I don’t run the Imogene; I’ve never run the 18 miles up and over from Ouray to Telluride. I don’t run much at all anymore, unless it’s to sprint after a grandchild who is crawling toward the stairs.
But I do remember the feeling, from years past, when limbs and lungs were working just right, and the trail led away into Siren-call hills and it felt as if I could run forever. (more…)
With the “royal wedding” of politics and fashion in Ridgway this past weekend, I kept having this fantasy: What if I were stuck on the gondola with uncle-of-the-bride, George W. Bush? What would I say to the 43rd president? (more…)
Netflix, the world’s film library, would hardly have worked for me if not for the Telluride Film Festival, which is coming up next week for its 38th go-round.
Without the wisdom of the TFF, I would be stuck in first-run Hollywood hell, with a thin veneer of foreign-film awareness; my Netflix queue would be limited to Oscar favorites and the suggestions of movie reviewers – a dubious crowd. (more…)
It’d be wrong to say Mountainfilm has finally grown up. It is 33 years old, after all. My 34 year-old daughter has comported herself as a grownup for at least the last 15 years.
Perhaps better to say Mountainfilm has come into its own.
This is not to say the behavior last weekend was always strictly adult. Eating ice cream with your fingers, for example. (more…)
Years ago, I had a great volunteer job over the Mountainfilm weekend: I would get up before the sun and lead anyone who wanted to go on a ski tour from Ophir to Telluride via East Bear Creek. The festival was smaller then. Just one theater – the Sheridan Opera House. And films were programed only in the evenings, so festivalgoers could get out and climb or ski during the day.
One crunchy, blue-snow morning in 1988, I found myself hiking with a solo festival guest, a powerfully built but shy seeming, somehow reticent young man named John Harlin III. (more…)
The last time I was in Sun Valley, Arnold Schwarzenegger, who was not yet the governator, broke his femur on the ski hill. The people I was with speculated about it: how big was the fall to have snapped a bone inside all that muscle? (more…)
Jorge and Roberta met and fell in love in his native Mexico. They were both young. She was Italian. We don’t know why she was in Mexico – maybe as a student, maybe to work in the Caribbean beach towns of the Yucatan. His Indian blood showed in his mahogany skin and salt-bleached wavy dark hair swirling around his face and bare shoulders.
They had a son, Nathan, a dark-eyed angel. (more…)
The coffee table was piled high with stuff, as usual. We had a visitor coming, a friend from New York who stopped in rarely and so warranted a neater living room than the semi-pigpen we allow when we are home alone. I waded in.
First thing to get put away was the road atlas. We’d had it out to look at New Jersey. We’ve been watching old episodes of The Sopranos, and Ellen wanted to see where the Pine Barrens are. I’d also wanted to check on the whereabouts of Wasilla, Alaska.
That little bit of research happened after I read Nancy Franklin’s hilarious review of Sarah Palin’s new “reality” show, Sarah Palin’s Alaska. (more…)
It works every time. The season’s new ski movie comes to town in November just as snow is starting to fly, and all those dreams and memories built up over the summer come rushing out like a wind between the theater seats and the screen. (more…)
Somewhere, somehow the home movies got lost.
We think they were with my dad, but since our parents’ divorce decades ago, the locations of some things have never been entirely clear. At any rate, the reels of 8mm film that he shot and carefully spliced together from the 1950s and 60s are nowhere to be found. Dad is sick about it, but he doesn’t know where else to look.
These were movies of our wonder years. (more…)