R.J. Ruud's Blog

Hiking in the morning and rafting in the afternoon: I could not have imagined a better way to spend my last sunny Colorado spring Sunday of the year. We put in on Clear Creek west of Idaho Springs. The river was raging — highest it’s been in years. The water was ice cold. We were barely into the first rapids when our guide was catapulted from the back of the raft all the way to the front. Not long after, a girl was thrown from the raft ahead of us and into the icy and rocky water. It was an intense and wet ride from there on out. And playing in the cold river was the perfect warm-up for a summer on the lakes of Minnesota.

For next week begins my Summer in Sota. The plan is to spend at least two months in the Crosslake, Breezy Point, and Pequot Lakes areas as inspiration for my new novel, THE SKELETON LAKE BOYS, while cramming in as much quality time with the family as possible. Playing with the nieces and nephew is high on the list. I’m hoping for at least a dozen lazy days on the beaches of “Goat Island” on Pelican Lake. I expect to hurt myself wakeboarding, at least twice. BONFIRES! Trading tales around the kitchen table at the Cabin will be a long-missed treat. I’m looking forward to a family wedding in July. And, of course, soaking copious amounts of beer at the beach, the bonfire, the boat, the river, the back decks of dozens of family members and few fine lakeside establishments is also near the top of my list.

With the count down clock for leaving my beloved mountains having ticked down to only days, it’s my impending Road Trip that best battles the sadness brought on by the thought of missing another Colorado Summer. I do love a good Road Trip. Even the sixteen hour sightless trip between Colorado and Minnesota is a mind freeing drive in the right state.

Packing lots of bug spray,

R.j

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[image error] Get Lost Creek on Amazon

I am pleased to announce LOST CREEK is now available on Amazon in both ebook and paperback.

The settings and the characters of LOST CREEK were inspired by the rich history, beautiful scenery, and the interesting mountain folk of Gilpin County, Colorado. A wonderfully strange county that I’ve proudly called home for nearly two years. Most of the story came to me this past winter while hiking abandoned mines and the ruins of log-cabin mining camps with my dogs, Powder and Roxy — for those of you who know Powder I’m sure you’ll recognize many of her peculiar traits in the main character’s dog, Blue.

Although murder and mystery are the driving force, in the end, LOST CREEK is really just a love story between a man and the mountains.

The post Releasing LOST CREEK appeared first on .

With the official launch of LOST CREEK a little more than a week away, I’m running a giveaway for a free paperback copy of the book.

Enter to win and keep checking back for book release details and promotions.

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Goodreads Book Giveaway







Lost Creek



by R.j Ruud

Giveaway ends June 06, 2013.

See the giveaway details

at Goodreads.

Enter to win

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I returned to Roger’s Pass Lake on April 16. A two-day storm had dropped three fresh feet on James Peak Wilderness. The storm was still dumping snow as I parked my truck at the Moffat Tunnel. Big fluffy flakes were falling so fast that I couldn’t see the tunnel from where I parked — less than a hundred yards away. With my snowshoes strapped to my feet and my snowboard strapped to my pack, I started off for Roger’s Pass. Roxy and Powder paddled through the deep snow to blaze the way. A mile up the trail, the storm broke to release the sun’s hot rays upon the mountainside. I was way overdressed — especially for shouldering the weight of my snowboard, snowboard boots, helmet and goggles, lunch, water, extra layers, dog food, and an assortment of winter survival supplies crammed into my pack. Even after shedding every possible layer and opening every vent, including my fly, I was a sweaty mess long before I made it to the lake.

It took four backbreaking hours to reach Roger’s Lake, rather than the two hours the prior trip took. My shoulders ached. My legs were shot. The sun had baked the three dusty feet of champagne powder into two feet of sloppy mashed potatoes. And the steepest climb was yet ahead. I considered stopping to eat my lunch, but I knew I’d never go any further. And the possible turns-to-be-had by dropping off the ridge above seemed to somehow brew a strange new energy from some reserve tank that I never knew I had. I made Roxy and Powder “Stay” at a high spot above the lake, where I was certain they would be safe if I happened to trigger an avalanche, and I continued to climb.

The last pitch was steep. Every straight-up step was heavy with quickly melting powder that stuck to my snowshoes like wet cement. I dug a pit to find that the new snow, now melted to a sloppy six inches, to be weighing heavy on a fragile five-foot wind slab — atop a foot of sugary snow with no integrity. The conditions were prime for a slide. But I just had to climb higher. The upper ridge spilled into a valley where the wall on either side climbed to a flat that I considered safe from any avalanche path. I figured I could ride close enough to the southern edge that I could race up and over if I happened to trigger a slide — a foolish notion, I know, but when those chemicals start swirling around the brain, common sense seems to take a back seat.

The cornice at the top of the ridge was curled like a tidal wave. I so badly wanted to drop off it. I was less than a thousand feet from the top when I realized I would be an idiot to consider it. The next wave of the storm was blowing over the Divide as I laced my snowboard boots. I put my snowshoes in my pack, strapped my snowboard to my feet, and I dropped into the slushy heaven. I floated an epic line into the valley, where Roxy and Powder barked their disapproval of my careless ways. I looked back one last time to make sure I hadn’t triggered a slide, and then I let out a whistle to let the dogs know they could follow.

