Cardboard Classic

It's easy to guess the socioeconomics of the last three Montana Resorts just by looking at the clothes. Haute skiers who ski at Big Sky wear Patagonia. Bourgeoisie skiiers at Bridger Bowl wear LL Bean. And my very favorite folks, the Proletariat skiers at Red Lodge, wear anything or nothing at all. The conditions and trails of all three have been superb but between the three, the archetype couldn't be more different.

At Red Lodge Resort, 60 miles from Billings, the 21st Winter Carnival was in full swing and the theme of the day was Mardi Gras. It was a day of debauchery and drunkenness and skiiers wore a whole lots of beads around their necks. The crazy Cardboard Classic contest kicked the day off with sleds made of cardboard, tape, and glue. They pushed off 1/4 mile from the finish line with usually 5 or 6 people pushing or pulling. There were crashes and snowbank collisions and cardboard shapnel trailing from behind. I nearly got knocked out by a float shaped like a set of boobs! Nearing the finish line some sleds were hauling at 25 miles an hour. Slamming against a make-shift barricade most of the revelers went flying. And I thought the Beehive Rockets in Taiwan attracted a zealous bunch.

Saving the best for last, the historic Pollard Hotel offered a hottub, lobster bisque and a friendly ghost. I think I caught sight of the shadowy figure looming from atop an adajent theater building. George, the General Manager, says the white bearded fellow has roamed the halls for years but causes little stress. More to come on Yellowstone County including several videos to download online March 20.

Pixie Dust

It was hard saying goodbye to Big Sky Lone Mountain today but Bridger Bowl was waiting. Skier Magazine is doing a full 6-page spread on this place and P.R. Pro Doug took us to the top for the best powder-skiing in the country. They call this type of snow 'pixie dust' and it's like floating through clouds when you ski into it. Today it was weighed down with a bit more moisture and yours truly, along with 4 other press peeps, took headers into it, same trail, same location. What a sight - 3 pro's and 1 intermediate fully buried except for our K2's protruding from above. I struggled to get back on my feet with my guide giving me pointers on how to twist and turn.

Bridger Bowl is my kind of mountain - intimate trails, lots of powder, friendly staff and glades I can handle. The 2-seater chairlifts, 4 in total, sweep you off your feet and rock you to the top. The freshly painted vintage lifts, circa 1960's, have been well maintained and take no time to get to the top. The sun lit up the mountain until closing and I took some fabulous silhouette shots with a bright blue sky as a backdrop. Thank you Team Bridger - Terry and sons for repeating the same Double Diamon run over and over and over again while I shot from below.

Following Bridger we spent the night in a newly-opened B&B in Big Timber, Montana. "House Keeping" - Oh No, I can't continue blogging I've got housekeeping at the door demanding entry. More to come soon!

Slopeside Scare

A quick swim in Big Sky's fabulous indoor/outdoor pool took the sting off of my burning thighs last night. It was exactly what my fatigued body needed after a day of skiing the world's second largest vertical drop. Such a tough life! My ears froze up a bit but the rest of me stayed toasty warm underwater. Hot steam rolled off the pool's surface and drifted into the heavens while Jackson Browne favorites canceled out the sound of the pumps. Brian H., my Trey Anastasio look-a-like cohort (emagazine.com) joined me in the dip. The rest of the press peeps collapsed too soon.

It wasn't easy 'rising and shining' after a relaxing evening like that but day #2 brought gulches, bowls and forks - more hotshot skier lip. I loaded up my camera and tripod hoping for a break in the gray skies. Around 2:30pm I got a taste of Mother Nature's fury in Montana. A freak storm blew in shutting down all the lifts and all the runs and guess who was trapped on top? Well, not exactly on the summit but close enough. I flagged down a safety patrol dude on a snowmobile for a lift back to base camp. "Sorry Miss, there's an injured child on Bone Crusher Ridge that I need to get to."

The wind was blowing so hard I could hardly see my ski poles. Cautiously I braved the descent alone. Not knowing where I was heading I ran into an exposed island of gravel and rock. What to do now? The area was roped off with bright orange flags but certaintly I couldn't climb back up from where I came. I decided to duck under the ropes and take my chances. It paid off - in no time, I was at the triple lift with 3/4 of the way to go.

I could hear crying and wailing in the distance as I got about half way down. A small girl had seperated from her parents and her tears were freezing to her cheeks. She was too scared to move and too upset to listen. I tried calming her but she must have sensed that I was just as scaried as she was. Fortunately a ski instructor showed up at the right time and managed to coax her down.

