The highs and lows of parenting and real estate.

That’s Not a Hike; THAT’S a Hike.

What did you say? I have a blog? I don’t know what you’re talking about.

… Oh right, I have a blog.

It wasn’t really that I forgot about my blog. I just got a little busy trying to do everything. You know, a little circus class, a little work, a little organizing my house, a little Northern AZ getaway, a little happy houring with Cards Against Humanity and then last week a LOT of Lake Tahoe-ing. See, a girl gets busy. And lazy. A girl gets busy and lazy. So sue her.

But I’m totally gonna make it up to you. I’m gonna blog every day this week. By the end of the week you’ll be like, “YO. STOP TALKING. The inside of your head is making me feel insane.” And it will be like you’re my husband.


So check it:

I’ve done a fairly significant amount of hiking in the Phoenix area to prepare for last fall’s Grand Canyon misdirection extravaganza. This is how hiking in metro-Phoenix goes:

Get up disgustingly early. Like in the 3s, if it’s July or August.

Strap as much water as you can carry to your back.

Drive to the outskirts of town as it’s starting to get dawn-y.

Trudge up a dusty hill, watching for coyotes, rattlesnakes and scorpions. Not to mention those freaky-ass centipedes that I’m pretty sure would eat your eyeballs if you got close enough to them.

Once the sun is finally up and you’re 3 or 4 miles in, start to wonder if you’re going to die before you make it to the top of the mountain.

At least one of your party didn’t bring enough water and turns back before reaching the top.

Finally you make it to the scorching, shadeless top of the mountain, covered in salt crystals from the sweat that dries instantly as it exits your body, take a quick survey of the view of the city below, turn around and head back down the mountain, knowing your only reward is now that you are descending it will take you less time than the way up did.

When you get back to your car, you crank the AC and find the nearest restaurant that serves cocktails at 9AM on a Sunday.

Since I’ve only ever really hiked here, I sort of thought this was just what it was about. It’s for masochists. The beauty and enjoyment in it comes from experiencing a part of Arizona most people won’t get to see because they’re not tough enough to get there. Plus it’s a really fabulous excuse to daydrink.

But then last week I went hiking in Lake Tahoe and it turns out I WAS COMPLETELY FUCKING WRONG. I’m pretty sure some asshole came to Arizona a really long time ago and convinced one of the original Zonies that this hiking shit we do was ‘fun’ as a practical joke. And the rest of us native idiots who don’t know any better were like, Yeah! Hiking is ‘fun’! I hear that on TV all the time, so it must be true, without actually understanding that the thing we’re doing isn’t hiking as much as it is self-mutilation and torture.

Dude. This is how ‘hiking’ goes in Tahoe:

Sleep in until 9AM. Fill up a little water bottle to carry. put on your swimsuit under a pair of shorts and a tank top.

Drive to a gorgeous ski resort where they held the winter Olympics in 1960. Park at the bottom near a beautiful village resort-type place.

Hike about 2.75 miles up through lush forest, lovely little water falls and generally fantastic views. The elevation is exhausting, but it helps you feel like you’re really getting a decent work out.

Come to a stunning, secluded lake just sitting near the top of the mountain.

Strip and jump in.

(Take pictures while wet so everyone back home knows you jumped in the water even though it’s probably filled with monsters.)

Continue hike refreshed and with renewed energy.

About a mile and a half later, up the side of a ski slope with stunning views

come up above the edge of the mountain and find total and utter paradise in the form of a giant swimming pool, with a bar, restaurant and even a roller skating rink.

Wonder if really, truly, the hike was actually much harder than you thought, the altitude got to you and you have actually fucking died and gone to heaven. But then realize if there is a heaven, they wouldn’t let you in because you say the f word in public way too often.

Once again strip down, lay down in a pool chair, order and drink and vow never to leave.

When you check your phone and there’s several texts from an agent you’re doing a deal with asking work questions, simply text him this (even though you’ve never met him in real life) and assume he’ll understand:

Drink several cocktails with funky mountain-themed names and finally decide you’re getting sunburned and should head home.

Climb on the gondola, which costs $30 to ride up, but is free for the studs only taking it down and enjoy the ride down, which can only be described as visually orgasmic.

So the point of all of this is:

Dear Arizonians,

THEY’RE LYING TO YOU. What you’re doing isn’t fun, it’s terrible. Where’s the bar at the top of the mountain? The pool to cool off in? The lake halfway up to take a refreshing dip in? The goddamn free ride to the bottom? Stop with the death marches up the mountain in protest until Phoenix gets it’s shit together and builds a pool and bar at the top of Camelback. If we band together I bet we can talk them into it.

Love and kisses,

The girl who’s seen the light


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