Denver Book Babes Sponsor Opening Night Film for International Women's Festival

I'm honored to belong to a rollicking book club made up of wonderful, entrepreneurial, hilarious Denver women known as Book Babes. The book club established in Denver in 1987, is sponsoring the Opening Night film for Women+Film Voices, Denver Film Society’s six-day film festival. Opening March 8 and running through March 13, 2011, the film festival celebrates the 100th anniversary of International Women's Day.

The Book Babes will sponsor Miss Representation, directed by Jennifer Siebel Newsom, one of many films—both documentaries and feature films. The festival also will include salons, and in-person guests focused on thought-provoking, inspirational stories of women from around the world.

Two members of Book Babes—Joanne Katz, and Lu Law—serve as Denver Film Society board members. A third Book Babe, Terri Garbarini, also is sponsoring another film through her Cherry Creek North namesake women’s fashion boutique, Garbarini.

Book Babes includes the following members:

• Meredith Carson: Works at the Denver Performing Arts Complex and serves as a music DJ Friday mornings on KGNU, 88.5 FM, 1390 AM. Meredith reads some of the books some of the time.

• Susan Erlich: LoDo Pioneer, Generalist.

• Terri Garbarini: Owner, Garbarini, a woman’s fashion boutique.

• Lee Goodfriend: Co-owner of Racines and Dixons Downtown Grill restaurants.

• Mimi Kaupe: Book Babes’ founder and an in absentia member in good standing, is a costume designer.

• Joanne Katz: Denver Film Society board member, owner of Three Tomatoes Catering, Cowtown Barbeque Catering
, and Three Tomatoes Steakhouse & Club at Fossil Trace.

• Lu Law: Denver Films Society board member and designer extraordinaire.

• Jennifer Macy, Esquire.

• Karen Means Moore: Owner of Djuna, an interior design/home furnishings store, and also Pilates Evolution, an SPX Fitness studio.

• Karen Roehl: An Abstract Expressionist painter with a studio at the Dry Ice Factory in RiNo.

• Carol Simpson: Owner, Fine Gardens landscaping.

• Me, Colleen Smith: Author of the acclaimed novel “Glass Halo,” founder of Friday Jones Publishing, freelance writer & graphic art director.

• Alice Sperling: Mostly retired from the P.R. business in Denver, and living happily-ever-after in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.

• Deborah Williams: Miss Chief at Design and Image Communications. Deborah--to her credit--reads most of the books most of the time. For the occasion, Design and Image Communications created a new Book Babes logo, shown above.

COLORADO COLLEEN: Mt. Melancholy

FROZEN WATERFALL

in Colorado's Rocky Mountains between Denver and Vail. Old Man Winter hasn't had his last word with us yet.

VIEW FROM THE PORCH -- Winter or Spring? In Denver, Colorado, Mother Nature can't decide. This snow was so heavy, I could barely hoist the shovel. This was the most possible water content in snow. Any more and it would not be snow, but rain. We so need the precipitation, so the moisture comes as a benediction. The trees on my corner seemed fine since the snow wa mostly melting off. *** Elsewhere, though, roofs caved in, including a new roof on a library. I70 was closed both east- and west-bound; foothills had about two feet of snow. Got out of Denver late, and made it to Vail, to ski Day 21. Tomorrow is closing day on the mountain and several other resorts. But you never know: Last year, Aspen opened for Father's Day. And there's always the possibility of eking a few more days out of the season at Arapahoe Basin. Today on the mountain, skiers and riders seemed melancholy. The snow had held up surprisingly well, and new snow fell. Light went flat. At one point, we were like blind skiers, skiing through fog and small pellets of snow that sandblasted our faces as we made our way down.

COLORADO COLLEEN: The Whimsical Icicle Forest

ON TOP OF THE WORLD:
Above, the view from atop Bolshoi Ballet at the edge of Siberia Bowl, elevation 11,455 feet.

At left, a tree from the Whimsical Icicle Forest--my name for the special effects on the mountain yesterday.


Spring’s melt-freeze cycle decorated the evergreens on Vail with zillions of icicles sparkling in yesterday’s sunshine. Our skis were freshly waxed. We took a few warm-up runs on Lionshead, one far end of the front side of Vail’s expansive terrain. The day before had ended in sincere snow, and the mountain had a few inches of fresh powder. Under a sapphire sky, the mountain seemed enchanted; and Monday meant smaller crowds. We had a plan to make our way all the way to Outer Mongolia, the other far end of the mountain, on the back side of the mountain, where the snow lies as Mother Nature dealt it. In other words, no runs are groomed.

LEAVING ONE's MARK

In between, we skied some freshly groomed slopes; and I was getting my groove on in the corduroy—the lingo for the wide wales the Snowcats leave--I was thinking about how I love leaving fresh tracks. We all like to leave our mark, which is why silversmiths have hallmarks, and journalists have bylines, and why, I suppose, kids commit graffiti crimes, tagging blank surfaces.

The day before, skiing, I had an opposite thought occur. My head was full of details. With every turn I took, I noticed all the busy thinking falling away. The image that came to mind was of a chalkboard covered with a chemistry equation, but each turn on the mountain had the effect of a felt eraser wiping down the slate.

SOMETHING OF A SOJOURN

Getting to Outer Mongolia requires something of a sojourn. You cannot get there by chairlift alone. Once at the bowl, skiers and riders must take a poma lift up. If you’ve never experienced a poma, picture a platter on a retractable cord. Then picture straddling the platter and hanging on to a bar—and ski poles—while being towed up the hill. Sort of like the T-bar.

The views forced us to pause. The bowl below was not all tracked out, and Vail had gotten dumped on the week before—40-some inches in three days. There was lots of snow—deep, heavy, snowman-making snow.

Earlier in the season, while struggling in the deep powder, we decided to book a lesson. My Vail Ski & Ride Instructor, Richard, hails from Austria. So did my mother. Skiing powder requires a different skill set. “You cannot carve in the powder,” Richard said. Richard helped so much that by the end of the lesson, we had sailed down a black run deep with snow, and the overwhelming emotion was not fear, but joy. Another thing Richard taught me: “Don’t forget to smile and enjoy the scenery on the way down!”

So when we started down this amazing snowfield, and I was actually making turns in the snow and taking in some of the spectacular views, I got excited. “I’m doing it!” I thought. “I’m turning! I'm linking turns in this deep and heavy snow! Me! I have to remember to tell Richard that I made tracks in …”

BLAM. FACE PLANT. All I could do was laugh. And struggle to stand up again. I tried to plant my ski pole to stabilize myself, but it disappeared in the snow, buried all the way except for about an inch of the handle. I wore myself out trying to upright myself, but finally standing on my skis again, I looked up the hill at the proud turns I’d made in the untrammeled snow. And I saw that I’d left my mark, all right: a dramatic sitzmark where I’d landed at the end of my wide ribbon candy turns. One must never get too full of oneself while on skis.

We skied down Silk Road, rode the poma again, skied down Outer Mongolia Bowl, and I fell again. I struggled, but managed to get back on my skis again. I laughed like a kid with a new sled, playing in the snow. I won’t get any style points for my turns in heavy snow anytime soon, but lightheartedness counts for something, too.

We were among the last people on the slopes, skiing down with the mountain workers getting off after their shifts minding the chairlifts and pomas. And on the drive back to Denver, the snow held the light from an almost-full moon that was leaving its mark, ever so subtly, yet surely.