Former Aspen Public Radio reporter Kirk Siegler makes the big time with his report for NPR on Sudden Aspen Decline (SAD): http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=6095916
NPR's Mitch Teich reports on the same phenomenon from Northern Arizona.
Add comment October 27th, 2009
Tuesday September 15, 2009
Bears are our business----say officers with the Aspen Police Department---
after the staff shortages at the division of wildlife caused that agency to authorize local police to shoot bears if necessary----find out more on Thursday in our interview with the APD’s Stephanie Dasaro.
Election season--- ---we’ll cover the local and state issues and candidates here on local news---stay with KSNO!
All predictions are for a wonderfully colorful Fall for the mountains---excepting those vast stretches with the devastation of the mountain pine beetle.
Independence Pass is a chosen favorite of many online recommendations to get those autumn photos-----as is McClure Pass.
Temperatures sustained at 32 degrees or colder can make for a shorter and less spectacular fall show---says the forest service-----but we are so far on track to start seeing those colors in profusion within two weeks.
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Add comment September 15th, 2009
Verdant green lodge pole pines blanket the Mount Holy Cross Wilderness region. A cobalt sky profiles rolling mountain tundra while gray rock peaks push against the universe. In the valleys, snow-fed sparkling rivers cascade over boulders, while wildlife munches, stalks or chirps its way through the dark forests "too silent to be real." In that wilderness, the "circle of life" maintains a certain perfection known only to those who dare enter that wild kingdom.
Driving along a dusty mountain road, my friend Al and I crossed over a frisky river leading into a quiet canyon. We followed that river for a half dozen miles before stopping at a trailhead.
"This is it," I said. "Turn into that spot and let's get moving before that sun sets any further"...
Continue Reading 1 comment July 21st, 2009
By Frosty Wooldridge
Each spring, at the closing of the ski season, a sort of corny, crazy, wild and silly malaise overcomes the slopes at Winter Park, Colorado. Early in the morning, the parking lots fill up with characters in costumes ranging from Superman to caterpillars. Tailgate parties sprout out of snow banks! Breakfast becomes a wine tasting fest!
Elaborate snow sculptures attract everyone’s’ eyes such as a snow-island complete with palm trees and diving swordfish. Coconuts, flowered lays and seashells magically appeared on the snow-island. Sure enough, a lady wearing nearly nothing danced to the swaying music of Jimmy Buffet!
Sandi and I buckled into our boots as the sun crested the Continental Divide. Fresh powder the day before gave promise for sweet tree skiing and knee deep glory for the last day of the season. We stood in line at the Pioneer Express six pack lift for a quick ride to the top. From there, we cut through trees and fresh powder to catch the Panoramic Express to the top of 12,065 foot Parsenn’s Bowl.
Continue Reading Add comment April 28th, 2009
Ever strap on a 45 pound pack, step into skinny skis and trudge off into the wilderness like Jeremiah Johnson? Have you ever made a winter ascent of a 13,208 foot peak on skis with screaming winds and frigid temperatures tearing at your body? No? Don’t feel like the lone ranger! You’d have to be nuts to go on a ‘hut to hut’ mountaineering ski trip in the middle of February!
Enter wing nuts named Greg, Nick and Frosty! Intrepid travelers? Or crazy guys that don’t have the common sense that God gave a goose? Maybe they saw one too many Clint Eastwood movies like, “Where Eagles Dare!” or perhaps “The Iceman Cometh” with Lloyd Bridges, or, maybe they thought reenacting Ernest Shackleton’s “Endurance” saga in Antarctica by trying a similar stunt in Colorado might bring a similar sense of adventure. Who knows what kind of glue those Colorado boys sniffed before they drove happily into the mountains for a most amazing adventure?
Continue Reading 2 comments March 2nd, 2009
Click here for a symphony composed by nature
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Add comment March 1st, 2009
by Frosty Wooldridge
As a special note, I lived and worked at McMurdo Station in Antarctica for a summer season ‘on the ice’. I brought my bicycle where I pedaled and camped in subfreezing temperatures. This rare episode stands as one of the greatest moments of my bicycle touring career spanning six continents. I have pedaled along the Arctic Ocean in Norway 600 miles north of the Arctic Circle all the way to Antarctica:
In the morning, a whiteout howled across McMurdo Station, Antarctica with 100 mile per hour winds and minus 60-degree temperatures. I had been confined to my barracks for two days as a 'Condition One' storm worked its way over the icepack before me.
By late evening, a high pressure center turned the weather placid with a warming trend taking the temperature to a ‘balmy’ minus 20-degree temperature that kept most people inside. A report crackled over the base radio that several emperor penguins waddled toward the open sea near the ice runway. Not wanting to miss a chance to see those majestic birds, I bundled into my cold weather gear--insulated boots, heavy mittens, three Thermax layers, fleece, three hats, face protection, along with ski goggles--and headed out the door to ride my bicycle over the ice runway.