With only 1/4 way left I realized my life wasn't in jeopardy and stopped to grab some shots of the whipping winds. I had to remove my gloves to adjust the lens and just then an eddy circled me and tour the protection from my hands. My left glove went flying down the mountain. "Oh No!" I yelled. From out of nowhere, a good samaritan appeared and went zooming down in hot pursuit. It only takes minutes in subzero temps for exposed skin to suffer frostbite here so having him there saved me from amputation. He also carried the tripod and saved me from a broken back too. Whew! What an adventure and only in Montana - I don't recall Killington ever beating me down like this.

Moose Drool

5,300 acres of fresh powder, coulees, log slides, and stump jumps - that's ski bum vernacular for some of the best riding in the northwest. I'm spending the week in Big Sky, Montana, living life larger than I ever thought possible. Today I tackled Big Sky and Moonlight Basin near Bozeman, Monatana. The sun didn't peak until mid afternoon but that didn't stop me from enjoying some spectacular skiing and panaromic views. "Go ahead, pick your poison" insists my guide. I'm working up an appetite and my heart rate following a pack of professional skiiers. I look to the right and all I see is treacherous terrain - jumps, bumps, hits and ramps. I look to my left and all I see is 3 feet of fresh powder - barely groomed and trails barely visible. There's no easy way to navigate either so I take my chances wizzing past snow covered tree limbs and flying over mogul bumps. As usual, I'm in way over my head. My legs are burning, my breathing is short, my heart is racing and I'm regreting that I didn't put in 10 extra situps before I got here. "Wooooo" I just clipped a friend's board who went spilling down the mountain. "I'm sorry!" I yell out but I don't think he hears me. I continue on oblivious of the danger I pose to other skiers. In and out, back and forth, I'm nearly at the bottom. "Oh please, let me survive day 1 with 5 more days still left on the itinerary" I plead to myself. Just think Moose Drool, just think Moose Drool. That's the native beer concoction that awaits me at the bottom after a days worth of sweating and panting. "See, wasn't that easy!" barks my guide. "I'll answer that after I down a draft" I retort and fall head first into yet another snowdrift.

Hunting Big Sky

Traveling hungry for several thousand miles and 7 hours for a 4 oz. medium cooked Elk Tenderloin smothered in port wine and fesh thyme wasn't what I had in mind but it sure tasted good. I just flew in to Montana a few hours ago. It was a nice uneventful 3-stop layover - no turbulence, no crying babies and no lost luggage. Onboard, I had quiet conversations with a 4' 10" Great Grandmother of 16 Great Grandkids and a 22-year old Pastors daughter. Both hunt, fish, trap, and trek the Rockies, and they both carry photos of their proud prizes like a Mother would her child. Even before landing in Big Sky, Granny gave me proof that toting a rifle in Montana is as ubiquitous as using a cellphone in the Northeast. She pulled out her hunting license revealing she got it long before her drivers. Bagging a buck or mounting a 10-inch rack before adulthood seems to be a right of passage here. No judgement here really. My own Dad enjoyed his share of skinning muskrats and tagging deer when I grew up. Deer would hang by their necks in our car garage every hunting season. That doesn't mean I enjoyed venizon. The stuff always smelled nasty and was too tough to chew. Even my pet dog Snowball would choke on it when I snuck it to her under the kitchen table. Tomorrow I'm off bright and early to try my own luck shooting bison and other wild game. This sport is far less lethal in my hands - a steady eye and hours of digital video tape is all I need.

Life Is But A Stage

It's playing in three established venues right now, Taiwan, London and Broadway and the U.S. Tour version of the Andrew Lloyd Webber production picks just 12 cities a year to perform in. This month the 'Phantom of the Opera', the longest running show on Broadway is in downtown Schenectady, New York at the Proctors Theatre. My friend Ms. Jenn Joy nabbed tickets right before the show soldout and right before I left for Taiwan. I haven't slept for 3 days because of extreme jetlag but I'm awake enough to appreciate how American culture is truly impacting the rest of world. Yesterday I was reading Taiwanese billboards for 'Phantom of the Opera' in downtown Taipei, and today, here I am, enjoying the orchestration only 20 miles from my Albany home. Yesterday I ordered a Starbucks cafe mochachino in Taipei's airport and now, here I am, doing the same on the streets of New York. Yesterday I had a conversation with a woman in Taipei who complained that McDonalds is making her Taiwanese children fat - today I heard the same thing from a Massachusettes woman. Thanks (or no thanks, still undecided) the world is a much smaller place than I ever dreamed. Not only that but my life on the road feels like a show on stage - like the 'Phantom of the Opera', sort-of - a career choice that feels just as scary, magical and colorful as this production. The difference is my backstage-hands carry tripods and tape stock rather than scripts and show props and my actors, real people, never rehearse or prepare their lines. Next up -- Montana and a whole lot of wonderous days skiing the Rockies!

