiing by myself for the last couple of runs on the second day, Tuesday, when I heard the call of a very grateful skier/boarder: "Thank you Jesus! Thank you!" In light of the day I had experienced, I couldn't agree more. During the following run, I was halfway down the mountain when I burst into laughter; with Brandi Carlile playing, the snow cushioning my every turn and floating up around my waist, the wind singing in my ears, the Sacajawea cliffs across from me, and knowing there were so many happy people on the mountain, I couldn't help it; Targhee is shamanistic.

Sometimes the sky's blue, but more often the quiet grey sky reigns. I love the pines, too.

But backing up...to several different days... As long as I can remember, my Targhee mornings have been spent on the Blackfoot lift. It's the leftmost lift at Grand Targhee, an old lift that seats in twos, and I love it, not just because of the lift itself - which I find enchanting - but because of the terrain it gives access to. Lost Warrior at 9am after a big storm? Absolutely nothing like it in the entire world, pole to pole and back again, just for good measure. I'm not sure why I started beginning my ski days on Blackfoot, but the choice has never let me down, so I keep drifting back for more. The miraculous thing is that you can go back for a last couple of runs in the afternoon and if you stay close to the boundary, you can find powder that has somehow, somehow remained untouched.

After lunch I usually ski on Dreamcatcher and Sacajawea for the rest of the day. Lightning Trees, anyone? Sac has a prime line of cliffs that have a height for everyone and that are beautiful from any angle; I've had the pleasure of jumping off of them many a time and falling off a few times as well.

This year was even more special because my Grandma and Grandpa Asay came with us. Skiing and talking with them was incredibly enjoyable and I only wish that they had come with us before, especially because they inspired our Targhee tradition with their own. I enjoyed getting a refresher on pitch, a card game and a family tradition that is taken very seriously, with my grandparents and my mom. Despite the fact that I had only played twice before and that that was three years ago, I played pretty well; Grandpa and I won *fist bump* and we didn't cheat; now to become a real Asay...

Dinner at Teton Thai; Isaac and I were there, I promise.

I met an older man on the lift Tuesday and we talked about a lot of things, but one thing I mentioned is that it was originally my grandparents who came up to Grand Targhee every year with their own family. Part of his response was, "This place gets in your blood!" The wizened local later added, "I bet you'll be coming here every year 30 years from now." Gosh, I hope that no matter where I live 30 years from now that I will return to Targhee every year! I've got Wyoming blood in me, for heaven sakes; where would I rather be every January?

I could go on forever about Targhee, about how Tuesday was a Magnetic Fields-dominated day, with guest appearances from Paul Simon among others, while Monday was a more even mix; surely Teton Thai, Tony's and the ski videos they play there, the frosted trees on the slopes, the muffins my mom bakes for the trip, the seemingly endless stretch of pine forest behind the Sioux lodge, Shannon (the ski instructor that Lily didn't like), ski bums, King Arthur, and the Murphy bed would all be mentioned and discussed with a measure of depth that would hover between an "unbearably long explanation" and "too short to truly explain anything". But this is more than enough for any soul to read... Yeah.

So go ski! Or rather, go enjoy nature; it's lovely, refreshing, and it's all around, so you won't have to look very hard. I'd put in another word for Targhee, but I guess I'm hoping to selfishly guard his secrets from everyone but myself. I'm a jealous skier, what can I say?

Your bonny by-standing blogger,
Scout

     

      Targhee 2013, to be followed by Targhee 2014

           

A Tree Grows In Salt Lake

A new novel by Scout Asay

Yeah right, but the title works for my post. And I do like A Tree Grows In Brooklyn. Read it.

Oh beware, all ends of the Earth, for I am training my sister to walk in my footsteps, and mostly by example. "Oh dear," cry the critics and hand-wringers, "whatever can she mean?" Let me tell you, critics and hand-wringers, let me tell you. 

As you may (or may not) know, I love to read. I love books, poetry, plays, musicals, good film adaptions, authors, writers, characters, symbols, recurring themes, archetypes, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. (Did you get the reference?) I often find it hard to express this love of mine for various reasons, for example, most are not well read enough to engage in an entertaining conversation about, oh, say the influence of the Bible on novels. Another issue is that I sometimes have so much I want to express that I try to communicate it all at once and consequently the listener receives none of the intended messages. However, the greatest barrier I face is that most people just don't care, which doesn't bother me; we all have our specific interests and pursuits, and mine are most likely not theirs. It is understandable that most people do not care about the limits of human justice in The Count of Monte Cristo or that they don't want to hear about Nathaniel Hawthorne's wife and her effect on his literary works. Most people don't find Elizabeth Gaskell and her use of dialect as fascinating as I do, nor do they care that An American Tragedy is based on a true story and that The Odyssey is a lesson on the importance of hospitality and manners. Don't even get me started on E.M. Forster! Point is, I don't have many chances to gush about these passions of mine; maybe in language arts a few times a week, or when one of my friends patiently endures a rambling, fervent lecture on the life of Harper Lee, or if my mother has a moment to spare. Not many chances. :)

Being the kind of girl I am, I did (yes, did) nothing about this "predicament". Well, nothing until the opportunity smacked me in the face - literally. One summer evening my sister was playing in my room to avoid her other sister, and I asked her to get me such-and-such book off my shelf, and as she turned around with the book she hit me in the nose with it. After momentarily wallowing in my own suffering, I took the book (collection of Shakespeare plays), thanked her, and began to read an analysis of A Midsummer Night's Dream. Now, my sister is a very inquisitive little girl, akin to Curious George, and therefore she asked a multitude of questions: "What are you reading?" What's it about?" "Why doesn't she like him?" "Why does her dad like him?" "Does she really like him? ...Gross." "Where do the fairies live?" "So he's really a person but he gets turned into a donkey?" I ended up drawing a character map and giving her the whole story by way of synopsis, memorized monologue, and dialogue excerpts. I filled her in on some Shakespeare-language and let her toss Shakespearean (I know that's not a word, but I'm using it regardless) insults my way. I enjoyed myself immensely, and her education didn't end there - oh no.