Yes, we enjoyed bicycles at the scientific station. I yearned to see those birds no matter what the cold! I jumped on my bike looking like an over-stuffed bear with all my cold weather gear on. My breath vaporized as I rode toward the ice-covered ocean. My lungs burned with each inhalation of polar cold. About a mile around the cove, the setting sun glinted off the roof of
the great British polar explorer, Robert Falcon Scott's Discovery Hut. He had died 95 years ago on his last attempt to reach the South Pole. The Hut stood on the point of McMurdo Sound since 1902. It gave mute testimony to the courage those men displayed in their polar adventures. Antarctic makes for a cold, miserable place. Upon reaching the South Pole in second place behind the Roald Admundsen, the crafty dog sledder explorer from Norway, Scott cried out, “Oh God, this is an awful place.”
I rode along a path that led toward the ice pack in the sound. From there, a plowed road headed eight miles out to the makeshift runway for the air port out in the middle of McMurdo Sound. That’s right, 10 foot thick ice supported the weight of massive C-140 Starlifters with four jet engines.
I rode along carefully on the packed snow on the smooth ice. Pack-ice lined both sides of the road. Describing pack-ice takes more than words! It’s jumbled-broken ice chards being heaved and smashed into multiple shapes-triangles, domes, squares, tubulars, and wedges--like an Erector Set gone crazy. However, near the shore, a reasonably smooth, thin veneer of snow remained after the blizzard.
Above me, a gold/purple sky glowed brazenly in its final glory into the crevasses of the Royal Society Range across the sound. For once, a rare quiet softened the bitter edge of the crystal white desert before me. One of the glaciers, more than ten miles across at its terminus radiated liquid gold from the setting sun. Riding along, I nearly tipped over, but soon, I pulled through and gained the edge of the ice. Even with polar weather gear protecting my body, the numbing cold crept through the air, as if it were trying to find a way into my being.
The bike frame creaked at the cold and the tires made a popping sound on the snow I pedaled over. The big boots I wore made it hard to keep on the pedals. I persevered and kept moving forward.
After four miles, and across the ice, I looked through the sunlight and saw four black figures approaching. I shaded my eyes with my gloved hand. They drew closer, their bodies back-lit by the sun on the horizon. I saw a family of Emperor penguins. I dismounted from my bike and walked onto the pack-ice about 50 yards from the ice road. From our survival classes, I learned to sit down so as not to frighten them. By appearing smaller, they might find me interesting.
Slowly, I lowered myself into the snow, cross-legged, like an Indian chief. Minute by minute, they waddled closer--straight toward me. Three big birds, about 80 pounds each kept moving dead-on in my direction. The smallest followed behind them.
Another minute passed and they were within 30 feet of me. The lead emperor carried himself like a king. His silky black head-color swept down the back of his body and through his tail. A bright crayon yellow/orange streaked along his beak like a Nike logo. Under his cheek, soft aspirin-white feathers poured downward, glistening in lanolin. A pink colored line ran along his beak. His wings were black on the outside and mixed with black/white on the front. He stood at least 40 inches tall and his enormous gray three-toed feet featured a gray reptilian roughness with blunted talons sticking out. He rolled his head, looking at me in a cockeyed fashion, as if I was the strangest creature he'd ever seen.
I don't know what made me do it, but I slipped my right hand out of the glove and moved it toward him--slowly. The rest of the penguins closed in. The big guy stuck his beak across the palm of my hand and twisted his head, as if to scratch himself against my skin. I felt glossy feathers against my hand. He uttered a muffled, “Coo,coo...” The rest of the penguins cooed. Their mucus membranes slid like liquid soap over their eyes every few seconds. I stared back, wanting to say something to them, but realized I could not speak their language. However, at that moment, we shared a consciousness of living.
My frozen breath vapors hung in the air briefly before descending as crystals toward the ground. I battled to keep from bursting with excitement. Within seconds, one of the other penguins pecked my new friend on the rump. He drew back. With that he turned and waddled away. Following the elders, the little one gave one last look at me, as if he too wanted to scratch my hand, but was afraid, and turned with his friends. As they retreated, their wings spread out, away from their bodies like children trying to catch the wind in their arms. The baby emperor was last to go.
My hand turned numb so I stuck it back into the glove. As I sat there, I remembered once when a hummingbird landed on my finger near a feeder on a cabin porch in the Rocky Mountains--and I remembered the sheer delicacy nature shared with me that warm spring day. Here, in this frozen wasteland beyond the borders of my imagination where man does not belong, nature touched me again today with its pulsing heart and living warmth. I only hope my species learns as much respect for our fellow travelers as they show toward us.
