Palmyra Peak. We skied the far left chute
Matt and Me atop Palmyra. 13,300ft
The bungee catapult apparatus
Working on our caveman imitations. Probably had a few beers at this point
Matt looks more like a baboon
Telluride: Dumber Than A Pencil With Two Erasers
To be able to fully immerse yourself in the content of this, one must first understand the anatomy and theory of the “Stupid Button”. A stupid button is a deranged switch of chemical imbalances in the brain, or lack thereof, which few people possess. It’s a Neanderthal trait stemming from the Sagittal Crest which has been weeded out through the correct happenings of evolution. Unfortunately, some morons still possess this crest, embedded in their thick noggins, giving them the prehistoric urge to batter and harvest woolly mammoths and elk with wooden rods or other caveman-esq utensils. What used to be a tribe’s greatest asset is now one of society’s biggest liabilities. Choices and intelligent decisions are bypassed altogether at a rapid rate and thrown out the window. The real problem does not lie with the mere presence of the stupid button but the ease with which it’s triggered and its ability to completely supersede all rational thought and judgment centers. A completely idiotic idea is pondered for a short period and immediately attempted if not carried out in full. Fuel this pre-historic foolishness with alcohol and you have a recipe for disaster that would never be considered for publishing in the Betty Crocker cookbook.
So what are a couple of men to do on a bluebird day in Telluride with their stupid buttons on hair trigger switches? Point your finger at the hairiest looking peak around, do what you gotta do to get up it, punch the stupid button and find the stupidest way down in the fastest way possible with no regard for the well being of your body.
With no snow in the last three weeks, conditions were less than optimal on day one and it didn’t take long to find ourselves bored to death with everyday runs. Access to Palmyra Peak had recently been opened to clowns who wanted to further push the thresholds of their personal limits and their time on earth. The summit is only a quick 2 hour boot pack from the top of the Prospect lift up steep steps of bullet-proof ice, scree-fields and rock. The 2 hr estimate assumes an average experienced hiker taking on the challenge in ski boots. Haggard enough to turn away most people, the two of us had a jolly laugh. “Let’s go, it’ll probably only take us 20 minutes anyways and I’m sick of the rest of this terrain.” We pointed our ambitions towards a rock outcropping at the summit resembling a Budweiser Clydesdale’s genitalia. We trucked straight up hill for about 50 minutes before the rarified air at 13,300 feet started to take its toll on our already walloped, hung-over bodies. We began to realize the seriousness of this asinine decision. The last 150 feet of treacherous hell was completed thinking of the reward that would be handed down to us upon summiting. We reached the top an hour and ten minutes after pondering this stupid idea of skulduggery. It was worth every calf-cramping step. With the amazing 14,000+ foot peaks of Mt. Snefles to the east and Mt. Wilson and El Diente to the west, we were caught standing in awe with our jaws dropped like a couple of dumb heifers. After a few pics and some cave-ape taking 20 minutes to lock into his tele-bindings, we started our decent. Nothing puckers up a sphincter like straight-lining a 45 degree chute full of shin-deep blower and rock patches scattered about with the intent of ripping you up like a cheese grater. An eternity to get up, 30 seconds of ridiculous tomfoolery to get down. Down is where we ran into our only issue. I hopped a small patch of harmless rocks only to be caught too far forward, landing in deep wind-blown crust and flipped like a rag doll bouncing off my head and landing in a mangled heap in the same position I came into the world, fetal. Here’s a shout-out to helmets, there is now a golf-ball sized dent in the front of my lid. How was I rewarded for that display of horsing around? Some Cro-Magnon ape comes up behind me, doubled over laughing like a drunken donkey. Palmyra Peak, cross it off the to-do list and go have a few frosty brews at Poachers Pub.
Day three found us in our most decrepit state of the trip, reeking like a distillery from a rowdy night out on the town that saw Dale causing a ruckus everywhere he went and Matt chasing war-pig cougars. We happened to run into another caveman from Missoula who was in Telluride doing Nordica Ski demos. For some ill-festooned reason, we thought it would be a great idea to lock our heels onto some race-bred Jet Fuel and Afterburner skis. The stupid button wasn’t pressed in this situation; it was nailed down by a fat, bald carnie in a striped leotard going for the giant stuffed panda. Telluride’s front side has some of the steepest, iciest, north facing groomers anyone could imagine pointing their skis down. Naturally the decision to tackle these runs on skis we were not familiar with was immediately bypassed faster than a famished bear puts a fish in his mouth.
We trekked to the blackdiamond groomer Milk Run for our first attempt. The 170cm Nordica GS skis underfoot felt more like snowblades and we looked at each other with stupid grins. I let out a primitive grunt, pushed off and was immediately forced into the backseat as my speed rapidly pushed deep into the red. As I began to lay the Jet Fuel’s on edge I was blown away; those Nordica’s edge better than a razor on fresh foliage. For a split second my judgement center took over and the realization hit me that should I lose it at this speed, serious body mangilation would occur and most likely parts of me would end up in a stretcher. The stupid button realized it had let another part of my brain function and immediately incapacitated the judgment center with a massive blow of adrenalin. I looked up just in time to see Matt balancing precariously on the back 5cm of his inside edge at speeds that would get you arrested on most highways. Having already put a massive dent in his helmet the day before on Palmyra peak, I was sure this awful looking flamingo balancing act would end up in the trees and give that lonely dent a sibling. His primal instincts must have taken over and somehow the baboon recovered and immediately proceeded to do something even dumber. The upcoming slope ended with a 90 degree boilerplate turn onto a cat track. Suddenly Matt comes flying by at unconscionable speeds, realizes his boneheaded error, tries to cut in early, skis chattering like a couple of chipmunks as he desperately tries to scrub speed and then drops a good ten feet onto a glare ice cat track still going mach 5. Somehow the stupid dingbat was fine. Runs two, three and four played out in much the same manner. So there you have it, a weekend in Telluride with the stupid button nailed down the majority of the time.