We ate a very late lunch after I reached the cover of the trees, but not before I dropped a nice ten-foot cliff that I spotted on the way up. The storm had settled right on top of us. The temperature plummeted. As fast as I scarfed my sandwich, almost as fast as the dogs inhaled their kibble, I still wasn’t able to strap-in and make my final descent before the slushy fresh snow started to freeze. It was a wild and sketchy ride down through the tight trees. I nearly sailed over the edge and into the river at least a dozen times. It was a great ride. It took nearly five hours to hike to the top. It took less than an hour to ride down — and that’s counting a ten-minute lunch break.

This descent was far more thrilling than my previous hike down — I’m sure the dogs would disagree. Grappling a foot of icy sludge, at full sprint, with a dog’s determination that wouldn’t allow them to fall behind, they chased my tail at a pace that would make most men’s heart explode. And they didn’t give up until I slid to a stop before the train tracks. They were sound asleep in the bed of Betty White Truck before the Moffat Tunnel faded in the rearview mirror.

They weren’t the greatest turns of the season, a few epic powder days at Steamboat this year can’t be matched, but the work to get them will make them some of the most memorable.

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LOST CREEK Back Cover Hunt A single set of bloody tracks in deep white virgin...

A single set of bloody tracks in deep white virgin snow, slightly climbing uphill, with a jagged mountain framed perfectly between two pine trees: that was my vision of the back cover of Lost Creek.

It was March 25 when I finally stumbled across the setting. After such a direly dry winter, I was certain it would be my last chance to get the shot before our sparse snow disappeared for the year. With two fresh feet on the ground, I strapped on my snowshoes and let my dogs (Powder and Roxy) lead the way past the Moffat Tunnel and into James Peak Wilderness. Two hours later and we were wadding through waist deep snow around Roger’s Pass Lake. The virgin white powder cascading down the ridge to the south screamed to be ridden — I could have kicked myself for not thinking to strap my snowboard to my pack. The sun was high and hot in the bluebird sky, but the frigid wind blowing over the Divide was brutally cold.

I found my first shoot near the edge of the lake. A hundred pictures later, I realized something wasn’t right. Beside the fact that the wind was blowing snow over my bloody tracks faster than I could spill it, there was just something about the angle that didn’t work.

I stomped around the lake for another hour, searching for the perfect setting with no luck. The dogs were exhausted and the sun was threatening to ruin our shot by setting over the Divide when I finally decided to seek shelter from the unrelenting wind. Lunch was long overdue and my stomach was grumbling for the sandwich in my pack. I had just dipped into the cover of the trees when I happened to look back to see the exact shot I was hoping to capture. The slight uphill climb was just right. The perfect jagged peak in the background was exactly what I had hoped for.

And I still had to take over fifty shots before I was confident that I had captured the cover. It was nearly dark by the time we stumbled back down to the truck. Our adventure was over. “Next time we’re bringing the snowboard and we’ll really have some fun,” I promised the girls as they jumped into the truck.

Look for the official release of LOST CREEK in May. Check out LOST CREEK on facebook or subscribe here for updates and upcoming promotions.

I’ve known the shot I wanted for the front cover of Lost Creek since before I started writing the book back in January. It was a simple shot. I thought. All I needed was a rickety old mining shack with a mountain peak in the background, during a snowstorm. The rickety old shack was easy to find — they’re everywhere in my neck of the woods. The snow, which is normally not an issue up here, has been much more elusive.

It wasn’t until March 9 that I got my chance. When I woke to a blizzard, with six fresh inches already accumulated, I knew it could very well be my only chance. But I also knew it could be the last powder day of the season. So, I loaded up my gear and hit the slopes. The turns were out of this world, best of the season, aside from a few epic powder days at Steamboat. It was still dumping buckets when the lifts closed.

I knew what I had to do. I had the perfect shack in mind. It was down the Moffat road, on my way home. But when I found the shack, there still wasn’t enough snow on the ground to cover the long grass and scraggly shrubs. It just wouldn’t do. I had another shack in mind, up a gnarly road a few miles further down Moffat, but its road doesn’t get plowed in the winter and the deep snowy uphill climb was more than Betty White Truck (my old Dodge pickup) could handle.

I had given up on getting my shot, but continued down the Moffat road because it’s such a beautiful drive — especially in a blizzard. The road follows a rushing river and train tracks until it dead-ends at the rocky peaks of the Continental Divide. The river continues to climb the Divide. The tracks continue through the Moffat Tunnel, cutting six miles through the Rocky Mountains to come out in Winter Park. Had I not stopped to roll one, crack a fresh brew, and admire the winter view, I never would’ve spotted the run-down shack long ago abandoned after the tunnel was completed in 1927. It was perfect. I shook and shivered and my fingers went numb as the frigid blizzard’s wind blew the snow sideways off the Divide. After a dozen angles and over fifty pictures, I got the shot.

It was 2001 when the Snake last passed. I was running the tubing hill at Copper Mountain — best job ever. I met some of the most amazing people from all over the world. I snowboarded every day, and went mad every night. When the snow melted and the Mountain closed, I bought a van and traveled the country all summer. It just may have been the best year ever.

Here’s hoping this year’s ride is as thrilling. Although, I’m not quite sure I’d survive such a year. The last time the snake had his way...

How about a quick look back at the past year to kick this blog thing off?

2012 was delightfully chaotic. After getting stuck in Minnesota for almost seven years, this past year in the Mountains has really made me appreciate life. I made it back just in time for the 2011/2012 ski season. Opening day was a powder day, and a real eye opener. I remember actually getting angry at myself for allowing myself to forget that heavenly feeling of floating down the Mountainside. And it was only a few days...