Taiwan Night Life

Do the Taiwanese ever really sleep? This country gives a whole new definition to the term 'night owl'. They spend more time eating, praying, eating, shopping and did I mention eating, especially after 8pm, than any other country I've ever been visited. For a country that stuffs itself to the gills with fishballs on a stick, duck tongue and turtlehead soup, they sure are tiny. How is it they don't gain weight sampling greasy fried dough bread and barbecue dishes all night? Does praying to the Holy Mother of the Ming Dynasty for a smaller waist line really work?

This country is all about nightlife and not just because it's the season for New Year's celebrations. As soon as the stars come out, it explodes with prosperity and liveliness. They dress up city buildings, street fixtures, harbor promenades, even buses and taxis with outrageous light displays. At a time when I'm about to crash on my feet, the country's power-grid goes on overdrive. I could barely keep up this week and maybe that's because I'm busting my hump producing a travel show. Or maybe, it's because my body still hasn't adjusted to the 12-hour time difference. Or maybe, it's because it's so darn exhausting trying to comprehend broken English from a Mandolin tour guide.

While the rest of the press junket is force-fed for the umpteenth time tonight, I skipped out and enjoyed some Zzzzzzs in the world famous Grand Hotel. This hotel may not have free internet access like the last two 5-star stays but it's an architectural landmark with vermilion pillars, stately archways and a brilliantly tiled roof. It's 20 stories high and sits atop the Yuan Shan Mountains for all of Taipei to marvel. I don't fancy the art-deco look, since all the rooms have stayed the same since '67, but the preserved Presidential Suite is very "James Bond" like. This once topped President Eisenhowers favorites among hotels in Asia.

My favorite visual so far was the changing of the guards at the Chiang Kai-Shek Memorial Hall. Every hour at the top of the hour 15 dedicated soldiers dressed from head to toe in military honors parade the grounds. They swing their guns in the air and stomp their feet - just like at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in D.C. I caught it all as the sun was sinking behind a colorful tori in the background. Breathtaking. More to see and read when I get back - including a rather humiliating little ditty that happened to me in the hotel swimmng pool...

Fear Factor in Formosa

GoNomad's team of professional photographers are covering the country of Taiwan with a fine-tooth lens right now. It's just Paul and me but from the southern harbor town of Kaohsiung scaling northward to the metropolitan Capital of Taipei, there's not been time for even a power nap. That suits me fine. Between the night markets, lantern festival, fireworks display and last night's Beehive Rockets Festival, the adrenaline rush from hot burning amber singeing my clothes is priceless.

The Beehive Rockets was the most unforgettable experience I survived to blog about. Just 5 hours ago, in the sleepy town of Yanshuei, an explosion of low-flying dynamite sticks took place. It filled the air with rancid smoke and ear-splitting noise. It set off car alarms and fire departments. It dirtied the ground with 3 inches of shells and soot. It was the epitome of fun for a photog.

As I understand it, the tradition started over 100 years ago in the prosperous town of Yanshuei. It was nearly destroyed by a pestilence and the God of War intervened with a remedy to rid the evil spirits using gun smoke. A large wooden box was built to house countless pounds of TNT and then set fire to envelope the city in plume of smoke. The antiseptic worked and nobody was the wiser for saving civilization using an ancient Chinese method.

But today, somehow that tradition has evolved into a free-for-all masochistic rite of passage for the slightly maladjusted. Thousands of thrill seekers donn helmets and thick clothing, some even without any protection and stand directly in firing range of the rockets. The wick is lit and rocket shrapnel starts flying everywhere. All the colors of a traditional fireworks festival but seen from the ground. Masses of Taiwanese go running for cover except the fool-hardy. They absorb a beating of a lifetime from pelting whizzing bottle rockets. Truly, it's unbelievable. The detonation lasts only a minute and then the cycle repeats itself further down the road until early morning. Do I have cigarette-like burn marks to share as a result? Not exactly but I do have some incredible footage and a migraine that just won't go away!