One more ridiculous thing to comment on. I strapped into one of those goofy dangling bungee medieval catapult apparatuses that kids normally get on. They’re fun but if you’re a male and want to reproduce later in life I wouldn’t recommend trying one more than once. Till next time that’s all we have.
Matt “dumber than a bucket of shrimp” Johns
Doug “dumber than a bucket of wet mice” Dale
So what are a couple of men to do on a bluebird day in Telluride with their stupid buttons on hair trigger switches? Point your finger at the hairiest looking peak around, do what you gotta do to get up it, punch the stupid button and find the stupidest way down in the fastest way possible with no regard for the well being of your body.
With no snow in the last three weeks, conditions were less than optimal on day one and it didn’t take long to find ourselves bored to death with everyday runs. Access to Palmyra Peak had recently been opened to clowns who wanted to further push the thresholds of their personal limits and their time on earth. The summit is only a quick 2 hour boot pack from the top of the Prospect lift up steep steps of bullet-proof ice, scree-fields and rock. The 2 hr estimate assumes an average experienced hiker taking on the challenge in ski boots. Haggard enough to turn away most people, the two of us had a jolly laugh. “Let’s go, it’ll probably only take us 20 minutes anyways and I’m sick of the rest of this terrain.” We pointed our ambitions towards a rock outcropping at the summit resembling a Budweiser Clydesdale’s genitalia. We trucked straight up hill for about 50 minutes before the rarified air at 13,300 feet started to take its toll on our already walloped, hung-over bodies. We began to realize the seriousness of this asinine decision. The last 150 feet of treacherous hell was completed thinking of the reward that would be handed down to us upon summiting. We reached the top an hour and ten minutes after pondering this stupid idea of skulduggery. It was worth every calf-cramping step. With the amazing 14,000+ foot peaks of Mt. Snefles to the east and Mt. Wilson and El Diente to the west, we were caught standing in awe with our jaws dropped like a couple of dumb heifers. After a few pics and some cave-ape taking 20 minutes to lock into his tele-bindings, we started our decent. Nothing puckers up a sphincter like straight-lining a 45 degree chute full of shin-deep blower and rock patches scattered about with the intent of ripping you up like a cheese grater. An eternity to get up, 30 seconds of ridiculous tomfoolery to get down. Down is where we ran into our only issue. I hopped a small patch of harmless rocks only to be caught too far forward, landing in deep wind-blown crust and flipped like a rag doll bouncing off my head and landing in a mangled heap in the same position I came into the world, fetal. Here’s a shout-out to helmets, there is now a golf-ball sized dent in the front of my lid. How was I rewarded for that display of horsing around? Some Cro-Magnon ape comes up behind me, doubled over laughing like a drunken donkey. Palmyra Peak, cross it off the to-do list and go have a few frosty brews at Poachers Pub.
Day three found us in our most decrepit state of the trip, reeking like a distillery from a rowdy night out on the town that saw Dale causing a ruckus everywhere he went and Matt chasing war-pig cougars. We happened to run into another caveman from Missoula who was in Telluride doing Nordica Ski demos. For some ill-festooned reason, we thought it would be a great idea to lock our heels onto some race-bred Jet Fuel and Afterburner skis. The stupid button wasn’t pressed in this situation; it was nailed down by a fat, bald carnie in a striped leotard going for the giant stuffed panda. Telluride’s front side has some of the steepest, iciest, north facing groomers anyone could imagine pointing their skis down. Naturally the decision to tackle these runs on skis we were not familiar with was immediately bypassed faster than a famished bear puts a fish in his mouth.
We trekked to the blackdiamond groomer Milk Run for our first attempt. The 170cm Nordica GS skis underfoot felt more like snowblades and we looked at each other with stupid grins. I let out a primitive grunt, pushed off and was immediately forced into the backseat as my speed rapidly pushed deep into the red. As I began to lay the Jet Fuel’s on edge I was blown away; those Nordica’s edge better than a razor on fresh foliage. For a split second my judgement center took over and the realization hit me that should I lose it at this speed, serious body mangilation would occur and most likely parts of me would end up in a stretcher. The stupid button realized it had let another part of my brain function and immediately incapacitated the judgment center with a massive blow of adrenalin. I looked up just in time to see Matt balancing precariously on the back 5cm of his inside edge at speeds that would get you arrested on most highways. Having already put a massive dent in his helmet the day before on Palmyra peak, I was sure this awful looking flamingo balancing act would end up in the trees and give that lonely dent a sibling. His primal instincts must have taken over and somehow the baboon recovered and immediately proceeded to do something even dumber. The upcoming slope ended with a 90 degree boilerplate turn onto a cat track. Suddenly Matt comes flying by at unconscionable speeds, realizes his boneheaded error, tries to cut in early, skis chattering like a couple of chipmunks as he desperately tries to scrub speed and then drops a good ten feet onto a glare ice cat track still going mach 5. Somehow the stupid dingbat was fine. Runs two, three and four played out in much the same manner. So there you have it, a weekend in Telluride with the stupid button nailed down the majority of the time.
One more ridiculous thing to comment on. I strapped into one of those goofy dangling bungee medieval catapult apparatuses that kids normally get on. They’re fun but if you’re a male and want to reproduce later in life I wouldn’t recommend trying one more than once. Till next time that’s all we have.
Matt “dumber than a bucket of shrimp” Johns
Doug “dumber than a bucket of wet mice” Dale
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