Shakespeare books help immensely, especially this one. (Because it has pictures.)

You can't read just one Shakespeare play, it's simply impossible. By choice or by force you will read another, and another, and another... You might end up reading all of them. Well, Lily has read As You Like It, Hamlet, King Lear, The Merry Wives of Windsor, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Much Ado About Nothing, The Tempest, Two Gentlemen of Verona, and Twelfth Night. That makes nine, and she's seven years old. I could have just backed off and said my work is done, but I didn't want to: I saw opportunity. So what? So I invited her to watch period dramas with me, and asked her what she was reading and had her explain her books and the characters. I even made motions to introduce her to Charles Dickens through the film adaptions of Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, and Our Mutual Friend. You might say that seven is too young to be exposed to Charles Dickens, but if I'm not mistaken, Mozart started composing before he was seven. I'm not trying to make a prodigy out of my sister, I just want to have someone who, in a few years, I can share some passions with. It's a noble endeavor in my opinion, and I am confident that she will prove to be a true champion of literature and an enjoyable person to be around. Not that she isn't already, but... *Sherlock's we-know-what-is-going-on face*

There are still so many authors, writers, poets, and playwrights to introduce her to... Maybe my next project will be introducing her to Austen... Too bad she's too old for this darling picture book:

Although I guarantee I'll be using this web when we get to Pride and Prejudice.

Much love,

Scout

The Implied Leisure of Winter Break

I had a wonderful little post lined up at the end of last week. However, as it turned out, I made a mistake not unfamiliar to myself: I did not save it and so it simply disappeared after some time. It really was a bit upsetting, as it seemed to be a very honest set of paragraphs. Alas, you will never see it as I didn't have the faintest desire to retype it. And surely, any word which one does not have the desire to repeat should not be repeated. Take your own hesitance as a sign.

Well then! That was enough of an intro, yes? Yes, so I'll dive right in. Howards End, A Passage to India, A Room With a View, etc, are lovely, lovely books! How I adore E.M. Forster, for he had such a way with not just words, not just ideas, but with both. He was obsessed with human nature and human values, intertwining ethical values with romance, moral issues with hypocrisy and sympathies beyond mosts' imaginations, although "obsessed" makes him sound possessive; perhaps infatuated or smitten are closer titles to what it really was. His writings seem so wry and well-plotted, and through his very human characters I can sense a very human man merely trying to express humanity in words. Glorious, glorious humanity!, yearning to know, searching to learn, eager to fill the holes they feel in their existence! Do I sound very much like the Doctor? I have been watching a bit of that this week; older episodes, the first season with David Tennant. As a side note, it is a marvelous show. Anyway, I watched A Room With A View this last week, and as the opening credits started, I fell in love - again. I have seen it before (many times, in fact, since my mother first introduced me to it); the film was my first meeting with E.M. Forster, and I have not stopped meeting him since. I do like A Room With A View best... Of yet, at least. It's the most optimistic of his novels, and I feel I can identify with several of the characters, which makes it all the more interesting. The film was well-crafted in the book's image, and they did strive to stay true to the novel. Plus it was Helena Bonham Carter's first film and Maggie Smith  and Judi Dench are in it, not to mention Denholm Elliott. I LOVE Maggie Smith and Judi Dench, and when they conspire together, they are ten times better. Oh! Mr. Emerson crying in his passion (which I admire so very much), "I don't care what I see outside, my vision is within! Here is where the birds sing! Here is where the sky is blue!"and Mr. George Emerson giving his creed, the "Eternal Yes"... How I love spirit!

Of course, these passions of mine for E.M. Forster and humanity coincide with my passions for culture, literature, the English countryside, Jane Austen, the times, etc. Sometimes I do admire their leisurely way of life greatly, and go so far as to wish it upon myself. But that would never do; I'd be too restless, too... Useless, to put it frankly. E.M. Forster's appeal of "only connect" isn't one of leisure, in any event. Or, it's not something leisure alone can support...human connections, relationships...they require effort; labor, industry.

I suppose I am concentrating far too much on leisure, but really, I do like to be at my leisure! Not to say that I don't like work, but they have their separate times and places, and I have enjoyed my winter break to the utmost, what with social engagements, dinners, films, reading, poetry, and quiet walks. It really has been most wonderful. It has reminded me that leisurely activity is attainable, though after hard work. It has reminded that school is the time for learning, and after school is the time for hard, hard work, and if I finish it all up, then I can do something of actual enjoyment. Unfortunately, these moments are rare, and I feel them getting progressively rarer. Is that even a word? Yes, of course... Dandy! Time to go do things that my teachers think are important, though I wish I could just read. 

Forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever yours,
Scout

P.S. You're welcome (for the obnoxious adieu).