I stood up, tightened my hood and looked for the penguins. They vanished into the whiteness. Only the pack ice rumbled toward the horizon. I walked toward my bike. It’s hard to believe that two rubber tires laced together with spokes and rims—and attached to a metal frame could carry me from the Amazon Jungle, along the Great Wall of China, across 15,000 foot passes in the Andes, through the scorching Outback of Australia, across Europe, through Death Valley and on to where the bolt goes into the bottom of the globe. That simple machine lying in the frozen snow had taken me to far-flung places on this planet and it had allowed me magical moments beyond description. That moment with the penguins probably ranks as number one for my long distance bicycling adventures. I remounted it and turned toward the base.
The ride back didn't seem so cold.
Merry Christmas Aspen, Colorado friends!
Excerpt from “An Extreme Encounter: Antarctica” by Frosty Wooldridge
www.frostywooldridge.com and www.amazon.com
Add comment December 24th, 2008
Tomorrow I'm getting up at 4:30 am to cook a hearty breakfast. I'm thinking country potatoes, green onions, and garden-grown tomatoes smothered with a light topping of cheddar cheese, orange juice, and tea. I put my son and his friend to bed tonight at 8:00 pm. Tomorrow, they will attempt to climb Mt. Sopris with their ski team coach, John Bresnitz, and Glenwood native Bill Kimminau.
Will they make it?
I think they will.
Continue Reading Add comment October 4th, 2008
There is something about the name Cape Foulweather that fascinates me. My mind races with thoughts ranging from the history of the area and wanting to know the facts, to images of a full length feature film of mystery and suspense starring Robert DeNiro, Al Pacino and Jack Nicholson. I wish there was an actual town of Cape Foulweather. I would consider renting a house there while I wait to purchase my sloop or ketch.
The name itself, Cape Foulweather, doesn’t bring the idea of a warm sunny day to the average tourist. The truth is that Captain James Cook discovered and named the Point in 1778 when he first sighted the mainland of North America on the Oregon Coast, and one of the sudden fierce storms, which greeted his arrival, almost put an end to his historical expedition. Captain Cook never set foot on land at Cape Foulweather and couldn’t wait for the storm to pass so he could set sail again and leave this area. I have just the opposite draw to Cape Foulweather, even if there are winds up to 100 mph a few times each year.
I leaped at the opportunity to sail to the Point after we scrapped the idea of our Wednesday Night Regatta in Yaquina Bay in Newport, Oregon when there wasn’t even the slightest hope of a breeze strong enough to fill the sails for us to race. We placed our bets on the wind currents out at sea, as unpredictable as they always are, once we left the bay under power and raised the sails heading north a few miles to Cape Foulweather. The sea was as flat as I have ever seen it. Barely a ripple slapped against the boat. We were under power while we tried to catch some wind. Finally a whisper of wind became just strong enough for us to cut the engine and use full sails. It was slow going and unusually quiet. Seagulls were passing us the way a Lamborghini zips past a Geo Metro with an 8 watt blow dryer motor.
It was a short trip, even at our slow pace, but it was enough time spent on the sea to remind me that I don’t really care much about regattas and racing as much as I do spending quiet time in reverie on the sailboat. Since 1965 I have had my share of fast cars. But that’s another story for another blog. Boats are in a different category for me when it comes to speed and purpose.
Maybe it’s the fact that I’m older, wiser, and no longer in a hurry for my days to pass by quickly. Time seems to stand still when I’m sailing. I forget that there is already an influx of tourist traffic on Hwy 101. I don’t think about how long it takes me to drive home from Newport to Lincoln City. The sun doesn’t set until after 9pm here in the Pacific Northwest. It isn’t dark until well after 10pm, so my days are longer and my nights are very short. I don’t get much sleep and I can use all the siesta time kicking back on the boat, listening to a sail flap when it loses its wind now and then, and I have to do some quick tacking to avoid turning the engine back on.
One of my co-workers who has been sailing for over 25 years here told me he became a little bored with sailing. He said, “What can you do? You leave the bay, you go straight for a little while, then you either turn left or turn right. There’s nowhere to go.” I reminded him that it’s not the destination that matters. It’s the journey. Even if that journey only takes you a few miles to the left or the right. It’s a journey filled with valuable time that rejuvenates the heart and soul of expatriated Woody Creek dreamers like me.
5 comments July 2nd, 2008
As soon as the food was gone, the chicks would immediately fall silent and settle back down to sleep. And I’d go back to work. I quickly became addicted to observing the new family, picking up my binoculars a dozen times or more each day. I cherished this routine and the rare opportunity to observe nature’s wonder at such convenience.
Within a week, the chicks began to develop their adult feathers, or ‘fledge’ as it’s called in the birding community. I anticipated watching them learn to fly; jumping out of the nest onto the thickly needled branches of their spruce abode, awkwardly testing their new wings as mom and dad encouraged them to explore the outer branches and eventually take that big leap. But it didn’t happen that way at all. One day they were there and the next day, they were gone.
Continue Reading 1 comment June 18th, 2008