Flight of Misery

There's nothing worse than flying with a plane full of crying babies, make that Taiwanese babies in coach class for 19 hours. Add to that, sitting in the middle seat behind a cranky Chinese who pushes his seat in my face and in front of a woman who talks incessant Cantonese out-loud, to herself. Toss in an airline that serves greasy sausage and too little water and then loses my luggage at the destination and you've got one extremely dehydrated, sleep-deprived, frustrated passenger. Not just me but there's 4 of us flying to Tawaii, 2 for GoNomad, the other 2 from NYC Media. From JFK through Alaska to finally, Taipei, the trip was the noisiest bird I've ever flown in. "Plug your nose Sony, there's a woman about to get sick in front of us." alerts Paul, Photographer Extraordinaire. While everyone dons eye-masks and tosses their shoes aside, I'm stuck standing upright in place for hours because the aisles are too crowded to traverse. Taiwan awaits though and with it dawns a documentary, stock footage and interesting articles. The flight over isn't suppose to be glamourous - if it were it'd be part of the pending program. Oh no, I just lost internet connection inside this hotel again....uggghh.

Inner Man-Child Conflict

It's another week at Albany's independent film house, the Spectrum. I tried staying away to save money but films are a very powerful drug. Inside is a double feature - first up, Expat, Woody Allen's 'Match Point' followed by Dunken Tucker's 'TransAmerica'.

In 'Match Point' actor Jonathon Rhys-Myers plays the lead - a washed-up tennis pro turned unscrupulous schemer when passion and greed come courting. His creepy sweetness and flirtatious good looks are tip-offs that he's capable of devious and dark things - even if the audience knows it before he does. Vanity Fair centerfold Scarlett Johansen plays the femme-fatale who's resists his advances just long enough to be admired for her strenth and confidence. Then due to unlucky circumstances she finds herself back in London in love with the opportunist.

Cocky Rhys-Myers, having scored a rich wife, a great job, a new London apartment, juggles an affair with Johansen a second time. But then the haunting operatic score begins and you know something Alfred Hitchcock is about to happen. Might it be pregnant Johansen or maybe the innocent wife (Emily Mortimer) who gets axed? It's a great thriller and my suburban soul-sister Denise and I were on the edge of our seat until the very last ball drops - literally.

So too, are the characters in the movie "TransAmerica" having identity-crises but I'll save that for the critics at Rottentomatoes to make sense of.

I end with this: "The man who said I'd rather be lucky than good, saw deeply into life. People are afraid to face how great a part of life is dependent on luck. It's scary to think so much is out of one's control. There are moments in a match when the ball hits the top of the net, and for a split second, it can either go forward or fall back. With a little luck it goes forward, and you win. Or maybe it doesn't, and you lose."

Comfort Chairs

I've penned everything from this chair, poems, literature, blogs and tv scripts. This weekend is no different. I planted my ass in this chair on Friday and have been writing about Taiwan all weekend. Visual treats and culinary delights like no other await my new HD camara. Lantern and fireworks display, Night Markets, famous hot springs spots, stir-fried mouse and fishballs on a stick, I was heavy into research when my comfy chair gave way and I went flying backwards. Like a typical paratrooper Sarge came rushing in with camera in hand. "I told you to get rid of that thing!" barked Sarge. "No Sarge, never - not even now!" I struggled back. "Now, get out!". Like a shredded college sweatshirt my old chair and I have been through too much and no number of new sexy office chairs can replace it. If this script is deserving of bumps and bruises than it's a sign of how great this trip is really going to be!

Purely On Principle

Did you know that having a plastic cover over your car license plate is illegal in NYC? As if the city doesn't have better things to do than to issue $65 tickets to out of town drivers. Today, purely on principle, I drove from Albany to NYC and back again to fight the ridiculous charge. I was confronted with tolls, bridges, gas, misplaced directions, parking garage fees and a 3 hour wait at the NYC Finance Bldg. But as I sat waiting in downtown Manhatten, my spirits lifted because defendents were walking out with big smiles and reassuring grins. Must be they were getting their tickets thrown out, I surmised. Furthermore, I knew no Judge in his or her right mind would let a frivolous charge like mine stand. The court officer called my name and brought me to a small room to plead my case. It was closing time and the Judge didn't appear to be in a good mood. I turned on the 'ol charm. The speech I practiced all 250 miles down was repeated for the record. The Judge smirked, adjusted his chair, typed some stuff on his computer, then handed me back my tickets.

"Sorry sweetie, there's nothing I can do - NEXT!"

"But, but, but Judge..."

"NEXT! Move along sweetie, it's a long day and I want to get home too"

Today, I hate NYC.