“You always stay at a party ten minutes too long,” my buddy
Shaun says.
So true.
With the trifecta of the Outdoor Retailer (OR) show, Snowdown and the Superbowl
occurring over the last two weeks I’ve done my share of partying, and now I’m
ready to get back in my normal, mellow routine. But first, I’ve got to dive
back into that untrustworthy narrator that is memory and recall exactly what
happened.
The journey
up to the bi-annual OR show in Salt Lake City always involves a stop through
Moab. My friend, Buddy Bear Benson, as I call him, lovable as a teddy bear, lets
me crash at his place when I’m in Moab climbing, or just passing through. OR
always involves a lot of networking and partying, and afterwards I always feel
burnt out. So this year I committed to getting some exercise in before and
after the show.
So Buddy
Bear and I meet up around four o’clock, and as a Moab local he’s got the
perfect climb picked out for us. A two-pitch moderate crack route, five minutes
from town that is still basking in the last rays of the setting sun. The Golden
Hour. I always get stressed out preparing for the OR show (I’m not a natural
salesmen) and getting on the rock reminds me to breathe and focus on the task
at hand. “Enjoy the moment,” Buddy Bear says before I take off from the belay
ledge.
Climb
completed in two hours before the sun leaves us, I take stock of the
surroundings: massive chunks of ice floating down the Colorado River, the sexy,
alluring, yet dangerous maroon sandstone walls, a velvety pink sunset, and a
good friend. “What lives we lead,” Buddy Bear waxes poetically. “We live in the
richest nation in the world, and after work we get to climb on these beautiful
sandstone walls.”
Buddy Bear
and I crack a beer, and he gives me a local’s bonus, showing me some
petroglyphs just up on the hillside. The next morning I’m off to Salt Lake. Off
Highway 70 at a gas station in Crescent Junction I meet my buddy Shaun, a
natural salesmen, who is committed to helping me achieve my dream to become a
full time writer and publisher. Our friendship has been molded by the loss of
two great friends in the last two years, both who lived in Salt Lake, and when
you lose friends you appreciate the dear ones in your life who are still
living.
We drive up
to Salt Lake and make fun of each other like we always do, while finding common
ground on the iPod. (Jay Z and the Grateful Dead.) Arriving into Salt Lake the
noticeable thick layer of toxic smog hovers over the city, and we barely arrive
in time for our first meeting.
In a three
day period at OR I can network more than one year of sending out emails and
queries. Nearly every single outdoor company is represented there, as well as
renowned outdoor writers, editors, photographers, and professional athletes. We
lock down a few new sponsors for my publication, The Climbing Zine, and I get to meet my literary hero John Long,
who promises to write an endorsement of my next book.
We attend
after parties, and after-after parties, and after that have to flag down the ever-elusive
cab in the quiet late night of Salt Lake. We stay at many parties ten minutes
too long and at the end of the show, and after breathing the polluted air for
three days I’m ready to head back in the direction of home.
Time to
head back to Moab for another day of climbing, to set the soul right, and
breathe fresh air. We revel in the off-season of the red rock desert, climb
with no one around, and bask in the sun.
Back home
in Durango I catch up on my sleep just before Snowdown hits. Other than
entering a karaoke contest I didn’t have any plans for Snowdown, but I do own a
catsuit and some leopard print clothing, so it was too easy to head downtown
and partake in the festivities.
After the
parade my roommate and I wander downtown, and notice that Durango Dance is
hosting a “Booty Shaking Contest”. We rally some more friends and check it out.
All I can say is: Best Snowdown Event. Ever.
A rowdy
crowd inside, with a hundred people outside looking in made for an infectious
spirit as both men and women shaked their booties for audience applause. Women
are more naturally inclined to the art of booty shaking, while some of the guys
resorted to other trickery, like breakdancing to get applause. But one fellow
stood out from the rest.
From the
moment he entered he was a crowd favorite. He had a good 40 years on any of the
other entrants, and when he entered the floor he owned it. It wasn’t his
dancing, it was his swagger. As each round progressed he gained more and more
applause and his opponents less and less. Soon he had the crowd chanting, “Old
Guy, Old Guy, Old Guy….” And the contest built to a feverish pitch. Destroying
the field, and the dance floor, he was a hero, and awarded the prize: The
Golden Thong, an item he promptly put on over his pants for display. When he
left the studio, a crowd of admirers waited, erupting in applause for this
Grandpa that had captured their hearts.
It all went downhill from there. I did have a
blast at the karaoke performing my old standby, “U Can’t Touch This” complete
with a well practiced Hammer Dance, but it was a travesty when my friend
dressed as a monkey failed to make the top three. His “Welcome to the Jungle”
rendition was nearly identical to Axl’s delivery, and garnered more applause
than anyone that entire night. Best costume and best delivery, and the judges
didn’t even give him the top three. I mean a screaming monkey belting, “Shaaanana,
Naana, Neez, Neez….” with an otherwise quiet crowd erupting in applause. If
these judges are on the Snowdown payroll I think an investigation is necessary,
but I digress.
After that
we witnessed drunkards getting arrested and kicked out of bars, taking the
spirit of celebration way too far. We all know what happened on Sunday too, and
I won’t bother commenting on that. And, I’m ready to get back into that early
to bed, early to rise routine, to follow the rhythm of winter for a few more
weeks, and leave parties at just the right time.
